Table of Contents

"Ralph Clavering"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

"The Voyages of the Ranger and Crusader"

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.

"The Rival Crusoes"

Preface.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

"Rob Nixon"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

"Roger Willoughby"

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.

"Ronald Morton, or the Fire Ships"

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.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

"Salt Water"

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.

"Saved from the Sea"

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.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Ralph Clavering"

"We must try before we can do"

Chapter One.

A young girl dressed in a cloak and hat, and looking sad and somewhat timid, stood in the middle of the large hall of a fine old country house. The floor was of oak, and the walls were covered with dark oak wainscoting, from which hung down several full-length portraits of grim old knights and gentlemen in bag wigs, and ladies in court suits, looking very prim and stern.

The hall door was open, and through it was seen a post-chaise, from which a footman was extracting a small trunk and a variety of other articles, under the direction of a woman who, it was evident, had also just arrived. As there was no one to notice the young lady, she amused herself by looking round the hall and examining the portraits.

While she was thus employed, a door opened, and a lad appeared, who, running forward, put out his hand, and said, “And so you are my own cousin, are you? and your name is Lilly Vernon, is it?”

The young lady looked up with a quick, intelligent glance, and answered, “If you are Ralph Clavering, I conclude we are cousins, for I am, as you suppose, Lilly Vernon.”

“All right—how jolly!” exclaimed the boy. “We have been looking for you for some days, and I have been expecting to have great fun when you came. I once had a sister, but she is dead, and I have terribly wanted some one to help me kill the time since then, though I would far rather have had a boy cousin, I will tell you that.”

“I would rather help you to employ time than to kill it, Cousin Ralph,” said Lilly, with a smile. “It may chance to come off the victor otherwise.”

“Oh, is that the way you talk? I don’t like preaching,” exclaimed Ralph petulantly, and turning away with a frown. He came back, however, and added, “But I don’t want to quarrel with you. Come into the dining-room, and warm yourself by the fire, and have some luncheon. I was eating mine when you arrived, and I have not finished. We shall be all alone, for papa is out hunting, and mamma is ill in bed, as she always is. I should have gone out after the hounds too, but I was ill and lazy. I intend to take a trot this afternoon though. You can ride I hope—if not, I will teach you; but ride you must, that I am determined.”

“Oh, I can ride almost anything. I had a pony of my own—a spirited little creature—at home,” answered Lilly, a shade of melancholy passing over her features as she pronounced the word home.

Ralph did not observe it, but answered, “Oh, that’s capital! I should like to see you ride with me though, and take a ditch or a gate. There are not many things I do well, perhaps; but I do that, at all events.”

“Perhaps you try to do that, and don’t try to do anything else,” remarked Lilly.

“Oh, there you are again!” exclaimed Ralph, “I will not stand sermonising—remember that—so you had better knock off at once.”

He spoke in a tone so dictatorial and loud that Lilly stared at him, wondering whether or not he was in earnest.

The two young people had by this time reached the dining-room, where a substantial luncheon was spread, speaking well for the hospitality of Clavering Hall. Ralph, having helped his cousin with a courtesy which showed that he was well accustomed to do the honours of the table, filled his own plate with no unsparing hand, and addressed himself steadily to discuss the viands.

Lilly, who quickly got through her meal, looked up more than once, wondering when he would finish and talk to her again. Poor girl! she could not help feeling sad and forlorn. She perceived instantly that Ralph was not a person to treat her with sympathy, and at the best his kindness would be precarious. She was the daughter of a clergyman in the south of Ireland. Both he and her mother had died during a famine which had raged in that country. She had been thus left an orphan, and had been committed to the guardianship of her uncle and only near relation, Mr Clavering, of Clavering Hall. Unhappily he was not a person well fitted for the responsible office. Mrs Clavering was an invalid, and seldom quitted her bed-room. As Mr Clavering was also constantly from home, engaged in magisterial duties, or in hunting or shooting, their son Ralph was very much neglected and left to his own devices. These devices were too often bad, while, as was to be expected, he found his associates among his father’s grooms, and other uneducated persons willing to flatter him. Thus noxious weeds were springing up in his disposition, which should carefully have been rooted out as they appeared; indeed. Master Ralph Clavering was being utterly ruined at the time of Lilly Vernon’s arrival at Clavering Hall. He had been to school for some years, so that he was not altogether uneducated; but his education was far from finished when he unexpectedly appeared at home, and it was soon whispered about that he had been expelled for some act of insubordination and a flagrant exhibition of violence of temper. After this, as his father did not think fit to send him to another school, he was placed under the nominal charge of the curate of the parish, who undertook to superintend his further education till he was old enough to go to college. As, however, he only spent with him a few hours in the morning, and found numerous excuses for keeping away altogether, neither his character improved, nor did his progress in learning become satisfactory. Ralph, thus unchecked, yielded more frequently to his temper, became more dictatorial and tyrannical every day, till he was rather feared and disliked than loved by all with whom he came in contact. Such is the not very pleasant character our hero had obtained at the time our history commences.

Chapter Two.

Lilly Vernon had been for some weeks at Clavering Hall. She had been kindly received by her uncle and aunt, had completely got over the timidity she felt on her arrival, and had found herself perfectly at home. Not so Biddy O’Reardon, her former nurse, who had accompanied her from Ireland, and was desired to remain as her personal attendant. Biddy did not comprehend all that was said, and thought that the other servants were laughing at her, and declared that though Clavering Hall was a fine place, its ways were not those to which she had been accustomed, and she heartily wished herself back at Ballyshannon in the dear ould country. Still, for the love of the young mistress, she would stay wherever she stayed, though it was a pity she had so ill-conditioned a spalpeen of a cousin to be her companion. These remarks reached Ralph’s ears, and he and Biddy became on far from good terms. He revenged himself by playing her all sorts of tricks. One day he came into the little sitting-room in which she sat with Lilly and begged her to sew a button on his coat. Poor Biddy good-naturedly assented, but on opening her workbox found that her thimble had been trodden flat, her scissors divided, and all her reels of cotton exchanged for small pebbles! Enjoying her anger and vexation, Ralph ran laughing away, while Lilly gently, though indignantly, reproved him for his unkind and ungenerous conduct.

No one thought that a governess was necessary for Lilly; but happily her education had been carefully attended to by her parents, and she had formed the resolution of continuing the studies she had commenced with them. As soon as she could get her books unpacked, she set to work, and with steady perseverance performed her daily task, to the unbounded astonishment of her cousin, who could not comprehend why she should take so much trouble when there was no one “to make her,” as he expressed himself.

It was a fine bright day in the winter when Ralph burst into the study which Lilly had very much to herself. “Come along, Lilly!” he exclaimed. “I have ordered out Apple-blossom for you, and I will ride Sugar-plum. Throw those stupid books away. What can make you drone over them as you do?”

Lilly looked up at her cousin with a serious expression in her calm eyes, and said, “Papa and mamma wished me to learn my lessons, and I want to do exactly as if they were alive. They always made me do my lessons before I went out, and so, Ralph, I cannot come.”

Ralph Clavering looked very much astonished, and with a contemptuous curl of his lip and a frown on his brow left the room, exclaiming, “What can Lilly mean? She doesn’t care for me, that’s very positive.” He threw himself on his pony, and switching it with more than his usual impetuosity, galloped off down the avenue. Lilly bent forward again to her self-imposed studies. Now and then she got up from her seat, and putting the book on one side and placing her hands behind her, repeated her lesson through with an expression of awe in her countenance, as if she thought her mother was looking over the book and listening to her. Lilly had just finished her work when Ralph returned. “What, old bookworm, have you really finished your stupid lessons?” he exclaimed. “You’ve lost a capital gallop, that I can tell you. However, you shall have one in the afternoon, though you don’t deserve it. I’ve ordered Sugar-plum round to the stable to get a feed of corn while we are at luncheon, and in an hour he’ll be ready again. Apple-blossom will be ready for you, and we’ll have a capital ride after all.”

Lilly said that she should like to ride, and soon afterwards luncheon was announced. The young people took it by themselves, for Mr Clavering was from home, and there were no guests in the house. Ralph tossed off a couple of glasses of sherry, scolding the butler for not quite filling them. “Good stuff after a gallop this cold weather,” he observed.

Lilly shook her head. “You could do very well without that,” she remarked.

“Oh, you girls know nothing,” he answered contemptuously. “I could drink twice as much, and not be the worse for it.”

In spite of Lilly’s entreaties he took one or two more glasses, evidently for the sake of teasing her. Lilly found it difficult not to show her vexation. Ralph was in one of his obstinate humours. He had never been restrained when a child, and every day he found the task of restraining his temper become harder and harder. He owned this to his cousin. “Try, Ralph, what you can do,” she answered. “Unless you try you cannot hope to succeed.”

“Impossible,” he answered petulantly. “It is absurd to suppose that I’m not to get into a rage every now and then. It is gentlemanly, it is manly.”

“Oh, Ralph, what nonsense!” exclaimed Lilly. “Which is the most manly, to guide your pony along the road, or let it run away with you, flinging out at everybody it meets, and throwing you at last?”

“That’s nothing to do with my getting into a rage if I please,” said Ralph. But he looked as if he fully comprehended the simile; and as Lilly saw that he did so, and had no wish to irritate him, she changed the subject. Soon after this the ponies were brought to the door. Lilly, who had got on her riding-skirt, sprang lightly on Apple-blossom, Ralph not even offering to assist her, and away the two cousins galloped down the avenue. Ralph’s good humour did not return for some time, in spite of all Lilly could do. At length her lively remarks and the fine fresh air gradually brought it back, and this encouraged her to talk on. They had a delightful and a very long ride. Sometimes they galloped over the level sward through a fine extensive forest in the neighbourhood, and through the deciduous trees, now destitute of leaves. There were many hollies and firs and other evergreens, which gave a cheerful aspect to the scene, and with the blue sky overhead they scarcely remembered that it was winter. Sometimes they got on a hard piece of road, and had a good trot for a couple of miles, and then they reached some fine open downs, when, giving their little steeds the rein, away they galloped as hard as hoof could be laid to the ground, with the fresh pure air circulating freely round them. Now they had to descend and to pass along lanes full of ruts and holes, where they had carefully to pick their way, and then they crossed some ploughed fields till they once more reached a piece of turf by the road-side. On the turf, Ralph was again able to make his pony go at the pace which best suited his taste, Lilly easily keeping up with him. Once more in the forest, they galloped as fast as ever along its open glades.

“This is first-rate,” cried Ralph. “There never was a finer day for riding.”

“Oh, indeed it is,” responded Lilly. “This is a beautiful world, and I always think each season as it comes round the most delightful.”

“I don’t trouble my head about that,” said Ralph, giving his pony a switch. “I know when it is a fine day, and I enjoy it.”

Lilly had discovered that Ralph always carefully fenced off from any subject which he thought might lead to serious reflection. She waited her time to speak to him, hoping it might come. Soon after this they again reached the high road. Several times Ralph’s pony, which had gone through a good deal of work that morning, attempted to stop, and when Ralph urged him on he stumbled.

“Sugar-plum must be tired,” observed Lilly.

“Let us walk our ponies home.”

“No, I hate everything slow,” cried Ralph, hastening on the pony. “If the beast can’t go he won’t suit me, and so he shall soon find who is master.”

Lilly again entreated him to pull up, but he would not listen to her. At some distance before them appeared a figure in a red cloak. Lilly perceived that it was an old gipsy woman with a child at her back. In a copse by the road-side there was a cart with a tent and a fire before it, from which ascended into the clear calm air a thin column of smoke. The old woman was making her way towards the camp, not hearing apparently the tramp of the pony’s hoofs.

“Take care, take care, Ralph,” cried Lilly; “you will ride over that poor old woman if you gallop on.”

“I don’t care if I do,” said Ralph, angry at being spoken to. “She’s only a wretched old gipsy woman.”

“A fellow-creature,” answered Lilly. “Oh, Ralph, take care.”

Ralph galloped on till his pony was close up to the old woman, at a spot where the ground was rough, and there was a somewhat steep descent. He could scarcely have intended actually to ride over the old woman. Just then she heard the pony’s hoofs strike the ground close behind her. She started on one side, and the pony dashed on, shying as he did so. The animal’s foot at that moment struck against a piece of hard clay, and already almost exhausted, down he came, throwing his rider to a considerable distance over his head on the ground. Lilly slipped off her well-trained little pony, which stood perfectly still while she ran to her cousin’s assistance. Ralph’s countenance was pale as death. He groaned heavily, and was evidently much hurt. His pony, as soon as it got up, trotted off to a distance to avoid the beating its young master might have bestowed.

Lilly cried out to the old gipsy woman, who, although she could not hear, saw and understood her gestures. The old woman stood at a distance gazing at the scene, and then slowly and unwillingly came back. Lilly, as she watched Ralph’s countenance, became more and more alarmed. She endeavoured, by every gesture she could make use of, to intimate that she wanted assistance. The old woman knelt down by the lad, and putting her hand on his brow, and then on his arm, gave a grunt, and rising with more agility than could have been expected, hobbled off towards the gipsy camp. Lilly would have run on herself for help, but she dared not leave her cousin on the ground, lest a carriage coming rapidly down the hill might run over him. She anxiously watched the old woman as she approached the tent. No one came forth, and she feared that all the gipsies might be absent, and that no help could be procured. She was herself, in the meantime, not idle. She placed Ralph’s head on her lap, loosened his neckerchief, and chafed his temples, but her efforts were vain; he still remained unconscious, and she fancied that he was growing rather worse than better. Lilly knew that she could not lift him, though she longed to be able to carry him even as far as the green bank by the road-side. She was in despair, and could not refrain from bursting into tears. At last a thin dark man, with long elf-locks, accompanied by two boys as wild-looking as he was, and still more ragged, came running up.

“Ah! my pretty lady, don’t take on; your brother has still life in him,” he exclaimed when he saw Ralph. “Here, you Seth, lift up the young master’s legs; and Tim, you be off after his pony. Be quick, like lightning, in a hurry.”

Without more ado he raised Ralph from the ground, and bore him in his arms towards the tent. Lilly followed, leading Apple-blossom. They soon reached the gipsy tents. In one of them was a heap of straw. Ralph was placed on it. Lilly saw that the sooner medical aid could be procured the better. Still she did not like to leave him in charge of such doubtful characters as the gipsies.

“You will take care of him, and I will hurry home to bring assistance,” she said to the gipsy.

“Whatever you like, pretty mistress, for your sake we will do,” was the gallant answer.

Lilly mounted Apple-blossom, and galloped on to the Hall. Great was the consternation her news caused. Mrs Clavering was so ill that no one ventured to tell her of the accident. Mr Clavering was away from home, and the butler and housekeeper were out on a visit. Lilly found that she must decide what was to be done. She ordered the carriage to be got ready, and then she sat down and wrote a note to the doctor, which she sent off by a groom. By that time the carriage was at the door, and, with Biddy as her companion, she drove back to the gipsy encampment. They considerately took with them some food, and all sorts of things which they thought might be required. Just as they reached the camp they found the doctor, whom the groom had happily met. There, on a heap of dirty straw, under cover of a tattered tent, lay the heir of Clavering Hall. Lilly had hoped to take Ralph home; but directly Doctor Morison saw him, he said that he must on no account be carried to such a distance, although he might be moved on a litter to a neighbouring cottage, as the gipsy tent afforded neither warmth nor shelter from rain or snow. A door was accordingly procured, and Ralph was carried by the gipsy and his two sons to a cottage about a quarter of a mile off, while the carriage was sent back for some bedding and clothes. No sooner had the gipsies performed the office they had undertaken than they hurried away; and when, some time afterwards Doctor Morison, at Miss Vernon’s request, sent to call them back that they might receive a reward, they had moved their ground: the black spot caused by their fire, and some patches of straw, alone showed where their camp had been pitched.

“I fear, Miss Vernon, that your cousin is in a very dangerous state,” said Doctor Morison, after again examining Ralph. “I think that it will be well if you return in the carriage, and break the news to his father. Remember, however, that I do not despair of his life.”

This information made Lilly’s heart very sad.

“He may die, and so unprepared,” she whispered to herself. “Oh, may he be graciously preserved!”

How many, young as Ralph Clavering, have been cut off in the midst of their evil doings! An old woman and her daughter, the occupants of the cottage, gladly consented to give up the best accommodation their small abode offered to their wealthy neighbours. Mr Clavering, who had just reached the Hall, scarcely comprehended at first what had happened. Lilly had to repeat her tale. At length, when he really understood what had occurred, like a frantic person he threw himself into the carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive on as fast as the horses could go.

“What a wretched, miserable hole for my boy!” he exclaimed as he entered the cottage.

“Poor young master bean’t accustomed to cottage rooms,” observed the old woman, Dame Harvey, to her daughter. She could not forget that, humble as was her cottage, it was her own, and that she was bestowing a favour on those she had admitted within it. She was conscious at the same time that she was doing her duty towards them as a Christian, and this made her overlook, without complaint, many other slights she received. It was an anxious night to all concerned in Ralph’s welfare. Doctor Morison feared that he had received a concussion of the brain, but could not decide whether it would prove serious till the next day. Mr Clavering scarcely left his son’s bedside, nor would Lilly, had not Biddy filled her place, and she then consented to lie down on some chairs in a back room, where a large fire had been made up, a cart with fuel having arrived from the Hall. Ralph breathed painfully, it was evident that his life hung by a thread.

Chapter Three.

Two days passed by, and it seemed very uncertain whether Ralph Clavering would recover. Lilly, by the doctor’s orders, had to return home, but she begged that Biddy might remain to watch the invalid, and a more faithful nurse could not have been found. She, indeed, discovered with sorrow the true estimation in which her cousin was held at Clavering Hall; for among all the pampered servants not one volunteered, or seemed anxious to attend by his bedside. When he was well he ordered them roughly about, and abused them if they did not obey his often unreasonable commands. Now, as mean and irreligious persons are wont to do, they retaliated by treating him with neglect. Mr Clavering, whose fears for his son’s life were fully aroused, only rushed out of the cottage for a few minutes at a time to calm his agitation, or to give way to his grief, and then hurried back to his bedside. He had sent for the housekeeper to attend on Ralph, but Mrs Gammage declined coming on the plea that her mistress required her attendance, and that her own health was so delicate that she should die of cold in Dame Harvey’s cottage. The dame, therefore, and her daughter volunteered their services, and more careful attendants could not have been found. Mrs Harvey had been in service in her youth, and as she observed knew how to attend on gentlefolks. Food, and bedding, and furniture and all sorts of things had been sent from the Hall, and as the cottage was neat and clean, Mr Clavering might well have been thankful that his son had so comfortable a refuge.

Lilly rode over every morning from the Hall, and generally again in the afternoon, but she was not allowed to remain many minutes at a time with her cousin. For several days the doctor continued to look grave, and said that he might possibly recover, but that he must not yet hold out too strong hopes on the subject.

“I do trust he may recover,” she answered. “It would be so dreadful for him to die, and I really think that there is some good in him.”

“There is no good thing in any of us, young lady,” remarked the doctor; “yet I pray that if he lives the very best of things may be put into him—a new heart, or we cannot hope to see him changed from what he was.”

“I will pray that he may recover, and that he may get a new heart,” said Lilly, artlessly.

“Do, Miss Vernon,” said Doctor Morison. “Human skill avails us nothing without God’s aid.”

Lilly rode home much happier. She could not have much of what might properly be called affection for her cousin, for his behaviour had prevented that, but she sincerely pitied him, and was anxious for his welfare.

Day after day passed by. “I will tell you to-morrow what to hope,” answered Dr Morison to her usual inquiries. Lilly cantered home more anxious than ever to make her report to her aunt.

“Of course he will die,” observed Mrs Clavering; “what have we to expect?”

“God is ever merciful and good,” said Lilly, calmly.

The lady stared. “I shall not believe that he will live till I see him recovered,” she answered.

“We can pray that he may, dear aunt, at all events,” replied Lilly.

The next day Lilly rode off at an early hour to Dame Harvey’s cottage. Dr Morison arrived nearly at the same moment. She waited anxiously for his report. He remained, it seemed, a very long time with his patient. At last he appeared with a smile on his countenance. “He will yet do well. He requires careful nursing more than anything else, and I hope that in a few days he will be strong enough to be removed to the Hall.” Lilly rode back to carry the joyful news to her aunt.

Mr Clavering, when he heard this opinion, poured out expressions of gratitude to the doctor, and called him the preserver of his son’s life, assuring him that there was nothing he would not do to show his sense of the obligation.

“Give thanks where they are due,” said Dr Morison. “And, my dear sir, you cannot please me more than by endeavouring to correct his faults, and to bring him up in the way he should go.”

“A very odd man, that doctor,” said Mr Clavering, to himself. “Under other circumstances I should think his remarks highly impertinent.”

Dame Harvey could hardly be persuaded to take the sum of money offered her by Mr Clavering. She had only done her duty, and she had done it without thought of reward; she would have done the same for any poor neighbour who would have been unable to repay her. Mr Clavering was incredulous as to her disinterestedness. Lilly took her part.

“I am sure, uncle, she nursed Ralph so kindly and gave up her cottage to him simply from kindness of heart,” she observed. “Had any young nobleman been thrown from his horse out hunting would you not have taken him in, and kept him till he was well, without thought of reward? Papa used to say that the poor feel as we do, and often more acutely, and that we should treat their feelings with the same consideration that we should those of the rich.”

“You have vast experience, Miss Lilly, about such matters,” answered Mr Clavering, with a laugh. “I know that the poor pull down my fences, and do all sorts of mischief, and I judge them by their deeds.”

“And how do the rich treat each other, and how would they behave if they were exposed to the temptations of poverty?” argued Lilly, with unusual vehemence.

“We have put up your Irish spirit, young lady,” answered her uncle, laughing. “However, I dare say that you are right, and I have no doubt of Dame Harvey’s good intentions.”

Ralph having as the doctor said, once turned the corner, got rapidly well. Lilly was in hopes that from what had occurred his character would have improved, indeed, while he still remained weak and unable to help himself he was far less dictatorial than he used to be, and more than once, though not, perhaps, in the most gracious of ways, expressed himself obliged for what had been done for him.

“He’ll do better by-and-by,” thought his sanguine cousin. “He is fretful now from his long confinement. When he gets out in the fresh air he will recover his temper.”

Chapter Four.

There is an old saying that, “What is born in the grain is shown in the fruit.” No sooner had Ralph Clavering recovered his physical strength than he was himself again in all other respects, or even still more dictatorial and abusive if any one offended him than before. At first Lilly was in despair. At last she recollected her own motto, “We must try before we can succeed.”

“Yes, I will try again, and very hard before I give it up in despair.”

The winter had been very severe, and numbers of labourers had been thrown out of work. Ralph was allowed at first only to drive out in the carriage. One day as he was waiting in the porch, filled with the warm sunshine, for his luxurious vehicle to come to the door, two ragged objects were seen approaching up the avenue. One was a thin and tall dark man, the other was a lad of the same foreign complexion. A frown gathered on Ralph’s brow as he saw them. “What do you want here, you fellows?” he shouted out.

“Food and money to pay the doctor, young master,” answered the man, coming up to the floor. “The rest of the family are down with sickness camped in Fouley Copse, and they’ll die if they don’t get help.”

“Then you are gipsies, and we don’t encourage gipsies,” said Ralph.

“You wouldn’t let us die, young master, would you?” asked the man, humbly.

“No fear of that, I’m up to you,” cried Ralph, growing angry. “Be off with you.”

“I’ve always heard that one good turn deserves another, and believed it too, gipsy though I am, but I am not likely to get it this time,” said the man, eyeing Ralph with a glance of contempt.

Just then Lilly, hearing her cousin speaking loudly, came to the hall door. No sooner did she see the man than she exclaimed, “Why, that is the kind gipsy who carried you to Dame Harvey’s cottage, and would take no reward. What is it you want, poor man? Tell us, that we may do what we can.”

The gipsy repeated his previous story.

“We will go there immediately, and carry some food and other things for your family,” she said. “But you are hungry yourselves, Ralph, tell Mrs Gammage that she must let them have some dinner, and that she must put up some food and blankets, and some other things for you to carry.”

Ralph demurred. Lilly grew impatient. “If we do not find matters as they are described, we can but bring the things back,” she observed.

This satisfied her cousin, who had thus suddenly become so scrupulous. It is wonderful how careful people are not to make a mistake in doing an act of charity.

“Blessings on thee, young mistress! You remember me, then, sweet lady?” said the gipsy.

“I do, indeed,” answered Lilly; “but I did not hear your name.”

“Arnold I am called in this country, sweet lady,” answered the gipsy. “My people are not wont to ask favours, but we are starving; and though you call us outcasts and heathens, we can be grateful.”

Ralph had gone to ask Mrs Gammage, very much to that lady’s astonishment, to give the gipsies some food. Still greater was her surprise when he insisted on having some provisions put up to carry to their encampment. “Cousin Lilly will have it so,” he answered, when she expostulated with him on the subject.

This settled the matter; and the gipsies, being invited into the servants’ hall, had a more abundant meal placed before them than they had seen for many a day.

Ralph felt a pleasure which he had never before experienced, as he got into the pony-carriage with the stores the housekeeper had provided. Lilly rode by his side, and away they went. They got to the encampment before Arnold and his son could reach it. It was in the centre of a thick copse, which sheltered the tents from the wind. They had need of such shelter, for the tents were formed of old canvas thickened by mats of rushes, but so low, that they scarcely allowed the inmates to sit upright. They took the gipsies completely by surprise, and Lilly saw at a glance that Arnold had in no way exaggerated their miserable condition. Great was the astonishment, therefore, of the poor people at having a plentiful supply of provisions presented to them. Lilly, who soon saw that those who were most ill were far beyond her skill, promised to send Dr Morison to them.

Lilly and Ralph were still at the encampment when Arnold and his son arrived. Their expressions of gratitude, if not profuse, were evidently sincere. So reduced were the whole party to starvation, that it seemed likely, had aid not arrived, they must all soon have died. There were two or three girls and boys sitting on the ground, covered up with old mats, their elf-locks almost concealing their features, of which little more than their black sparkling eyes were visible, while some smaller children were crouching down under the rags which their mother had heaped over her. There was an iron pot hanging from a triangle over the fire; but it contained but a few turnips and other vegetables, not a particle of meat. Even the pony which drew the family cart looked half-starved, as if sharing the general distress.

“It is a pleasure to help those poor people,” observed Ralph to his cousin, as they returned homeward. “I did not suppose so much wretchedness existed in England.”

“There is far more than we have seen to-day,” said Lilly. “When hard times come, there are thousands and thousands thrown out of work, who then from one day to another do not know how they are to find food to put into their mouths on the next.”

“I should think that they might lay by when they are getting full wages,” remarked Ralph.

A carriage passing prevented Lilly from hearing the remark. The groom, who was driving, replied to it. “A hard job, Mr Ralph, for a poor man with a large family of hungry boys and girls able to eat, but to earn nothing, to lay by out of eight or nine shillings a week. Many a hard-working, strong man, gets no more. Why, Mr Ralph, you spend more on your clothes, gloves, and washing, and such like things.”

“Yes; but I am different, Thomas, you know. I couldn’t do without good clothes and other things,” answered Ralph.

Thomas, fancying that he would be supported by Miss Lilly, ventured to say more than he would otherwise have done, and so he replied, “Don’t see the difference, Mr Ralph. A rich man can’t wear many more clothes at a time, or eat much more, than a poor one; and a poor one wants food and clothing as much as his betters. If he can’t get them by honest means he sickens and dies, or takes to stealing. I don’t know how the rich would act if they were to have the temptations the poor are exposed to!”

Ralph was not inclined to say anything more on the subject to Thomas; he felt angry at his speaking so plainly. Thomas had never before done so, undoubtedly because he was sensible how useless it would have been.

Not long after this they reached Dr Morison’s house. Lilly told her tale, and the doctor promised to set off immediately to the gipsy encampment.

Never had Ralph appeared to greater advantage than he did on that day at dinner. He laughed and talked, and made himself generally agreeable. His father and mother were surprised, and hailed the change as a sign of returning health. The doctor called in the evening. He had visited the gipsy encampment, and stated his belief, that if aid had not been sent to them, two or more of their number would have died before many days were over. “They owe their lives under Providence to you, Miss Vernon, I assure you,” said the doctor.

“Not more to me than to my cousin,” answered Lilly, promptly. “He got the eatables from Mrs Gammage, and carried them to the encampment. I should have been afraid of going alone.”

The doctor did not repeat a version of the story which he had heard from Arnold, but he replied, “I am truly glad to hear that Mr Ralph busies himself about the welfare of his fellow-creatures.”

Mr and Mrs Clavering looked surprised; the words struck strangely on their ears. They were so different to what they were accustomed to hear. Mrs Clavering had been inclined to complain of her son and niece having visited the gipsies for fear they might catch a fever from them or get robbed, and now she heard them praised by Dr Morison, for whose opinion she had great respect; so she said nothing. Every day after this Lilly and Ralph paid a visit to the encampment, taking not only food but some blankets, with some of which Mrs Gammage had supplied them. Others had actually been bought by Ralph, at his cousin’s instigation, with his own money. There could be no doubt from the way they expressed themselves, that the gipsies really were grateful for the kindness shown them, so different from the treatment they had been accustomed to receive from the world. Their hand was supposed to be against every man, and every man’s hand was undoubtedly against them.

At length the whole family had so completely recovered, that Arnold told them that he should leave the neighbourhood. “The gentlefolks don’t like our ways, and we should be sorry, after what you have done for us, if we came foul of any of your people,” said the gipsy.

“So should we, indeed,” answered Lilly. “And I hope you will not do anything elsewhere to get yourselves into trouble.”

“No fear, sweet lady,” said Arnold, with the courtesy so often found among his people. “The thought that you would be offended would prevent us.”

Chapter Five.

The days flew by; the spring returned; Ralph completely recovered his strength, and renewed his daily visits to his tutor; while Lilly, unaided, pursued her own studies with unwavering steadiness, and employed herself in calling, with her aunt, on some of the surrounding families of their own rank, in riding, sketching, in visiting the poor in the neighbourhood, and in doing good to all around as far as she had the power. Doctor Morison called her his bright intelligence, and said that he considered her a ministering angel, sent into their district to awaken these people from the Boetian lethargy into which they had sunk. Lilly, however, did not hear these compliments. Had she, her reply would have been that she was only doing what she knew to be right.

Ralph occasionally joined his cousin in her occupations. Sometimes he rode with her, and sat by her side while she sketched; and he even condescended to carry her basket when she visited the cottages of their poor neighbours. He was rising, though he was not aware of it, in their estimation, and many expressed a belief that he would turn out well after all. To be sure, he would occasionally cast that hope to the ground by some outbreak of temper and violence of language. Lilly was often almost in despair, but she remembered her motto, “We must try before we can do,” and so she determined to try on.

It must not be supposed that she had distinctly said to herself, “I will set to work to give my cousin good principles, or to reform my cousin.” The nearest approach was to think, “I wish that anything I could say or do would make Ralph give up some of his bad habits, and to act as I am sure he ought.”

Still, had she clearly seen all the difficulties of the task which she had in reality, although unknowingly, undertaken, she would not have shrunk from it. “It would be so delightful to have Cousin Ralph what he ought to be,” she said, over and over again, to herself.

She undoubtedly was setting properly about the work by gently leading him into the right way. He had too undisciplined a mind to be reasoned with, and had been too much indulged to be driven.

Ralph had since his recovery taken a great fancy for rowing. A broad stream passed at no great distance from the Hall, which ultimately fell into a rapid river. Ralph had persuaded his father to have a small boat built for him, which he could manage by himself. He had hitherto had but little practice; he had, however, learned to pull sufficiently well to send on the boat ahead a short distance without catching a crab, and this made him fancy himself already a proficient.

Lilly very naturally believed his assertions that he could row perfectly well; and the boat having been repainted and put in order, she gladly accompanied him on one of the first warm days in spring down to the stream. John Hobby, a cottager near, had charge of the boat and kept the oars. He was out when Ralph called for them, and so his wife told their son to take them down to the boat.

“But you surely are not going alone, Mr Ralph, without my good man or our lad?” said the dame. “It’s a main dangerous stream, and needs a strong arm and a practised hand to guide a boat along it.”

“That’s all you know about it, mistress!” answered Ralph, in his usual self-satisfied, contemptuous tone. “I’ve rowed often enough on the stream to know that I’ve no reason to be afraid.”

“Well, maybe, Mr Ralph; but you won’t go far, I do hope,” persisted the dame.

“Just as far as I please; and I’ll thank you not to interfere with your advice, mistress,” answered Ralph, walking off to follow Lilly, who had unfortunately not heard the warning voice.

Lilly had got to some distance before Dame Hobby saw her, or she would undoubtedly have entreated her not to venture on the water. Ralph, with unusual politeness, handed his cousin into the boat.

“John, John!” cried the dame, “here lad, take the oars down to the boat for Master Ralph Clavering, and just give him a hint, that if he goes without you, he may chance to drown himself and the pretty young lady with him.” Then she added, in a lower tone, to herself, “A nice young gentleman to order people about as he does. He’ll learn some day who’s who.”

A fine handsome young lad, who had been working in the garden at the back of the house, appeared at her call. He appeared to be about the same age as Ralph Clavering, but was taller and stouter. There was a look, too, of health and conscious strength about him, and withal, a pleasant, good-natured smile on his well-formed countenance, which showed that he was on good terms with himself and the world in general. He took the oars from an outhouse, and followed Ralph and Lilly to the boat.

Young John Hobby was about to follow, when Ralph told him to keep back, and seizing the oars, exclaimed, “Now, Lilly, I will show you what I can do; and we’ll make a voyage unsurpassed since the days of Columbus!”

Lilly was but little accustomed to boating, and believing that her cousin’s experience was equal to what he asserted it to be, she entrusted herself to him without hesitation. John Hobby stood watching their proceedings, and scratching his head, evidently wishing to say something. “You’d better go up stream, Master Clavering,” he cried out at length, as Ralph shoved off from the bank. “The current runs very strong, and it’s easier to go with, than against it.”

“Hold your tongue, you lout,” answered Ralph, angrily. “I know how to row, and don’t want to be dictated to.”

“Beg pardon, Master Clavering: I only said what I knew would be best,” answered John Hobby, sturdily.

Though a tenant of Mr Clavering’s, John Hobby, the elder, paid his rent, improved his land, and feared neither him nor anyone else. Of young John, more will be said hereafter. Ralph had been undecided which way to go. To show his independence, he immediately turned the boat’s head down the stream. He had skill enough to keep her in the centre of the river, and down she floated smoothly and easily. He was delighted with his own performance.

“Hurrah!” he shouted. “Away we go, right merrily. That lout wanted to frighten you. I told you, Cousin Lilly, how pleasant it would be.”

Lilly found it extremely pleasant. The sun shone brightly and sparkled on the surface of the stream; and so clear was the water, that the fish could be seen swimming about on each side of the boat. The water-fowl skimmed lightly over it, or flew from bank to bank, every now and then giving forth strange cries, which made Lilly declare that the river must be infested by water kelpies, who were attempting to lure them to destruction.

On the little boat glided. It did not seem to occur to Ralph that the current, rather than his exertions, was carrying them on.

“This is what I like. Isn’t it pleasant?” he exclaimed, again and again. Lilly was inclined to enjoy it, although, perhaps, a suspicion might have arisen that it would have been wiser to have followed John Hobby’s advice, and to have gone up the stream first, so as to have returned with the current in their favour. They did not go very fast, but had ample time to admire the scenery. Sometimes the stream expanded in width, the banks were low, and little else than beds of rushes and willows, green meadows with cows feeding, were to be seen, with, perhaps, far off, a row of trees, a few Lombardy poplars, and the spire of a church peeping above them. In other places there were steep slopes, and rocks and cliffs, crowned with birch and alder, and even oak, and a variety of other trees. There were bends or angles in the course of the stream, which afforded a variety of pretty views, with here and there a cottage, or some fine old tree, whose branches extended over the water, forming a prominent feature.

“Oh! how I wish that I had brought my sketch-book,” exclaimed Lilly. “These views are so different to those I have been accustomed to take. We must come again to-morrow, and then you must stop as we go up and down the stream at the points I most admire to-day.” Ralph promised to do as his cousin wished, but it did not occur to him to ascertain how far he could keep the boat in one place. At last, Lilly recollected that she had the back of a letter and a pencil in her bag, and, with a piece of board which was in the boat, she extemporised a drawing block. “Now, Ralph, here is a very pretty spot, turn the boat round a little, and I will quickly sketch it,” she cried out, not doubting that her wishes would be fulfilled. Ralph got the boat round, as he was directed, but Lilly soon found herself receding so rapidly from her subject, that it was impossible to take a correct sketch. Again and again she called to him to keep the boat in one place. Ralph persisted that he was doing his best.

“Why, Ralph, I thought that you were so expert an oarsman, that you could make your boat go anywhere, or do anything?” said Lilly.

Ralph could not stand being jeered, even by his cousin. He quickly lost his temper, and at the same time while increasing his exertions, he lost his oar. Away it went out of his grasp, and floated down the stream. “There, you made me do that, you silly girl!” he exclaimed, angrily. “What is to be done now?”

“Try and pick it up, to be sure,” answered Lilly. “Paddle after it with the other oar.”

Ralph stood up to use the other oar as a paddle, and very nearly tumbled over in making the attempt. Lilly now became somewhat alarmed. She knew, however, that the wisest thing to do was to sit still, especially as Ralph began jumping about, and beating the water without any definite object. The boat continued to float down, following the oar, which gained but very little on her. Lilly again urged her cousin to try and recover it. His next attempt was as unsuccessful as the first, and the other oar nearly slipped from his hands. At last he sat down, almost crying, and looking exceedingly foolish. “The boat may go where it chooses,” he exclaimed, pettishly. “How am I to row with only one oar?”

In spite of her fears, Lilly almost burst into a fit of laughter.

“Try again, cousin Ralph; you can do nothing unless you try,” she answered. “If you will not try to row, I must put you to shame by making the attempt myself.”

Thus put on his mettle, Ralph again roused himself, but it was to little purpose; and he and Lilly now found that they had reached the mouth of the stream, and were entering the main river, which was far broader and more rapid. In vain he now tried to gain the bank, the rapid current bore the boat on into the very middle of the river. They both had ridden along the bank, and they remembered that some way down the water rushed over a ledge of rocks, with a fall of several feet.

“Never mind,” said Ralph; “there is a ford there, and I can but jump out and drag the boat to land.”

“Ah, but that was in the summer,” answered Lilly. “I remember a man telling us that in the spring a great body of water falls over the ledge; and that when we passed, with the water scarcely up to our horse’s knees, there is a regular cataract, and that once some people who were attempting to cross in a boat, got drifted near it, and were carried down and all drowned.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” exclaimed Ralph, now fairly wringing his hands. “Why did we come? How foolish we were. I wish that we had followed that lout Hobby’s advice. He, of course, knows more about the river than we do.”

Lilly was very much inclined to say, “Speak for yourself, cousin Ralph; I believed your boastful assertions, and trusted myself to you.”

Instead of that, she only said, “Still we must try to save ourselves. We ought, at all events, to try to reach the bank. Ah! what is this?” She lifted up a loose board from the bottom of the boat: “Here, do you use this as a paddle, and give me the oar. We shall be able to guide the boat if we try.”

Ralph, once more roused, took the plank and used it as his cousin directed. Still, from want of skill, they made but little progress. The other oar had been caught in an eddy, and had been drifted so far away, that they had lost sight of it altogether. As they were exerting themselves with might and main, their attention was aroused by a shout, and looking up, they saw a man standing on the bank and waving the lost oar. This encouraged them; while the roar of the cataract, a little way below, made them still more feel the necessity of exertion. The boat was, of course, all the time drifting down, sideways, nearer and nearer to the dangerous spot. Still they were approaching the shore. The man with the oar ran along the bank. They had got within twenty yards of it, when the current seemed to increase in rapidity. The man shouted to them to use more exertion, but that was beyond their power. Poor Lilly’s arms were already aching, and her hands were hot and blistered with the oar. Glancing on one side, they could see the ledge of rocks against which the river rushed, breaking into a mass of foam. It seemed impossible that they could reach the bank before they got within its influence. The man with the oar, seeing their danger, sprang forward and swam out towards them. He was not, apparently, a very good swimmer, but he struggled on.

“He’ll be drowned, and do us no good,” cried Ralph.

“Oh, no! I pray God that he may be preserved!” exclaimed Lilly, with a fervour, which showed that the expression came from her heart, and was truly a prayer.

It was heard, the man struggled on, and seized the stem of the boat.

“Go back to the other end,” he cried out; and, as Ralph obeyed the order, he threw in the oar, and climbed up himself over the bow. Without speaking a word more, he seized both oars, and began rowing away with might and main towards the shore. Only then did Lilly and her cousin discover that the stranger was no other than Arnold, the gipsy.

“Why, Arnold, we little thought that it was you!” they exclaimed in the same breath.

“No time to talk,” was the answer. “I’ll tell you when we are all safe.”

In a few seconds the boat reached the land. Ralph shuddered when he saw how short a distance they were above the place where the waters, raging and foaming, dashed over the rocks. Lilly remarked, also, the great danger they had escaped. Her first impulse was to offer their gratitude to God for their preservation; her next was, to thank the gipsy for the effort he had made on their behalf.

“But you will surely catch cold, Arnold, if you remain in your wet things,” said Lilly.

“No fear for me, young lady,” he answered; “I am seasoned for all weathers, and a little wetting will do me no harm; but, I’m thinking that you young people will be wishing to get home again. How are you to do it?”

“My cousin said that he would row back,” answered Lilly, with a glance at Ralph, indicative of her real opinion on the subject.

“Perhaps, then, you’ll give me a passage, Master Ralph,” said the gipsy. “It’s a long way round by land, and the roads, such as they are, are not a little muddy in some places, and rough in others.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll row you round—or, that is to say, you shall go round in the boat if you will take the oars, for I feel rather tired after rowing all the way down,” replied Ralph, looking very sheepish.

“Well, young gentleman, after my wetting it will be wise to keep in exercise; so, sit down, and I will try what I can do,” said Arnold, taking the oars in a way which showed that he was accustomed to their use.

He put the boat in motion, but instead of rowing out in the stream, he kept close in with the bank, following all its sinuosities, so as to avoid the opposing current. He bent sturdily to the oars, and sent the boat so rapidly through the water, that she went up the stream even faster than she had descended it when Ralph was rowing. For some time he said nothing; perhaps he felt rather ashamed of himself, but if such was the case the feeling wore off. Arnold made the boat skim over the water so easily, that at last he began to fancy that he could do the same. Surely he could do everything better than a wretched gipsy, who only the other day was almost starving.

Meantime, Lilly had asked Arnold after his wife and family, and how he had happened to be on the bank of the river at a moment so opportune for her and Ralph.

“The questions, sweet lady, are easily answered,” said Arnold. “My wife and children are as well as scant food and hard living will allow them. We are camped about a mile from where you saw me. Knowing of old that the river is full of fish, I had gone to catch some. I had only just thrown in my line when I caught sight of your boat, and guessed that you would be the better for any help I could give you.”

“Then your family will lose the supper you expected to catch for them, and will not know what has become of you,” said Lilly.

“They are too well accustomed to go without supper to complain of that,” said Arnold; “and as to not knowing what has become of me, we make it a rule never to trouble ourselves if one or the other does not appear at the time expected. We suppose that the absent one has some good reason for not coming back to camp. We gipsies do not allow ourselves to have more cares than we can help. It is all very well for the rich who live in fine houses, and ride in fine carriages, and wear fine clothes, and have more food than they can eat, to make cares for themselves; that would never do for us.”

Ralph thought that the gipsy was growing rather impertinent in his observations; yet, as Lilly encouraged him by her remarks, he said nothing. They had for some time re-entered the tributary stream, and were proceeding quickly up it. At last, Ralph, having recovered his confidence, insisted on taking the oars, he had contemplated desiring Arnold to get out, but he had a suspicion that Lilly would not approve of such a proceeding. Arnold, without hesitation, relinquished his seat, and allowed him to take the oars.

Ralph at first rowed away sturdily enough, but the boat at once began to go on one side, and then to cross over to the other side of the stream; and even Ralph could not help discovering that instead of progressing upwards, the boat was once more dropping down with the current.

“I cannot tell how it is,” he exclaimed at last, in a tone of vexation, “there is something or other prevents me from managing the boat as I used. The oars have been changed, or they have been doing something to the boat.”

Lilly’s lips curled, but she saw that her cousin was not in a humour to bear any quizzing; so she merely said—

“Never mind then, Ralph; let Arnold take the oars and row us home as fast as he can, for I am afraid that Uncle and Aunt Clavering will be very anxious about us, if they hear the report John Hobby is likely to give.”

“He’d better not have said anything—that’s all,” growled Ralph, looking as if he could annihilate the low-born Hobby, had he dared to commit such an atrocity.

Happily for that individual, now so unconscious of evil, nearly an hour elapsed after this ere the boat reached the landing-place near the Hall. There stood Hobby.

“I am truly glad to see you—that I am!” he exclaimed, honest satisfaction lighting up his countenance. “I was terribly alarmed you would never get back of your own selves—indeed I was, let me tell you.”

Ralph was going to make an angry reply to what he considered Hobby’s impertinent remarks, but Lilly interrupted him—

“You are right, John Hobby,” she said, kindly. “If it had not been for our friend Arnold here, we might never have got back at all; and had we followed your advice we should have saved ourselves a great deal of anxiety, and not have been exposed to the great danger from which we have been preserved.”

“As to the danger, it’s all well that ends well, Miss,” remarked Hobby, bluntly. “But I do hope Master Ralph won’t be taking you on the water again till he’s learnt to row properly.”

“Make the boat fast, and take the oars away with you!” exclaimed Ralph, walking off homewards.

“Stop, cousin! You have not thanked Arnold, or asked him to come up to the Hall, where I am sure Uncle and Aunt Clavering would wish to see him,” cried Lilly; but Ralph was so angry with Hobby’s remarks, that he would not return.

“Do not trouble him, young lady,” said Arnold, casting a glance after the young heir of Clavering Hall, in which he did not conceal his contempt. “I do not require his thanks, nor any reward from him or his. You show me by your looks that you thank me, and that pays me more than enough.”

“Oh, but his father and mother will not be satisfied with that; they will wish to repay you,” answered Lilly. “And besides, your wife and children are not well off; some money or some clothing will be of use to them, surely.”

“I’ll not deny it; but we value such things less than you fancy, young lady,” said the gipsy. “We have enough for the present, and we do not trouble ourselves much as to what is to come. But I won’t keep you talking. The young gentleman has just remembered that he ought to wait for you, and is sitting down on the bank there. He thinks himself very rich and very important, and that he can do everything, I daresay; but if he knew all about himself that I know about him, he would act more kindly towards others and think less of himself. You may tell him so whenever you like from me.”

The meaning of this last remark did not strike Lilly at the moment. She still pressed Arnold to come to the Hall, but he declined, saying that he must of necessity go back to his family. Lilly again expressing her thanks, hurried after Ralph, who did not recover his self-complacency till they reached the Hall.

Chapter Six.

When Mr and Mrs Clavering heard Lilly’s version of the boating expedition, they were anxious to repay Arnold for the service he had rendered; but when they sent over a servant on horseback to the locality where he had said his tents were pitched, he was not to be found. Lilly was extremely sorry to hear this. She wished also to express her gratitude more fully than she had before done, and although he had refused to receive any reward, she had hopes that his wife and children would be willing to accept any presents she might be able to give them. Every effort, however, made by Mr Clavering to discover him proved unavailing. Perhaps his steward, whom he employed, did not take as much pains as he might have done. Ralph and Lilly went on much as they had been accustomed to do. Although Lilly often asked Ralph, when he was going to take her for another excursion on the water, he invariably offered some excuse. She observed also that he never went near the river if he could help it, and that he invariably seemed much annoyed whenever John Hobby’s name was mentioned. It was evident that he had not forgotten the remarks made by honest John about his rowing. Sometimes Lilly suspected that he had even some stronger reason for disliking the young peasant. She feared that it was from the meanest of all reasons, jealousy. Hobby was better looking and more active, and excelled him in all athletic exercises. Hobby also was very good-natured, and had a great deal of humour, so that he was a general favourite among all who knew him in the country round. Ralph felt annoyed that one so much his inferior in birth, wealth, and education should in all other respects be his superior.

Again Lilly felt almost in despair that Ralph would ever become what he ought to be. She was a sensible and wise girl, and had not formed too high a standard of perfection, but still there was a standard which she knew he could and ought to reach, and she did not feel disposed to be satisfied with any measure below it. She had flattered herself that she had got him out of many of his bad habits, but he had fallen back into most of them, and she found that the influence, which she fancied she had gained over him, was in no way secured. He mixed as before, whenever he had an opportunity, with low associates, and he used to abuse and swear at all around him at the slightest provocation. As a young boy, this conduct had only met with contempt, but as he grew older it gained him every day fresh enemies, so that there was scarcely a person in the district round who was so much disliked.

During the last few years a great and happy change has taken place among the peasantry of England, and except a limited number of Chartists and other ill-instructed persons mostly confined to the towns, it may truly be said that the whole of the population is contented and orderly and patient under inevitable suffering and poverty. It was not so formerly, and directly they began to suffer from a scarcity of provisions or low wages, their only idea of remedying the evil, was to burn or destroy the property of their more wealthy and prosperous neighbours. Bad times, as they were called, were now occurring, and the whole rural population, especially in the neighbourhood of Clavering Hall, were in a state of great discontent. Incendiary fires were of nightly occurrence throughout the country. Not only haystacks, but wheat-stacks and barns and farm buildings were set on fire. This way which the country people took of showing their suffering was both very wicked and exceedingly foolish, but it proved indubitably that something or other required amendment. The magistrates took very naturally a somewhat one-sided view of the case, and regarding the people as evil-disposed and rebellious, employed the most stringent measures to repress these outrages. Whenever any supposed incendiaries were caught they seldom escaped conviction and were always punished with the utmost severity. Mr Clavering especially was conspicuous for the zeal with which he hunted down offenders and the unrelenting sternness with which he brought them to punishment. He, in consequence, brought upon himself a large amount of odium, and coupled with his conduct generally towards the peasantry, it made him probably the most unpopular man in the county. While the proud owner of Clavering Hall was the most unpopular, the poor tenant of one of his humble cottages was one of the most popular. This was no other than John Hobby. Hobby’s popularity arose from several causes. A good deal of it was owing to the estimation in which his son was held, while he himself was looked upon as a hearty, good-natured fellow, ever ready with his tongue or his single stick to stand up for a friend or to defend the right; but, above all this, he had been falsely accused and tried on the charge of an act of incendiarism or of instigating others to commit it, and likewise of afterwards heading a number of persons who had committed various lawless acts. After a long imprisonment John Hobby had proved his innocence, and not being of either a humble or forgiving temper, he was not backward in speaking on all occasions of the way in which he had been treated. The summer passed away, the autumn came round, and matters grew worse. Lilly Vernon, however, rode out as usual, fearless of evil. Sometimes her uncle accompanied her, at others Ralph condescended to do so; but more usually of late she was followed by a groom, one of the most respectable and honest of the household. She had one day gone a considerable distance from home, when as she was walking her horse up a hill, with a copse wood on either side, she saw among the trees a small fire with a tent and carts near it, and the other usual features of a gipsy encampment. “Perhaps that is Arnold’s camp,” she said to herself, and just then she caught sight of the gipsy himself coming along the road. As soon as he perceived who it was he hurried towards her.

“I was coming this very day to watch for you near the Hall, young lady,” he said, putting his hand on her horse’s neck. “You wished, I know, to do me a service, and you have it now in your power to help me. My eldest boy has been taken up by the constables on a charge of setting fire to Farmer Low’s haystacks. He is innocent of the crime, for crime I hold it; but he is a gipsy, he was taken near the spot, and it will go hard with him. Your uncle has an affection for you, and will listen to the truth from your lips. If you put the matter before him, and tell him whose son the lad is, may be he will exert himself in his favour. Though he is a hard man, he is not one to let the innocent suffer.”

Lilly willingly promised to do all that the gipsy asked. Having paid a visit to his wife and children, who warmly welcomed her, she hurried homeward. On her return she met considerable bodies of men proceeding along the road, all armed with scythes, or hooks, or sticks. On enquiring of the groom what they were about his only reply was, “They are up to some mischief, Miss, but it’s as much as my life’s worth to ask them. I did not like their looks as they passed, and cast their eyes on the Clavering livery.”

On reaching the Hall Lilly hastened to find her uncle, who was at home, and without saying anything of what she had just seen, laid the young gipsy’s case before him and placed the evidence of his innocence in so clear a light that he at once promised he would befriend him. She had promised the gipsy’s wife to ride out the next day to tell her of the success of her petition.

To assist in keeping down the disturbances which have been mentioned, the yeomanry were called out. The magistrates announced that the next time a mob assembled for mischief they should be fired on, and ridden down without mercy. No one was louder than Ralph Clavering in asserting that this was the only way to treat them.

“I cannot help thinking, cousin, that milder measures would answer better,” observed Lilly; “I would rather go unarmed among them, and show them the folly and wickedness of their proceedings.”

“You are very wise, Lilly, but you know nothing of the management of men,” answered Ralph, contemptuously.

A body of cavalry had been quartered near Clavering Hall for some time, but information being brought that an outbreak was expected in a town in the other end of the county they were immediately ordered off in that direction.

A number of guests were assembled that day at the Hall at dinner. The cloth had just been removed, when the butler hurried in, and with a pale face and a trembling voice, announced the startling fact that one of the grooms had met a large body of armed men marching up through the park. His report was so circumstantial that there was no doubt about the matter. Some of the ladies took the matter calmly enough, others gave utterance to various expressions of terror, while the gentlemen were unanimous in the opinion that the windows and doors should be instantly barricaded, and that the Hall should be defended to the last if attacked. Not a moment was to be lost. There was no time to take out the sashes, but the shutters of all the lower rooms were closed and barred, as also were the doors, and chests of drawers, and tables and chairs were piled against them.

Ralph seemed highly pleased with the proceedings. He had never been so energetic, and no one was more active in carrying about the furniture and placing it, so as to strengthen the fortifications. There were a number of fowling-pieces and pistols and other fire-arms in the house. Those fit for use were at once loaded, and consigned to the different guests and men servants; others which had long been laid aside were hunted up, and while one part of the garrison set to work to clean them, others commenced casting bullets, and a third party went about to forage for lead for the purpose. A leaden cistern and some leaden pipes leading to it were quickly cut to pieces and the material carried below.

Lilly, though fully believing the report from what she had seen in the afternoon, and considerably alarmed in consequence, devoted herself to comforting her aunt, who was in a sad state of agitation, and kept declaring that the house would be burned down, and that they would all be murdered. Some of the ladies, however, volunteered to assist in casting bullets, and expressed their readiness to fight if the house were attacked.

Mr Clavering appeared at this juncture to considerable advantage. He showed that he felt as an Englishman, and that, as Englishmen may well glory in the privilege of doing, he looked upon his house as his castle. He at once took the lead, and went about calmly from room to room, superintending all the arrangements.

While affairs were in this state, it occurred to one of the gentlemen to enquire how near the rioters had got to the house? No one could say; in fact, no one had seen them since Bill Snookes, the groom, had reported their approach. One old gentleman, who enjoyed a practical joke, suggested that they had perhaps been taking a great deal of trouble, and disarranging the house to no purpose, and that the rioters might not be coming at all, which, of course made the rest very angry; at the same time that it induced two or three others to volunteer to go out and ascertain the position and force of the enemy.

Bill’s report had been somewhat vague, and he might possibly have exaggerated their numbers. The night was very dark, and from the upper windows no persons were visible in the park, and not a sound was heard—even the dogs were silent, which they would not have been had people been moving about. Beyond the park, however, were seen in two or more places a bright glare in the sky, which, there could be little doubt, was caused by incendiary fires.

We at the present day can scarcely realise that such was possible. The inmates of the Hall watched anxiously; any moment the well-formed corn and haystacks on the estate might burst into a blaze, and so might even the extensive outhouses of the Hall itself.

Still the Hall was not attacked. Two volunteers offered to go out and ascertain the state of affairs. A strong party accompanied them to one of the side-doors to repel any attack of the enemy who might be in ambush near and attempt to surprise them. Ralph wanted to accompany the scouts, but they politely declined having his company.

The night was now drawing on; several of the party reiterated their belief that the rioters would not come near them. At length the probability of an attack being made on the Hall was set at rest by the return of the two scouts, who stated that they had encountered a large body of men marching towards it and loudly threatening its destruction. They themselves were almost discovered, and had had no little difficulty in making their escape.

Everybody within the mansion was now in greater bustle than before. Again Mr Clavering looked at all the doors and fastenings, and inspected all the points of possible approach, and men servants or maid servants were stationed at all the windows which could be reached by ladders, several of which it was recollected, when too late, were left exposed to view in the outhouses. Several of the gentlemen stood with fire-arms in their hands at some of the windows of the upper rooms commanding the approach to the house. The night was calm, not a sound was yet to be heard. At length the low, dull tramp of a body of men moving rapidly onward, broke the stillness. It grew more and more distinct; voices were heard mingling with it. They became louder and louder. Shouts and cries broke forth which soon evolved themselves into threats of vengeance against Clavering Hall and its proprietor. At last the open space before the house became filled with men. The cries became more prolonged.

“Now, lads, destruction to the Hall and death to its owner. Hurrah!” shouted some one from the crowd. The shout was repeated by a hundred voices.

It might well have made the defenders of the Hall tremble, for it was known that the cavalry had been sent off to a distance, and that there was no prospect of succour.

“We’ll fight it out, and we must needs be ashamed of ourselves if we cannot drive the scoundrels away,” exclaimed Mr Clavering.

“Light your torches, lads—fire is the thing for us,” shouted one of the mob. “We’ll soon smoke out these monsters.”

Soon after this, a small light was seen. It seemed to spread from hand to hand; and now some hundred torches waved to and fro in front of the Hall. The female occupants had now good reason for trembling with alarm. Still Mr Clavering was unwilling to give the order to fire. Not that he had much compunction about killing them, but it would only have exasperated the people, without driving them away.

“The doors are closed,” cried the man who had before spoken. “We must burst them open. Bring forward the battering rams.”

No sooner was the command issued, than a number of men were seen hurrying up with some trunks of small trees, slung on ropes, between them. This proceeding had not been foreseen; and it was evident that the doors could not withstand the force about to be applied to them.

“If you proceed to violence, understand all of you below this, that we will fire,” shouted Mr Clavering. “Many of you will lose your lives—mark that. I give you warning.”

“And we give you warning, that we will burn you and your fine Hall, and everybody in it. Mark that, Ralph Clavering,” was the answer. “Huzza, lads.—No more delay.—On with the work.”

The men thus incited brought forward a battering ram, and made a furious attack on the front door. Stout as it was, it cracked throughout. Another such blow would have burst it open, and allowed the angry assailants a free entrance.

Still Mr Clavering and his companions were unwilling to fire, till it appeared that they had no longer any other resource.

“Again I give you warning, men—we will take the lives of some of you if you approach the door,” he shouted out.

“Do your worst—we don’t fear you, squire,” was the answer; and again a rush was made towards the door.

A shower of bullets rattled down among the assailants, and several shots were fired from the crowd in return. Loud shrieks and cries of vengeance arose on all sides. The hall door was burst open, and fierce men, maddened by hunger, with all their worst passions aroused, were rushing in, with torches in their hands, bent on destroying the mansion, when they were met by a party of the defenders, who resolutely kept them back. Still it was too evident that numbers would prevail, when, at that moment, a voice which rose high and clear above the din shouted out—

“What, men, are you about? Do you wish to destroy the property of one of your best friends? You fancy that Clavering Hall is to belong to the lad known as young Ralph Clavering; but you are mistaken. The rightful heir is no other than he whom we all have called John Hobby. Look at him, any one of you; and who can doubt it? When the right moment comes it will be proved. In the meantime let that high and mighty young gentleman, Master Ralph Clavering, enjoy his dignity as best he can, and look down on those whom he will soon find are his equals.”

While the stranger was speaking, there was so perfect a silence among the rioters that every word was heard by those within the house. Ralph Clavering heard them with feelings of astonishment and dismay. So did Lilly, and so did Mr and Mrs Clavering. They did not believe the extraordinary assertion; but still it created most painful feelings within their bosoms. The effect on the mob, however, was highly satisfactory. Although some insisted that they should continue the attack, because the property, as it still belonged to Squire Clavering, ought to be destroyed, but by far the larger majority agreed to abandon it. The majority carried the day, and the small minority had no inclination to continue fighting alone.

“But before we go, lads, let us give three cheers for the rightful heir of Clavering Hall. Hip! hip! hip! hurra for honest John Hobby! and when he comes into his property, may he not forget his poorer neighbours!”

Again and again they shouted this assertion, creating even more astonishment and dismay in the minds of the owner of the Hall and his friends than their attack had done. The volley from the fowling-pieces did not appear to have produced much effect, or, if any of the people had been hit, they were carried off by their friends.

After the last cheer, the whole body suddenly moved off, the rear ranks pushing hurriedly on, evidently not wishing to be the last, lest they might be assailed by the inmates of the Hall. Some of the gentlemen, indeed, proposed sallying out, and punishing the rioters; but Mr Clavering told them that he would not sanction such an act, as it would be utterly useless, and might lead to their own destruction. In a few minutes not a person was to be seen in the park, while the sound of the retreating footsteps of the mob gradually faded away.

Chapter Seven.

The assertion made by the stranger, which had so unexpectedly raised the siege of the Hall, created the most painful doubts in the minds of Mr and Mrs Clavering. At the time of their child’s birth Mr Clavering had been away, and his conscience told him that it had been for the sake of his own gratification and amusement. The housekeeper and several other servants in the Hall at the time had been dismissed for misconduct, and, from circumstances which occurred, Mrs Clavering had no proof or certainty whatever that her child had not been changed. Seldom has a mother been placed in a more painful position. Another circumstance which gave the statement a greater air of truth was, that the woman Hobby had been employed at the Hall at the time Mrs Clavering’s child was born, that she herself was said to have given birth to an infant shortly afterwards, and that certainly a boy had been brought up by her who was now known as John Hobby. She was by some means or other better off than her neighbours. Young Hobby was always well dressed and well cared for, and had been sent to the best village school the neighbourhood afforded; so that, considered only a cottager’s child, he soon became the associate on equal terms of the sons of the well-to-do farmers in the neighbourhood. Mrs Hobby had not spoiled him; and John Hobby the elder, who was a conscientious man, had, to the best of his power, done his duty by him, and given him such religious instruction as he was able. He was also a firm, mild-tempered man, and had never failed firmly and gently to punish him whenever he committed a fault.

The morning after the events which have been described, Mr Clavering met his guests at the breakfast-table with a calmer countenance than could have been expected.

“You all heard the strange assertion made last night, and saw the effect it produced,” he observed. “In its truth I am not inclined to believe, though I shall, of course, make the most searching inquiry as to the origin of the report. I have sent for the youth, the supposed rival of Ralph, and I am endeavouring to discover the person who last night made the statement which probably saved the Hall from destruction. I cannot look upon him otherwise than as a friend.”

“Then, uncle, I will tell you who he is,” exclaimed Lilly, eagerly; “I recognised his voice. He is Arnold the gipsy. I was certain of it the moment he began speaking.”

“Those gipsies pick up strange tales, which can seldom be relied on,” observed one of the guests.

“I should think not,” exclaimed Ralph Clavering, whose features had been much agitated since he took his seat at the table, but who had endeavoured to preserve a calm demeanour. “You are not going to discard me as your son, I hope, merely from the assertion of a vagabond gipsy?”

“No, indeed, Ralph, my dear boy; but you would surely wish the report to be inquired into,” said Mr Clavering, calmly.

Lilly had come round, and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Whatever is the case, dear Ralph, I will be your sister-cousin as long as we live,” she said, in her sweet, gentle voice. “Endeavour to bear this great trial well; you can if you strive properly.”

Ralph bent his head down between his hands, and bursting into tears, murmured—

“But it is very hard to bear.”

It was the first time in his life that he had ever shown signs of a softened heart, and it made Lilly inwardly rejoice, for she had expected to see him fly out, and abuse Hobby as a vile impostor, and, as it were, strike right and left at any one who ventured to question that he was the lawful heir of Clavering Hall. She observed, also, that during the day, though occasionally moody, he was far less dictatorial and haughty in his manner towards others than usual, while to her he was especially gentle and polite.

Mr Clavering attended the magistrates’ meeting, and not unmindful of his promise to his niece, succeeded in getting the young gipsy, Arnold’s son, discharged, though the evidence against him would, perhaps, have been sufficient in those days, to convict him, had he not had a friend to speak in his favour.

In the evening young John Hobby, with Mrs Hobby, arrived at the Hall. She was given in charge of the housekeeper, with strict orders to prevent her from communicating with any one. John was habited in his Sunday suit, and with his good looks and modest and unassuming yet unembarrassed manners, he won many sympathisers. He was extremely astonished to find himself at the Hall, for he had not heard the report promulgated by Arnold, nor had he nor Mrs Hobby been told why they had been sent for.

When the young gipsy had been discharged, Mr Clavering told him that he wished to see his father; but it was not till another day had nearly passed that Arnold made his appearance. There could be little doubt that he was well aware of the object for which he had been requested to come to the Hall, though Mrs Hobby and John had been kept out of his way.

A lawyer had come down from London, and two or three other friends remained at the Hall to assist Mr Clavering in investigating the case. Arnold was first brought up. His story was very simple. He had no personal interest whatever in young Hobby. He had obtained the information through his wife, who, in the course of her calling of fortune-telling, had got it from Mrs Hobby herself. He considered the secret of value, but had not intended to make use of it, though he was induced to do so for the purpose of saving the Hall from destruction.

Mrs Hobby’s evidence was next taken. She stated that neither of the children about whom this question had arisen was her own; that Mrs Duffy, the housekeeper at the Hall, had brought her an infant, stating that it was the child of Mrs Clavering; that it would never be reared if brought up by its mother, and that to save its life she had taken it away, and substituted another in its stead. She owned that she had her doubts as to the propriety of the proceeding, but that her scruples had been quieted by a sum of money, and that she was told she would receive a similar sum every year as long as she did not betray the secret. The gipsy wife had, however, wormed it out of her, and this year the looked-for sum had not arrived at the usual time.

Although there were some discrepancies, and even improbabilities, in the details of the statement, it still appeared possible that the story might in the main be true; and, at all events, it wore an air of sufficient probability to make the positions of the two youths extremely painful. Ralph came forward in a way which was little expected, but which gave Lilly great satisfaction. He earnestly begged that John Hobby might remain at the Hall, and be treated in all respects as he had been, and that he might accompany him to his tutor, and obtain the education which would fit him for the position in life he might possibly be destined to gain. No conclusion could possibly be arrived at, however, it appeared, unless Mrs Duffy and her accomplices could be found; and what had become of her no one knew. Another question also arose: if Ralph was not the heir of Clavering Hall, who was he? Again, should he be proved to be the son of Mr and Mrs Clavering, who was John Hobby? For the present, however, Mr Clavering’s legal adviser assured him that the law would in no way interfere with the right of his supposed son Ralph as heir of Clavering Hall.

John Hobby himself made no claim, while the whole story rested on the assertions of a gipsy and an ignorant woman, who had no proofs to bring forward in its support. The persons who suffered most were Mr and Mrs Clavering. They had looked upon Ralph as their son, and had loved him as such, too blindly indeed; and now they felt that they might possibly have been bestowing this love on a stranger, and neglecting their own offspring. As they saw young Hobby, indeed, they could not help acknowledging that he was worthy of the love of any parents, though they could discover no likeness in him to themselves, or any of their near relatives, while Ralph had always been considered the very image of Mr Clavering. Thus they continued in the most painful state of uncertainty as to which was their son, without any possibility of solving the mystery.

Chapter Eight.

Ralph Clavering was becoming a changed character. His spirit had been humbled, if not broken. He had persuaded himself that any moment he might have to descend from his proud position as heir of Clavering Hall, and become a nameless beggar, ignorant even of who were his parents. John Hobby had truly heaped coals of fire on his head that had completely softened and won his heart. In their studies, John Hobby’s quickness and perseverance stimulated him to make greater exertions than he had ever before used. Hobby remained on as a guest at the Hall and was soon looked upon as one of the family. The only thing certain with regard to him was that he was not the son of Dame Hobby and her husband John; and Lilly, at all events, hoped that he had the right to bear some more euphonious name. He also daily improved in manners and in the tone of his voice and accent, so that after the lapse of a few months, a stranger visiting the Hall would not have supposed that his early days had been spent in one of the humblest cottages on the estate. He did not, however, lose his modest demeanour and simple manners. They remained, but became those of a cultivated and polished person. At length the time arrived when it had been arranged that Ralph should go to the University. He wished that his friend should accompany him. Here in an open field Hobby’s talents had full space for development. Ralph was inclined to feel jealous at finding himself distanced by his friend, but he stifled the unworthy feeling, and rejoiced at his success. It was considerable, for Hobby carried off all the prizes for which he was able to contend.

Thus three years passed rapidly away, and at the end of that time, while Ralph Clavering passed a very creditable degree, John Hobby took high honours. He now resolved, by the advice of his tutors and other friends, to enter at the Bar, where he might carve out his own fortune. He invariably spent his vacations with Ralph. Sometimes they made tours together on the Continent or elsewhere, but the winters were generally spent at Clavering Hall. Ralph was now as much loved and respected by the household and tenants as he had before been disliked, and all agreed that it would be a grievous pity if it should be proved that he was not the rightful heir, though it was acknowledged that a finer or better young gentleman than Mr John Hobby was not to be found.

The two young men were at the Hall for the early part of the Christmas vacation, just as they had left College. After it they proposed making a tour in the East. Snow covered the ground and a biting north-east wind blew out side, while all within was cheerful and bright. A large party staying in the house were assembled in the dining-room; the cloth had just been removed and the young collegians were receiving the congratulations of their friends at their success at the University, when the butler entering whispered to Mr Clavering that a man desired to see him immediately on important business. Desiring that the man might be shown into his study he apologised to his friends and hurriedly left the room.

On entering the study a tall thin man stepped forward—“It’s a long time since you have seen me, Squire Clavering, but maybe you may remember the gipsy Arnold,” said the stranger. “You and yours acted kindly towards me and mine, and I have ever since been wishing to do you a service in return. I knew that the occasion would some day come. It has arrived. You have long been anxious to find the woman Duffy. She is in the neighbourhood, and I suspect on her death-bed. If you hasten to her you may yet be in time to take her depositions, as she alone is able to settle who is your rightful son and heir.”

Fortunately a brother magistrate and Mr Clavering’s lawyer were staying in the house. Ordering a carriage to be got ready, he sent for them, and, without delay, accompanied by Arnold, they set off to the cottage where Mrs Duffy was to be found.

The old woman was in bed and evidently very ill. At first, when told why they had come, she was greatly alarmed and refused to say anything, but being soothed and assured that no injury would be done her, she expressed her readiness to say all she knew. Mr Clavering, who had hitherto been so calm, now that the painful mystery was about to be cleared up, could scarcely restrain his feelings. As she spoke the lawyer, unobserved by her, wrote down her words. The description of a life of crime is not edifying. Avarice, the eager desire for money, had been the incentive which urged her on from crime to crime. By a bribe she had been induced by the wicked brother of a gentleman of property in the north of England to assist in carrying off his son and heir, and not knowing what to do with the infant, she had committed it to the charge of Dame Hobby, leading her by further falsehood to suppose that it was the heir, lately born, of Clavering Hall. Part of the money she had received from the uncle she had remitted regularly to the Dame for the boy’s support. She asserted most positively that Ralph Clavering was truly the child, born to Mr and Mrs Clavering, and that no change had been effected to her knowledge and belief.

Mr Clavering uttered an ejaculation of thankfulness when he heard this, and his brother magistrate warmly congratulated him. The lawyer rubbed his hands, exclaiming—“This other affair will, however, give the gentlemen of the long robe a nice supply of occupation for the spring months. I know the gentleman, and believe every word; he’ll fight it out to the last. Really if all people were honest, it would be hard work for barristers to find support.”

The trial predicted by the lawyer took place; and, thanks to Mr Clavering’s purse, it was brought to a successful issue for the interests of Ralph’s friend.

As Sir Harry Olcotte, the owner of many broad acres, the latter never forgot that he had once been simple John Hobby, while Ralph Clavering had reason to bless the day which aroused him from his state of self-conceit and self-indulgence, and which made him feel the necessity of self-exertion and self-command.

It may be satisfactory to some readers to know that Lilly Vernon, not many years after the events recorded, became Lady Olcotte; that Arnold the gipsy and all his family settled down near them, and became respectable members of society; and that old John Hobby and his dame were placed on one of the best farms of the estate, and that the Steward, in the most unaccountable way, always forgot to call for their rent.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Voyages of the Ranger and Crusader"

Chapter One.

The Family Party.

“Harry, my boy; another slice of beef?” said Major Shafto, addressing his fine young sailor-son, a passed midshipman, lately come home from sea.

“No, thank you, since I could not, if I took it, pay due respect to the mince-pies and plum-pudding; but Willy here can manage another slice, I daresay. He has a notion, that he will have to feed for the future on ‘salt junk’ and ‘hard tack.’”

Willy Dicey was going to sea, and had just been appointed to Harry Shafto’s ship, the “Ranger.”

Among the large party of family friends collected at Major Shafto’s house on that Christmas Day not many years ago, was Lieutenant Dicey, a friend and neighbour of the Major’s, who had served with him in the same regiment for many years. The Lieutenant had lost a leg, and, unable to purchase his company, had retired from the army. His eldest son, Charles, and two of his daughters, Emily and May, had arranged to go out and settle in New Zealand; and they expected shortly to sail. The Lieutenant would gladly have gone with them, but he had a delicate wife and several other children, and thought it wiser, therefore, to remain at home. The party was a happy and cheerful one. The fire burned brightly, showing that there was a hard frost outside. The lamp shed a brilliant light over the well-covered table, and the Major did his best to entertain his guests. The first course was removed, and then came a wonderful plum-pudding, and such dishes of mince-pies! And then the brandy was brought and poured over them, and set on fire; and Harry Shafto and Willy Dicey tried if they could not eat them while still blazing, and, of course, burned their mouths, eliciting shouts of laughter; and the whole party soon thought no more of the future, and were happy in the present. How Mrs Clagget’s tongue did wag! She was a tall, old lady, going out to a nephew in New Zealand; and, as she was to be the companion of the young Diceys on the voyage, she had been asked to join the Christmas party.

Dinner was just over when voices were heard in the hall singing a Christmas carol, and all the guests went out to listen to the words which told of the glorious event which had, upwards of eighteen hundred years before, occurred in the distant East, and yet was of as much importance to all the human race, and will be to the end of time, as then. Ringers came next, and lastly mummers played their parts, according to an ancient custom, which some might consider “more honoured in the breach than in the observance.” After this there was blind-man’s buff, in which all the maid-servants as well as the children joined, and Mrs Clagget’s own maid and the Diceys’ Susan, who had come with the children. Well was that Christmas Day remembered by most of the party.

Soon after this the Diceys began to make active preparations for their intended voyage. Charles went up to London and engaged a passage for himself and sisters, and for Mrs Clagget, on board the “Crusader.” He came back, describing her as a very fine vessel, and he seemed well pleased with her commander, Captain Westerway.

As the time for parting approached, the young people began to feel that it would prove a greater trial than they had expected. While talking of their future life in the colony, and anticipating the various novel scenes and the new existence they were to enjoy, they had scarcely considered the wrench to their feelings which they would have to endure. Mr and Mrs Dicey had felt this, probably, from the first; and therefore, when the trial came, they were better prepared for it. Willy was the first to be got ready to start with his friend, Harry Shafto. We will, therefore, follow their fortunes before we accompany our other friends on their voyage.

Chapter Two.

The “Ranger” sails.

Harry and Willy leave home—Journey to Portsmouth—The “Blue Posts”—Midshipmen’s tricks—On board the “Ranger”—The soldier-officers—The sergeant’s wife—Mrs Morley and her family—Mrs Rumbelow nurses Willy—Cape of Good Hope—Sent to land troops—The “Ranger” in danger—Driving towards shore—The last anchor holds—Sail made—Mrs Rumbelow’s sermon—Troops carried on.

One bright morning at the end of January, the Portsmouth coach drove up to Major Shafto’s door. The Diceys were breakfasting at the house, for Harry Shafto’s leave was up, and he was to take Willy with him on board the “Ranger,” then lying in Portsmouth harbour. Farewells were said, fond embraces exchanged, for Harry, though a tall young man, was not ashamed to kiss his mother again and again, and his dear young sisters; nor did Willy mind the tears which trickled unbidden from his eyes. His heart was very full; though he had so longed to go to sea, now that he was actually going, he felt that he should be ready, if required, to give up all his bright hopes, and stay at home.

In spite of the cold, the whole family came out and stood at the door while the two young sailors mounted to the top of the coach. “All right,” shouted the guard, as the last article of luggage was handed up. The coachman gave a gentle lash to his horses, and the lads, standing up, turned round to give a last fond look at all those they loved so well.

This, it must be understood, was some time before Charles Dicey and his sisters started on their more important expedition. The young sailors expected to be home again in little more than a year, or perhaps even in less time, for the “Ranger” was a Government troop-ship, with the usual officers and crew, however, of a sloop-of-war. Harry Shafto would have preferred being in a dashing frigate, but, at the same time, he was glad to serve under so worthy a captain as Commander Newcombe.

Harry and his young companion, on their arrival at Portsmouth, went to the “Blue Posts,”—not an aristocratic hotel, certainly, but one resorted to in those days by the junior officers of the service. Willy felt very proud of his new uniform, and could not help handling his dirk as he sat by Harry Shafto’s side in the coffee-room. Several midshipmen and masters’ assistants came in. Two or three who took their seats at the same table asked Willy to what ship he belonged. “To the ‘Ranger’,” he answered proudly; “and a very fine ship she is.”

“Oh, ay, a lobster carrier,” observed a young midshipman, in a squeaky voice. “I have heard of old Newcombe. He is the savage fellow who tars and feathers his midshipmen if they get the ship in irons, or cannot box the compass when he tells them to do it.”

“I have been told, on the contrary, that he is a very kind man,” answered Willy; “and as to getting the ship in irons or boxing the compass, I do not think he would allow either the one thing or the other.”

“What! do you mean to call my word in question, youngster?” exclaimed the midshipman. “Do you know who I am?”

“Tell him you think he has eaten a good deal of the stuff they feed geese on,” whispered Harry.

Willy did as he was advised. The midshipman on this got very angry, especially when all his companions laughed at him, and advised him to let the “young chip” alone, as there was evidently an “old block” at his elbow, who was not likely to stand nonsense. At last the midshipman, who said that his name was Peter Patch, acknowledged that he himself had just been appointed to the “Ranger,” and that he believed old Newcombe to be a very good sort of a fellow, considering what officers generally are.

Next morning, after breakfast, Harry and his young companion went on board their ship, and Harry reported himself and Willy to the first-lieutenant, Mr Tobin. Captain Newcombe was on board; and when Harry, accompanied by Willy, went up and spoke to him on the quarterdeck, he received them very kindly.

Willy, by Harry’s advice, set to work at once to learn his duty. Peter Patch, though fond of practical jokes, was very good-natured, and assisted him as far as he could, telling him the names of the ropes, and showing him how to knot and splice, and the principle of sailing and steering a ship. Willy, who was a sharp little fellow, quickly took in all the instruction given him.

The midshipmen’s berth was somewhat confined, as, indeed, were those of the other officers, as a large portion of the space below was given up for the use of the troops. The poop cabins were devoted to the accommodation of the military officers and their families. There was also a space occupied by the hospital, and another portion by the women who accompanied the regiment, certain non-commissioned officers and privates being allowed to have their wives and children with them.

At length the ship was ready, and the soldiers were seen approaching her from Gosport. As they came up the side, they formed on deck, and each man had his allotted berth shown him; so that, although there were two hundred men, with a proportionate number of non-commissioned officers and their wives and families, there was perfect order and regularity observed. The “Ranger” had the honour of conveying Colonel Morley, who commanded the regiment, and there was a Mrs and two Miss Morleys. Then there was Captain Power, Captain Gosling, and Captain Twopenny; and Lieutenants Dawson, Hickman, and Ward; with Ensigns Holt and Gonne. There was a surgeon, David Davis, who hailed from Wales; and a paymaster, who was the stoutest man on board. There were several sergeants, but only one, Serjeant Rumbelow, whose name it is necessary to record. He was accompanied by his wife, who was a person well capable of keeping order, not only among the soldiers’ wives, but among the soldiers themselves. She was a woman of powerful frame and voice, tall and gaunt, and of a dauntless spirit. The regiment had not been on board many hours before Willy saw her go up to two young soldiers who were quarrelling. Seizing them, she knocked their heads together. “There, lads,” she exclaimed; “make it up this moment, or the next time I catch you at that work I’ll knock them a precious deal harder.”

Willy Dicey looked with a good deal of awe at Mrs Morley and her daughters, who appeared to be very great people. They quickly made themselves at home in their cabins, and had their work-boxes out, and a number of things arranged, as if they had been living there for weeks. Captain Newcombe made some remark on the subject. Mrs Morley replied, laughing, “You need not be surprised, for this will be the tenth voyage I have made, and you may suppose, therefore, that I am pretty well accustomed to roughing it. This ship is like a royal yacht compared to some vessels I have sailed in. My husband was not always a colonel, and subalterns and their wives have to put up with rough quarters sometimes.”

Harry Shafto was glad to find that most of the officers were gentlemanly men, and there appeared every prospect of their having a pleasant voyage.

As soon as the troops were on board, the ship went out to Spithead, and having taken in her powder and a few more stores, with a fair wind she stood down Channel.

The “Ranger” had to undergo not a little tumbling about in the Bay of Biscay, no unusual occurrence in that part of the ocean: it contributed to shake people and things into their places; and by the time she got into the latitude of Madeira, both military and naval officers, and the ladies on board, were pretty well acquainted. Colonel Morley found out that he had served with Major Shafto, and was very happy to make the acquaintance of his son; and Mrs Twopenny, for Captain Twopenny was married, was acquainted with the Diceys, and took Willy Dicey under her especial patronage. Mrs Rumbelow found out, somehow or other, that she had been nurse in his mother’s family, and, of course, Willy became a great pet of hers. Willy fell ill, and Mrs Rumbelow begged that she might nurse him, a favour very readily granted: indeed, had it not been for her watchful care, the doctor declared that little Dicey would have slipped through his fingers.

We need not accompany the “Ranger” in her course. With mostly favourable winds, she had a quick run to the Cape of Good Hope, and, without any accident, came to an anchor off Cape Town. Those who had not been there before looked with interest on the novel scene which presented itself from the anchorage. Willy Dicey, soon after his arrival, wrote a long letter home, from which one extract must be given:—

“Before us rose the perpendicular sides of Table Mountain, while on either hand we saw the crags of the Lion’s Head and Devil’s Peak, the former overhung by a large cloud, known as the Table-cloth. As it reached the edge, it seemed to fall down for a short distance, and then to disperse, melting away in the clear air. The town still preserves the characteristics given to it by its founders, many of the houses retaining a Dutch look, a considerable number of the inhabitants, indeed, having also the appearance of veritable Hollanders. The town is laid out regularly, most of the streets crossing each other at right angles, with rows of oak, poplar, and pine-trees lining the sides of the principal ones. Many of the houses have vine and rose-trees trailed over them; while the shutters and doors, and the woodwork generally, are painted of various colours, which give them a somewhat quaint but neat and picturesque appearance.”

Harry twice got a run on shore, but his duties confined him on board for the rest of the time the ship remained. She was on the point of sailing when news was received of a serious outbreak of the Kaffirs. A small body of troops on the frontier had been almost overwhelmed, and compelled to entrench themselves till relief could be sent to them. The Commander-in-chief accordingly ordered the “Ranger” to proceed immediately to the nearest point where it was supposed troops could be disembarked. It is known as Waterloo Bay. She arrived off the bay in the evening; but Captain Newcombe, not deeming it prudent to run into an unknown place during the night, stood away from the land, intending to return at daylight. In a short time, however, it fell calm. The lead was hove. It was evident that a current and swell combined were drifting the ship fast towards the shore, on which the surf was breaking heavily. On this the captain ordered an anchor to be let go, which happily brought her up. Though there was scarcely a breath of air, every now and then heavy rollers came slowly in, lifting the ship gently, and then, passing on, broke with a terrific roar on the rocky coast. The passengers were on deck. The young military officers chatted and laughed as usual, and endeavoured to make themselves agreeable to the ladies. Colonel Morley, however, looked grave. He clearly understood the dangerous position in which they were placed. Willy Dicey asked Harry what he thought about the matter.

“We must do our duty, and pray that the anchor may hold,” answered Harry.

“But if that gives way?” said Willy.

“We must let go another, and then another.”

“But if they fail us, and no breeze springs up?” said Willy.

“Then you and I must not expect to be admirals,” answered Harry.

“What do you mean?” asked the young midshipman.

“That a short time will show whether any one on board this ship is likely to be alive to-morrow,” said Shafto.

“You don’t mean to say that, Harry?” remarked Willy, feeling that the time had come when he must summon up all the courage he possessed, and of the amount he had as yet no experience. “You don’t seem afraid.”

“There’s a great deal of difference between knowing a danger and fearing to face it,” said Harry. “Not a seaman on board does not know it as well as I do, though they do not show what they think. Look at the captain—he is as cool and collected as if we were at anchor in a snug harbour; yet he is fully aware of the power of these rollers, and the nature of the ground which holds the anchor. There is the order to range another cable.”

Harry and Willy parted to attend to their respective duties. Night came on, but neither Commander Newcombe nor any of his officers went below. They were anxiously looking out for a breeze which might enable the ship to stand off from the dangerous coast. The night was passing by, and still the anchor held; at length, in the morning watch, some time before daylight, a breeze sprang up from the eastward, and the order was given to get under weigh. As the men went stamping round the capstan, a loud crash was heard.

“The messenger has given way, sir,” cried Mr Tobin, the first-lieutenant. Out ran the cable to the clench, carrying away the stoppers, and passing through both compressors. At length the messenger was again shackled, and the anchor hove up, when it was found that both flukes had been carried away.

Not, however, for some hours did the ship succeed in reaching Waterloo Bay, where she brought up, about a mile and a-half from the landing-place. A signal was made:—“Can troops land?” which was answered from the shore, “Not until the weather moderates,” the wind having by this time increased to a stiff breeze. A spring was now got on the cable, in case of its being necessary to slip; for it was very evident, if so heavy a surf set on shore in comparatively fine weather, that, should it come on to blow from the southward, the position of the ship would be still more critical.

As the day drew on, the breeze freshened, but the rollers at the same time increased, and broke heavily half-a-cable’s length to the westward of the ship, foaming and roaring as they met the resistance of the rockbound shore. The position of the “Ranger” was more dangerous than ever. The crew were at their stations; the soldiers were on deck, divided into parties under their officers, ready to assist in any work they might be directed to perform. Topgallant masts and royal masts were got up, and everything was prepared for making sail. The order was now given for shortening in the cable. As it was got on board, it was found that it had swept over a sharp rock about fifty fathoms from the anchor, and it seemed a miracle that it had not been cut through.

“Avast heaving,” cried the captain. “Loose sails.” In an instant the crew were aloft.

At that moment, as the topsails were filling, the second-lieutenant cried out from forward, “The cable has parted.”

“Let go the second bower,” cried the captain. The ship was drifting towards the rocks. Willy held his breath. What Harry had said might soon be realised. Mrs Morley and her daughters were on deck. They stood together watching the shore. Their cheeks were paler than usual, but they showed no sign of alarm, talking calmly and earnestly together. As Willy Dicey observed them, he wondered whether they could be aware of the danger they were in. To be sure, they might be lowered into the boat before the ship struck, but then the Colonel was not likely to quit his men, and they could not be indifferent to his safety. Still the ship drifted.

“Let go the sheet-anchor,” was the next order. All were looking out anxiously to ascertain whether she was driving nearer the treacherous surf. Many a breast drew a relieved breath. The last anchor had brought her up. Sails were now furled and royal yards sent down.

Near the “Ranger” an English barque was at anchor. Her master came on board, and volunteered to assist in making a hawser fast to his vessel, for the purpose of casting the ship the right way. “You will find, Captain Newcombe, that the rollers will soon be increasing, and, knowing the place as I do, I have great doubts whether the anchors will hold,” he observed; “I wish you were well out of this.” As he spoke, he cast an anxious glance astern, where the surf was breaking with terrific violence. The offer was gladly accepted. The two cutters were accordingly lowered to take hawsers to the barque. On the sheet-anchor being weighed, it came up without resistance. Both flukes had been carried away. The only hope of safety depended on the remaining anchor and cable holding till sail could be made. In vain the boats attempted to carry the hawsers to the barque. A strong current sent them to leeward, and they were accordingly ordered again on board. Happily, at this moment the wind veered a point to the east. There is no necessity to tell the men to be sharp. The order to make sail is given. The crew swarm aloft; the soldiers, under proper guidance, are stationed at the halliards, and the tacks and sheets. The cable is slipped, single-reefed topsails, courses, topgallant sails, jibs, and driver set. Few among even the brave seamen who do not hold their breath and offer up a silent prayer that the ship may cast the right way. Hurra! round she comes. The sails fill. She moves through the water. The boats with the hawser get alongside and are hoisted up, and the old “Ranger” stands out towards the open sea. Is there a soul on board so dull and ungrateful as not to return fervent thanks to a gracious superintending God for deliverance from the imminent danger in which they have been placed?

As the ship drew off the land, the rollers were seen coming in with increased strength and size, and it was very evident that, had she not got under weigh at the time she did, she would have been dashed to pieces in the course, probably, of another short hour, and few of the soldiers and crew would have escaped. (Note 1.)

“I tell you what, boys,” said Mrs Rumbelow, “you will have to go through a good many dangers in the course of your lives may be, but never will you have a narrower escape than this. I was just now thinking where we all should be to-morrow, and wishing I could be certain that we should all meet together in heaven. Not that I think any one of us have a right to go there for any good we have ever done; only I wish you boys to recollect, when you are rapping out oaths and talking as you should not talk, that at any moment you may be called away out of this world; and just let me ask you if you think that you are fit to enter the only place a wise person would wish to live in for ever and ever?”

Mrs Rumbelow was not very lucid, it may be, in her theology, but she was very earnest, and the regiment benefited more than some might be ready to allow by her sayings and doings too. Things might have been much worse had it not been for her.

It being found impossible to land the troops, the “Ranger” returned to Simon’s Bay, where she was detained some time longer in replacing the anchors and cables she had lost. Captain Newcombe was exonerated for not carrying out his directions, seeing it was impossible to do so. A little army of regulars and volunteers was despatched from another station for the relief of the hard-pressed garrison, and arrived just as their last cartridge and last biscuit had been expended. Other troops also coming out from England, the “Ranger” proceeded towards her previous destination.

Note 1. In 1846 H.M.S. “Apollo” was placed under exactly the circumstances described. It was in this locality, also, that the “Birkenhead” troop-ship was lost.

Chapter Three.

The “Crusader” leaves for New Zealand.

The young emigrants—Going on board emigrant ship—The “Crusader” described—Voyage to Plymouth—The cabin passengers—A mysterious passenger—Last sight of England—Mr Paget’s good example—Employment for emigrants—Visit from Neptune—Mawson in the Triton’s hands.

Charles Dicey and his sisters were busily employed from morning till night, after Willy left home, in preparing for their intended voyage, and for their future life in New Zealand. Charles was a very fair carpenter. He had also learned how to shoe a horse and to milk a cow. The latter accomplishment his sisters also possessed. They also knew how to make butter, and to bake bread, and pies, and tarts. They could manufacture all sorts of preserves, and could cook in a variety of ways; while, since they were young girls, they had made all their own dresses; indeed, they possessed numerous valuable qualifications for their intended life in a colony. Charles was a fair judge of horse-flesh, and not a bad one of cattle and sheep. He also possessed steadiness and perseverance, and those who knew him best foretold that he would make a successful settler.

The time fixed for the sailing of the “Crusader” was drawing on. The “Ranger,” it must be remembered, had sailed a short time before. This fact should not be forgotten.

The day before the emigrant ship was to sail, the old Lieutenant accompanied his children up to London, and had the honour of escorting Mrs Clagget at the same time. Though the “Crusader” was to touch at Plymouth, they wisely went on board at the port from which she first sailed, that they might have time to get their cabins in order, and the luggage carefully stowed away.

“Bless you, my children,” said Lieutenant Dicey, as he kissed his young daughters, and held Charles’ hand, gazing earnestly into his countenance. “I entrust these dear girls to you, and I know that you will act a brother’s part, and protect them to the utmost. But there are dangers to be encountered, and we must pray to One in heaven, who has the power, if He sees fit, to guard you from them.”

The “Crusader” was a fine ship, of about a thousand tons, with a poop-deck, beneath which were the cabins for the first-class passengers. Below their cabins were those for the second-class passengers, while the between-decks was devoted to the use of the steerage passengers. Thus there were three ranks of people on board; indeed, including the officers and crow, the good ship presented a little world of itself. Old Captain Westerway was the sovereign—a mild despot, however; but if he was mild, his first mate, Mr William Windy, or Bill Windy, as he was generally called, was very much the contrary, and he took care to bring those who trespassed on the captain’s mildness very quickly under subjection. The “Crusader” was towed down the Thames, and when clear of the river, the Channel pilot, who was to take her to Plymouth, came on board. We shall know more of her passengers as she proceeds on her voyage.

She had a pleasant passage round to Plymouth, with just sufficient sea on for a few hours to shake people into their places, and to make them value the quiet of Plymouth harbour. The wise ones, after the tumbling about they had received, took the opportunity of securing all the loose articles in their cabins, so that they might be prepared for the next gale they were destined to encounter.

At Plymouth a good many steerage and a few more cabin passengers came on board the “Crusader.” Captain Westerway informed those who had come round from London that he expected to remain in that magnificent harbour three days at all events, and perhaps longer, before finally bidding farewell to Old England.

The Misses Dicey had a cabin to themselves, their brother had a small one near theirs, and Mrs Clagget had one on the opposite side of the saloon; but they could hear her tongue going from morning till night; and very often, at the latter period, addressing her next-door neighbour whenever she guessed that she was not asleep. There were two young men, Tom Loftus and Jack Ivyleaf by name, going out as settlers. With the former, who was gentlemanly and pleasing, Charles Dicey soon became intimate. A card, with the name of Mr Henry Paget, had been nailed to the door of one of the cabins hitherto unoccupied. “I wonder what he is like,” said Emily to her sister May. “His name sounds well, but of course that is no guide. Captain Westerway says an agent took his passage, and that he knows nothing about him.” At length a slightly-built gentleman, prepossessing in his appearance, if not handsome, came up the side, and presented a card with Mr Henry Paget on it. The steward immediately showed him into his cabin, where for a short time he was engaged in arranging several cases and other articles. He then going on deck, took a few solitary turns, apparently admiring the scenery. Returning below, he produced a book from his greatcoat pocket and began reading, proceedings duly remarked and commented on by his fellow-passengers. “Who can he be?”

“What is taking him out to New Zealand?” were questions asked over and over again, without eliciting any satisfactory reply.

In the second cabin there was a Mr and Mrs Bolton, very estimable people apparently, from the way they took care of their children. There was an oldish man, James Joel, and a young farmer, Luke Gravel. The last person who came on board told the mate, Bill Windy, as he stepped up the side, that his name was Job Mawson. He had paid his passage-money, and handed his ticket. Windy, who was a pretty good judge of character, eyed him narrowly. The waterman who had put him on board, as soon as the last article of his property was hoisted up, pulled off to the opposite side of the Sound from which the emigrants had come, and thus no information could be obtained from him. There was an unpleasant expression on the man’s countenance. His glance was furtive, and he always seemed to be expecting some one to touch him on the shoulder, and say, “You are wanted;” so Charles remarked to his sisters.

It would be impossible to describe all the people. There were three other young ladies in the first cabin, and the steerage passengers were generally respectable persons, whose object in emigrating was to find sufficient scope for their industry. Some were farm labourers and farming people, others mechanics, and a few shopkeepers, who had been unsuccessful in England, but who hoped to do better in the colony.

At length the captain with his papers, and the agent, came on board, all visitors took their departure, the anchor was hove up, and the “Crusader” with a fair wind sailed out of the Sound. The next day she took her departure from the Land’s End, the last point of Old England many of those on board were destined to see. Mr Mawson now quickly recovered his spirits, and began to give himself the airs of a fine gentleman. “Circumstances compel me to take a second-class cabin,” he observed to Mr Paget, to whom he at first devoted his especial attention; “but you may suppose that, to a person of my birth and education, such is greatly repugnant to my feelings. However, this is one of the trials of life, sir, we must submit to with a good grace. Circumstances are circumstances, Mr Paget, and I am sure my young friend, Mr Dicey (I think, sir, that is your name?) will agree with me,” he added, turning to Charles.

“We make our own circumstances, sir, however,” answered Mr Paget, “by wise and prudent, or by foolish conduct, or by honest or dishonest dealings with our fellow-men. The upright man is not degraded by loss of fortune, and I have no doubt many persons of education go out in second-class cabins on board emigrant ships.”

“Of course they do, sir, of course,” exclaimed Mr Mawson; but either the tone or the words of Mr Paget did not please him, for he immediately afterwards walked away to another part of the ship.

Mr Paget had not been long on board before he visited the between-decks, and spoke to the fathers and mothers of the families on board. “It would be a pity that your children should be idle during the voyage,” he said; “and as perhaps some of them may be unable to read or write, I shall be happy to give them instruction.” In a short time he had a school established on board, and in a day or two afterwards he collected a Bible-class for the elder people; and then every morning he went below, and read the Bible to them, and offered up a prayer, and explained to them what he read.

“I thought, from his cut, he was one of those missionary fellows,” observed Mr Mawson to Charles Dicey with a sneer.

“I am very glad we have got such a person on board,” answered Charles, firmly. “If he will let me, I shall be very thankful to help him.”

Mr Paget gladly accepted Charles Dicey’s assistance, and the Miss Diceys offered to teach the girls, and they also undertook a sewing-class for the young women, many of whom scarcely knew how to use their needles properly. And then Tom Loftus, who was very ingenious, set to work to give employment to the young men. He got them to cut out models of all sorts, and showed them how to make brushes and other useful articles. Then he induced some of the sailors to teach them to knot and splice, and, indeed, to do all sorts of things.

“I am much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said Captain Westerway. “The last time I took out emigrants, they were almost in a state of mutiny. They had nothing to do on board, and idleness breeds mischief; and idle enough they were. Now, all these people seem as happy and contented as possible, and as far as I can judge, they are much the same class as the others.”

There was a black fiddler on board, who went by the name of Jumbo; and while he played the sailors danced, greatly to the amusement of the passengers. Jack Ivyleaf, who was up to all sorts of fun, used to join them, and soon learned to dance the hornpipe as well as the best dancer on board.

“I wonder, Mr Ivyleaf, you can so demean yourself,” exclaimed Mrs Clagget, when he came on the poop after his performance. “You, a gentleman, going and dancing among the sailors, and exhibiting yourself to the steerage passengers!”

“Why, Mrs Clagget, that is the very thing I did it for,” answered Jack, laughing. “I went on purpose to amuse them. I cannot teach them, like our friends Dicey and Loftus, and so I do what I can. I rather contemplate giving them some recitations, and I am going to sing some songs; and I am not at all certain that I will not act a play for their amusement.”

“Oh, you are incorrigible!” exclaimed Mrs Clagget; not that she really minded what Jack proposed to do, but she must say something.

The fine weather continued. Jack recited and sang songs to the people one evening, and the next he appeared in costume as a conjurer, and performed a number of wonderful tricks; and the third day he got an interesting book, and read out to them a story in a voice that might be heard right across the deck, so that he had a large number of auditors. At length it struck him that he might have a young men’s class; and before the day was over all the young men on board had begged to belong to it, so that he not only had plenty of pupils, but he got them on at a rapid rate. Thus the “Crusader” sailed onwards. The weather was getting hotter and hotter, and Jack Ivyleaf and several of his pupils were found to be especially busily employed in the forepart of the ship, with the assistance of the boatswain and some of the men; but what they were about no one could discover. At length Captain Westerway announced that the “Crusader” had reached the line. The sails were set, but there was so little wind that they hung against the masts, every now and then slowly bulging out, soon again to hang down in a discontented mood. The carpenter’s chips could be seen floating alongside sometimes for half-an-hour together, and the pitch in the seams of the deck bubbled and hissed, and the passengers, as they walked about, found their shoes sticking to it. Suddenly a loud noise was heard ahead. “Ship ahoy! What ship is that?”

“The ‘Crusader,’ Captain Westerway,” answered the master.

“Ay, ay, Captain Westerway, you are an old friend of mine, and I am sure you will welcome me on board,” sang out some one, apparently from beneath the bows.

“Who are you?” asked the captain.

“Daddy Neptune, to be sure,” answered the voice. “Don’t you know that? Your ship is just over my parlour windows, and shutting out the light, so that my wife and children can scarcely see to eat their porridge.”

“I beg your pardon, but that is not my fault, as your Majesty well knows,” answered Captain Westerway. “However, you are welcome on board.” As he spoke, some strange figures were seen coming over the bows, one with a crown on his head, a trident in his hand, and a huge nose and brownish beard, which flowed over his breast. He was evidently Daddy Neptune himself. His companions were in sea-green dresses, with conch shells in their hands, and among them were half-a-dozen strange-looking fish, who came walloping about the deck as if they supposed themselves still to be swimming in the water.

“Well, Captain Westerway, as you are an old friend, I will grant any favour you like to ask; so just out with it, and don’t stand on ceremony,” said Neptune, in a familiar, easy way.

The captain replied, “As my passengers here are leaving their native shore, and are about to settle in a strange country, I must beg that, after you have mustered all hands, your Majesty will allow them to pass without the ceremonies which those who cross the line for the first time have usually to go through.”

The passengers were accordingly called up on deck, when most of them, in acknowledgment of his courtesy, presented Daddy Neptune with a fee, which he forthwith handed to an odd-looking monster whom he took care to introduce as his treasurer. Mr Job Mawson, however, kept out of the way, evidently determined to pay nothing. Neptune, who had been eyeing him for some time, now turned to his attendants. Four of them immediately sprang forward, when Mr Mawson, suspecting their intentions, took to flight. Round and round the deck he ran, pursued by the tritons, to escape from whom he sprang below; but in his fright he went down forward, so that he could not reach his own cabin, and he was soon hunted up again and chased as before, till at length, exhausted, and nearly frightened out of his wits, he was caught beneath the poop.

“Let him alone,” exclaimed Neptune; “he is beneath our notice, after all.”

Instead of the rough amusements often carried on on board ships crossing the line, a drama was acted by Neptune and his attendants, he being shortly afterwards joined by his wife and children, who had by this time, he observed, finished their breakfasts, and had come to pay their respects to their old friend, Captain Westerway.

Chapter Four.

A Seaman’s Superstition.

“Ranger” takes a southerly course—Albatrosses appear astern—Holt prepares his rifle—Miss Morley pleads for the birds—Holt kills an albatross—A superstition of seamen—The fate of the Ancient Mariner—Mrs Rumbelow’s opinions on the subject—Serjeant Rumbelow—Music heard over the ocean—A ship passed at night—A hail from the “Ranger”—Blowing hard—Mrs Rumbelow comforts the sick—The colonel cautions the commander—Look-out for icebergs—The colonel’s wife and daughters—The colonel’s practical religion—A calm.

The lofty height of Table Mountain sank lower and lower in the blue ocean as the “Ranger” stood towards the south.

“I propose taking the short circle on our voyage eastward,” said Commander Newcombe to Colonel Morley. “We may experience somewhat cold weather; but, at this time of the year we may hope to escape heavy gales, and it is important, with so many men on board, to make a quick passage. If, too, our water should run scarce, we may obtain a supply from the icebergs, with which it is not impossible we may fall in now and then.”

“I hope we may not run foul of one,” observed Colonel Morley.

“No fear of that, colonel, if we have our eyelids open, and our wits about us,” answered the commander of the “Ranger.”

The sea was calm, the wind light, and the “Ranger” glided proudly over the smooth sea. The ladies and most of the other passengers were on deck. Two or three of the lieutenants and ensigns brought up their rifles and proposed shooting at the albatrosses, which, with expanded wings, floated around the ship, now rising high in the air, now darting down on the scrapings of the mess tins which had been thrown overboard. Ensign Holt had just loaded his rifle.

“I think I can hit that fellow,” he exclaimed, pointing at a magnificent bird which, at the instant, came swooping down near the stern.

“Oh! do not be so cruel,” exclaimed Miss Morley, who observed him. “I could not suppose that anybody with right feeling would wish to deprive so beautiful a creature of its joyous existence. How delightful it must be to fly at freedom through the clear blue air, and remain thus, for days and weeks together, away from the heat and dust of the shore.”

The ensign reddened, and lowered his weapon from his shoulder, and the albatross swept off to a distance, far out of range of his rifle.

“I was only thinking of the good practice they would give us,” he observed; “but your interference, Miss Morley, has saved the bird’s life.”

“That is to say, Holt, it prevented you from firing,” observed Lieutenant Dawson; “it does not follow that the bird would have been the sufferer.”

Lieutenant Hickman and Ensign Gonne laughed heartily, for Holt was not celebrated for his shooting. The magnificent birds continued as before, hovering about the ship, not aware of the evil intentions harboured against them by the young officers.

Ensign Holt was nettled, and, notwithstanding Miss Morley’s remark, was longing for an opportunity of exhibiting his skill. She soon afterwards went below, when he again prepared, as he said, to bring down an albatross. He and his brother officers, however, fired several shots without producing any effect. A rifle ball at length striking one of the birds, the white feathers were seen flying from its breast; upwards it soared, making several wide circuits, then once more darted towards the surface of the water, apparently not in any way the sufferer.

While the young officers were thus engaged, Commander Newcombe appeared on the poop. “I do not wish to interfere with the amusements of my passengers,” he observed; “but we sailors are apt to be superstitious, and we hold to the idea, if one of those magnificent birds is wantonly killed by any one on board a ship, she is sure to meet with some misfortune.”

“Why, captain, I do not see that there can be any more harm in killing an albatross than shooting a pheasant,” answered Ensign Holt, who was somewhat vexed at being thus a second time interfered with.

“The pheasant, sir, might serve for dinner,” observed the commander, “but I do not fancy you would wish to eat an albatross, even should you happen to shoot one, and we could lower a boat and pick it up. I confess I do not like to see the creatures wantonly injured. You may break a leg or wing of one of them, and leave it to suffer and die out in the ocean here; but your rifle balls can scarcely penetrate the bird’s thick coat of feathers, unless you get a fair shot at close range, so as to kill it outright.”

The young ensign, who did not at all like to be thus thwarted by the commander, had been watching a bird which, bolder than its companions, had more than once swooped close up to the taffrail. Determined to prove that he was not the bad shot it was supposed, he had kept his rifle capped and ready; he lifted it as the commander spoke, and fired. The albatross rose for an instant, and then, with expanded wings, fell heavily into the water, where it was seen struggling in a vain effort to rise.

“You have done for him, old fellow, at all events,” cried Lieutenant Dawson.

“Well, Holt, you have retrieved your character,” remarked the other ensign.

“I wish that Mr Holt would have listened to my advice,” said the commander, turning away annoyed. The young officers were too much engaged watching the poor bird to observe this. In another instant the struggles of the wounded albatross ceased, and immediately several of its companions pounced down upon it, and, ere the ship had run it out of sight, the body was almost torn in pieces.

“Why, it appears that your pets are somewhat ferocious creatures,” observed Lieutenant Dawson, pointing out what had occurred to Commander Newcombe, who had again returned aft.

“That is their nature, gentlemen,” he replied; “I have an idea, too, that it was implanted in them for a beneficent purpose. Better that the creature should be put out of its pain at once than linger on in agony. If we come to look into the matter, we shall find that every living creature is imbued with certain habits and propensities for a good purpose. I do not hold that anything happens by chance, or that the albatross is unworthy of being treated with humanity, because it acts in what you call a savage way. You will pardon me for being thus plain-spoken, gentlemen; and now Mr Holt has shown his skill by shooting one of those poor birds, I will ask you to favour me by not attempting to kill any more.”

Though not over well pleased at the interference of the commander, the young officers, feeling that his rebuke was just, discharged their rifles in the air, and did not again produce them during the voyage.

Willy Dicey and Peter Patch had been on the poop when these remarks had been made. “I say, Dicey, do you suppose that the commander really believes harm will come to the ship because Ensign Holt killed the albatross?” asked Peter, as they took a turn together on the port side of the quarterdeck.

“I should think not,” answered Willy. “I do not see what the one thing has to do with the other.”

“The sailors say, however, that it is very unlucky to kill an albatross,” observed Peter. “They fancy that the souls of people who die at sea fly about in the bodies of albatrosses, I suppose, or something of that sort—I am not quite certain; and for my part I wish that Ensign Holt had been less free with his rifle. I have always thought him a donkey, and donkeys do a good deal of mischief sometimes.”

“I will ask Harry Shafto what he thinks about it,” said Willy. “I have read a poem about a man who shot an albatross, and all the people died on board, and the ship went floating about till the masts and sails rotted, and he alone remained alive.”

“I suppose he lived on the ship’s stores then,” observed Peter. “He would have had plenty to eat, as there was no one to share the grub with him; but I should not like to have been in his skin. Did he ever get to shore, or how did people come to know it?”

“I think the old hulk reached the land after a good many years,” said Willy; “but I am not quite certain about that.”

“He must have had a terrible life of it, all alone by himself,” said Peter. “I should like to hear more of the story; but, I say, Dicey, are you certain that it is true?”

“No, I rather think it is a poet’s fancy, for the story is written in verse,” answered Willy.

“Well! that’s some comfort,” observed Peter; “because, you see, if the same thing was to happen to us, we should all have to die, and Ensign Holt would be the only person left on board the ‘Ranger.’”

Harry Shafto soon afterwards coming on deck, the two midshipmen appealed to him for his opinion. Harry laughed heartily.

“I think, however, that those soldier-officers might as well have let the poor birds alone,” he observed. “It is a cruel thing to shoot them, but I do not think any further harm will come of it.”

Still, neither Peter nor Willy were quite satisfied. “I’ll ask Mrs Rumbelow what she thinks about it,” said Willy. “She will soon get the opinion of the seamen, and I should not quite like to ask them myself.”

As soon as their watch was over, the two midshipmen went below, where they found Mrs Rumbelow seated on a chest, busily employed in darning her husband’s stockings, or in some other feminine occupation, as was her wont: Mrs Rumbelow’s fingers were never idle.

“Glad to see you, young gentlemen,” she said, looking up from her work. “Well, Mr Dicey, you don’t look like the same person you were before we reached the Cape; by the time you get home again they won’t know you.”

“If all goes well with us, perhaps not,” said Willy; “but Ensign Holt has gone and killed an albatross, and perhaps, as you know, that is a very dreadful thing to do. They say that evil is sure, in consequence, to come to the ship.”

Mrs Rumbelow looked at the faces of her two young visitors. “Do you think seriously that God rules the world in that fashion?” she asked, in a somewhat scornful tone. “Because a foolish young gentleman happens to kill a bird, will He who counts the hairs of our heads allow a number of His creatures, who have nothing to do with the matter, to suffer in consequence. Do not let such nonsense enter your heads, my dears.”

“We wanted you, Mrs Rumbelow, to inquire of the seamen what they think about the matter,” said Willy.

“I will do no such thing, and that’s my answer,” replied the sergeant’s wife; “harm may come to the ship, but it won’t be because of that, or anything of the sort.”

Just then Sergeant Rumbelow himself came up: in appearance he was very unlike his wife. Whereas she was tall and thin, he was comparatively short and broad; indeed, though of the regulation height, his width made him appear shorter than he really was; while his countenance, though burnt and tanned by southern suns and exposure to all sorts of weather, was fat and rubicund. He held his sides and laughed so heartily at the account his wife gave him of the questions which had been put to her, that Willy and Peter wished they had not mentioned the subject.

The wind was light and the ship made but little way for several days. Shafto, though only a mate, did duty as a lieutenant. Willy was in his watch; it was the middle watch. Willy enjoyed such opportunities of talking with his friend. The sea was perfectly smooth, there was only wind sufficient just to fill the sails, and the ship was making scarcely three knots through the water. Every now and then a splash was heard; some monster of the deep rose to the surface, and leaping forth, plunged back again into its native element. Strange sounds seemed to come from the far distance. A thick fog arose and shrouded the ship, so that nothing could be seen beyond the bowsprit.

“Keep a bright look-out there, forward,” sang out Shafto every now and then, in a clear ringing voice, which kept the watch forward on the alert.

“Hark!” said Willy; “I fancy I heard singing.”

“You heard the creaking yards against the masts, perhaps,” said Shafto.

“No, I am certain it is singing,” exclaimed Willy; “listen!”

Harry and his companion stopped in their walk; even Harry could not help confessing that he heard sweet sounds coming over the water. “Some emigrant ship, perhaps, bound out to Auckland,” he observed; “the passengers are enjoying themselves on deck, unwilling to retire to their close cabins. Sounds travel a long distance over the calm waters. She is on our beam, I suspect; but we must take care not to run into each other, in case she should be more on the bow than I suppose.” He hailed the forecastle to learn if the look-out could see anything. “Nothing in sight,” was the answer. “Keep a bright look-out, then,” he shouted. “Ay, ay, sir,” came from for’ard.

Soon after this the fog lifted. Far away on the starboard hand the dim outline of a tall ship appeared standing across their course. “She will pass under our stern if she keeps as she is now steering,” observed Harry; “the voices we heard must have come from her.”

The stranger approached, appearing like some vast phantom floating over the ocean, with her canvas spread on either hand to catch the light wind. “A sail on the starboard beam,” shouted the look-out, as he discovered her. It appeared as if she would pass within easy hail, when, just as Harry Shafto had told Willy to get a speaking-trumpet, she appeared to melt into a thin mist.

“What has become of her?” exclaimed Willy, feeling somewhat awe-struck.

“She has run into a bank of fog which we had not perceived,” said Shafto; “I will hail her;” and taking the speaking-trumpet, he shouted out, “What ship is that?” No answer came. Again he shouted, “This is Her Majesty’s ship ‘Ranger.’” All was silent. “Surely I cannot have been deceived,” he remarked; “my hail would have been answered if it had been heard.” Willy declared that he heard shouts and laughter, but Harry told him that was nonsense, and that undoubtedly the stranger was much further off than he had supposed her to be.

Before the watch was out, Harry had to turn the hands up to shorten sail; a strong breeze was blowing, increasing every instant in violence. Before morning the “Ranger” was ploughing her way through the ocean under close-reefed topsails, now rising to the summit of a sea, now plunged into the trough below. It was Willy’s first introduction to anything like a gale of wind.

“Well, Mr Dicey, you have at last got a sight of what the sea can be,” said Roger Bolland, the boatswain, with whom Willy was a favourite.

“I have got a feeling, too, of what it can do,” answered Willy, who was far from comfortable.

“Don’t you go and give in, though, like the soldiers below,” said the boatswain; “there are half of them on their backs already, and the gay young ensigns, who were boasting only the other day of what capital sailors they were, are as bad as the men.”

Though the whole battalion had been sick, Mrs Rumbelow was not going to knock under. She was as lively and active as ever, going about to the ladies’ cabins to assist them into their berths, and secure various articles which were left to tumble about at the mercy of the sea. If the truth must be known, she did not confine her attentions to them alone, but looked in as she passed on the young ensigns, offering consolation to one, handing another a little cold brandy and water, and doing her best to take comfort to all.

At length, after the ship had been tumbled about for nearly ten days, the gale began to abate, the soldiers recovered their legs, though looking somewhat pale and woebegone, and the cabin passengers once more appeared on deck. The weather, however, had by this time become very cold; there was no sitting down, as before, with work or book in hand, to while away the time; the ladies took to thick cloaks, and the military officers in their greatcoats walked the deck with rapid steps, as a matter of duty, for the sake of exercise. Gradually, too, the sea went down, and the “Ranger” glided forward on her course under her usual canvas.

Colonel Morley more than once asked the commander whether they had not by this time got into the latitude where icebergs were to be found. “We keep a sharp look-out for them, colonel, as I promised you,” answered the commander. “They are not objects we are likely to run upon while the weather remains clear, and as long as we have a good breeze there is no fear. They are, I confess, awkward customers to fall in with in a thick foe during a calm.”

“You may think I am over-anxious, captain,” observed the colonel, “but we cannot be too cautious with so many lives committed to our charge; and when I tell you that I was sole survivor of the whole wing of a regiment on board a ship lost by the over-confidence of her commander when I was an ensign, you will not be surprised at my mentioning the subject.”

“You are right, colonel, you are right,” said Commander Newcombe. “I pray that no such accident will happen to us; but danger must be run, though we who are knocking about at sea all our lives are apt to forget the fact till it comes upon us somewhat suddenly.”

Willy Dicey did not find keeping watch at night now quite so pleasant as in warmer latitudes; still, with his pea-coat buttoned well up to his chin, and his cap drawn tightly down over his head, he kept his post bravely on the forecastle, where he now had the honour of being stationed. “He is the most trustworthy midshipman on board,” said Mr Tobin, the first-lieutenant. “I can always depend on him for keeping his eyes open, whereas Peter Patch is apt to shut his, and make-believe he is wide awake all the time.” This praise greatly encouraged Willy. He determined to do his best and deserve it. Blow high or blow low, he was at his station, never minding the salt sprays which dashed into his eyes, and at times nearly froze there, when the wind blew cold and strong.

The “Ranger” continued her course, making good way, the wind being generally favourable.

The only grumblers among the passengers were three or four of the young lieutenants and ensigns, who, having finished all their novels, and not being addicted to reading works of a more useful description, found the time hang heavily on their hands. They ought to have followed the example of the Miss Morleys and their mother, who were never idle. Very little has hitherto been said about them. They were both very nice girls, without a particle of affectation or nonsense, though they had lived in barracks for some portion of their lives. Fanny, the eldest, was fair, with blue eyes, somewhat retroussé nose, and good figure, and if not decidedly pretty, the expression of her countenance was so pleasing that no one found fault with any of her features. Emma was dark, not quite so tall as her sister, but decidedly handsomer, with hazel eyes and beautifully formed nose and mouth. As yet, perhaps, they had had no opportunity of giving decided proof of any higher qualities they may have possessed, but they were both right-minded, religious girls. Some of the officers pronounced them far too strict, others considered them haughty, and one or two even ventured to pronounce them prudish, because they showed no taste for the frivolous amusements in which the ordinary run of young ladies indulge; not that they objected to dance, or to join in a pleasant pic-nic; indeed, the few who did find fault with them complained only of the way in which they did those things. Ensign Holt, who was not a favourite, whispered that he thought them very deep, and that time would show whether they were a bit better than other people. Neither Fanny nor Emma would have cared much for the opinion of Ensign Holt, even had they been aware of it. He might possibly have been prejudiced, from the fact that Mrs Morley, though very kind and motherly to all the young officers, had found it necessary to encourage him less than the rest. Ensign Holt, and indeed most of his brother officers, had no conception of the principles which guided the Misses Morley or their parents. They looked upon their colonel as not a bad old fellow, though rather slow; but somehow or other he managed to keep his regiment in very good order, and all the men loved him, and looked up to him as to a father. It was his custom to read the Bible every day in his cabin to his wife and daughters; and as there was no chaplain on board, he acted the part of one for the benefit of his men. His sermons were delivered in a fine clear voice, and were certainly not too long for the patience of his hearers; but Ensign Holt insisted that they were too strict: he did not like that sort of theology. Lieutenants Dawson and Hickman were inclined to echo Holt’s opinion. Whatever the captains thought, they had the good taste to keep it to themselves. Indeed, Power, the senior captain in the regiment, was suspected of having a leaning toward the colonel’s sentiments. No one, however, could say that he was slow or soft: he was known to have done several gallant acts, and was a first-rate officer, a keen sportsman, and proficient in all athletic exercises. It was whispered that Power was the only man likely to succeed with either the Miss Morleys, though, as far as was observed, he paid them no particular attention; indeed, he was not looked upon as a marrying man. He was the only unmarried captain on board. Captain Gosling had left his wife at home; and Mrs Twopenny was in delicate health, and generally kept her cabin. She has not before been mentioned. There were no other ladies on board, but there were several soldiers’ wives, with their children, though, altogether, there were fewer women than are generally found in a troop-ship.

A calm unusual for these latitudes had prevailed for several days. Now and then a light wind would come from the northward, just filling the sails, but again dying away; now the ship glided slowly over the smooth water; now she remained so stationary that the chips of wood swept overboard from the carpenter’s bench floated for hours together alongside.

Peter Patch asked Willy whether he did not think that the fate which befell the ship of the Ancient Mariner was likely to be theirs.

“I hope not,” said Willy; “particularly if the icebergs, which they say are not far off, should get round us, we should find it terribly cold.”

“But we should not die of thirst, as the crew of that unfortunate ship did,” observed Peter; “that’s one comfort.”

“Very cold comfort, though,” said Willy, who now and then ventured on a joke, if only Peter and some other youngster were within hearing.

Chapter Five.

“Iceberg ahead!”

A gale springs up—A dark night—Sound of breakers—Ship running on an iceberg—The “Ranger” scrapes along the berg—Providential escape—Ensign Holt’s alarm—The carpenter reports a leak—The chain-pumps rigged—the “Ranger” on her beam-ends—The masts cut away—Running before the gale—All hands at the pumps—The weather moderates—Prepare to rig jury-masts.

Once more a strong breeze had sprung up from the westward, and the ship was making good way through the water.

Though it was the summer time in the southern hemisphere, the weather was very variable; now, when the wind came from the antarctic pole, bitterly cold; or drawing round and blowing from the north, after it had passed over the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, it was soft and balmy.

It was Harry Shafto’s morning watch; he had just relieved the second-lieutenant. Willy was for’ard. It was blowing somewhat fresh, and the ship had a reef in her topsails and her courses set. The night was very dark. Willy having just been aroused from a midshipman’s sound sleep, was rubbing his eyes to get them clear. Now he peered out ahead into the darkness, now he rubbed them again, and shut and opened them, to satisfy himself that they were in good order. He could not distinguish who was on the forecastle, but he knew by the voice that one of the best men in the ship, Paul Lizard, was by his side.

“I have seen many a dark night, Mr Dicey, but this pretty well beats them all,” observed Paul. “It’s not one I should like to be caught in on a lee-shore or a strange coast; though out here, in the open sea, there is nothing to fear, as the highway is a pretty wide one, and we are not likely to fall in with any other craft crossing our course.”

“Very true,” answered Willy; “but there is one thing I have been told to do, and that is to keep a bright look-out, though it may be difficult enough to see an object; even should one be ahead.”

“On course, sir,” said Paul, “what is our duty must be done, though it would be a hard matter to see the ‘David Dunn’ of Dover, even if our jibboom were over her taffrail.”

“What ship is that?” asked Willy. “I never heard of her.”

“The biggest ship that ever was or ever will be, sir,” answered Paul, who was fond of a joke. “When she went about going up Channel once, her spanker pretty nigh swept away one of the towers of Calais, while her jibboom run right into Dover Castle.”

“She must have been a big ship, then,” said Willy.

The voice of the officer of the watch hailing the forecastle put a stop to Paul’s wit. “Ay, ay, sir,” he answered, in his usual stentorian voice; then he added, “It seems to be growing darker than ever.” So Willy thought, but still he tried his best with his sharp young eyes to penetrate the gloom.

“I wish it would clear,” observed Willy. “It is dark.”

“It couldn’t well be darker, sir,” said Paul; “to my mind it would be wise to shorten sail, or heave the ship to. The captain knows best, though.”

“It is getting very cold, though,” said Dicey. “I can feel the difference since the last five minutes.”

“I can’t say I feel it,” said Paul; “but hark, sir; I fancy I heard the sound of breakers.”

Willy listened, bending forward in his eagerness. “Yes,” he thought he heard a sound, and it seemed to be almost ahead, but yet it seemed to come from a long way off.

“It is only fancy after all,” observed Paul. The other men for’ard could hear nothing.

A few minutes passed. “What is that?” exclaimed Willy, with startling energy. “There seems to be a great white wall rising up before us.”

“Iceberg ahead!” shouted Paul, and he never hallooed louder in his life, “a little on the starboard bow.”

“Starboard the helm,” cried Harry from the quarterdeck. “Man the starboard braces. Brace the yards sharp up; call the captain; all hands on deck to save ship.” Such were the orders he issued in rapid succession. In an instant the boatswain’s whistle and the hoarse bawling of his mates was heard along the lower decks, and the ship, lately so silent and deserted, teemed with life. The crew came tumbling up from below, some with their clothes in their hands; the soldiers quickly followed, hurrying from their berths. Commander Newcombe and the other officers were on deck a few instants after the order to summon them had been given. He now took command, issuing his orders with the calmness of a man well inured to danger. Another voice was heard; it was that of Colonel Morley. “Soldiers, keep to your quarters,” he shouted out. The men, who had been rushing on deck, without a murmur obeyed the command.

The danger was indeed imminent. Sheer out of the ocean rose a huge white mountain, directly against which the ship appeared to be running headlong; but, answering her helm, she came up to the wind, though not in sufficient time altogether to avoid the danger. As Willy looked up, he expected to see the yards strike the sides of the iceberg, for such it was. A grating sound was heard: now it seemed as if the ship would be thrown bodily on to the icy mass; still she moved forward; now she heeled over to the wind, the yards again almost touching the frozen cliffs. An active leaper might have sprung on to the berg, could footing have been found. Every moment the crew expected to find their ship held fast by some jutting point, and speedily dashed to pieces; the bravest held their breath, and had there been light, the countenances of those who were wont to laugh at danger might have been seen blanched with terror.

Again and again the ship struck, as she scraped by the berg. It seemed wonderful, indeed, to those ignorant of the cause, that she should continue to move forward, and be driven ever and anon actually away from the ice. This was caused by the undertow, which prevented her from being thrown bodily on to the berg. Not a word was spoken, not an order issued, for all that could be done had been done. All were aware, however, that, even should she scrape clear of the berg, the blows her sides were receiving might at any moment rip them open, and send her helplessly to the bottom of the cold ocean.

The voyager on such an occasion may well exclaim, “Vain is the help of man!”

Harry, with the second-lieutenant, had gone for’ard among the men stationed on the forecastle, all eagerly looking out in the hopes of seeing the extreme end of the berg. Suddenly the white wall seemed to terminate, the ship glided freely forward, rising to the sea, which came rolling in from the north-west.

“Sound the well, Mr Chisel,” said the commander to the carpenter. All on deck stood anxiously waiting his report.

The berg appeared on the quarter, gradually becoming less and less distinct, till what seemed like a thin white mist alone was seen, which soon melted away altogether in the thick darkness. Still all well knew that other bergs might be in the neighbourhood, and a similar danger might have to be encountered.

The officers paced the deck, looking out anxiously, and those who, while the danger lasted, had not felt the cold, hurried below to finish dressing as best they could, or buttoned up their flushing coats, and wrapped comforters round their necks.

Colonel Morley returned to the cabin to tell his wife and daughters that the danger had passed. He found them pale and anxious, but neither trembling nor fainting. The two girls were seated on each side of their mother, holding her hands. They had been fully aware of the danger in which the ship had been placed, and they had together been offering up their prayers for their own safety and for that of all on board.

Peter Patch, finding himself near Willy, whispered that he should like to go and see how Ensign Holt had behaved himself. He would have found the ensign seated on the deck of his cabin with his bed-clothes pulled over his head, much too alarmed to think, or to utter any sounds but “Oh! oh! oh! what is going to happen? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, I wish I had not come!”

The other officers had collected in the main cabin, where Captain Power had taken his seat at the head of the table, giving encouragement to those around him, while their well-disciplined men, according to orders, kept to their quarters, the sergeants moving among them to see that no one went on deck. Mrs Rumbelow had taken the poor women under her charge, and did her best to comfort them.

“I told you so,” she exclaimed, when the ship was found to be moving easily forward, and those fearful grating sounds had ceased. “Just trust in God, and all will come right. Never cry out that all is lost while there is life, and even at the last moment hope that a way of deliverance may be found.”

The wind had increased, the courses had been taken off the ship, and she stood out under her topsails. It might have been supposed that nothing particular had occurred. All hands were at their stations, however, both watches being kept on deck; indeed, no one, even the most careless, felt inclined to go below.

The commander was walking the poop, awaiting the report of the carpenter; he had taken one or two turns, when a figure approached him.

“I don’t like the state of things,” said a voice which he recognised as that of Mr Chisel. “The ship is making water very rapidly; it’s coming in in several places, though the worst leaks are for’ard.”

“We must do our best to stop them, however,” answered the commander. “And, Mr Chisel, do not let more than necessary know this.” The first-lieutenant and master instantly hurried below to assist the carpenter in discovering the leaks. That they were high up seemed certain, and thus some hope existed that they might be reached. In time the chief injuries were discovered, and every effort was made to stop the leaks, old sails and blankets being used for the purpose. The pumps were immediately manned by the soldiers, who were told off to work them. Their clanking sound echoed along the decks, while, at the same time, the loud gush of the clear water rushing through the scuppers gave fearful proof of the large amount which must be rushing in. How eagerly all on board longed for daylight. The wind, however, was rising, and the ship heeled over on the side which had received the injury; she was accordingly put on the other tack, although it would take her out of her proper course.

All on board felt it to be a solemn time. The only sounds heard were those of the clanking pumps, and the gush of water as it was forced up from below. The wind was every instant increasing. The topsails were closely reefed, and the “Ranger” went plunging on into the fast-rising seas.

At length the cold light of early morn broke on the countenances of the crew; many looked pale and haggard. The past hours had been trying ones, and the soldiers, some in their shirts and trousers only, were labouring away manfully at the pumps; the crew at their stations, ready to obey the commands which any sudden emergency might demand. At length the carpenter reported that he had so far conquered the leaks that the ship might safely be put again on the port tack.

“Helm a-lee!” was heard. “Shift tacks and sheets! Mainsail haul! of all haul!” shouted Commander Newcombe; but at that instant, before the words were well out of his mouth, while the yards were in the act of being swung round, a terrific blast laid the ship over, a heavy sea striking her at the same time. For an instant it seemed as if she would never rise again. Shrieks were heart! rising from the foaming waters under her lee; several poor fellows were seen struggling amid them. No help could be given; no boat would have lived in that sea, had there been time to lower one, before they had sunk for ever. Their fate might soon be that of all on board.

The commander, after a moment’s consultation with the first-lieutenant and master, had summoned the carpenter, who appeared directly afterwards with his crew and several picked men with axes in their hands. They stood round the mizen-mast. “Cut,” he cried. The mizen shrouds were severed, a few splinters were seen to fly from the mast, and over it fell into the seething sea. Still the ship did not rise. They sprang to the mainmast. “That, too, must go,” said the commander, and issued the order to cut. In another instant the tall mast fell into the sea. For a moment it seemed doubtful whether that would have any effect. Suddenly the ship rose with a violent motion to an even keel, carrying away, as she did so, her fore-topmast. The helm was put up. Onwards she flew before the still-increasing gale. The seas rolled savagely up with foaming crests, as if trying to overwhelm her. To attempt to heave her to without any after-sail would now be hopeless.

Willy Dicey, who had gone aft, heard the commander remark to the first-lieutenant, that he hoped the gale would not last long, as otherwise they might be driven in among the ice, which would be found in heavy packs to the south-east. “With a moderate breeze we might reach New Zealand in ten days or a fortnight,” he observed. “I trust we can keep the old ship afloat till then.”

“Chisel thinks the injuries very severe, though,” said the first-lieutenant; “still, with the aid of the soldiers, we can keep the pumps going without difficulty, and we may be thankful that we have them on board.”

All day long the “Ranger” ran on, the wind and sea rather increasing than in any way lessening. Night once more approached, but no sign appeared of the gale abating. The soldiers relieved each other bravely at the pumps. Had it not been for them, the seamen well knew that the ship must have gone down; for though they might have worked them well, their strength must in time have given in. Mrs Rumbelow continued her kind ministrations to the women and children below; she had a word, too, for the seamen and soldiers, who were allowed half-a-watch at a time to take some rest. “You see, laddies,” she observed, “how you can all help each other. If the ship is to be kept afloat, and our lives saved, it will be by all working together with a will; you soldiers, by labouring at the pumps, and the sailors by taking care of the ship. If all do their duty there’s he fear, boys. I only wish people could learn the same in the everyday concerns of life—the world would get on much more happily than it does.”

While the sea continued rolling and the ship tumbling about, there were no hopes of getting up jury-masts. That night was even more trying than the previous one. It was not quite so dark, for now and then the clouds cleared away, and the bright stars shone forth; but still it was impossible to say whether some big iceberg might not be ahead, or whether the ship might not be driven into the midst of a field of ice, which would be scarcely less dangerous. All night long she ran on before the gale. It would be hopeless to attempt bringing her on a wind while the storm continued, and yet she was running into unknown dangers. Before, when she almost ran into the iceberg, she had had her masts standing, and was under easy steering canvas; now, with her after-masts gone, should an iceberg rise in her course, it would be scarcely possible for her to escape it.

Not a single officer of the ship, and but few of the men, went below that night. The military officers took their turn at the pumps to relieve their men; for, although so many were ready for the duty, so great was the exertion required, that they could continue at it but a few minutes together. As soon as one man was knocked up, another sprang into his place.

Another day dawned. It is easy to imagine how anxiously the night had been spent by all on board, especially by the poor ladies and soldiers’ wives. Happy were those who knew the power and effect of prayer. Wonderfully had they been supported. Those who knew not how to pray had been seated with hands clasped, or lying down with their heads covered up, endeavouring to shut out all thought of the future. Mrs Morley and her daughters had remained in their cabin, calm, though not unmoved, visited every now and then by the colonel; yet he could afford them but little consolation with regard to the safety of the ship. All he could say was that the men were doing their duty, and that they must hope for the best.

Ensign Holt had been missed by his brother officers, and roused up, not very gently, and had been compelled to take his turn at the pumps. He ought to have been very much obliged to them, as those are best off who are actively engaged in times of danger, though he grumbled considerably, declaring that it was not in the articles of war, and that he did not see why he should be made to work at the pumps like the common men.

As the day advanced, though the weather remained thick and lowering, the wind began to abate; yet the sea ran still very high, and the ship laboured greatly. The seamen were making preparations, however, to set up jury-masts, the carpenter and his crew were busy in lashing the spars together for the purpose, and the boatswain and his party in preparing the rigging; but while the ship continued pitching and rolling as she was then doing, it would be impossible to set up the masts. “I often wished to encounter a gale of wind,” observed Peter Patch to Willy; “but, to confess the honest truth, now I know what it is, especially in these cold regions, I would rather have been excused.”

Chapter Six.

More Ice.

Hopes of escape—Harry’s advice to Willy—Among icebergs—wonderful appearance of ice islands—Getting up jury-masts—Drifting towards an iceberg—The icebergs moving—The ship strikes a berg—Consternation of passengers—The soldiers at the pumps—Ship driven stern-on to a berg—Fearful damage received—A slant of wind takes her off—The leaks increasing—Stores hove overboard—Jury-masts carried away—Attempts to stop the leaks—Matters become worse—An anxious night—The water gains on the leaks.

The “Ranger” had been running on for another night. Though the wind had fallen, there was too much sea to attempt rigging jury-masts, or heaving her to. The weather had been tolerably clear, and a bright look-out being kept, it was hoped that, should icebergs appear ahead, they might be seen in sufficient time to steer clear of them. During the whole time the commander had not gone below; indeed none of the officers had turned in, and a few only of the men had taken short snatches of sleep. Not for a moment had the clanging pumps ceased to work. At frequent intervals the carpenter had sounded the well, and reported that they were greatly gaining on the leaks.

“I hope, Willy, you will still be able to write home a long yarn of our adventures,” said Harry Shafto, as they stood together on the deck. “The sea has gone down considerably during the last two hours, and if we can pump the ship clear we may yet stop the leaks, get jury-masts up, and reach New Zealand not long after the time we were due.”

“I hope so,” said Willy, who was feeling somewhat worn-out, and whose spirits for a midshipman were getting unusually low. “I cannot help thinking of the poor fellows who were washed overboard, and thankful I ought to be that I was not among them. I was holding on when one of the men who was making his way for’ard was carried off by the sea. I know I wish that it was daylight.”

“It will soon come,” said Harry, “and we shall get the ship to rights; and with regard to those poor fellows, I would not tell you not to think about them, but that their fate should teach us always to be ready. If we are so, we shall never fear to face danger.”

“By the by, Willy, I wish to report your conduct to the commander. I find that it was your sharp eyes that first discovered the iceberg from which we so providentially escaped.”

“Thank you,” said Willy; “but I was only just doing my duty in keeping a bright look-out.”

“Exactly,” said Harry; “that’s the utmost we can do, and all that is expected of any man; just go on, Willy, doing that, and you’ll do well. But see, there is a light streak in the horizon; the clouds are clearing away. Though the ocean looks black enough at present, it will soon be sparkling with brightness.”

The two friends made their way along the deck to the forecastle, where they found the officers who were stationed there eagerly looking out. One declared that he saw land ahead. “If it is, daylight will soon show it,” observed another. While the discussion was going on, the sea seemed on a sudden to go down, and the ship glided on in comparatively smooth water.

“It may or may not be land ahead,” exclaimed the master; “but I tell you what—we are under the lee of a large field of ice, and it is a mercy we did not run on it in the dark. See, there! What do you think of that?”

Stretching far round in the eastern horizon, appeared a white line, clearly marked on the dark ocean. All hands were now called and set to work to get up jury-masts. Every one worked with a will, from the smallest boy on board. No time was to be lost. The soldiers were summoned on deck to lend a hand in pulling and hauling. Gradually the light increased, and, as it did so, the work went on more rapidly. Willy had but little time to look about him, but he could not help every now and then glancing towards the east, which was now illuminated by a rich, ruddy glow, extending far and wide, gradually melting into a yellow tint, that again vanished in the dark-blue sky overhead. Presently the sun itself rose out of the ocean, at first like a fiery arch, till, springing rapidly upwards, the whole circle appeared in view. Just then he turned his eyes to the right. He could not refrain from uttering an exclamation of astonishment; for there appeared, not a mile away to the westward, what seemed like a vast island of alabaster, covered with countless edifices—towers and columns, and embattled walls, glowing with numberless brilliant and varied hues. Colonel Morley, who had just then come on deck, observed it also, and pointing it out to the commander, hastened below to summon his wife and daughters to witness the beautiful spectacle. Commander Newcombe’s countenance did not show that he was as pleased with the sight as the colonel had apparently been. Casting an anxious glance round, he summoned the first-lieutenant to his side, who seemed to be holding earnest conversation with him. Willy, who had gone aft on some duty, heard the latter remark, “We are embayed, sir, there is no doubt about it. All we can hope for is a breeze from the southward to get out again.” Willy heard no more.

“Oh, how beautiful! oh, how magnificent!” exclaimed the Miss Morleys, as they reached the deck; “it is worth making a voyage to witness such a scene as that!”

Willy could now observe what he had only before partially seen. The whole ocean to the west was of a deep-purple hue, from out of which rose several superb icebergs; some could not have been less than a third of a mile in length, and from two to three hundred feet in height. The sides of one appeared perfectly smooth, as if carefully chiselled all over. In one of the nearest were seen bold projecting bluffs, with deep caverns beyond, into which the sea forced its way, rushing out again with a loud sound. On the summits of others appeared the towers and pinnacles, the ruined arches and buttressed walls, which had at first caught Willy’s sight. It seemed, indeed, as if a large city of alabaster had once stood there, reduced to ruins by a convulsion of nature. Here appeared huge piles of buildings grouped together, with long lanes and streets winding irregularly through them, with what had been the citadel rising in their midst. As the sun rose, the whole mass became bathed in a red light. No words, however, can convey a full idea of the beauty and grandeur of the spectacle.

“I was thinking for a moment that I should like to get out my drawing-book and colour-box,” said Emma Morley to her sister; “but I am sure it would be impossible to do anything like justice to such a scene.”

“Those who have not witnessed it would believe that you had taken a painter’s licence,” answered her sister; “and yet I believe that you might produce a very fair idea of the scene. Let me go and get your drawing things.”

Mrs Morley was afraid her daughters might suffer from the cold if they remained much longer on deck. Cloaks were, however, brought, and what her parents considered a masterly sketch was quickly produced by their young daughter. Little did they think at the time of the dangerous position in which the ship was still placed.

While the drawing was going on, numerous sea-birds were seen to be passing in and out of the caverns, now plunging down into the ocean to seek their breakfasts, now rising again and pitching upon the icy points and pinnacles as if they were their accustomed home.

“Don’t you think we have drawn nearer to that magnificent iceberg?” said Fanny to her sister.

“Yes, I am almost sure we have,” was the answer. “Papa, what do you think?”

“It is possible, but perhaps the changing light may have deceived us; it is difficult to calculate distances in this atmosphere.”

As may be supposed, they had been several times interrupted by the crew, who now and then came by leading aft the stays of the mast now at length set up. Scarcely any of the men cast more than a momentary glance at the icebergs, but this glance showed that they looked on them with no favourable eyes. All the time, too, it must be remembered, the pumps were kept clanking away as before. No human beings ever worked harder than the crew of the “Ranger;” they well knew, indeed, that they were labouring for their lives. Hour after hour passed by—there was no knocking off even for breakfast; it would be time enough to take their food when the sails were spread, and the ship was standing away from the beautiful but fearfully dangerous icebergs.

By the time the sun had risen high in the sky the water around had become of a dark-green hue, and now not only icebergs and the distant fields of ice were seen, but vast masses of drift ice were observed floating about. Already two or three yards had been got across, and the sails were being bent.

Willy found himself close to his friend Harry. “Shafto, you look unusually grave,” he observed; “you seem pretty well knocked up.”

“We all of us have reason to be grave,” answered Harry; “there is evidently a strong in-draught towards that big berg, and unless we can get the sails bent and a breeze to take us off, no human power can save us from driving against it, and then we shall be worse off than we were when we struck the berg the other night.”

“But don’t you think we shall get the sails bent in time?” asked Willy.

“We may get the sails bent, but the wind to fill them may not come; we must depend on Heaven’s mercy for that.”

Harry Shafto would not generally have spoken so despondingly, but he was well-nigh worn-out; and yet he probably did not see matters in a worse light than most of the other officers.

The passengers had been sometime before summoned below to breakfast, and only the crew and soldiers engaged in active duty remained on deck. They were all working away as hard as ever.

The foremast, which had stood, had been well stayed, and a fresh fore-topmast had also been got up. The captain and officers were watching anxiously for a breeze. It came at length from the southward. Sail was made, the ship was put before the wind, and it seemed that she was now about to move out of her dangerous position. “Let the people go below and get their breakfasts, Mr Tobin,” said the commander to the first-lieutenant; “they are well-nigh knocked up, and may still have heavy work before them.” The boatswain’s whistle was soon heard piping to the welcome meal, and the men gladly hurried below, though with less of the elasticity which they exhibited generally on such occasions.

The lofty icebergs were still dangerously near on the port side. Shafto and Willy, who had snatched a hurried meal in the midshipmen’s berth, were quickly again on deck, as were indeed many of the officers and men, those who had remained on duty going below. The ship made but slow way. In the far distance could still be seen a field of ice, which had hitherto sheltered them from the tumbling sea, which came in from the north-east; several large pieces were also floating about, and it required much watchful care to avoid them. But the chief danger evidently lay from the icebergs to the west; they, too, it appeared, were slowly moving and slightly changing their relative positions. The most northern of a line of bergs was much the largest, its summit towering far above the ship’s masts. The anxious glances which the commander and first-lieutenant occasionally cast towards it showed that they wished they were farther off. Still, as Willy looked over the side, and saw the calm waters and the clear space ahead, he could not fancy but that the ship would soon be out in the open sea. “I shall be quite sorry to lose sight of these beautiful icebergs,” he observed to Shafto; “it may be a long time before we again shall see anything like them.”

“And I shall be very thankful to bid farewell to them for ever,” answered Harry. “Just fancy what it would be to have the ship driven in under one of them. Should there be any sea at the time she would speedily be ground to pieces, or, as sometimes happens, the whole mass might come tumbling over and crush her, without a prospect of a human being on board escaping.”

“Very dreadful!” said Willy; “and I am thankful there is no chance, of that. In another ten minutes we shall be well clear of them.”

“I hope so,” said Harry; but still he looked grave.

They had just then reached the forecastle, where the master was standing.

Though the ship was moving on parallel to the side of the berg, the in-draught was evidently carrying her nearer and nearer it. The master had gone on to the end of the bowsprit, where he stood holding on by the stay, and looking anxiously ahead; still it seemed as if no danger need be apprehended.

“What can the master be looking out for?” asked Peter Patch, who had just then come up to Willy; “we are all right enough at last.”

The words were scarcely out of the young midshipman’s mouth when a loud crash was heard. The ship trembled from stem to stern, and it appeared as if the masts were going by the board. Orders were instantly given to brace round the yards, so as to box the ship off. In so doing she made a stern-board, and drove rapidly in towards the berg. The sound of the first shock had brought all hands on deck. For a moment discipline was well-nigh lost: the soldiers, women, and children came rushing up from below, the poor women frantically shrieking and clinging to their husbands; even some of the seamen, who understood the danger, evidently thought that all hope was gone. The passengers, too, came hurrying up out of their cabins, with dismay on their countenances. Their alarm was still further increased when, in another instant, the stern of the ship struck with tremendous force against the mass of ice concealed below the surface; it seemed indeed as if the stern was completely stove in. At this juncture the voice of Colonel Morley was heard ordering the soldiers below. “Take your wives with you, and remain till you receive fresh orders; they will be safer there than on deck,” he exclaimed.

“To your stations, men,” shouted Commander Newcombe. “We are not going to lose the ship yet.”

The officers hurrying among the men soon brought them back to a sense of their duty. It was found, however, that the damage the ship had received was very severe. The rudder had been torn from its position; the starboard tiller rope had been carried away, and the neck of the rudder was wrenched off so as to render it unserviceable. Believing tackles were at once applied to the tiller, in hopes that the rudder might be made to work; but after several attempts it was found to be utterly useless. In vain were the yards braced round. Without the use of the rudder the ship could not be got sufficiently off to give her head-way. Slowly she continued to drive towards the monstrous berg, which threatened, should she strike it, to overwhelm her in an instant.

“A slight shift of wind would take her off,” observed the first-lieutenant to the commander.

“I pray that it may come, then,” was the answer.

Again and again the ship struck, evidently on each occasion receiving fearful damage. The soldiers who had been stationed at the pumps had knocked off, forgetting their duty in their alarm, when the ship first struck. The officers now went among them, and urged them to return; Colonel Morley had himself, however, to go before his orders were obeyed. The carpenter, who had been sent to sound the well, reported two feet in the hold. “We may keep that under,” observed the commander, “if the men do their duty.”

Mrs Rumbelow was not idle all this time. She had been from the first tending to the other women; but when she found that the men were inclined not to obey orders, she was in their midst in an instant. “What, my lads!” she exclaimed; “is this like you, to let the ship sink with your wives and children, and the good colonel, and his lady and daughters, and not do your best to keep her afloat? Shame on you! I would not have believed it if it had been told me!” In another moment the pumps were heard clanking away, and sending out the water as rapidly as before.

The ship was moving at a fearfully rapid rate towards the side of the vast iceberg. The crew, after the first alarm had subsided, exerted themselves manfully, and arrangements were being made for the dreaded encounter. Spars were got out and secured to the sides and quarters, but still some hope remained that the wind might catch her headsails, and pay her off in time to avoid it. Every instant, however, that hope lessened, and on she drove, stern foremost, till the summit of the berg appeared almost overhead. Close at hand was seen, between two bluffs, a vast cavern, into which it seemed more than probable that the ship would drive, and if so, her escape would be impossible.

Such moments try the stoutest hearts. Many countenances became pale, and some eyes were turned away from the danger; but the commander and officers faced it boldly, while the crew remained steadily at their stations. Willy Dicey fully understood the terrific danger in which they were placed. He looked at the blue sky, at the sun shining brightly, at the waters dancing gaily, and he thought of the loved ones at home, and of the little prospect which existed of their ever hearing of him again. But, boy though he was, even his young heart did not quail; he was at the post of duty, he knew that; and he knew that there was One all-powerful watching over him, who would carry him safely through the danger, if He thought fit.

Nearer and nearer the “Ranger” drew to the iceberg—the bravest held their breath as they saw that she must inevitably strike. Then came a fearful crash. So perpendicular was the side of the berg that the stern davits drove right against it. The stern boat was crushed in, a portion of the taffrail and the upper part of the spar-deck bulwarks wrenched off. It seemed as if the whole stern of the ship was about to be carried away. Her larboard quarter next came in contact with the ice, but the severity of the shock saved her; for after the damage which has been described was received, she again bounded off with a cant to starboard. The jib was instantly run up, and it and the other headsails catching the wind, away she glided from the berg. Those who had their eyes turned aft, however, could not refrain from uttering a cry of horror, for at that instant the berg, shaken by the concussion, threatened to fall over and crush them. From its summit down came rushing an avalanche of ice and snow, a portion of the mass even striking the poop. Still the ship glided on; the after-sails were trimmed, and again she was clear of another threatened danger. Yet, with the rudder gone, her stern crushed in, with numberless rents in her side, and two of her masts carried away, the “Ranger” was indeed in a perilous condition.

The first thing to be done was to get the rudder repaired. The breeze had increased, and rendered the operation difficult. The weather, too, had far from a satisfactory appearance. Whatever Commander Newcombe thought of the prospect of ultimately saving the ship, he was not the man to relax in his efforts till the last. It was no easy matter to steer the ship while the rudder was being repaired; the only means of doing so was by keeping the yards swinging to and fro, in order to direct the ship’s head towards the opening between the bergs.

Mrs Rumbelow insisted on lending a hand in pulling and hauling. “Why, boys,” she exclaimed, “I can do it as well as any of you, and I don’t see why a woman should be idle because she is a woman.” She well knew that by acting thus she should assist in keeping up the men’s spirits.

At length the rudder was shipped, but even then it could be only worked by relieving tackles, which required a number of hands for the purpose.

The carpenter had been so busy with the rudder that he had not for some time sounded the well. He now did so.

“Are we keeping the leaks under, Mr Chisel?” asked the commander, when he came to make his report.

“No, sir, I am sorry to say we are not,” he answered. “There are three feet of water in the hold, and I fear, from the damages the ship has received, that no power can keep her afloat much longer. If we cannot repair them, you know, sir, that it won’t be for want of our doing our best.”

“I am very sure of that, Mr Chisel, and hope that we may still overcome the leaks, if the sea continues tolerably smooth,” observed the commander. “But we must not let the pumps be idle.” He said this in a cheerful tone, that those who overheard the carpenter’s report might not lose heart.

The ship was now standing out clear of the ice, and being thus more exposed than before to the sea, which rolled in from the northward, began to labour heavily. In a short time the carpenter again reported that the water had gained another foot on the pumps in spite of the incessant way they had been kept going. The commander now summoned the superior officers round him, though what was said was not generally known. The first-lieutenant instantly collecting a party of men, led them between-decks, where, aided by some of the soldiers, they at once set to work to heave overboard such heavy stores and provisions as could be got at. Everything that had been received at the Cape was thrown overboard. The purser was in despair. “Remember, Tobin,” he observed, “we have got all these mouths to feed. We may as well drown at first as starve.”

“You are right, purser,” answered the first-lieutenant. “We will get up what provisions we can, and place them on the upper deck. They will soon be destroyed if they remain where they are.”

At length the ship got clear of the ice, and now the crew were piped below to snatch a hasty meal, those only required to work the rudder and the pump gangs remaining on duty. Matters did not change much till the sun went down in a bank of dark clouds, its rays casting a ruddy glow across the western sky. As darkness came on, the wind increased, the waters becoming covered with crests of foam, which danced and hissed around the ship. No one could be ignorant of their dangerous position; but in spite of it, most of the weary seamen and soldiers not actually on duty turned into their berths to sleep. The officers did so likewise, though they were aware that it might perhaps be the last sleep they should ever enjoy. Two persons, however, did not for a moment retire to their berths, the commander of the ship and the colonel of the regiment. Both felt that the lives of the people under them had been committed to their charge. The commander remained on deck to take advantage of any change for the better which might occur, or to guard against any fresh accident; and the colonel, that he might go among his men labouring at the pumps, and encourage them to persevere in their duty. The hammocks had been piped down as usual, and most of the men turned into them all standing. Willy Dicey had done the same, though, weary as he was, he could not for some time go to sleep—an unusual event in a midshipman’s career. He was thinking of home and the loved ones there, and those voyaging like himself; and when he did sleep, he continued dreaming of, that same home, and of his brother and sisters, now probably far distant from it. He fancied in his troubled dreams that he saw their ship tempest-tossed. Now her masts and yards were shattered. Onward she drove towards a rocky shore. He was there himself; he stretched out his arms, imploring them to keep at a distance. Still on came the ship; her destruction seemed inevitable. Wildly he waved his arms—he shrieked loudly. A dreadful crash was heard—the ship was split into a thousand fragments. He awoke. That loud crash rang in his ears; he sprang from his hammock, and rushed on deck. One of the jury-masts had gone.

Morning was breaking, the faint grey light exhibiting the destruction which had taken place, and the wild leaden-coloured sea, which rose in foaming billows around, now leaping here, now there, threatening destruction to the ship. At the same moment the boatswain’s whistle sounded shrilly, calling all hands on deck. While one party was endeavouring to secure the jury-mast which had been carried away, another was employed in fothering a sail: this, filled with oakum, was lowered over the bows and drawn under the keel, where it was hoped the water rushing in would suck it into the leaks, and thus contribute to stop them. It seemed, however, to have but little effect.

“We must try another sail,” said the commander. The sail was prepared, and, like the first, with great difficulty dragged under the ship’s bottom. The seamen employed in the work were drenched to the skin by the heavy seas which frequently broke over the hapless ship; still they persevered, no one flinching from the work. Harry Shafto attracted the notice of the commander by his activity. Willy Dicey imitated him to the best of his power. Although not so strong as a man, by his intelligence and comprehension of what was to be done he was able to direct others, and thus rendered good service.

“I say, Dicey,” exclaimed Peter Patch, who was standing near him, “do you think really the ship will go down? I feel awfully queer. I wish that I’d followed your advice about some things long ago. I should like to say my prayers, but I don’t know how to begin, and there isn’t time for it now.”

“That’s it,” answered Willy. “Had you said them morning and night, and not have been afraid of our messmates laughing at you, you would have known how to say them even while you are hard at work. I don’t think God would be well pleased if we all were to knock off, and go down on our knees to pray and ask Him for help while we were neglecting to help ourselves.”

“I must work now, at all events,” said Peter.

“Of course you must,” answered Willy, “or praying would be mockery; but you can pray out of your heart while you are pulling and hauling, or while you are running along the deck with a message.”

“I daresay you are right, Dicey,” sighed Peter; “but it’s very terrible. I had no thought, when we left England, that we should get into such a scrape as this. For what I see, we may all be drowned, or be driven on those fearful icebergs, and be frozen to death before many days are over.”

“Very true, Peter. I have been thinking the same; but it is our duty to struggle to the end—first to try and save the ship, and then our own lives.”

Matters did not mend as the day advanced. Again and again the carpenter sounded the well, and reported that the water had rather increased than diminished. The after-part of the deck was now scuttled, so that more provisions and stores could be got up and hove overboard. The pumps continued to be worked as energetically as at first, but still the water gained on them, till it reached the orlop-deck.

The fearful condition of the ship could no longer be concealed from the people. Even the most sanguine began to lose heart. Many cast wistful glances at the boats. Notwithstanding this, the commander kept them labouring at the pumps, still hoping against hope that the wind and sea might go down, and that the ship might be kept afloat. At length, however, some of the crew showed signs of giving in. Willy saw several of them steal off to hide themselves away, but he instantly followed and drove them up again; they grumbled, but obeyed.

“What’s the use of working when we shall have to go to the bottom in a few hours?” exclaimed one.

“I only wish we had a chance of getting to the spirit room,” cried another. “A short life and a merry one for me.”

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” cried the young midshipman. “Are you men with souls, and do you wish to die like dogs?” The seamen, astonished at a mere boy thus addressing them, felt ashamed, and returned to their duty. Others, however, soon afterwards were seen behaving in the same manner. Willy, falling in with Mr Bolland, reported what he had observed.

“We will soon put a stop to that,” observed the boatswain, seizing a rope’s end. He was not long in hunting out the fellows.

The water continuing to rise, the poor women and children were now collected on the poop cabins.

There they sat, crouching down on the deck, holding their children in their arms, and hiding their pallid faces. Mrs Rumbelow was the only one who remained calm. She might have been a little more excited than usual, as she went among them, trying to cheer them up. “Do not be downhearted, my dear women,” she exclaimed. “There is a God in heaven, remember, who takes care of us. He may make the storm to cease, and keep the old ship afloat notwithstanding all the leaks she has got in her bottom. Do you think the men of our regiment are not going to do their duty, and work away at the pumps as long as the pumps will work? If they do not, we will go and handle them ourselves, and put them to shame. Hurrah, lasses! you think better of your young husbands than to suppose that, and we old ones have tried ours, and know that they will not shirk their duty.” Still, though Mrs Rumbelow spoke thus cheerfully, she had a heavy weight at her heart. She had been too often at sea not to know the danger the ship was in, and she observed no signs of the weather improving.

The night was again drawing on; Commander Newcombe had done his utmost. The ship was kept under easy sail, to relieve her as much as possible. He would get another sail fothered, which might help to keep out the water a few hours longer. “Should that fail,” he observed to Mr Tobin, “we must get the boats ready, and endeavour to save the lives of as many as they can hold.”

“Too true, sir,” was the answer. “I see no other prospect for us.”

“We must trust in God, Mr Tobin; He is our only hope,” observed the commander with a sigh.

Darkness came down once more upon the hapless ship as she lay rolling and pitching heavily in that cold antarctic sea. The pumps kept clanking away the whole night; the gush of water was heard even amid the roar of the waves, as it rushed from her sides. The men crouched down in groups at their stations in different parts of the ship, many a stout heart knowing full well that at any moment the fearful cry might be heard, “She is sinking! she is sinking!”

The colonel was in his cabin with his wife and daughters. Captain Power sat at the table reading, or endeavouring to read, and every now and then addressing a few remarks to the officers around him. They were mostly behaving as English gentlemen generally do behave under such circumstances, with calm courage, ready to perform any duty which might be required of them. The only person who did not show his face was the unhappy Ensign Holt, who kept himself shut up in his cabin for most of the time. Now and then he appeared, with a pale face, to inquire whether the leaks were being got under; and on being told that they were still gaining on the pumps, he rushed back again, with a look of dismay on his countenance.

Chapter Seven.

The “Crusader” in the Tropics.

Fine weather—Lights on the ocean—Flying-fish come on board—Tropic-birds—A shark caught—Southern constellations—A calm—Fever breaks out—Deaths among the emigrants—Mr Paget’s activity—The Diceys assist the sick—Signs of a coming breeze—A gale comes on—Jack-o’-lantern—Job Mawson’s alarm—Reefs shaken out—A man overboard—Charles and Windy go off in boat—Boat lost sight of—Search in vain for the boat—Emily and May’s grief.

Little did Charles Dicey and his sisters think of the fearful dangers to which their brother Willy was exposed. The “Crusader” sailed on over the smooth sea, with her white canvas spread out, towering to the sky, studding-sails on either side reaching to the very surface of the water.

An awning had been spread over the after-part of the ship, and beneath it the cabin passengers assembled, sheltered from the hot rays of the sun. Neither Charles nor Mr Paget were ever idle, and their example generally induced many of their companions to work also. Mrs Clagget, if she did nothing else, always contrived to keep her tongue going. Emily and May were usually well employed. Their attention, however, was frequently called to the various objects which appeared around them. They enjoyed watching the flights of flying-fish which darted with the speed of arrows out of the water, hovered like birds in the air for a few seconds, scarcely touching the foam-crested seas, and then sunk quickly again beneath the surface. “How beautiful and blue are the reflections on their glittering wings, how transparent their tiny bodies, how light their movements!” observed Emily; “they look like ocean elves, as they float through the air. What a happy life they must lead—now in the pure ocean, now getting an uninterrupted sight of the glorious sun and the clear sky above them.”

“They would have a very different tale to tell, Miss Dicey, if they could speak to you,” observed Mr Paget. “Could your eyes pierce through the surface, you would see some savage bonitos or dolphins pursuing the hapless fish who visit the air, not for amusement, but in the hopes of escaping from their persecutors.”

Just then a large covey was seen to rise abeam close to the ship. They flew high into the air, and in an instant the deck was covered with their floundering bodies; their wings, dried by the heat of the sun, no longer spread out, they looked like ordinary fish.

“Catch them, catch them,” cried Mrs Clagget; “they will make a delightful dish for dinner.”

“Poor creatures—how unromantic you are,” said Emily.

“I am practical, my dear. I pride myself on being practical,” answered Mrs Clagget. “I prefer eating them myself to allowing the dolphins to have them for their supper.” Jumbo, the cook’s mate, seemed to be of Mrs Clagget’s opinion, for in an instant he was among the poor fish, tumbling them into his bucket as fast as he could pick them up.

“That’s a wise lad,” observed the loquacious lady. “If any of you happened to be in a boat far away from land without provisions, you would be very glad to have a dish of those fish fly on board.”

“But we happen to have plenty of provisions, and are not in want of the poor fish,” said Charles. “However, if they were thrown overboard again, I suspect that they would have very little reason to thank us, as the bonitos would speedily swallow them up.”

“Get them while you can, Mr Charles,” said Mrs Clagget, nodding her head. “Some day, perhaps, you would be very thankful if you could only catch a single one, and be ready to eat it raw.” Mrs Clagget’s tongue was apt to run on so fast that she now and then said things, among the many she uttered, which came true, in which instances she never failed to boast of her prophetic powers. Shortly afterwards, a number of those beautiful inhabitants of tropical seas, the little Portuguese men-of-war, were seen floating round the ship on the crest of the waves, their out-spread fans sparkling and glistening with the transparent brightness of crystal; as the wind blew them gently through the sea, their wings reflected all the colours of the rainbow. As Emily and May were admiring them, they saw the terrible dismay the ship created among them, as she passed through their midst. As the ship sailed on, the sea-gulls of the northern ocean were succeeded by the high towering tropic-birds, several of which were seen; appearing at first like mere specks in the blue sky, where, with the wonderful balloon apparatus with which they are furnished, they floated calmly at their ease, then suddenly descending like bolts from the skies, they pounced down upon the nether world, to seize some hapless fish swimming unconscious of danger near the surface of the ocean. Beautiful creatures they appeared, with two long streamer-like feathers floating behind their wide-spreading wings. Now and then a sword-fish of a bright hue shot with gold darted by, and huge sharks might be seen turning up their evil eyes with longing glances toward the ship. Bill Windy did not fail to point them out to the boys who were sky-larking in the rigging, and to bid them take care not to fall overboard to become a prey of the monsters. One of the savage creatures continued to follow the ship so pertinaciously that the mate vowed he would punish him for his audacity.

“Either the brute will be catching some of us, or we must catch him,” he observed, as he prepared a harpoon and line. Descending by the dolphin-striker, he stood on the bob-stay, watching with keen eye and lifted arm for the shark, which now dropped astern, now swam lazily alongside. Bill ordered one of the men to get out to the jibboom end with a piece of pork, and heave it as far ahead as he could fling. No sooner did the creature see the tempting bait than he darted forward, and turning round to seize it exposed the white under side of his body to a blow from Bill’s harpoon, driven home with right good will. The men on deck who held the line hauled away on the slack, while others stood by with bowlines in their hands ready to slip them over the shark’s head and tail.

“Haul away,” cried the mate, who was on deck in a moment; and the savage creature, in spite of its convulsive struggles, was hoisted up, and lay a helpless captive on the forecastle. Here it continued to plunge and strike out with its tail, keeping the seamen at a respectful distance. Now and then one would rush in with a handspike and endeavour to give it a blow, which might have settled it; but so rapid were its movements that it was necessary to be wary, as one stroke of that tail would have been sufficient to break a man’s leg. The shark was at length killed and cut up. In spite of its cannibal propensities, many of the emigrants gladly accepted portions, and even the seamen did not refuse to eat a slice of their hated foe.

While the day presented much to occupy the attention, the night also afforded many objects of interest. The constellations of the northern hemisphere were now sinking one by one in the ocean; the Great Bear disappeared, followed by the Polar Star, and in their stead, towards the south, rose the Southern Cross, each night appearing higher and higher in the firmament. Charles and his sisters gazed at the beautiful constellation with deep interest. Beneath its glittering light they expected to pass the greatest portion of their future life; and it seemed to welcome them to the new world to which they were bound. Charles confessed that, interesting as it was, it scarcely equalled in beauty several of the northern constellations on which he had been accustomed to gaze. Now, too, the Magellanic clouds appeared in the heavens, composed probably of countless millions of worlds, so far away that the human mind can scarcely calculate their distance from this tiny world of ours. At night, also, Charles, with his sisters at his side, often watched the track of the ship on the ocean, which appeared like a broad road dotted with brilliant and innumerable stars; while on either side the waves were lighted up by thousands of electric sparks, appearing here and there; now lost altogether, now dispersed, as the waves rose and fell. Sometimes, when the wind freshened, and a huge sea broke against the bows with a tremendous crash, the spray appeared all alight, rising in the air to fall on deck like drops of fire.

“Who would not wish to come to sea to witness such a spectacle as this?” exclaimed Emily, with enthusiasm, as the whole ocean appeared glowing with flashes of brilliant light. The remark was made not to Mrs Clagget, but to Mr Paget, who stood by her side.

“You would scarcely suppose that this glorious illumination of the ocean is caused by countless numbers of minute living creatures,” he observed. “As the telescope reveals to us some of the wonders of the heavens, so the microscope enables to inspect many of the smallest of created beings.”

“What, Mr Paget, is every spark of light we see a living creature?” asked May.

“Yes, indeed,” was the answer. “And probably we see at a time not a thousandth part of the number of those which are floating around.”

The ship all this time had been standing over towards the coast of South America, then to steer parallel with it, till, feeling the influence of the trade winds, she was to keep eastward towards her destination. Hitherto good progress had been made, and a rapid passage was expected; but near the Tropic of Capricorn the wind fell, till a dead calm rested on the ocean; gradually every ripple was (as Mrs Clagget expressed it) smoothed out of the water. The sails hung idly down against the masts, chips of wood thrown overboard floated alongside, the sun struck down with terrific force, the whole sea shining like a sheet of burnished gold. The passengers could no longer bear the heat below; and when they came on deck, and sought whatever shade could be found, they gained but little by the change. Though the sky, after a time, became overcast, and a light steamy mist pervaded the atmosphere, the heat, rather than moderating, increased. Few on board could resist complaining. Night brought no relief. People who had appeared active enough before sat listless about the decks. Books, if open, were unread. The seamen even exhibited the same listlessness as the rest of those on board. Emily and May did their best to keep up their spirits, but their efforts were unavailing. Captain Westerway and Bill Windy were among the few who appeared unaffected. Mr Paget, also exerting himself to the utmost, went about his usual occupations, and endeavoured to revive the spirits of his companions. It was evident, however, that unless a breeze should spring up some evil consequences would too probably ensue. Day after day the ship floated on the glassy sea, no sail in sight, the only object ever visible beyond her deck being some wandering tropic bird, which might be seen hovering on high, watching with keen sight for its prey.

The surgeon appeared one morning with a grave face, to make his report to the captain. Several of the steerage passengers were on the sick list. As the day wore on, others were added to them: some, he feared, were cases of malignant fever. They were removed to a part of the ship screened off to serve as an hospital. Nothing else could be done except to fumigate the “between-decks,” that operation rather adding to the heat than otherwise. The cabin passengers at length became alarmed.

“Oh, dear, what shall we do if there is fever?” exclaimed Mrs Clagget to her young companions. “We must take care that no one ever comes near us.”

No one was more alarmed than Mr Job Mawson; for, in spite of the heat, he shut himself up in his cabin, and was afraid of coming in contact even with the steward, lest he should have passed near any of the sick emigrants. Mr Paget, on the contrary, was more active than ever; he, without hesitation, spent many hours of each day visiting those stricken down by disease, and endeavouring to rouse the spirits of those who had hitherto escaped. Charles Dicey, in spite of Mrs Clagget’s warnings, accompanied him, and gave every assistance in his power to the surgeon. Day after day others were added to the numbers already suffering from fever. One poor woman, the mother of a family, sank beneath it, and it was a sad spectacle to all on deck as the body, secured in canvas, and heavily weighted, was committed to the deep. The voice of Captain Westerway, generally so firm, trembled as he read the funeral service. Another and another followed. At last the good captain entreated Mr Paget to perform the painful duty for him. How every one longed for a breeze to carry the fever-stricken ship out of that inhospitable region! It was supposed that the disease must have been brought on board, and had only now developed itself, as the poor woman who had just died had been ill when she left England.

Emily and May had at first listened to Mrs Clagget’s advice, but when so many women and children became ill, they could no longer refrain from assisting in nursing them. Fearlessly they sat by the side of the sick, reading to the elder ones, and trying to soothe and comfort the younger children. Several children of the first poor woman who had died followed their mother to her watery grave.

Charles at first tried to persuade his sisters that they were not called upon to risk their health.

“Then why do you risk yours, brother?” asked Emily. “Your life, surely, is as precious as ours. You would get on very well without us, but we should be forlorn creatures indeed if left alone. I am sure we are but doing our duty, and there is One above who will protect us.”

“But I am more hardy than you are,” argued Charles. “I can go aloft, too, and get any germs of fever which I might have contracted blown away.”

“There is no wind to blow them away,” said Emily, “and we are not more likely to catch the fever than you are. Let us do our duty, and leave the rest to God.”

Still, though Charles was not thoroughly convinced, his sisters gained their object. That very day they visited the hospital, nursed the poor children, gave them their medicine and food, and rendered all the assistance they could to the sick mothers. Charles used to look anxiously at them every morning as they appeared at breakfast, fearful of hearing them complain of illness; but the bloom of health still glowed on their cheeks, and though grave, and sometimes sad when another victim had been added to those already taken off by the disease, they retained their spirits and courage.

“Really, Dicey, you are a brave fellow,” said Jack Ivyleaf one day, while Charles was taking his usual walk on deck for exercise. “I cannot bring myself to go among those sick people as you do. It’s all very well to go forward and amuse them when they are in health, and inclined to be jolly; but to go and sit in the hot, sweltering atmosphere between-decks is quite another thing.”

“Possibly, Mr Ivyleaf, you do not reflect that those poor sick people have immortal souls like ourselves,” observed Mr Paget, who had that instant joined them. “If we profess to be Christians we should look upon them as brothers in distress, and do our utmost for their souls as well as their bodies.”

“Ah, no, to be sure,” said Jack, keeping his mouth agape, and gazing at Mr Paget. “I should have thought that sort of work might be left to the parson and doctor.”

“But as we have no parson on board, and the doctor is overworked, does it not strike you that the poor people have a right to our assistance?” asked Mr Paget.

“Right! I don’t see that they can have any right!” said Jack; “though it’s very kind in you and Dicey to attend to them.” Jack Ivyleaf looked as if he was afraid that his companions wished to enlist him in the service he dreaded, and was evidently trying to make his escape from them.

The captain and first officer were on deck. The latter had been casting an eager look for some time to the north-west.

“We shall have it soon, sir,” he observed, pointing with his hand.

“Turn the hands up, Mr Windy, and trim sails,” said the captain in a cheerful voice. “See there, gentlemen, those clouds yonder are the pleasantest sight I have seen for many days.” A low bank of clouds could be observed resting on the horizon. It grew higher and higher every instant, while a dark line could be seen extending across the ocean in the same direction. The sea, however, continued as calm as before; around the ship not a ripple could be seen on its surface. The crew, hurrying from below, went to their stations, all eyes being turned in the direction of the approaching clouds. Presently cats’-paws began to play over the mirror-like expanse, and then to disappear; the sails slowly bulged out, and speedily again hung down as listlessly as before against the masts. The dark line grew brighter and brighter; presently the loftier sails swelled out, and the ship began to glide smoothly over the ocean. The joyful news was communicated below, and all who were not in their beds came up on deck. The ship, at length feeling the power of the helm, was put before the wind. The dark line now increased gradually in width, and seemed covered with sparkling foam; a rushing noise was heard; in another instant almost the aspect of the whole ocean was changed; the sails bulged out steadily; waves, at first but small, danced up astern, and on either side their crests hissing and foaming, while the spray in broad sheets flew off from their summits. Now the stout ship dashed forward, every instant increasing her speed, as if eager to make up for the time lost. On she went, faster and faster, rising to the seas, and plunging into them as they rolled around her. The lighter sails were taken in. A strong gale was blowing—it was increasing too. The clouds now rapidly gathered in dense masses across the sky; the seamen were busy in all directions securing the boats, the spars, and other articles hitherto left about the deck.

“We shall have a heavy gale, gentlemen, before long,” observed the captain, in answer to Mr Paget’s and Charles’ inquiries respecting the weather. “It’s what I have been wishing for, as nothing else is likely to clear us of this terrible fever.” Before night his predictions were verified, and the ship, under close-reefed topsails, was running on at the rate of twelve knots or more an hour.

Emily and May found it far more difficult to attend to their charges than during the calm; but they still persevered; and though it was very hot between-decks, yet the sick people felt sensibly the change which had occurred in the atmosphere.

For several days the “Crusader” ran on before the gale; sometimes, indeed, the wind blew so hard, and the ship rolled and tossed and tumbled about so much, that many wished the calm back again. One night the thunder roared and rattled overhead with crashing peals; bright lightning darted from the skies. All hands were on deck, for it was impossible to say what might next occur. The masts strained and cracked, and it seemed every instant that the canvas would be blown out of the boltropes. The dark seas came rolling up astern, their crests hissing and foaming, threatening to break over the poop. Several of the gentlemen passengers were collected on deck. Suddenly a voice was heard, exclaiming in a tone of terror, “What is that? Oh mercy, mercy!” They looked aloft; at the end of the yardarm was a mass of bluish light like a small globe. Charles saw Job Mawson standing not far off; his knees were knocking together, his arms outstretched. Presently the light began to move, and suddenly it appeared at the mainmast head; there it remained stationary for some time.

“What is it?” exclaimed Job Mawson. “Oh, captain, do make it go away!”

“It is nothing very terrible,” answered Bill Windy, who overheard him. “We might easily box up that fellow, if it were worth while to go aloft and catch him.”

“Let no one make the attempt,” said the captain. “I must not have you, Mr Windy, or the men, risk your lives to catch a jack-o’-lantern. I hope it’s a sign that the gale is breaking, and that we shall have moderate weather again before long.”

Job Mawson did not appear as satisfied with this explanation of the captain’s as the rest of the passengers; he continued watching the light with a terror-stricken glance, as if he expected something dreadful was about to happen. At length, now travelling to one mast-head, now to the other, and back again to the yardarm, it finally disappeared. The wind, however, continued blowing for some time as hard as ever. When morning broke, it had somewhat moderated, and as the day wore on, a strong breeze only was blowing. The sea, notwithstanding this, continued as high as ever, and consequently the ship rolled and tumbled about fully as much as before. The captain, who had been on deck all the night and a great part of the forenoon, at length retired to his berth.

Bill Windy had the watch, Charles was standing near him.

“What do you think of the weather now?” he asked.

“Can’t say that I think it settled yet,” answered Bill. “There’s a stormy look away there to the nor’ard, but the captain ordered me to shake the reefs out of the topsails if it grows no worse; though, to my mind, we shall have to take them in again before nightfall.”

Bill took a turn on deck, then ordered the hands aloft to shake out the reefs. The topsails were sheeted home; the ship felt the fresh impulse given to her, and went bounding on over the tossing ocean. The mate walked the deck keeping a watchful eye to windward.

“I don’t know what to make of it, Mr Dicey,” he observed to Charles. “It is always well to take a reef in in good time, and better seamanship, too, to my mind, than to wait till the squall is down upon one. Still, we have lost so much time in that calm that it won’t do to be shortening sail before it is necessary. The surgeon, too, wishes the captain, unless the sickness abates, to put into the Cape, that the people may be landed and the ship fumigated.”

“I am thankful to hear that,” said Charles; “a few days on shore may, I hope, restore all to health.”

Although no deaths had occurred for several days, a considerable number of the people still remained on the sick list, many of the cases being very severe. Even to people in health, the steerage of an emigrant ship is not a desirable place, especially in a hot climate; and now the poor sufferers were not only confined below with closed hatches, but the ship was tumbling and rolling fearfully about, the masts were groaning, the bulk-heads creaking, the stamping of feet was heard overhead, the waves were constantly dashing against the sides, while now and then came the heavy blow of a sea, as it fell on board and deluged the decks.

Bill Windy and Charles had continued their walk for some time, when the mate, looking to windward, exclaimed, “It’s high time to shorten sail, or we shall have the masts whipped out of the ship. Boy, call the captain! Hands aloft—two reefs in the topsails.” The crew were running up the rigging, when Captain Westerway made his appearance. The men quickly laid out on the yards, and were busily employed in gathering up the sails. An active young topman, whom Charles had seen just before laughing and joking with his shipmates, was on the lee-yardarm; while, with earing in hand, he was passing the point through the cringle, the ship gave a heavy lurch, he lost his hold, and was jerked off the yard. For an instant he was seen hanging on to the earing; but it would have required superhuman strength to maintain his hold with the ship pitching and rolling as she was doing; in another moment he fell headlong into the foaming sea. Scarcely had he touched the water when Bill Windy ran to the falls of the lifeboat on the starboard side, crying out for volunteers. Charles followed him. The most active men were aloft; but several gathered at the falls. The captain took the helm, relieving the man at the wheel, who hurried to assist the mate. Bill, with three hands, was already in the boat. Charles leaped in also.

“You had better not, Mr Dicey,” exclaimed Bill. “Get up the side again, and let another hand come. You don’t know the danger you are running.”

“Not more than you,” answered Charles.

“It’s my duty, sir,” said Bill, “and not yours; do be advised by me.”

Charles, however, was eager to go to the assistance of the young seaman. There were in all six stout hands in the boat. The lifebuoy had been let go. Some time passed before the seaman saw it; at last he made towards it, but his strength seemed insufficient to buffet with that rough sea. The attention of most on board was for the moment engaged rather with the boat endeavouring to carry help to the drowning man than to the man himself. The greater number of the crew, too, were occupied in handing the sails. This task had to be accomplished before the ship could be brought to. That was itself a manoeuvre of no small danger, yet the sea was not sufficiently high, nor the wind too strong, to make it altogether impracticable. The boat at length got clear off, and pulled away in the direction the man had last been seen, Mr Paget and other passengers pointing with their hands to guide them. Charles seized an oar—there were only four in the boat; the mate took the helm. They had not pulled far when one of the oars broke. This was seen from the ship. Mr Paget observed that the boat had rapidly dropped a long way to leeward. While he was watching her, a huge wave rose up between her and the ship. He looked anxiously, expecting to see her on the crest of the sea. She was nowhere visible. It was some time before another hand came aft to the helm to relieve the captain. The second and third mates were forward. Not a seaman had been able to keep his eye upon the boat. Mr Paget, however, felt sure he knew where she could be found. The captain was now able to look about for her. Mr Paget told him his fears.

“I am afraid you are right, sir,” he said, after he had continued for some time looking out all around.

“The boat has been swamped. I have no doubt about it.” Mr Paget’s heart sank within him at these words; he had formed a sincere regard for Charles Dicey; he felt still more for the poor girls who were thus deprived of their brother.

“I hoped better things of that boat,” observed the captain; “but a very heavy sea is running even for her. Poor fellows, I would to heaven this had not happened. Still she may have escaped.”

He hailed the men aloft, and desired them to look out. No one could see the boat; and neither the lifebuoy nor the young sailor, who, it was supposed, had got hold of it, were anywhere to be seen. The captain continued looking out for some time, ordering those aloft also to keep a bright look-out. At length he gave the order to brace round the yards, and the ship once more gathered way. “We must not give them up yet; so I will wear ship, and run over the ground we have passed.”

While this manoeuvre was being carried out the Miss Diceys and several other ladies, followed by Mrs Clagget, appeared on deck.

“What is the matter, captain?” exclaimed the latter. “They tell me that a man has fallen overboard, and that a boat has gone to look for him. How could you let a boat go away while the sea is tumbling about in this terrible fashion; and, pray, who has gone in her? Ah, Mr Paget, I am glad to see you have not risked your life. But where is Charles Dicey? Just like him, to do such a madcap trick. My dear girls, your brother jumped into the boat to pick up a silly man who tumbled overboard, and they cannot find him or any of those who went with him.”

“Our brother!” exclaimed Emily and May in a tone of alarm. “Where is the boat? Oh! do tell us, Captain Westerway; we do not see her.”

“We are somewhat anxious about the boat, I confess, Miss Dicey,” said Mr Paget, approaching Emily and May; “but still we may hope to find her. In this mountainous sea she might be easily concealed between the waves, though at no great distance.”

In vain, however, every one on board kept looking out for the missing boat. The ship was standing back exactly over the spot where she had been lowered. The only sign of her was a broken oar, which tossed up and down—for a moment was seen, and then disappeared. Mrs Clagget continued to abuse Charles for his foolhardiness, as she called it.

“Poor young man, I wish he had not gone,” said the good captain; “but it was a brave deed. I ought not to have allowed the boat to be lowered; but I could not bear to let one of my fellows perish without an attempt to save him; and I thought that lifeboat could be trusted.”

“Very wrong in all concerned,” exclaimed Mrs Clagget. “But surely, captain, you don’t think poor Charles is really lost, and your worthy mate too. I had a great respect for that honest man.”

“Indeed, madam, I fear such is the case,” said the captain with a sigh; “and I trust you will do your best to console those dear young ladies. It will break their hearts, I am afraid, for it is easy to see what affection they have for their brother.”

Emily and May were, as may be supposed, almost stricken down by grief when they were told, though as cautiously as possible by Mr Paget, of what had occurred. Not till night had arrived, and all hopes had been abandoned, could they be induced to leave the deck. They stood with their hands clasped together, looking out over the tossing sea as though they expected the boat which contained him they loved so much would appear again in sight.

Chapter Eight.

The “Ranger’s” Boats are sent away.

The pumps disabled—The women placed in boats—Younger officers and boys sent away—The Captain and Colonel remain—The Captain’s letter—Child saved by young Broke—Ship driving on launch—Escape of launch—Voyage in boats commenced—Last sight of “Ranger”—Mrs Rumbelow encourages her companions—Boats running before the gale—Mrs Morley’s grief—A cabin formed for the women—A sea breaks on board—Search for provisions—First night in the boat—Harry Shafto at the helm—The weather moderates—Impossibility of returning to the ship—Scarcity of water—The doctor manufactures a still—Various provisions discovered.

Dreary as was the night, it was happily of no long duration. Daylight again appeared; but the scene was as forlorn and threatening as that of the previous morning.

While the first-lieutenant and Harry Shafto, and some of the other officers, were engaged in examining the boats and clearing them of lumber, the purser was busily employed in collecting provisions, and separating those of various description, so that each boat might be supplied with a sufficiency, in due proportion.

“The boats will not carry a quarter of our number,” observed Harry to the first-lieutenant.

“No, Shafto,” was the answer. “We know that. The captain has decided who is to go in each of them. Then we who remain must form rafts, and do the best we can to save our lives.”

“Should the ship sink beneath us!” observed Harry. “I fear, in this cold and stormy sea, that a raft would be of no real service, though it might prolong our existence for a few hours.”

“We, however, must do our best to preserve the lives of the poor people committed to our charge,” said Mr Tobin.

“We certainly must do that, if possible,” said Harry; “and it seems to me that the sea has gone down a little since daybreak; I have been watching it anxiously.”

“I agree with you, Shafto,” replied Mr Tobin. “The wind has lessened considerably within the last half-hour, and though we may not be able to keep the old ship afloat, there is a better prospect of the boats escaping.”

Some time was occupied in getting the boats ready; oars, masts, and sails were put into each; tackles were rove for hoisting them out; but Commander Newcombe was unwilling to give the order to lower them while there seemed a prospect of the ship floating and the sea going down.

The crew were now piped to breakfast, as if nothing particular was occurring. The spirits of all on board were somewhat raised by observing the evident improvement in the weather. The carpenter reported that the water was gaining less rapidly on the pumps, but still it was gaining. Another sail, however, was got up from below, fothered like the last, and passed with ropes under the ship’s bottom. It produced a more satisfactory result than the former ones; still, after another hour had passed, the water continued coming in faster than it could be pumped out. The commander and Colonel Morley were seen earnestly consulting together. They were joined by the first-lieutenant.

“The winch of the starboard pump has broken, and the pump is disabled, sir,” he said, in as calm a tone as he could assume.

“That settles the question,” said the commander. “Colonel, we must do our duty. I see no prospect of keeping the ship afloat much longer. If we delay, she may go down with all on board, and the chance of saving some will be lost.”

“I agree with you, captain,” said the colonel.

“We need not let the people know this, though,” observed Commander Newcombe. “Those who go in the boats may be allowed to suppose that the ship will be kept afloat better without them. Mr Tobin, hoist out the boats at once. The women and children must be divided among them. I have settled who is to go in each. Colonel, you will accompany your wife and daughters.”

“I have a higher duty, sir, though I thank you for the offer. I remain with my men,” answered Colonel Morley in a firm tone.

“And I remain with you and the ship, sir,” said Mr Tobin; “and I believe you will find that most of the other officers desire to do the same.”

“I will direct the junior officers of my regiment to draw lots who is to go,” said Colonel Morley.

Some little time was occupied in making these and similar arrangements. The three officers then separated, to perform the duties they had undertaken. While the naval officers were superintending the lowering of the boats, an undertaking of great difficulty and risk, Colonel Morley entered the cabin, and having summoned the officers around him, he informed them of the determination which had been arrived at. He spoke in a low, calm voice, so that he might not be overheard by his wife and daughters, or the other ladies. The captains at once declined drawing lots.

“Twopenny is the only married man among us,” said Captain Power; “he must accompany his wife.”

The lieutenants, when they heard that the colonel intended to remain, at once decided to stay by him and their men. The ensigns, with the exception of poor Holt, who was still in his cabin, were inclined to decide as their superior officers had already done.

“No, my lads,” said the colonel, “you are young, and may have many years of life before you. I must insist on your obeying my commands.”

The lots were quickly drawn, and Ensign Holt was declared to have the option of going. He had been watching the proceeding with staring eyes and a look of intense anxiety and dread, fully believing, apparently, that he should be among those to remain. The excitement was too much for his nerves. As his name was pronounced, he sank down on the deck without uttering a word. Captain Power kindly raised him up. An almost idiotic expression had come over the young officer’s countenance, and he scarcely seemed aware of what was occurring.

“Come, Holt, bestir yourself,” said the captain. “Pack up anything you may especially wish to take with you. The boats will soon be shoving off.”

The poor young ensign looked wildly about him for a moment, and then hurrying into his cabin, began to pack up a huge portmanteau, tumbling all sorts of articles into it. He was thus engaged when he heard his name called, and, leaving it behind him, rushed on deck. The colonel meantime addressed the officers.

“Gentlemen, we have still our duty to perform,” he said. “Desperate as appears our condition, I do not despair; and, at all events, I am confident that none of you will flinch from what requires to be done. Every one will take his turn at the pumps as long as the ship remains above water; and now I will muster the men. Let the roll be beat.”

The roll of the drum was directly afterwards heard echoing along the decks, and all the men not employed at the pumps fell in. The married men, with the drummers, were ordered to prepare to go in the boats. The crews of each were then mustered aft, and sentries stationed to prevent any others from entering them.

Now came the most trying moment of all. While the commander was standing on the break of the poop, and issuing his final orders, Harry Shafto, followed by Willy Dicey, came up to him.

“I hope, sir, you will allow me to remain on board,” he said; “and though Dicey wishes to prefer the same request, I trust you will refuse it in his case.”

“I certainly shall do so,” answered the commander, “as I also shall refuse yours. I have decided that you are to take command of the launch. I know you to be an excellent boat sailor, and I can confidently entrust her to your care.”

“I thank you heartily, sir,” said Harry. “I would most willingly remain with you; but I know my duty.”

“Then go into the boat, and be ready to receive the ladies and women who will be sent into her, and take young Dicey with you.” He stopped for a moment, then drawing a letter from his breast pocket, he added, “Here, take this despatch also, and preserve it, if possible. It is addressed to the Lords of the Admiralty. I have said what it was my duty to say with regard to the conduct of the officers and ship’s company, and the admirable behaviour of the troops. I have recommended also to the consideration of their Lordships my poor old mother and only surviving sister. I trust my country will look after them, as they depend on me for their support; and if I die, it will be in the performance of my duty. I have no other claim than that. I tell you the contents, that you may be able to repeat them to their Lordships should you reach England and the letter be lost.”

The commander now called over the names of the officers he had selected to take charge of the boats and of the men who were to form their crews, and they were ordered into them; and to each was allotted the supply of provisions and stores which had been prepared. The cooper had been engaged in filling the few casks which could be found with water out of some of the butts on deck. These were divided among the boats. A compass was placed in each, and a chart, as also a quadrant and other nautical instruments for the launch and each of the cutters; lanterns, candles, and several other stores were not forgotten.

“Fowling-pieces will be of use,” observed Captain Power. “Here is mine, Twopenny;” “and mine,” “and mine,” added the other officers, bringing them up from their cabins. “Don’t forget the powder and shot.” A supply in tin cases was soon provided.

While the seamen were performing their various duties, the soldiers stood, drawn up along the deck, with their officers, as if on parade. Not a man moved from his post, but all watched the proceedings going forward as if no unusual occurrence was taking place. The sea had by this time so much gone down that the operation of lowering the women and children into the boats was less hazardous than otherwise would have been the case. Mrs Morley and her two daughters were the first to appear on deck. The colonel led them to the gangway, where the boatswain and several of the most active seamen were standing ready to lower them down, under the direction of the first-lieutenant. Whether or not they expected that Colonel Morley would accompany them, it was difficult to say. The only words heard, as Mrs Morley seemed to hesitate for a moment as she was about to be lowered down, were, “We are all under orders. Duty must be our first consideration.”

Poor Mrs Twopenny shrieked out for her husband. “He will follow you presently,” said the first-lieutenant, hoping to pacify her. “Now, Mrs Rumbelow, you are to go in this boat,” he exclaimed. The sergeant’s wife hesitated, casting a glance towards her husband.

“We want you to go and look after the ladies,” said the colonel. “Come, Mrs Rumbelow, you have never acted contrary to orders, and you will not do so now, I am sure.”

Without a word she stepped to the gangway, and with very little assistance reached the boat. A young drummer, with five or six poor women, some having children, were also lowered down.

“Come, Davis, I promised the colonel that you and your medicine chest should go in the launch,” said the commander. “I hope you will be able to give a good account of your charges. Come! come! I must be obeyed,” he added with a melancholy smile, observing that the surgeon seemed to hesitate. “We can do without your services on board.”

Eight hands had been ordered into the boat to serve as her crew, and Willy was very glad to see Paul Lizard among them. The boatswain had been ordered to take charge of the first cutter. Peter Patch went with him, and poor Ensign Holt was lowered into the same boat, looking more helpless and woebegone than any of the women.

The people, however, had not been placed in the boats without considerable difficulty and danger. As soon as the launch had received her complement, she was dropped astern. Here she hung on while the other boats were being loaded, and as those in her watched this proceeding, they dreaded every instant to see them swamped alongside. Some of the people attempted, in their eagerness, to jump in. Several were seen to fall into the water; others were with difficulty caught, and saved from breaking their limbs. The sea, too, which, while the launch was alongside, was comparatively calm, had since then rapidly become more and more agitated, and heavy rollers were seen coming over the ocean towards the ship. As the people were getting into the second cutter, the sea struck her, violently dashing her against the ship’s side; while some were attempting to fend her off, she was swamped and upset, the unhappy people in her being cast struggling into the foaming waters. Two seamen only managed to regain the ship.

“Out oars,” cried Harry Shafto; and the crew of the launch attempted to pull up, and save some of their drowning shipmates. Before, however, they could get up even to the ship’s quarter, nearly all had disappeared, several poor women and children being speedily overwhelmed.

“See! see!” cried Mrs Rumbelow, “there is a little chap striking out towards us; and I do believe he has a baby in his arms. I know him; he is young Broke, a famous swimmer. Oh, Mr Shafto, do save them if you can.”

Harry required no urging, nor did the crew. In another instant the young drummer boy was alongside; and the doctor, stooping down, lifted up the baby; but it seemed as if life was extinct. Young Broke was speedily hauled on board. All for the moment seemed to forget their own danger in their anxiety for the young infant; watching anxiously for the report of the doctor, who was seen for a short time gently pressing its stomach and breathing at the time into its mouth. “It lives,” he said, “and will, I trust, recover.” The little creature had no lack of nurses, for even at that moment of trial all were eager to take it. Young Broke, though nearly exhausted when taken on board, soon recovered; he could not tell what had become of the mother, but he had some idea that she was still on board, having entrusted her child to one of the men before she herself was lowered down.

Harry again dropped the launch astern, in obedience to the orders he had received. The sea coming ahead of the ship, she began to pitch violently; the other boats, to avoid the accident which had happened to the second cutter, kept well clear of her. The commander was standing on the poop, and Colonel Morley by his side.

“Is my husband not coming?” asked Mrs Morley, now appearing for the first time aware that she was to be separated from him.

“The colonel will act as duty prompts him,” said Harry.

“Yes, yes; I know he will,” said Mrs Morley, gazing towards the ship. “And he considers it is his duty to remain on board,” she gasped out as she hid her face in her hands, sobs bursting from her bosom.

Harry, still hoping that, as the weather had been moderating, the ship might be kept afloat, determined to hold on to the last. As he looked ahead, however, he saw the heavy rollers continuing to come in from the north-west, while the sky in that direction looked dark and threatening.

Colonel Morley was observed every now and then to cast an anxious gaze at the boat which contained his wife and daughters. How must he have felt at allowing them to go away without him! It must have been a sore trial to his manly heart at all events. The commander was evidently issuing orders to those who remained with him.

“Oh, Mr Shafto, do they not fear that the ship will sink?” exclaimed Miss Morley. “Surely they will not remain on board.”

“They are, I have no doubt, engaged in building rafts,” said Harry. “The people will thus have a chance of saving their lives, for the boats could not take all on board.”

“But my father, my dear father,” exclaimed Miss Morley.

“He will, if possible, remain and try to help those on the rafts,” answered Harry. He could say no more, for he was well aware that till every effort had been made to save his men, Colonel Morley would not desert them.

Harry’s anxiety increased greatly when he saw the threatening aspect of the weather. The ship had been brought as close to the wind as possible, in order to allow the boats with less risk to lie alongside. A heavy sea now struck her bows; driving her astern, and threatening to bring her down upon the launch. Not a moment was to be lost, Harry saw, or the destruction of the boat and all on board would be inevitable. With a heavy heart he gave the order to cut the warp to which she hung. “Out oars, and pull her head round,” he added. The mast had been stepped. “Hoist the fore-staysail,” he exclaimed, and the boat’s head began paying round. Another heavy foam-topped sea came rolling up with a dark black cloud overhead; he held his breath, for he dreaded lest it should break on board. The men tugged at their oars. They, too, saw the danger. The ladies could not refrain from uttering a cry of dismay. Even Mrs Rumbelow kept her lips firmly set as she eyed the foaming mass. Paul Lizard had the fore-halyards in his hand. Up went the foresail, and as it filled with the gale the boat’s head rapidly came round. Away she flew before the wind; the threatening sea roared and hissed under her stern, but failed to overtake her. On she flew, now rising, now falling, amid the tumbling seas. Harry had need to exercise all his seamanship to save her from being overwhelmed; as it was, the seas broke frequently close to her quarters, sending into her heavy masses of foaming water. To attempt to heave to and remain by the ship, as Harry had proposed, would have been madness. Already she had been left far astern. Willy had watched her anxiously. Now she seemed to rise amid the dark waters, now to sink deep down; and more than once Willy thought the “Ranger” had gone for ever. He could scarcely refrain from uttering an expression of horror. There were other eyes besides his in the boat, who were looking towards the ship. Poor Mrs Morley and her two daughters sat with their hands clasped together, not a word escaping their lips; but though they were silent, their hearts were lifted up in prayer, and they seemed to have forgotten the hardships in store for them, and their own danger, while thinking of that to which Colonel Morley was exposed.

Another boat under sail was seen standing in the wake of the launch, supposed to be the first cutter. What had become of the other boats could not be discovered. Very probably, they too had gone down, overwhelmed by the heavy sea from which the larger boats had so narrowly escaped. The dark cloud now burst over the spot where the devoted ship lay, rising and falling amid the dark heaving seas, a dense shower of sleet and rain, like a thick veil, completely shrouding her. Willy strained his sharp eyes, but in vain; the “Ranger” was not to be seen, and he could only just distinguish the white sail of the cutter struggling after them through the tumbling seas.

On, on they flew; a sense of their own danger seemed to have absorbed the thoughts of most on board. Scarcely an observation was made regarding the fate of their companions; even the little baby which had been so wonderfully preserved was for the time neglected, the woman who held it appearing scarcely aware that she had the child in her arms.

“Come, come, Sarah, what are you about?” exclaimed Mrs Rumbelow, “are you going to let that baby drop into the bottom of the boat, and be drowned. You had better give it to me, poor little dear.” Thus aroused, the woman once more bestowed her attention on the little stranger. Mrs Morley, overcome by her feelings, had at length given way, and lay in an almost fainting state in her daughter’s arms. Her condition had not escaped Mrs Rumbelow’s observation. The sergeant’s wife leaned forward towards her. She was sitting at no great distance. “Come, rouse up, Mrs Morley, marm,” she exclaimed, taking the poor lady’s hands, and chafing them with her own somewhat hard palms. “It is God’s will, dear lady, that we are here. He’ll take care of those we left on board. I, too, would lief have remained with my good-man; but he ordered me to come, and I have always obeyed orders since I entered the army, as I call it, and that’s a good score of years ago. When we have done our duty, to my mind, we should be content; and feel sure that all will go right. I don’t say what we call right, but what God knows to be right and best; that’s it, marm.”

Poor Mrs Morley opened her eyes. “Thank you,” she faintly said. “You speak kindly. I know all is for the best.”

Mrs Twopenny and the other married women in the boat, having their husbands with them, were more inclined to think about themselves than those they had left in the hapless ship. The crew were not idle, for they had plenty to do in bailing the boat and tending the sails. Harry saw the necessity, in order to prevent the boat from being swamped, of carrying as much sail as she could bear; and even then, as he cast his eye astern, he dreaded lest any of the foaming seas which came rolling up might break on board. Could he have kept her head to the seas she might have been safer, but the danger of heaving her to was so great that he dared not attempt it; and, under present circumstances, he judged it more prudent to run before the gale. All he could hope, therefore, was that the wind might moderate again as rapidly as it had risen. His next care was to make some arrangement for the accommodation of the poor women. He called Dr Davis aft, and consulted him about the matter. It was agreed that an awning should be rigged in the centre part of the boat, over an oar a little higher than the gunwale, so as to leave room for the crew to pass on either side; and though this would afford them but a very narrow space, still they would be sheltered from the cold and rain and spray. Fortunately, a spare sail had been thrown into the boat, which would serve for this purpose; there were also several planks and small spars which had not been thrown out of her when she was lowered; and these spread out would serve as a flooring to keep them out of the wet. Among other things was a roll of blankets and several cloaks. These, spread out, would serve for beds. The crew gladly gave up all claim they might have on them for the sake of the poor women.

Several hours passed; and though the wind and sea had slightly gone down, no other change had occurred.

“Now, marm,” said Mrs Rumbelow, as soon as the awning was prepared; “we must take possession of our house. It is not a very grand one, but we’re thankful to those who built it for us.”

“Oh, my husband! my husband!” was the only answer poor Mrs Morley could make.

“I have a husband, too, marm,” said Mrs Rumbelow. “The sergeant and I, though old folks, love each other as much as any young folks can do. We have long known that any day, with the chances of war, we might be separated, and by many another chance too, though. I have followed him pretty well round the world, to look after him, and now the time has come which we well knew might come, though I cannot say that I feel it the less on that account. It’s hard to bear, Mrs Morley, that it is; but if it’s God’s will that we are not to see our husbands again, we must submit, marm. Still, you know, marm, it may not be His will to take them from us. He can preserve them if He thinks fit; and if so, we shall meet them again. That’s what keeps me up.”

“You are right, Mrs Rumbelow,” whispered Mrs Morley, as the sergeant’s wife knelt by her side within the little tent. “Does any one think that the ship is still afloat?”

“That’s more than any one can say, marm. Ships have floated when all on board supposed that they were going down. That must be our hope, marm; and now, Mrs Morley, and you, dear young ladies, take my advice, and try and go to sleep and forget all about it, or you’ll wear yourselves out. It’s the men’s business to look after the boat and us. We must trust to them, and still more to One in heaven, who will take care of us all.”

These remarks were made by Mrs Rumbelow as she was endeavouring to place the young ladies and their mother in the most comfortable position she could select in the narrow space allotted to them.

In the meantime, the boat ran on as before amid the raging seas; several had broken partially on board, and four hands were kept continually bailing, to get rid of the water which thus got into her.

“There is another spare sail for’ard,” observed Willy Dicey to Harry. “Don’t you think we can manage to nail it on round the stern and quarters? I saw some tools put into the boat, and one of the carpenter’s mates is with us.”

“Your advice is good, and we will follow it,” answered Harry: and Willy made his way for’ard to look for the sail. It was soon found; and the carpenter’s mate, with the assistance of Paul Lizard and Willy, who prided himself on his skill as a carpenter, quickly sawed out several stanchions. These were at once screwed on so as to raise the gunwale nearly two feet all round the after-part of the boat. Scarcely had the canvas been securely fixed when a heavier sea than ordinary came rolling up, hissing and roaring as if about to overwhelm her. Many gazed at it with dismay. It struck the stern; no small amount of water broke over the counter. The heavier mass, however, was prevented from coming in; and the boat flew on with greater speed, as if to escape from the danger which threatened her.

“Willy, your forethought has saved our lives, I fully believe,” observed Harry, as he, with others, began baling away with might and main.

Mrs Rumbelow, who at that instant made her appearance from the cabin, followed their example, having seized a saucepan at her feet. Another and another sea followed.

“Bale away, my lads! bale away!” cried Mrs Rumbelow. “We will try if we cannot send the water out as fast as it comes in.”

Her courage inspired the men, who now and then stopped, believing that all their efforts to preserve their lives would prove useless. The boat was quickly again clear of water, and several minutes passed without a sea having struck her. Harry began to hope that once more the gale was abating. He now, remembering that the people might be suffering from want of food, ordered provisions to be served out.

The doctor had spoken but little, except occasionally to offer a word of consolation to some of the poor women. He now, however, undertook to superintend the distribution of the provisions. Some time was occupied in searching for them, as it was necessary to select such as did not require cooking. A keg of butter was first found, with a cask of biscuits, but the latter had suffered already from the salt water. As, however, they could be most easily got at, they were served round, and constituted the chief portion of the first meal taken on board. A few bottles of rum were next routed out from a case amid a number of things hastily thrown in. A small measure full was served out to each person, and injurious as spirits may prove when taken habitually, this small dose served to restore the well-nigh exhausted strength of the men.

Willy was hunting about in hopes of finding something more suitable for poor Mrs Morley and the other ladies. He was delighted to discover some cold fowls, a ham, and a couple of loaves of bread, which the purser had thoughtfully placed in a basket for the very object for which they were now so much-desired.

“Here, Mrs Rumbelow,” he said, handing his prize into the cabin. “You must get your charges to eat some of these things.”

“Bless you! that I will, Mr Dicey,” said the good woman, perfectly ready herself to sup off her biscuit and salt butter. She began at once to persuade the young ladies to eat a portion of the delicacies which she had received. She was at length successful. “And now, marm,” she added, “just a thimbleful of rum; it will do you good, I’m sure. I am not in favour of ladies taking to ardent spirits, but, just now, we may be thankful for some to cheer our hearts and keep out the cold.”

Night was now coming on, and though the weather had slightly improved, Harry could not but feel that the danger of scudding on in the darkness was greater than in the day-time. As yet he had been unable to alter his course, and steer more to the northward. The boat was still in the latitude where icebergs might be encountered, and at night they might not be seen in time to be avoided, “We must commit ourselves to God’s keeping, and do our best,” Harry thought to himself. “Surely I ought to ask those with me to join in a prayer for our protection. My friends,” he said aloud, “we know not what may happen this night; and I trust all will join in asking God to look after us, and in returning thanks to Him in having preserved us thus far.”

“That they will, sir!” exclaimed Mrs Rumbelow; “and I am sure, too, that all will pray heartily that those we left on board the ship may be preserved likewise.”

Harry invited Captain Twopenny to act the part of chaplain; but as both he and Dr Davis declined, he felt that he ought to do so himself. Engaged, however, in the arduous task of steering, he could not sufficiently collect his thoughts for the purpose. While still doubting what to do, Mrs Morley appeared from beneath her tent, and in a firm, clear voice offered up a prayer to Him who rules the stormy ocean for their own safety, as also for that of those in the other boat and on board the ship. All joined heartily; and as the noble lady was seen lifting up her eyes towards heaven, with her hands clasped, no one could doubt that she was indeed speaking to Him who hears and answers prayer.

“Now, friends, I am sure that there are many here who can join in a hymn to our merciful Father and Friend,” exclaimed Mrs Rumbelow. “The young ladies will lead you, for I have often heard them singing on a Sunday evening, and it has done my heart good to listen.”

The Miss Morleys, who had risen with their mother and the other women, without requiring a second invitation gave utterance, with their sweet voices, to that beautiful hymn, which ends—

“O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Be Thou our guard while troubles last,

And our eternal home.”

Amen was echoed by all.

Their hearts were cheered, their fears calmed, as, amid that dark and raging ocean, those sounds of prayer and praise ascended to Heaven.

Mrs Rumbelow now insisted that those whom she considered under her especial charge should return to their cabin, though she had no little difficulty in stowing them away. The baby had, notwithstanding the cold and wetting it had endured, completely recovered, and still received the attention it required from the young woman who had taken it in charge.

During the day, the other boat’s sail had been continually watched with great anxiety. Frequently it could with difficulty be seen amid the foaming seas; now, as the sun went down, though Willy and Paul Lizard strained their eyes to the utmost, they could no longer distinguish it. Still Harry, in the hopes that their small consort was yet afloat, ordered a lantern to be hoisted to their after-mast, that she might be able to follow them during the night. Happily, the night would not last long. A short time after the sun went down the clouds began to clear away. The beautiful Southern Cross shone brilliantly forth; other bright stars appeared, and cheered the voyagers with their calm light. The boat was now kept perfectly free of water, and all, with the exception of the look-out forward, and two or three seamen required to tend the sails, coiled themselves away to sleep. Harry, though growing very weary, would not resign his post at the helm, and Willy Dicey insisted on sitting near him.

“You know, Shafto, I may never have such an opportunity of learning how to steer a boat in such a sea as this,” he observed.

“I hope you never may, Willy,” said Harry; “but we may thank God, more than my skill, for having been preserved hitherto. We have many a long league to go over before we can reach even the Auckland Islands; and I pray that the weather may continue fine till we get there.”

In spite, however, of Willy’s resolution he often dropped asleep, though he roused himself up on such occasions, and again spoke to Shafto. Harry himself at times felt that, had he not been standing up, he should have fallen asleep too; and he promised Willy that, should the sea go down, he would in the morning let Paul Lizard relieve him at the helm. How anxiously he longed for daylight, hoping at noon to take an observation and ascertain their exact position. As the sun rose, its bright rays shining on the eyes of several of the sleepers, roused them up. Some at first looked bewildered, as if they had forgotten what had occurred. When they found that the sea had gone down, and the wind decreased to a moderate breeze, a gleam of satisfaction, such as had not before been seen, appeared on their countenances. Harry was at length about to summon Paul Lizard to relieve him at the helm, when Mrs Morley and her daughters came out of their cabin. Their countenances were sad and anxious. The boat was now moving rapidly under all sail over the comparatively smooth ocean. Harry had, as soon as he was able, altered the course to the north-east. Mrs Morley looked around, and then at the compass.

“Oh, Mr Shafto!” she exclaimed, “are you not steering back to the ship? Surely you would not willingly desert those on board!”

It was a trying question to Harry. “I would undoubtedly return, had I the power,” he answered; “but my orders were to carry the boat to the nearest land we can make, where food and shelter can be found. Were I to attempt to return, I should disobey those orders. It might take us also three or four days to beat back to the spot where we left the ship, and we might fail to find her after all.”

Mrs Morley hid her face in her hands. It seemed as if her last hope had gone.

“Oh, why was I separated from him?” she exclaimed, her feelings overcoming for the moment her better judgment.

“For the sake of your daughters, marm, do cheer up,” said Mrs Rumbelow, who at once came to Harry’s assistance. “Though you yourself, marm, would go through any fresh dangers to join the colonel, just think how ill able these young ladies are to bear them,” she said, in a gentle, soothing tone.

At first Mrs Morley seemed scarcely to understand what was said, but in a short time she recovered herself, her daughters doing their utmost to console her; and Mrs Rumbelow at length persuaded her to return to the shelter of the awning.

Before lying down to take the rest he so much needed, Harry ordered the provisions to be served out. On searching for the water-casks, only three were found. The carpenter’s mate giving a knock with his hammer on one of them, it was empty. It had been carelessly put together, and all the contents had leaked out. The other two small casks would last so large a party but for a short time. Many days might pass before they could hope to reach the Auckland Islands, the nearest land Harry expected to make, and even with the smallest possible allowance of water sufficient to sustain life, the supply in the casks would not last half the time. This discovery was indeed a sore trial to the young commander; still he knew too well the importance of keeping up the spirits of the party to express his fears aloud. As the sea had now gone sufficiently down to allow the crew to move about without difficulty, he directed Dr Davis and Willy to overhaul the provisions, and ascertain the quantity they had got; and weary as he was, he would not lie down till this was done. Their report was far less satisfactory than he had hoped for. A good supply of biscuits and flour had been put on board; but, unhappily, both had been so completely wetted by the salt water that the greater part of the flour was a mere mass of dough, and the biscuits, though at present eatable, would evidently not last many days. A small hen-coop full of fowls had been placed in the bows; but, with the exception of two, the poor creatures had been drowned. There were two casks of salt pork; but, as the doctor whispered to Willy, without plenty of water and pease pudding to eat it with, salt pork would prove dangerous food. Four hams were also found, and six Dutch cheeses, with two kegs of butter.

“Here is a case!” exclaimed Willy. “I wonder what it contains.”

It was opened, and within were found a dozen pots of jam.

“Ah, this is more to the purpose,” cried the doctor.

“We must keep them, though, for the poor women and children,” observed Willy.

“You are right, Dicey,” was the answer. “But we have not yet finished our search.”

There was another case. It only contained pickles. “I am afraid they will help us but little to keep body and soul together,” observed Willy.

“We might have found better food, though they have their value,” remarked the doctor. “If we can kill some birds, or a seal, or catch a few fish, they will be very useful.”

A large black sack was found, it was full of charcoal.

“This is poor food,” said Willy with a sigh.

“Yes, but what is that iron thing in the bows there?” asked the doctor. It was hauled out, and found to be a small cooking stove. “Ah, this is indeed a valuable prize,” he added. “We may now cook our provisions and boil our kettle.”

“The poor women will be better for some tea, at all events,” observed Willy. “That is to say, if we have any tea-leaves to make it with, and to be sure we have but a small supply of water for the purpose.”

“We must see about that,” said the doctor. “We will try to manufacture a still to turn salt water into fresh.”

“But the charcoal will go but a little way for that purpose,” remarked his young companion.

“Nil desperandum,” answered the doctor. “We will try what can be done.”

“Here’s a case which looks like a tea-chest,” remarked one of the men who was helping them. “It is somewhat wet though.” The case was opened, and found to contain a large supply of tea; and though the outer part was spoilt, the interior was perfectly dry. A tin of coffee berries was discovered.

“We have no mill to grind them in, I fear,” said Willy.

“Ah! but I have my pestle and mortar,” observed the doctor, laughing. “We must make that serve the purpose.”

“Here is a jar of brown sugar, and in this basket what were once two loaves of white sugar,” said Willy; “but, alas, they have sadly diminished in size, and will have a very salt taste.”

“We must not be over-particular,” answered the doctor. “We will try and save what remains.”

It was evident that, notwithstanding the forethought of the purser, many of the articles which he had intended to put into the boat had been left on board the ship.

“Perhaps the cutter, though, has got a part of our share,” observed Willy. “When she comes up with us we shall get what we require.”

“Water is what we most want, Dicey, and from what I know of human beings, I am afraid those on board her will not be willing to share that with us,” observed the doctor gravely. “Thirst is the most trying of all the pains the human frame is compelled to endure; but we must not talk about it—we will do our best to keep these poor women and children from suffering. I have been accustomed to see men go through trials of all sorts, but I cannot stand having the others crying out for help, and not be able to afford it them. When a man has got a bullet in him, or requires his leg off, or anything of that sort, it is what I am used to. I know that I must exert my skill to the best of my power, leaving the rest to God; so I think no more about the matter. However, Dicey, go aft and make your report to Shafto. I, in the meantime, will calculate what quantity of provisions we may venture to serve out each day, so as to make our supply last till we can hope to reach land.”

Willy went aft, and made his report in a low voice. Harry opened his eyes, and tried to listen, but he was already so overcome with fatigue that he could scarcely understand what was said, and directly Willy had ceased speaking, he was fast asleep again.

Chapter Nine.

The Adventure of the “Ranger’s” Boats.

A calm—The cutter seen astern—People cry out for water—Harry takes an observation—The launch put to rights—Squids leap on board—A hail from the cutter—Holt’s sad condition—Peter begs to join Willy—Lizard kills a whale—Blubber used as fuel—Wild-fowl shot—Mrs Rumbelow visits the cutter—Cutter’s crew try to detain Mrs Rumbelow—The crews take to the oars—Mrs Rumbelow assists in rowing.

When the young commander of the “Ranger’s” launch awoke, he found her floating on a glassy sea. Not a breath of wind filled her sails, though every now and then a long, low undulation rose beneath her keel, and went rolling away to the southward. The sun was striking down with undimmed splendour upon the world of waters. Harry’s head had been sheltered from its burning rays by a shawl which Mrs Rumbelow had thoughtfully thrown over him. He felt that heavy weight at his heart which those oppressed with care or sorrow are apt to experience. In a few minutes, however, after uttering a secret prayer to Heaven for strength, he was able to cast it off, and arousing himself, sat up to consider what he had to do. Most of the people, under the superintendence of the doctor, were employed in drying the tea and biscuits, and other articles wetted by the salt water. On lines stretched from the masts were hung up numberless articles of clothing and bedding. The women were seated in the bottom of the boat; one was nursing the baby, who appeared still flourishing. Very few were idle. Mrs Morley and her daughters were setting them a good example, and Mrs Rumbelow was making her way among them, the most active of the party with hand and tongue. The doctor was busy for’ard over the stove, where, with the assistance of the armourer’s and carpenter’s mates, he was engaged on some iron work which absorbed his whole attention. Harry’s first impulse was to look out for the other boat. At first he could not distinguish her, but by the aid of a glass he made out her sail just rising above the horizon to the eastward; yet it was so indistinct that, had not Willy and Paul Lizard declared they could make it out, he might have supposed himself to be mistaken. He did not forget to speak a few words to his female passengers.

“Oh, Mr Shafto, cannot you give us more water?” exclaimed Mrs Twopenny. “We have only had that little tin caseful a-piece the whole of this morning, and the doctor says we must be contented with it.”

“We are under the doctor’s orders on that point,” answered Harry, afraid that others might join in the complaint made by the poor lady. “Captain Twopenny will, I am sure, agree with me in the importance of following his advice.”

The captain, however, had no little difficulty in tranquillising the invalid lady. She had been accustomed all her life to be petted, and to have what she asked for, and was little prepared to endure the trials she would now be called upon to go through.

“It must be near noon,” said Willy, remembering that an observation had to be taken. Harry pulled out his watch—there was but little time to lose. The quadrant was got ready. Harry felt somewhat weak, as he stood up with it at his eye, while Willy, with note-book in hand, marked down the degrees as he read them off. After a satisfactory observation was taken, the result showed that they were somewhat farther to the north than the latitude where they had left the ship, while he calculated that, since then, they had run upwards of a hundred miles. Still their distance to the nearest known land was very considerable. Water, Harry feared, would be their chief want. His mind on that point was, however, somewhat relieved when Willy, coming aft, told him that the doctor hoped to manufacture a still for producing fresh water from that of the sea.

“He forgets the amount of fuel he will require for the purpose,” remarked Harry.

“He told me not to be unhappy about that,” answered Willy. “Perhaps he expects to catch a whale.”

Harry smiled faintly at the notion.

“But we may catch some smaller creatures, though,” exclaimed Willy. “I have just found a harpoon, and Paul Lizard has often told me that he is a first-rate harpooner, and has struck many a porpoise and dolphin in his time.”

“Please, sir, if we can see one of those creatures, I have little fear but what we may manage him,” observed Paul, who was standing steering close to them.

Harry’s hopes revived on hearing this; not that he would have allowed anybody to suppose that he entertained any fears about the ultimate safety of those confided to his charge.

The day was employed in putting the boat to rights, re-stowing carefully everything of value, and heaving overboard several useless and heavy articles. The carpenters’ first care was to tighten the hoops round the water-casks, and it was hoped that, if water could be procured, the leaky cask would now hold it. The empty cases were now broken-up for firewood, to assist the doctor in his operations; and when they heard what he was about, the spirits of most of the party revived. Poor Mrs Morley and her daughters, however, could not forget the brave colonel left to perish with his men; and Mrs Rumbelow, though she did her best to cheer others, every now and then uttered a sigh she could not suppress, as she looked in the direction where the ship had been left. The day was drawing to a close.

“Hurra!” shouted Willy, “the cutter is nearing us. I have been watching her for some time—they have got out their oars—that shows they have some strength left.”

Still the other boat was at a considerable distance when night closed in. There was no change in the weather. The sky was clear and the stars shone out brilliantly; the watch was set, and all hands not on duty lay down to sleep, sheltering themselves as best they could under the thwarts, among the packages, or covering themselves up with cloaks, or pieces of sail-cloth or matting. Willy took the first watch. He felt not a little proud, as he sat in the stern-sheets, at being the only officer on duty. Strange sounds came across the ocean. He was sure that some were made by whales, as they rose to breathe at the surface. Now and then a splash was heard as some huge monster leaped out of the water. Suddenly a large flabby mass was dashed against his face, and at the same time several other dark objects sprang into the boat.

“Hilloa!” cried the doctor, towards whom one of them had directed its course. “Who gave me that slap in the face? Ah, I see,” he added, sitting up and lifting the flabby mass in his hand. “A cephalopoda-sepia octopus, commonly called a squid. The fellow nearly poked out my eye with his beak. What, Willy, were you assaulted too?”

Willy, who had been almost knocked over by the blow from the creature, was just recovering himself.

“It nearly drilled a hole in my nose,” said Willy, laughing.

“Well, never mind,” exclaimed the doctor. “I wish only a few more would come on board. They are ugly beasts; but, fried in butter, will serve us for breakfast, and prove a better dish than salt pork. How many are there of them?”

“Five or six, I think,” said Willy.

“Well, hand them to me, and I’ll put a stop to their crawling propensities. They would frighten the ladies if they were to make their way into the cabin.”

The doctor had got out his knife, and was engaged in scientifically depriving the creatures of life. This done, they were stowed away in the stern-sheets.

“A covey of flying-fish would have been more acceptable,” observed the doctor, as he again composed himself to rest; “but they are not to be found in these latitudes.”

Two or three people, awakened by the doctor’s voice, inquired what was the matter.

“Only a few squids come on board to be cooked for breakfast,” answered Willy. Those who had spoken, satisfied with the reply, were quickly again asleep.

Silence once more reigned on board, broken only by the snores of the sleepers, though the blowing of whales or other cetacea could be heard every now and then, now in the distance, now somewhat nearer; and Willy hoped that in the morning they might be successful in catching some of the smaller ones, and obtain a supply of oil. Some time thus passed away; the first watch was nearly over, when he was startled by hearing a loud hail astern. Unwilling to awaken the ladies, he refrained from replying. He could just then distinguish the splash of oars; and straining his eyes through the darkness, he at last made out a boat approaching. He had no doubt she was the cutter, and he hoped to receive good tidings of those on board. As she drew near, he heard every now and then a strange wild shout, and several persons speaking. At length the boat came close up under the stern of the launch.

“Is that the cutter of His Majesty’s ship ‘Ranger?’” asked Willy.

“Ay, ay,” answered a voice, which he knew to be that of Roger Bollard, the boatswain.

“Why, Mr Bollard, what is the matter?” he inquired.

“One of our people has lost his wits, and if you have the doctor aboard, we wish he could see what he can do for him.”

“Who is he?” asked Willy.

“Mr Holt, sir.”

The doctor had started up on hearing Willy speaking. Roger Bollard repeated what he had before said. “Clap a strait-waistcoat on him, and keep his head cool,” cried the doctor, sitting up. “I’ll see him in the morning; I cannot do him much good now.”

“But he may be overboard before then, sir,” answered Bollard. “It’s a hard job to keep him quiet now, and he is getting worse and worse. He swears that he will swim back to the ship, as he has left all his traps aboard, and abuses us for not going to get them.”

“Lash him to a thwart, then,” said the doctor. “Still, if you will come alongside, I’ll see what I can do for him.”

“Do! What can a wretched saw-bones like you do? I say that I am an officer in His Majesty’s service, and I decline being treated like a common lunatic,” exclaimed the poor young man.

“He has got some sense left, at all events,” observed the doctor. “He never had much in his brains, however.”

The cutter coming alongside, the doctor stepped on board. “Don’t desert us, Dr Davis,” said several of those on board the launch. While Dr Davis was talking to the unfortunate young officer, and trying to calm him, Willy asked the boatswain how those with him had fared.

“It’s a mercy we were not swamped, so we ought not to complain in regard to other matters,” answered Mr Bollard. “We have, however, but a scanty supply of water, and that poor young gentleman and several others have been crying out for more than I could venture to give them. Our provisions, too, are nearly all wet—the flour and biscuit especially.”

“That’s bad news,” remarked Willy. “We must hope soon to get a fresh supply of water, and to do without the biscuits and flour.”

After a time the doctor came back to the launch; he appeared to have quieted the young ensign, though he left directions with his companions to watch him narrowly, observing that he could not answer for his not suddenly taking it into his head to leap overboard.

“Hilloa!” cried a voice, after the doctor had returned. “Is that you, Dicey? I was fast asleep till this moment. I am so glad.”

It was Peter Patch who spoke. “I wish Shafto would let me come into your boat; we should have much better fun together.”

“I should be very glad to have you,” said Willy, “but I am sure Shafto will not allow it. You were ordered into the cutter, and there I would advise you to make up your mind to remain.”

Peter seemed rather annoyed at this rebuff; but still he knew very well that Willy was right. Bollard remarked that he was afraid all the other boats had gone down. He had looked around for them as he was making sail to follow the launch. One, which was at no great distance, was evidently deeply laden, the seas threatening every instant to break over her. Soon afterwards she suddenly disappeared, and he had seen her no more. The people in the cutter seemed to have suffered more than those in the launch, having been completely wetted by the seas which broke on board; only by constantly bailing had she been kept afloat.

In the morning, when Shafto awoke, he was surprised to find the cutter so close at hand. It showed how soundly he had slept that he had not heard a word of the conversation which had gone on forward. The two boats now floated close together, the ocean being as calm as on the previous day. It need not be repeated that every morning and evening prayers were offered up, and two or more chapters read from the Bible.

The doctor did not forget to cook the squids, and produced a dish which was pronounced excellent, with plenty of pepper and salt, by several of the party; though others, not pressed by hunger, declined eating such hideous-looking creatures. They had the satisfaction of supplying their friends in the other boat with a warm meal, no stove having been found in her. There were, however, several iron pots, and out of these the armourer undertook to manufacture a stove, should more fuel be obtained. Several monsters of the deep had been seen rising at no great distance from the boat. Paul Lizard, therefore, as soon as breakfast was over, placed himself in the bows, and stood ready, harpoon in hand, in the hopes of striking one; while the doctor, the tea-kettle being removed from the stove, went on with his still. Numerous birds were also flying about in the distance; the rifles were got ready in the hopes of shooting some of them.

Mrs Morley appeared much concerned on hearing of Ensign Holt’s illness, though he was no favourite of hers or her daughters’. The day wore on, the doctor working at his still, and the rest of those on board employing themselves in a variety of ways. Paul Lizard had stood for some hours, harpoon in hand, hoping that a porpoise or dolphin might rise near the boat. The creatures were seen in numbers at a distance, but it seemed as though they were aware of the visitors to their realms, and purposely kept away from them. Still Paul persevered, his keen eye looking as if it could pierce down to the bottom of the ocean. Now he let his weapon rest at his feet, now he raised it again, ready to strike. At length it was seen flying from his hand with tremendous force.

“Get a running bowline ready,” he shouted out—“one for the head, and another for the tail. Be sharp, lads! We must make the creature fast, or it will get away from us.” The line was flying out as he spoke. “It’s a big fish, at all events,” he exclaimed; “we must take care it doesn’t get away.” As the rope approached the end, he secured it round the bits, and away went the boat, towed by the monster.

“Hilloa,” shouted Bollard, “I wish we had been fast to you, to see the sport. Out oars, lads!”

The crew of the cutter obeyed the order, and pulled away after the launch. Now Paul began to haul in on the line. Suddenly it slackened.

“It will drown itself if it doesn’t come up to breathe,” he shouted. “We shall soon have it lads!”

Captain Twopenny had got his rifle ready; the line was hauled rapidly in. Presently a huge black mass rose alongside.

“Give it a shot in the head, sir,” cried Paul, “and the creature will be ours.”

The seamen had got the ropes ready, and now dexterously slipped a running bowline over the head and another over the tail. The creature, which appeared to be a small sort of whale, was evidently much exhausted; a rifle-shot sent through its head contributed yet further to weaken it; but even as it was, its struggles so violently shook the boat that Harry was afraid he should be compelled to order it to be cut loose. After, however, giving two or three violent lashes with its tail, which sent the water flying over the boat, it remained perfectly quiet.

“This is a prize!” cried the doctor exultingly. “If we can secure the blubber we shall be no longer in want of fuel.”

Axes and knives were soon out, and the thick mass which surrounded the creature was quickly cut off. A considerable quantity of the flesh was also secured, the fore part of the boat being soon well loaded with it, many of the articles which had before been stowed there having been brought aft to keep her in trim. By the time this operation was finished the other boat came up; and Harry, finding that he could now depend on obtaining enough water for all on board on short allowance, ordered one of his casks to be given to their friends in the cutter. Instead of charcoal, which was kept in store for the future, a fire was now made up of blubber, which burned with a hot flame, and the still was found to work remarkably well, though fresh water could be obtained from it only at a very slow rate. The chief cause of suffering which had been dreaded was, however, removed. Several wild-fowl were shot during the day, giving to each person a small quantity of fresh provisions, which were so much needed. The drowned fowls had also been boiled. Though somewhat tough and flavourless, they were not to be despised; altogether, there seemed but little fear of any suffering from want of food. Harry Shafto, however, knew better than any one on board that their voyage might still be a long one; and he advised the doctor to be very careful in serving out the provisions. He gave the same counsel also to the boatswain, the people in his boat being disposed to eat as much as they fancied, without thought of the future. Mrs Rumbelow, on hearing this, offered to go into the boat, and lecture them on the subject.

“They will listen to me, Mr Shafto,” she observed, “more perhaps than to others in authority over them—the soldiers will, at all events. They are accustomed to me, and so are the women. As to the sailors, I’ll try to make them ashamed of themselves, if they hold out.”

Harry was very glad to obtain the assistance of the brave woman. She soon talked the unruly crew of the cutter into obedience. Even poor Ensign Holt quailed under her eye, when she rated him for his behaviour; she would not leave him until he had promised to behave himself for the future, as she observed. She whispered, however, to the boatswain to keep an eye on him during the day, and at night to have him lashed securely to a thwart.

“You never can tell what these demented people will do,” she observed to the boatswain. “I just tell you to do what the doctor advises you, remember; and now I must go back to my party in the launch.”

The cutter’s people, once having got her, were in no way disposed to let her go, and declared that if she did not stop by fair means, she must by foul. However, she laughed at their threats, and ordering two of the seamen to get out their oars, desired the boatswain to steer alongside. She was obeyed; but as she was stepping from one boat to the other, several of those in the cutter jumped up as if to detain her, while her friends in the launch held out their hands to assist her on board. For a moment it seemed as if there was to be a regular skirmish.

“I shall know how to trust you again,” she exclaimed, in her cheery tone, much amused at the incident. “I am grateful to you for the compliment; but a woman likes to have her own way, and I intend to have mine as long as I can get it.”

Notwithstanding the wetting and cold to which every one had been exposed, few on board either of the boats complained of illness. The doctor, therefore, had but two or three patients, who did not occupy much of his time, the rest of the day being employed in attending to his still. From its very moderate dimensions, however, notwithstanding the heat created by the burning blubber, it produced but a very small quantity of fresh water; yet that was sufficient to quench the thirst of all in the two boats. His great wish was to produce enough to make tea for the poor women, at all events.

“But you must tell Lizard to look out for another whale or porpoise, or some other cetacea, or we shall run short of fuel, and that is a calamity we must avoid, if possible,” he observed to Willy.

Paul, on receiving the message, again took his harpoon in hand to strike any fish which might rise sufficiently near. The calm continuing, and the men being sufficiently refreshed, Shafto, after consulting with Bollard, resolved to row on till nightfall in the direction of the land they hoped to reach. The order was given, “Out oars,” and the boats began to glide smoothly over the calm surface. When the men began to grow tired, Mrs Rumbelow was ever ready to cheer them up. “Pull away, boys! pull away!” she cried out. “We are not badly off as it is, but we shall be better still on dry land. We shall find the breeze, may be, a few miles ahead, and that will spin us along without the necessity of making your arms ache.” Sometimes she would sit down, and grasping an oar, assist one of the younger seamen; she showed, indeed, that she could pull as good an oar as any one on board, and thus no one ventured to exhibit any signs of weariness. Thus the day wore on till supper time arrived, and a substantial meal, cooked under the superintendence of the doctor, was served out to all hands, the cutter coming alongside for her share.

“Little fear of their parting intentionally with us, since we are the dispensers of the good things of life,” observed the doctor. “I am afraid, however, that we shall have to be put on short allowance unless we get along faster than we have lately been doing.” The last remark was made in a whisper to Willy. As most of the soldiers could row, the men on board were divided into watches, so that they might relieve each other at the oars, and thus the two boats continued their course during the night.

Chapter Ten.

Water! Water!

Fearful want of water—Fuel nearly exhausted—Aurora Australis seen—Iceberg in sight—Approach it to obtain water—Seals discovered on iceberg—Seals attacked—Several seals killed—A party get on the iceberg—Fresh water obtained—Iceberg begins to move—Flight for life—Launch nearly overwhelmed—The cutter not to be seen—Launch proceeds on her course—More birds killed—Danger from whales—Provisions becoming scarce—Land seen far off—Sufferings from thirst—A dark night—The launch approaches a rock—Party land on the rock—Bird colony attacked—Seals discovered—The doctor slips down the rock—The seals escape—No water to be found—Fuel obtained from a wreck—Lying in wait for the seals—A sail seen in the distance—The cutter arrives—Starving state of cutter’s crew—How they escaped from the berg—Peter’s generous conduct—The party encamp on the rock—A night scene on rock—Harry’s meditations.

Two days had passed away. Every drop of water, with the exception of a small quantity the doctor could produce from his still, was exhausted; a gill alone could be distributed to each person during the four-and-twenty hours and sometimes even that quantity could but with difficulty be procured. The salt provisions also, on which they had to exist, made every one thirsty, and the bright sun shining down on their heads increased their desire for water. Thirst—thirst—many now for the first time learned the real significance of that word. From both boats voices in plaintive accents were crying out for water. Oh! how many would gladly have given everything they possessed for a draught of the pure liquid; yet, although the still was kept going night and day, no more water beyond the small measure could be produced, and the doctor knew that his fuel was getting to an end. A portion of the charcoal in the bag still remained, but that was kept for cooking purposes. There were, likewise, a few fragments of broken-up cases and other pieces of wood, which might for a short time feed the stove; but they would speedily be exhausted. “What will then become of us all?” thought the doctor. “Heaven in mercy protect us!”

Harry Shafto was at the helm. The two boats were gliding over the mirror-like ocean, which reflected on its surface the bright stars overhead. Willy was by his side, declaring that, though it was his watch below, he could not go to sleep. “What strange light is that?” exclaimed Willy suddenly. From a bank of dark clouds in the northern horizon a bright ray darted upwards towards the zenith, expanding like a fan, and illuminating the whole ocean. Scarcely had he spoken when it died away, and darkness once more reigned over the world of waters. Before a minute, however, had elapsed, a magnificent arch, from which darted forth rays of varied colours, appeared. By degrees the light grew more and more intense, till the whole sky was spread over with a sheet of brightness; but not for a moment did it remain at rest—the most brilliant red, purple, orange, and yellow tints streamed upwards in innumerable radiations, with every possible variety of hues which a combination of these colours could produce. Now the rays seemed to close, now they opened again, like a vast variously-tinted umbrella, till the bright dome of heaven was all a-blaze. Now and then the stars could be seen beyond the mass of light; now they altogether paled, and were concealed by the marvellous glare.

“This is indeed beautiful,” exclaimed Willy. “I should so like to call the Miss Morleys; they would be sorry to miss it.”

“Thank you,” said Harry, “I wish you would, and do so softly, so as not to alarm them.”

“Miss Morley,” said Willy, going to the side of their cabin, “there is a splendid display of the Aurora Australis, and Shafto thinks you would like to see it.”

One of the young ladies was apparently awake; she called her sister, and, wrapped in their cloaks, they stood for some time gazing at the wonderful spectacle. Mere words indeed cannot describe it, nor can the painter’s pencil. It continued for nearly half-an-hour, varying during the time in its form. Now the arch grew still more brilliant, then it suddenly melted away, dropping downwards in a sheet of flame; now it arose once more, and the same brilliant and varied hues again appeared. As Willy was looking out eastward, his eye was attracted by a vast mass of brilliant light, now assuming one colour, now another, yet the form remained the same. He called Harry’s attention to it.

“It is an iceberg,” exclaimed Harry, “and directly in our course. Had it not been lighted up by the Aurora, we might have been close upon it without its being observed.” He carefully took its bearings by the compass, while the Aurora continued. Even the men at the oars could not help uttering exclamations of astonishment while the glorious spectacle was exhibited before them. At length it died away; but the Miss Morleys continued to watch for some time longer, expecting it to reappear; they were at last persuaded to return to their cabin, for though the atmosphere was warm enough when the sun was shining, it was very cold at night.

Harry altered his course so as to pass to the northward of the iceberg, hailing the boatswain to follow him. The boats made but slight progress; and when daylight broke, they were close abreast of the huge berg. The doctor was on his feet in a moment, with unusual animation on his countenance. “We must get some of that berg,” he said. “Heaven has sent it to our aid. Hurra, boys! We shall now have as much water as we can pour down our throats.”

How welcome were those words to the seamen, as they awoke from their sleep with parched mouths and cracked lips; for notwithstanding the exertion they had gone through, they had taken even less water than the women and children. Those who had been tugging at the oars during the last hours of the night had been relieved, and the boats were eagerly pulled towards the berg. As they approached, several dark objects were seen on a low ledge projecting from one side of it. “They are seals,” cried the doctor. “We must have them! They will serve us for food and fuel to melt the ice. Our casks must be filled with water, and we must take on board as many lumps of ice as the boats can carry. But steady, boys! If we make the slightest noise, we shall frighten the seals and lose them.”

“I think I could shoot one of the fellows,” observed Captain Twopenny.

“And I another,” said Harry. “I suppose Bollard sees the seals.” He hailed the boatswain, and together the two boats eagerly approached the ice. Just then some more seals were seen at a little distance, and in order to double the chance of killing some, Harry directed the cutter to steer for the last which had appeared. Paul Lizard got his harpoon ready, in the hope of striking one should they take to the water. Those in the boats almost held their breath as they glided onwards, for fear of frightening the wary creatures. They appeared, however, never to have been alarmed by man, for every now and then one lifted up its head, and gazed at the advancing boats, as if they were some huge sea animals, without showing any signs of alarm.

“You take the big fellow on the right hand,” whispered Captain Twopenny to Harry. “I’ll take another I have marked farther to the left. Doctor, you pick out one in the centre.”

The boats drew nearer and nearer; the seals began to show that they suspected their visitors. No one moved in the boat, for fear of frightening the creatures. Again the animals began to move.

“They will be into the water if we don’t take care,” whispered the doctor. A few more strokes of the oars were given, and the seals nearest the edge began to move towards it. Captain Twopenny fired; the doctor followed his example, aiming at an animal some way from the edge; Harry, less accustomed than his companions to the use of a rifle, was afraid that he had missed his game. The boat now darted on, Paul Lizard standing with harpoon poised ready to strike. The seals, frightened at the noise, came rushing over the ice, and splashing into the water; fierce-looking fellows they were, too, with their huge tusks, long manes, and big beards. Instead of taking to flight, they came roaring angrily round the boat, apparently with the intention of attacking her. The women screamed as they saw the savage-looking animals surrounding them. “Load again quickly,” cried Harry, “and drive these creatures off.” One big fellow, the leader of the herd probably, came swimming up with grinning teeth, as if intent on mischief. He looked fully capable of ripping a plank out of the boat; and such seemed his purpose. Paul’s harpoon flew from his hand, burying itself in the monster’s head. The seal swam off, dragging out the line. Paul called two of the men to his assistance, and while they were hauling away at the animal, who was fast, the other men were engaged with their oars in keeping the rest of the infuriated herd at bay. Two seals lay on the ice dead, brought down by the captain and doctor. Three more were shot, but scarcely had the bullets entered their brains than down they sank, and were lost to sight. The remainder of the herd, having sufficient sagacity to know that the fate of their companions might be theirs, suddenly diving, with loud splashes disappeared. They rose again at some distance, blowing loudly, and looking as if they were about to make a fresh attack on the boat. After, however, they had continued for some time swimming rapidly to and fro, uttering their fierce cries, they seemed to have arrived at the conclusion that “discretion is the better part of valour,” and away they went till they were lost to sight in the distance. In the meantime, Paul Lizard had succeeded in hauling the seal he had struck up to the boat, when a few blows killed it. As rapidly as possible it was cut up, the best part of the blubber being taken on board, and stowed away in the bows. The doctor was eager to secure the other two seals which had been killed, and by pulling a little way round, a smooth landing-place was found. The boat rowed cautiously in, when the doctor, with Willy Dicey, Lizard, and two other men, leaped on to the berg. The two seals which lay there were soon cut up, under the doctor’s directions. “And now, Willy,” he said, “as we have an abundance of fuel, we must get as much ice on board as the boats can carry. See!” he added, chopping off a lump with his hatchet; “it is perfectly sweet and free from salt. Just tell Shafto to send two more hands here; we shall soon have enough to quench the thirst of all the party.” Willy ran to the boat, and quickly returned with two men, bringing axes and a large basket to transport the ice. They were working away on the side of the berg, and had already sent a good supply on board, when they felt it move in a strange manner.

“Why, it seems as if an earthquake were taking place,” said Willy.

At that moment they heard Shafto shouting loudly to them.

“Not a moment to be lost,” cried the doctor. “On, boys, for your lives! Here, take my hand, Dicey, I’ll not leave you behind.”

The huge ice-mountain became more and more agitated as they moved on. They reached the bows of the boat, and tumbled headlong in; and, at the same moment Paul Lizard, who had seized a boathook, shoved her off; the men got out their oars, and pulled her head round.

“Now give way, lads, for your lives,” cried Shafto.

The water around them became violently agitated, and the huge ice-rock swayed to and fro. Shafto cast an anxious look behind him. Its tall summit seemed to be bending over. Where was the other boat? No one could tell. There was little time for thinking of their friends; their own probable fate absorbed all their attention. The men bent to their oars, looking up with horror in their eyes towards the mass which seemed about to come down and crush them. The ice on which they had lately stood disappeared. Large masses of frozen snow came hurtling down, falling with loud splashes into the water on either side of them. One such mass would have been sufficient to send their boat to the bottom; but only a few small fragments fell on board, and no one was hurt. Then came a cry of terror from many a usually stout heart. The summit of the ice-mountain bent over more and more. What chance had they of escaping from beneath it? Down, down it came with a terrific splash into the hitherto calm sea, throwing up the foaming waters, which dashed over them in dense showers, while the wave raised by the fall of the berg, as it rolled after the boat, seemed as if it were about to break on board and swamp her. The crew needed no urging to put forth all their strength. The boat’s stern rose high as it passed under her, and then on she glided, away from the danger. They were saved! Narrow, indeed, was their escape.

“But where is the cutter?” exclaimed Willy, looking around. She was not to be seen.

The weather, which had hitherto been so calm, had been changing rapidly while they were engaged in killing the seals. A thick mist had rapidly swept over the ocean, and shut out even the huge mass of the overturned iceberg, which still floated upon the water. They shouted loudly, hoping that those in the cutter, if she was still above water, might hear them; but no answer came.

“God’s ways are mysterious,” observed Mr Morley. “He has thought fit to preserve us while our poor companions have perhaps been allowed to perish. To Him our thanks are due.”

The doctor and Captain Twopenny fired their rifles several times, but still there was no reply, and Harry reluctantly continued his course. A light breeze had sprung up, the sails filled, and the “Ranger’s” launch glided rapidly over the water. The doctor at once lighted the stove, and having melted the ice, filled all the water-casks. How eagerly did those who had for so many days tasted barely sufficient water to moisten their throats drink down large draughts of the pure liquid. A plentiful repast of seal cutlets and steaks was served out, and a small quantity of spirits to those who wished for them. All, however, felt very sad at the loss of their companions. “Poor Peter Patch!” sighed Willy; “I little thought, when he was joking with me this morning, that I should never see him again.”

For several days the boat ran on, the breeze having freshened considerably. The charts showed some rocks in their course. Harry kept a bright look-out for them. He was anxious to make them, if possible, at the same time that he dreaded running on them during the dark hours of night. Once more the wind fell, and by this time their water was again getting low. All the ice had been melted, and a good deal of the seal blubber burnt up. What remained was becoming far from pleasant, but the doctor insisted that it was too valuable to throw overboard. Numerous birds were seen at different times, and several came near enough for the captain and doctor to get a shot at them. Several petrels and Cape pigeons were killed; but it was necessary to haul down the sails in order to pick them up. Though Harry did not like the delay, they were too valuable an addition to their larder to be lost. It was wonderful all this time how Mrs Morley and her daughters bore up under the trials to which they were exposed. Poor Mrs Twopenny was the only invalid, she constantly requiring the doctor’s attention. Thus day after day passed away, Paul Lizard in vain trying to catch a porpoise or dolphin, or some other fish. Their dark backs were frequently seen as they swam by at a tantalising distance, and sometimes a whole shoal would appear, by the curious way in which they rose and sank as they darted forward near the surface, making it seem as if they were performing somersaults in the water. Willy could scarcely believe that they only rose to breathe, and that their backs but slightly moved out of the horizontal position, their peculiar shape giving them the appearance of diving. Whales, too, frequently appeared close at hand, sending forth from their blow-holes a column of foam-like breath—the spray which they forced up falling round in graceful jets. The doctor explained that the white spout which appeared was the warm breath of the animal, and not, as the sailors often suppose, a mass of foam forced from its nostrils. The whales were, however, too formidable antagonists to attack, even had one come near enough to allow Paul Lizard to send his harpoon into its back.

“No, no,” he observed; “I know what I am about. We should get but little change out of one of those creatures if we interfered with it. Much more likely to have the boat capsized or sent by its flukes to the bottom.”

The doctor had now again recourse to his still to obtain a supply of water. One of the casks was always left full, in case of emergency, should bad weather come on, and it be impossible to keep the stove alight. Again they were on a short allowance of food; the wet flour had become perfectly mouldy, and the biscuits were in very little better condition. Starving people only could have eaten them.

One evening, as the sun was setting, a blue hillock appeared rising out of the eastern horizon. At first it was so faint that few on board believed it to be land. Harry hoped that it might prove one of the rocky islets of which he was in search. All he could tell from the chart was its existence. Nothing was said about its size or height. He stood towards it, but the wind was light, and little progress was made. The last pieces of seal blubber had been expended, and but one small cask of water remained. There was charcoal only sufficient to cook breakfast for the next day. Every one was suffering more or less from thirst.

“Cheer up, friends,” cried Mrs Rumbelow, whose throat, though she did not say so, was as if a hot iron had been thrust down it. “Yonder is the land, and we there may hope to find water and provisions of some sort.”

The night was very dark, and anxious as Harry was to get on shore, he was afraid of running on some unknown reef, or passing the rock, should he continue his course. He therefore hove the boat to, and, as many sailors have had to do, longed for daylight. Willy, that night dreamed of home more than he had done before, and of the loved ones there. Sometimes, too, thoughts of his late shipmates came into his head, and they appeared to perform a fantastic drama before him. “Harry,” he exclaimed, starting up, “what has happened? You don’t know what dreadful things I have been thinking about.”

Harry tried to calm his agitation, but it was no easy matter to do so. The hardships and anxiety he was going through told on the young boy’s nerves, well-strung as they were; as also on those of many others aboard. Poor Mrs Morley struggled bravely; her daughters, feeling their situation not the less keenly, exerted themselves to the utmost to console her. The launch was still a considerable distance from the rocky island when daylight appeared. Harry, now once more easing off the sheets, stood towards it, proposing to go round, and stand in on the other side, knowing that on the weather side landing would be difficult. As they approached, several parts of the rock were seen covered with white patches, and on drawing nearer, these patches appeared to be moving.

“Why, I believe, those are birds!” exclaimed Willy. “See, there are hundreds of them. They appear to me to be arranged in rows one above another on the higher ledges of the rock.”

“They are penguins, I have no doubt,” exclaimed the doctor. “Though they themselves are not very palatable food, their eggs, if any remain unhatched, will afford us some substantial meals. We shall not starve if we can get at them.”

The sun was very hot, and there was a great demand for water; but the doctor would only serve out half-a-gill to each person. He knew full well that in a short time the last drops would be reached, and that then their suffering, hitherto but moderate, would be greatly increased. The wind fell, and once more the oars were got out. As the rock was approached, it was evident that too much surf was breaking on it to allow of landing on that side. The boat was therefore rowed round it; and after coasting along the shore for a short distance, a small sheltered cove was found, into which they gladly ran. For the first time for many a day the wanderers at length stepped on firm ground. The ladies were first assisted to land, but they could with difficulty walk, after being cramped up for so long a time.

“I am afraid the island will afford but short rambles,” observed Harry; “but we need fear no savages or wild animals.”

“The first thing to look out for, boys, is water,” exclaimed the doctor; “though, by the appearance of these rocks, it may be a hard matter to find.”

While the females of the party preferred remaining near the little cove, the rest rambled away in search of the much-desired fluid. The doctor had taken his rifle, and Willy, by his direction, carried an axe in his belt, and a spar sharpened at the end.

“You observe, Dicey,” said the doctor, “if we come upon any soft place, we shall, by driving this spar into it, more readily ascertain whether water is below.”

They had not gone far, however, before they saw how slight was the probability of discovering water. There might be some trifling rivulet formed by the melting snow, but hitherto not a trace of moisture had been seen on the hard dry rock. They were climbing the rocks when, having passed a deep fissure, they saw before them a vast array of strange-looking birds perched on the crags above their heads.

“Come, Willy,” cried the doctor, “we must have some of these fellows at once.”

Directly they were seen, the birds set up a loud concert of squeaking, squalling, and gabbling. The doctor shouted to Willy to come on, but so overpowering were the cries that he could not hear what was said. Each bird appeared to be endeavouring to out-squall and out-gabble its neighbour. Undaunted by the noise, the doctor climbed on, and was soon in the midst of the feathered colony. Willy followed close at his heels, when the birds fearlessly commenced attacking them, snapping at their legs, seizing hold of their trousers, and showing their anger in every possible way.

“I say, Dicey, we must put a stop to this,” cried the doctor, beginning to jump about as the birds dug their beaks into his calves. Willy, for the same reason, was skipping here and there, in a vain endeavour to avoid them. “Give me your axe, and defend yourself as you best can with your stick,” cried the doctor; and saying this, he laid about him with the weapon, and a number of hapless penguins were soon brought to the ground. In a short time, upwards of a hundred were killed; the remainder still continuing gabbling and squalling as loud as ever. In some places there were old birds with their young, in others nests on which the hens were still sitting. In some of the nests, which were formed of dry seaweed, or frequently only placed without a lining in the hollow of a rock, was one egg, in others two. The eggs varied in size, some being as large as those of a goose, others not larger than a hen’s egg, with a slight tinge of green. The nests were about two feet apart, and generally one old bird was found sitting on the nest, the young ones endeavouring in vain to nestle themselves under her wings. They were very like goslings, covered with a dark thick down. The parent birds were about twenty inches in height, with a white breast, and nearly black back; the rest of the body being of a dark, dun colour, with the exception of the head, which was adorned on each side with four or five yellow feathers, three or four inches long, forming graceful plumes. Thus the birds, when seen standing erect in rows, had very much the appearance of a company of soldiers.

“These will be a welcome prize to our poor friends,” exclaimed the doctor; “so load yourself, Dicey, with as many eggs and birds as you can carry, and we will send the men up for the remainder.” Saying this, the doctor, tying the legs of a number of birds together with his handkerchief, fastened them round his neck, and then filled his hat full of eggs. Willy did the same.

“They will take us for a couple of feathered bipeds of some new species,” said the doctor, laughing. In truth, except their heads, nothing was to be seen of the doctor and Willy but masses of feathers. Now and then some of the birds, who had only been stunned, began fluttering about, and sticking their beaks into the bodies of their captors, who, climbing down the steep rocks, were but ill able to defend themselves. In spite of this, they succeeded in reaching the cove in safety, where their appearance, as they expected, created no little astonishment. Mrs Rumbelow, with some of her companions, quickly relieved them of their burdens, and instantly began plucking out the feathers of the birds, while the doctor and Willy again hastened off to continue their rambles. After making their way over the hill, they came, as they neared the beach, upon a large family of seals basking on a small strip of sand in a little cove below them. The doctor was delighted at the sight. “Now, Willy,” he exclaimed, “we must have some more of these phocae.” The doctor in his eagerness was hurrying on, rifle in hand, when his foot slipped, and he went sliding down a steep rock. The rifle exploded, the bullet passing very near Willy’s head. Willy cried out, dreading that the doctor would be killed. Still he continued his downward course, Willy making his way by a more circuitous path as rapidly as he could towards him. At length the doctor reached the bottom of the cliff, where he lay without moving. Willy hurried towards him, expecting to find every bone in his body broken. Happily, the sand was soft where he had fallen.

“Help me up, Dicey,” he said, in a faint voice. “Where is my rifle; we must do battle with the seals notwithstanding.”

Willy soon assisted his friend to get on his feet; but when they looked round for the seals, not one was to be seen; the sound of the rifle and the doctor’s and Willy’s voices had put the whole family to flight. The worthy doctor, after shaking himself, discovered, to his infinite satisfaction, that no bones were broken, and in a short time was able to scramble up the rocks again, to continue his search for water. Their worst anticipations were realised; not a spot was found which gave the slightest indication of there being water below it. The rock had been searched throughout, and all hands returned to the cove with the same report. They came, however, laden with as many penguins as they could carry, and all the eggs that could be collected. There was now no fear of suffering from starvation. The great difficulty was how to cook their abundant supply of provisions. No other seals had been seen; and it was feared that those on the little beach, frightened away by the doctor, would not return.

“If so, the sooner we get away from this barren spot the better,” observed Harry. “If the fine weather continues, as I hope it may, we can expect to reach the Auckland Islands in three or four days.”

“I think we should not give up all hopes of catching a seal or two,” observed the doctor. “As they have been only once disturbed, the herd we saw are pretty certain to come back before long; and if we can conceal ourselves and watch for them, we may shoot or knock some on the head before they can again escape.”

This proposal was agreed to, and Harry resolved to wait a few hours longer, in the hopes of success. One of the men also stated that he had seen some pieces of timber apparently, thrown up into a shallow cavern at the north end of the rock, and a man with him had in vain tried to get down to them; but he thought, with the aid of ropes, they might be reached.

“Then let us get hold of them at once,” said the doctor; “they will serve as fuel, and fuel can procure us water—no time to be lost.”

Two lengths of rope, and three blocks to form a tackle, were therefore procured from the boat; and Harry, taking a party of men with him, under the guidance of the seaman proceeded to the spot. From a projecting point they could look into the cavern, where was seen a considerable amount of broken planking and timbers, the remains, apparently, of a large boat or small vessel One of the seamen volunteered to be lowered down to the spot. The tackle was secured to the rock overhead, and in a short time, to the doctor’s great satisfaction, a considerable amount of planking was hoisted up. He at once eagerly shouldered as much as he could carry, and two of the men who could be spared followed him to the cove. His still was landed, and a blazing fire being raised beneath it, he was soon able to offer a small quantity of the precious fluid to his thirsty companions. All had had enough to moisten their parched throats, when the remainder of the party arrived with a fresh supply of fuel.

“Poor fellows, little did they think, when their vessel was cast away, what a blessing her ribs and skin would prove to us,” soliloquised the doctor, as he added fresh fuel to his fire. A shot was just then heard. It was fired by Willy Dicey, who had remained on the summit of the rock; he was pointing westward, and waving his cap.

“The boat! the boat!” he cried out; and the top of the rock was soon crowded with most of the seamen, eagerly looking out in the direction towards which he pointed. There, just rising above the blue water, was seen a tiny white spot, some declaring that it was only the wing of a sea-bird; but when Harry arrived with his spy-glass, he at once pronounced it to be the sail of the cutter. So anxious were they all in watching it that most of them forgot the seals. Captain Twopenny, however, reminded by the doctor, had made his way, accompanied by Paul Lizard and one of the soldiers, towards the sandy beach. Here they concealed themselves among the rocks on either side of it, while Harry and Willy, with the rest of the party, were watching the approach of the boat on the top of the rock. First one dark head, and then another, was seen rising above the surface of the water, and presently the herd of seals made their way towards the beach. The creatures, after cautiously looking about them, began crawling up. The first which arrived lay down at no great distance from the edge; but soon others climbing up, giving them no very gentle shoves, they crawled on still further, and then again lay down, the next treating the last comers in the same way; till at length a herd of full fifty seals had landed, the inner ones being at a considerable distance from the water. The seamen on the top of the rock were eager to rush down and attack them.

“They will be off as before, and we shall lose them,” said Willy, in a low voice. Just then a shot was heard, then another and another, and presently Paul Lizard was seen scrambling along the beach, and followed by the captain and a soldier, and a regular onslaught on the seals was commenced. The seamen could restrain themselves no longer, and down they rushed pell-mell to assist their friends; the only weapons, however, which they possessed were some pieces of the wreck. The seals were rushing towards the water, tumbling over each other in their hurry to escape; a few old bulls, however, the patriarchs of the herd, were ferociously attacking their assailants. The captain was tumbled over, the soldier had nearly broken his rifle in defending himself against the assaults of a fierce bull, while Paul was laying about him right and left with his club, when the rest of the party arrived to their rescue. Two seals had been shot, and Paul’s club had brought down four more; the rest, charging all who opposed them, made their way to the water. The captain, though somewhat bruised, and having his clothes torn by the teeth of the seal which had attacked him, was not otherwise the worse for the encounter. The six seals which remained as trophies of the battle were well worth all the injuries which had been received. The seamen’s knives were quickly at work, and the flesh and blubber were cut off and carried away in triumph to be laid at the doctor’s feet. He was delighted when he saw the spoils brought to him.

“No fear now, my friends, of dying of thirst or hunger,” he exclaimed. “If we can keep our pot boiling, we shall do well.”

By this time the cutter had drawn near the rock, and Harry and Willy once more mounted its summit to watch her. They could see with the telescope the faces of those in her looking up with astonishment at them. Harry waved to them to go round to the other side of the rock; and as soon as they understood his signals, the boat was hauled on a wind, so as to weather the north point. They all seemed very pale and miserable.

“There are some people lying at the bottom of the boat,” observed Willy. “I fear they have been suffering greatly.”

The two friends hurried down to the cove, and in a short time the cutter was seen coming round and standing in for it. The sail was lowered, and the oars got out; but from the languid way in which they moved, it was evident that those who were rowing had but little strength. As she approached several people were seen pointing to their mouths.

“I thought so,” observed the doctor. “We have fortunately saved some water, though there is scarcely more than sufficient to wet their lips.”

“Oh, give them all we have,” exclaimed Mrs Morley, who overheard the remark.

“Oh yes, do! do!” exclaimed several of her female companions.

The doctor, who had been perseveringly attending to his still, hurried to the cove as the boat came in with a jug and a little tin canister, which served as a measure. The pale cheeks and cracked lips of those on board the cutter showed how much they had suffered.

“The women first, if you please, sir,” said Mr Bollard, as the doctor stepped on board. How thankfully they and the poor children received the few drops of water offered to each of them. One person only looked at him with an angry glance. “Why don’t you bring me champagne?” exclaimed poor Ensign Holt. “That’s fit tipple for a gentleman.” It was evident, poor fellow, that he was as mad as ever. He did not, however, refuse the water poured into his mouth, declaring as he drank it that it was hock of the first quality. Not till all the others had been served would the brave boatswain accept the water for himself. The doctor then hurried back to get a fresh supply.

“We are truly glad to see you, Bollard,” said Harry, “for we believed that you had been overwhelmed by the iceberg.”

“So we should have been, sir,” was the answer, “but the moment we saw the top of the berg beginning to move we shoved off, and pulled away to the westward. We were not a moment too soon, however; for a mass of ice rose right up out of the water, directly astern of us. Had we been a moment later, it would have lifted the boat fifty feet in the air, and, for what I know, sent us all flying over the top to the other side of it.”

Willy, who had hurried down to the cutter, looked anxiously for Peter Patch. He was in the stern-sheets, his cheeks as pale as death, and his eyes closed. A few drops of water poured down his throat revived him. “Thank you, Dicey,” he whispered, opening his eyes. “I thought it was all up with me.”

“You will be soon to rights, Mr Patch,” said Bollard, looking kindly at him. “He would not touch a drop of water himself,” he added, turning to the doctor, “but gave his share to those two little children crying out for it.”

“And you gave yours to their mothers,” said Peter, “so you need not talk of what I did.”

“The youngster has got a heart after all, in spite of his nonsense,” muttered the doctor; and Peter was a favourite of his ever afterwards.

It was indeed providential that the launch had arrived at the rock some time before the other boat, and that the firewood and seals had been procured, or probably many of the poor women and children on board her would have perished, however the stronger men might have endured their sufferings.

The doctor hurried back to his still, which he believed no one could superintend so well as himself. It required, indeed, the greatest attention, and three hands were constantly employed in filling up the boiler and supplying the condenser with cold water. Though Harry was anxious to continue the voyage, the doctor begged that they might remain on the rock during the night, that he might the better keep his still at work, and, at the same time, as there was fuel sufficient for their fires, that a good supply of seal-flesh might be cooked. The tent was accordingly carried on shore and considerably enlarged, to afford accommodation for the ladies and other women, while some of the men slept on shore, thus giving ample space for the remainder to stretch their legs on board the boats. The scene looked wild and strange in the extreme to Harry, as he retired a short distance from the camp to enjoy a few moments of solitude, and seek for that strength he so much needed, with the heavy responsibility thrown upon his young shoulders.

By the side of the small cove on which floated the two boats was the white tent, and at a little distance their camp-fires blazed up brightly; while high above rose the dark, rugged peaks of the weather-worn rock on which, ever and anon, a ruddy glare was cast by the flames at their base, while beyond stretched out into interminable space the dark, heaving ocean. Across that ocean he was now to go, and guide the course of the two boats towards an inhospitable land, yet the nearest where water and fuel could be found. It could not, however, prove a permanent resting-place, as the winter, he had heard, was severe in the extreme, and provisions for so many mouths it might be impossible to find. Yet could he venture farther on in these open boats? New Zealand lay beyond; but a large portion of that country was but little known; they might reach a part inhabited by savages, who might treat them as foes instead of rendering them assistance. If so, might it not be safer to stand across from the Aucklands to the distant shores of Australia? Even should the weather favour them, could they carry water and provisions sufficient for so large a party? Could any of their number be left behind? Who, indeed, would consent to stay?

These questions, and many more, crowded on the young officer’s mind as he thus sat beneath the rugged cliffs of that wild sea-worn rock. He resolved, at all events, to steer for the Auckland Islands, which had been discovered in 1806 by Captain Bristow, commander of the “Ocean,” South Sea whaler, and called after Lord Auckland; but with the exception that they contained some good harbours, Harry knew very little more than that fact about them.

Chapter Eleven.

The Auckland Islands.

The boats leave the rock—Steer for the Auckland Islands—Scarcity of fresh water—Mrs Rumbelow puts the men to shame—Clouds gather in the sky—Preparations for catching rain-water—Rain comes at last—Land in sight—Threatenings of a storm—The Aucklands approached—Off a harbour—Risk of running in—The storm bursts—The boats stand towards the harbour—Dangerous passage—Anxiety for the cutter—Boats run up the harbour—A landing-place found—Safe on shore.

The whole of the next day was passed on the island. Among its various productions, scanty though they seemed at first, was a supply of salt, found in the hollows of the rocks. This, in addition to the salt produced by the still, gave the party enough to preserve a considerable number of the birds they had killed, as well as some seals’ flesh. Under Mrs Rumbelow’s direction, the former were plucked and split open; and while some were salted, others were hung up in the smoke of the fires to dry. Every one during the day was so busily employed that it seemed to pass rapidly away. Though Harry, afraid of a change of weather, had intended putting to sea in the evening, he consented, at the entreaties of most of the party, to remain till the following morning. Being the first on foot, at early dawn the following morning he called up Willy, and the little camp was soon astir. While Mrs Rumbelow and her willing assistants were busily cooking the last meal they could hope to enjoy on shore for many days, the men were engaged in stowing the boats with their fresh provisions, and as large a supply of fuel as they could carry. Prayer was offered up, Mrs Morley reading a chapter in the Bible, and then the whole party embarked. The short stay on the rock had greatly revived them, and even poor Ensign Holt seemed much more tranquil and contented.

“It won’t do to trust him, though,” said Peter Patch to Willy, as they were embarking. “I have to keep my eye on him, and I am afraid, even now, he will play some trick.”

The little baby, in spite of the cold to which it had been exposed, seemed to flourish, still affording a great amount of interest to its nurses as at first, young Broke occasionally begging that he might have it in his arms; and it was pleasant to see the tender care he took of the little girl. She was called Bessy, and was supposed to be the child of a Sergeant Leslie, whose wife had accompanied him; but as there were two or three babies of the same age on board, there appeared to be some doubt about the matter. Young Broke evidently considered himself the rightful guardian of little Bessy, and would have again risked his young life, if necessary, for the sake of preserving hers.

The sea continued smooth and the wind fair, and the boats ran swiftly across the ocean. Twice a-day the cutter came up alongside for her supply of water. It was a small quantity, little more than sufficient to moisten the throats of the voyagers after each meal; still they were thankful to obtain even that. Frequently, as they saw the clouds gathering in the sky, they longed for rain, that they might obtain a larger amount of the necessary fluid. Though the rain might wet them to the skin, and chill their bodies, they could endure anything, they thought, for the sake of more water.

Willy often dreamed he was on shore, wandering near sparkling cascades and clear running streams, but that somehow or other he could never reach the water to obtain a draught. Probably the dreams of others of the parties were of a similar character.

Day after day passed by; the wind was very light, and the voyage promised to be longer than Harry had anticipated. The doctor looked anxiously at his stock of fuel. “I am afraid our boiler won’t hold out much longer,” he observed to Willy. “Ask Shafto when he hopes to sight these Auckland Islands he talks of. We have not passed them, I hope.”

“No fear of that,” answered Willy. “Shafto says that we are still nearly two hundred miles from them.”

“Two hundred miles!” murmured the doctor. “That is a long distance, should the wind come foul; but we must keep the pot boiling,—there’s no doubt about that.” The following day, the doctor told Shafto that he thought it would be prudent to reduce the allowance of water. “We can exist with very little, and though that may be painful, it is far better than going without it altogether,” he remarked.

Several of the people murmured when they received their reduced allowance; even some of the women declared they must have as much as they had been accustomed to; and two or three of the seamen and soldiers, who had hitherto behaved well, exclaimed that they would not be deprived of their rights. Harry’s anxieties were greatly increased. Mrs Rumbelow, however, came to the rescue.

“What is that you say, men?” she exclaimed. “Are you not able to go through what these poor ladies—who have been accustomed to gentle nurture all their lives—endure without complaining? You should be ashamed of yourselves. I’ll soon show the next man I hear talking in that way that I have not been in the regiment for thirty years without learning my duty; so look out. But I think better of you, boys. If I was to ask you now, you would, I am sure, be ready to give up half your allowance to any of the poor women who might require it more than you do!”

Not another word was said. Little Broke, it was observed, as soon as he got his allowance of water, always crept near little Bessy, and poured a few drops down her throat before he would take any to quench his own burning thirst. The seal blubber was at length expended, and but a small quantity of wood remained to keep the stove alive. The anxiety of all naturally increased as the prospect of obtaining more lessened. Some, indeed, were beginning to despair.

Before long, however, dark clouds were seen gathering in the sky, hanging low down above their heads, the breeze freshened, the air felt heavy and damp.

“What do you think of the weather?” asked Harry of the boatswain, the cutter being within hailing distance.

“We shall have the rain, sir, and I am getting a sail ready to catch it. I’d advise you to do the same,” was the answer.

The canvas which formed the ladies’ cabin was immediately stretched out between the masts, and triced up at the corners; the women held out their shawls, and every arrangement was made to catch the hoped-for shower; while the casks and cans, and all the articles capable of holding water, were got ready.

“There it is! there it is!” cried several voices, as the rain was seen descending some hundred fathoms from the boat in a thick shower; but it was to leeward of them. Then it suddenly stopped. Soon another heavy fall of rain came down at a considerable distance astern. How tantalising it was to the thirsty throats of those who watched it! Now another shower appeared ahead, but not a drop descended where the boats lay.

“Oh, Mr Shafto, is the rain not coming near us?” inquired several of the poor women, as they turned their flushed faces towards him, and hugged their children closer to their bosoms. He could not bring himself to say that he thought so, as he observed their cracked lips, their lustreless eyes, and anxious looks.

“We must hope for the best,” he replied. “See the showers are falling all around us, and we may hope that one will visit us ere long.”

The men proposed getting out their oars, and pulling in the direction the next shower might appear.

“We might be too late to reach it, and miss another by so doing,” he answered. “Ten minutes of one of those showers will be sufficient to supply all our wants.”

Still the rain continued falling, and the thirsty voyagers fancied they could hear the splash in the water, so near did one or two showers come to them. Now the heavy clouds seemed to be rolling away, but others came up in their stead.

“There’s a drop! I felt it on my face,” cried Willy. “Another, and another. It rains! it rains!” In an instant all in the boats were lifting up their faces to the sky, the poor little children opening wide their mouths to catch a few drops of the refreshing liquid. There was no mistake about it now. Down came the welcome rain in thick heavy drops. The sails were hauled down, for fear of passing through the shower. Not a drop, if they could help it, would have been lost. As the water fell it was drained off into the casks and buckets; the women rung out their shawls; every bit of rag that could be wetted was eagerly sucked. Still the rain continuing to fall, every can, and even the smallest cup that could be found, was filled. They had learned the true value of water. Scarcely had all their measures been filled when the rain ceased, the clouds rolled away. The sun shining forth assisted to dry their saturated garments. A brisk breeze soon after sprang up, and the boats danced gaily over the now laughing water. The hearts of the voyagers were inclined to laugh too, many lifting them up to heaven to express their gratitude for the relief afforded them. There was now water enough, they hoped, to last them till they could reach the wished-for land. Notwithstanding this, the doctor kept his precious still going, when the stove was not required for cooking, carefully husbanding the small remains of fuel.

A strong northerly breeze was blowing, the boats continuing their course to the eastward, the launch leading. All night long they had stood on, the dark foam-topped seas rising up around them. Harry feared that he should be compelled to heave to should the wind increase. He had been at the helm during the middle and morning watch. Willy was on the look-out forward.

“Land! land!” he shouted. Daylight had just broke. “There are cliffs ahead, with high lands rising beyond them,” he added. Paul Lizard was awake in a moment, looking out with him.

“You are right, Mr Dicey.”

“Do you see a high point to the south’ard?” asked Harry.

“Yes, sir,” answered Paul. “And it seems to me that there’s an opening in the cliffs.”

“That must be the west entrance to the southern harbour of the Auckland Islands,” said Harry. “I little expected to make such a run. Providence has guided us, not my navigation.”

Every one in the launch was soon eagerly looking out towards the land. The cheering intelligence was announced to those in the cutter. They, however, had also seen the land, but were not so well informed about it as was Shafto. The boats now stood on, steering for the narrow passage between the cliffs. Harry looked anxiously ahead. It seemed to him that the line of breakers ran directly across the passage. If so, to attempt to enter would be hazardous in the extreme, although, in consequence of the wind leading directly in, the risk might be lessened; yet every instant the gale was increasing, and it was important to get without delay under shelter. He knew that there was a wide western entrance; but the wind might be blowing out of it, and a long time must pass before it could be reached. He hove to, therefore, till the cutter could come up, that he might consult with the boatswain.

“It’s six of one and half-a-dozen of the other,” answered Bollard; “the boats have shown what they can do, and I am ready to chance running in.”

Harry could not conceal from himself the risk he was about to run; yet it might be greater should he continue at sea during the gale which was brewing. Giving, therefore, the helm to Lizard, he swarmed up the foremast, that he might the better examine the appearance of the entrance. It was sufficiently threatening to have deterred him under other circumstances from making the attempt to enter; yet as there appeared a narrow space of dark water, a break in the line of foam, he resolved to stand on. On either side rose perpendicular cliffs; that on the north four or five hundred feet high, but that on the south considerably lower. The two boats stood on, the cutter keeping about a hundred fathoms astern of the launch. Harry placed Paul Lizard at the helm, he himself going forward, holding on by the foremast. The oars were got out, to be in readiness should any flaw come off the shore, and all hands not required to pull them, or tend the sheets, were ready with buckets to bail out the water should a sea come on board. Mrs Rumbelow had taken possession of the largest she could find, ever ready to set her companions a good example. She perhaps, as well as any one, knew the risk that must be run.

“Now, my dear ladies, and you soldiers’ wives, don’t be screaming out if a little drop of water cornea aboard; we’ll soon send it back again; and in ten minutes or so we shall be safe at anchor. Just think how God has taken care of us heretofore, and He is not going to desert us now,” she exclaimed, looking round on those to whom she spoke.

The gale was rapidly increasing; dark clouds were gathering overhead, from which ever and anon flashes of bright lightning darted forth, with crashing peals of thunder. The leaden-coloured waves danced up wildly on either side. The boats dashed on. The roaring of the breakers could be heard, as they leaped up madly against the frowning rocks. Harry kept his eye fixed on the spot of clear water ahead. On either hand of it rose up the white foaming wall of hissing waters, amid which the stoutest boats would have been in an instant overwhelmed. There was no possibility of turning back now; they must stand on, or their destruction would be inevitable. Harry, holding on to the mast with one hand, kept the other pointed in the direction Lizard was to steer. Many of those on board shut their eyes as they drew near the roaring breakers. The tide was running out strong. Such a wind as was then blowing would alone have enabled the boats to stem it. Tall basaltic cliffs rose up on either hand, while the foaming rollers, as they came in, appeared ready to engulf the two boats. Now the launch rose to the summit of a high sea, now downward she glided, the breakers hissing and foaming so close to her that it seemed impossible she could pass through the narrow opening between them in safety. Now a heavy mass of water came tumbling on board on the starboard side; now another fell over her on the other hand.

“Bail away, boys, bail away,” cried Mr Rumbelow; and all who had buckets or cans exerted themselves to the utmost, down to young Broke, the water being hove out again as fast almost as it had come on board. The launch flew on. Harry breathed more freely. She was already within the breakers; but the waters still kept leaping and tumbling about in a way which showed the rapid current running against them. Should they be becalmed under the cliffs, they might find it impossible to stem it. Willy had been standing near Lizard; he now looked back anxiously for the cutter. Where was she? His heart sank. Had she been engulfed? A huge roller came roaring up astern. Presently she appeared on its summit, darting forward with the speed of an arrow; now she descended, gliding on towards the passage the launch had just passed through. Willy could not help feeling intense anxiety about her. It seemed impossible that so small a boat could pass through so fierce a tumult of water in safety; yet in another instant she was gliding on through the passage, and, shooting forward, was almost up to the launch.

The crews of the two boats cheered each other as they thus found themselves in comparative safety, the sound of their voices echoing from cliff to cliff.

“Let us, my friends, return thanks to Heaven, which has so mercifully preserved us,” said Mrs Morley, who had during the time sat with her two daughters gazing at the scene, apparently fearless and calm. They had been so living that they were prepared without flinching to encounter any danger which might meet them.

The wind blowing directly up the harbour, they ran on, no place appearing on either side where they could land. A small island was passed a mile from the entrance, but its shores were rugged, and afforded no resting-place. On they advanced; point after point was passed, still no sheltering bay had been seen where they could securely anchor. At length Harry perceived on the port bow a wide opening. It was the entrance, he hoped, to an inner harbour, where shelter might be found. He shouted to the boatswain that he would stand in.

“Cheer up! There’s a harbour at last,” cried Mrs Rumbelow, as she surveyed the entrance. The men kept the halyards in their hands, ready to lower the sails at a moment’s notice; the oars were got out, prepared for any emergency. The boats glided on. Instead of the tumbling, hissing waters through which they had lately passed, all was calm and smooth. On the right was a high bluff, with a reef running out from it. On the left the land was more level, but everywhere covered with low, stunted trees; while the shores on either hand were fringed with black, rugged rocks, and ahead rose ranges of hills, some bare and bleak, towering to the sky, the nearest clothed thickly with brushwood. The harbour they had entered proved to be of considerable size, extending far up into the interior of the island. As they sailed on, numbers of seals appeared—some swimming round them, others resting on the rocks and gazing at the intruders to their domains with wondering eyes, evidently unaccustomed to the sight of human beings.

At length, after proceeding several miles up the harbour, which branched off in several directions, Harry observed a small bay on the right which promised to afford shelter to the boats. The sails were lowered, and he steered for it. A ledge running out on one side formed a natural landing-place. The launch pulled in, and the men jumped on shore. The cutter came close up astern, and the crews, rejoicing in having reached a harbour in safety, gave vent to their satisfaction in hearty cheers. The whole party were soon on shore. Beyond the rocks on which they landed was a broad plot of grass land, sloping gradually upwards, bordered by a mass of underwood and stunted trees. In the distance rose several hills, some of considerable height; while opposite the bay the harbour had the appearance of a large lake, dotted here and there with wooded islands, and encircled by a belt of hilly country, covered with trees. On the opposite side of the outer harbour which they first entered Harry told them was Adams’ or South Island; while, eastward, a broad estuary stretched away towards the ocean, forming the entrance to Carnley Harbour. Close to where they landed a beautiful stream of clear water came rushing down from the heights, making its way into the bay. The moment it was seen most of the party rushed towards it, and in an instant were kneeling down by its side, taking it up with cups and cans, which the more provident had brought with them. Willy immediately ran back to the boat to secure a can and a small cup, with which, having filled, he hastened back to where Mrs Morley and her daughters, with poor Mrs Twopenny, were seated on the rocks. He saw that they, at all events, were not unmindful of God’s protecting care, which had carried them through so many dangers, and that they were, with grateful hearts, offering their thanks to Him to whom their preservation was due. As they ceased, Willy approached them. The two young ladies were certainly not suffering less than others; but they would not touch the water till their mother and their invalid companion had quenched their thirst. When they had done so, Willy could no longer resist placing the jug to his own lips.

“What, my boy,” said Mrs Morley, “had you not first drunk of the water yourself?”

“No, how could I,” said Willy, “when I knew how much you wanted it?”

Willy was amply rewarded with the smile the young ladies bestowed on him.

“That is indeed true chivalry,” observed Emma Morley to her sister.

Chapter Twelve.

The “Crusader” is disabled.

Fever still on board—Plans for the future—Emily and May attend the sick—Mrs Clagget’s suspicions—Scene on deck of emigrant ship—Land in sight—Arrival at Cape Town—“Crusader” again ready for sea—“Crusader” meets another ship—Charles and Bill Windy on board—The lost one recovered—Charles narrates his adventures—Seaman overboard recovered—Attempts to follow the ship—Ship lost sight of—Without food or water in boat—Windy keeps up the men’s spirits—They steer for Trinidada—Long voyage in prospect—Sufferings from hunger and thirst—Picked up by homeward bound ship—Get on board ship bound for the Cape—End of Charlie’s narrative—“Crusader” stands to the south—A gale comes on—Tremendous seas—Sail blown from boltropes—Mrs Clagget’s tongue in the storm—Mrs Clagget begs the captain to change his course—Ship thrown on her beam-ends—The masts cut away—The “Crusader” springs a leak.

The “Crusader” having sailed sufficiently far south to obtain the assistance of the prevailing westerly winds, once more, with studding-sails on either side, glided rapidly over the ocean towards the southern end of Africa.

Besides the sickness which still prevailed, she had run short of water, in consequence of her long detention in the calms of the Tropics; and this made it doubly necessary for her to touch at the Cape, in order to obtain a fresh supply before she continued her course across the Southern Ocean.

Proudly as she sailed on, how different were the spirits of those on board to what they had been at the commencement of the voyage. Jack Ivyleaf no longer spouted or sang his comic songs. The poor steerage passengers mourned for their lost friends. The seamen talked over the good qualities of Bill Windy, the late mate, who was a general favourite with them. The captain sincerely grieved for him, and felt his loss acutely. But Emma and May Dicey, perhaps more than any one else, had cause to mourn for their brother. Mr Paget endeavoured, with the most delicate attention, to comfort them; and even Mrs Clagget’s manner softened when she attempted to soothe the grief of the poor girls. Still her tongue would keep wagging, and they would frequently have been glad had she kept silence.

“You see, my dear Emily, you and May have been deprived of your brother, and I know what it is to lose a person one loves. When poor dear Mr Clagget was taken from me, I thought my heart would break; but it didn’t, you see, and I got over my grief in time. Now, according to my idea, it is wise to make the best of everything; and what I propose is, when we reach New Zealand, that we should set up house together. You cannot live alone, that’s very certain, and I have no wish to reside by myself. It is but natural, and right and proper, that an old friend of your family, as I am, should remain with you, and afford you that protection which you so much require.”

Notwithstanding Mrs Clagget’s kind intentions, neither Emily nor May had any wish to have the sound of her tongue always in their ears. They talked over her proposal, but agreed that they would rather do anything than be compelled to accept it. Mr Paget did not offer any advice on the subject, considering that there would be time enough to discuss the matter when they were nearer New Zealand. He probably thought that they would, when there, find some more desirable friend than the talkative lady appeared to be. What was passing in his own mind, indeed, he did not reveal. There were still so many sick on board that the young ladies’ services were almost as much required in attending to them as at first. In this occupation they found their best solace. After two or three days, they had aroused themselves to attend to their self-imposed duties. They were now never idle, although tears unbidden often came into their eyes when they thought of their young brother, cut off so suddenly in his youth and strength. They endeavoured, on such occasions, to turn their minds to the duties they had in hand, and, to the casual observer, they appeared very soon to have recovered from their loss.

“I have an idea,” said Mrs Clagget to the lady who occupied the next cabin to hers, “that it won’t be long after we arrive in New Zealand before my friend Emily replaces poor dear Charles. I should have given those two girls credit for having more feeling; but ah, my dear Mrs Jones, there’s wonderful elasticity in the spirits of youth. I am sure such was my case, when I was a girl—down one moment, up the next; weeping and sighing, laughing and dancing, within a few minutes. I was still in my youth when I was deprived of my dear Mr Clagget, and, as I was telling them the other day, I thought my heart would break; but I bore my loss with wonderful equanimity.”

“Yes; but then you are a wonderful woman,” observed Mrs Jones, who had long since become weary of her neighbour’s loquacity, and did not observe that the Miss Diceys showed any want of feeling at the loss they had suffered.

Although at first unwilling to encounter their fellow-passengers, the two poor girls, feeling the importance of taking the fresh air, used to come on deck at night, where they would stand, their hands clasped together, watching the beautiful constellations, and gazing over the dark ocean which they believed to be their beloved brother’s grave. The other passengers, respecting their grief, kept aloof from them, and allowed them the part of the deck they chose to themselves. The old captain and Mr Paget were the only people who spoke to them on such occasions, and then only to advise them to retire to their cabins, when the late hour made it desirable. Sometimes, notwithstanding this, Emily lingered, and Mr Paget, finding that he was not intruding on her sorrows, stood by her side, offering such subjects of consolation as he thought likely to produce a good impression upon her mind. Emily felt very grateful to him, and was thankful that she and her sister had a friend on whose calm judgment and sympathy they could so thoroughly rely.

The “Crusader” sailed on towards the east before a steady breeze. Often for days together not a sheet nor tack was started; the crew had seldom to go aloft, except to serve some of the rigging, or to keep the usual lookout.

Although the sickness on board did not increase, the captain still considered it necessary to put into Simon’s Bay for water. One fine calm morning, the passengers were scattered about in groups on deck, the women belonging to the steerage attending to various domestic concerns, the mothers dressing and nursing their children, the girls working or pretending to work with their needles. Three or four of the men were helping the cooks, some were mending their shoes, others were tailoring, a few of both sexes were reading, a greater number arguing some knotty point, or smoking their pipes, and several were sitting listlessly with their hands between their knees, already wishing that the voyage was over, and that they were once more engaged in the occupations to which they had been accustomed. The crew were all busy in their various duties about the ship. The captain was not a person to allow his men to be idle. The carpenter was at his bench, scattering white shavings around him; several were at work with heaps of oakum, spinning yarns. The sailmakers, with canvas spread before them, were plying their needles; others were making mats, or splicing or knotting ropes. The painters, with their pots and brushes, were giving touches to the bulwarks and other parts where the paint had been rubbed off; and every particle of brass was getting a fresh polish from the ship’s boys, who whistled as they worked. The cabin passengers were collected under the awning on the poop. In one part, Mr and Mrs Bolton, with their children around them, were holding school; the younger ladies were reading or working. Mr James Joel was laying down the law on some agricultural subject to the young farmer, Luke Gravel. Tom Loftus and Jack Ivyleaf were smoking their cigars, and arranging some plan of proceeding which Jack had proposed as certain of success. Mrs Clagget, though with work in her hands, had forgot all about it in her eagerness to employ her tongue on her reluctant hearer, poor Mrs Jones. Emily and May were reading together a book which Mr Paget had lent them. He had wisely judged that the best way to restore their spirits was to draw them off from themselves. He was standing near them, doing nothing, an unusual occurrence for him. Now and then he glanced over the page, and made some remark, and though perhaps he was not aware of it, he continued watching Emily’s countenance as she read.

“I thought so before, and now I am sure,” whispered Mrs Clagget to her companion. “Well, it’s the best thing that could happen.”

“But is he going to settle in New Zealand?” asked Mrs Jones. “He is a mere traveller I fancy, or perhaps he has a wife already.”

“I think too highly of him to suppose that,” said Mrs Clagget; “though, to be sure, I do wish he would talk more about himself. I like a person to be communicative; those reticent people always puzzle me.”

Such was the state of affairs on board the “Crusader” when a voice was heard from aloft shouting the welcome cry of “Land ho! Land on the port bow!” In an instant every one was on the alert, looking out in the direction indicated; but though it could be seen from the mast-head, a considerable time passed before it was visible from the deck.

The captain ordered the seamen to the starboard braces, and in an instant, the deck, before so quiet, was full of bustle and life. The ship was hauled up to the north, and at length the bold outline of the Cape of Good Hope came into view. Before evening the “Crusader” anchored in Simon’s Bay.

The captain at once went on shore, and returned with the satisfactory intelligence that the passengers would be allowed to land on the following morning, though they would be kept in quarantine till all fear of infection had passed away. This would detain the ship for some time; but it was hoped that the residence on shore, with the advantages of an abundant supply of fresh vegetables, would restore the sick to health. Mrs Clagget was very indignant on finding that she would not be allowed to visit the town, nor to travel into the country. She had, however, to submit to regulations which were for the good of all. All the passengers were indeed compelled to land, as it was considered necessary thoroughly to fumigate every part of the “Crusader,” an operation which could not be carried on while they remained on board. When released from quarantine, the Miss Diceys met with much sympathy from the inhabitants of Cape Town, who had heard of the loss of the boat. Mr Paget was received with great attention by the principal people in the place.

“I am sure he must be somebody,” observed Mrs Clagget, when she heard of it. “I have always remarked a peculiarly aristocratic air about him.” However, as Mr Paget himself did not speak of any of his acquaintances, the good lady began to doubt whether the report was true.

At length the “Crusader” was declared to be again ready for sea, the steerage passengers were removed on board, and the following day the rest again occupied their cabins. Captain Westerway had wished to obtain another first mate in the place of Bill Windy, but he had been unsuccessful. The second mate was a young man, and though a fair sailor, was not as trustworthy a navigator as the captain desired; thus, consequently, throwing more labour and responsibility on him. Once more the sails were loosed, the anchor hove up, and the “Crusader” stood out of Simon’s Bay, the captain hoping to get a good offing before nightfall. Sail after sail was loosed; and close-hauled, with the wind to the westward, she glided swiftly over the blue sea. While the passengers were on deck watching the receding shores, a shout was heard that another ship was approaching under all sail, right ahead. Their attention was turned towards the stranger. She was an object to be admired, as, the sun glancing on her wide spread of canvas, she heeled gracefully over to the breeze. The two ships rapidly neared each other, the “Crusader” keeping to windward. Closer and closer they drew; it seemed, indeed, as if they were about to run into each other. The stranger, however, slightly deviated from the course on which she had been steering, and then keeping as before, showed that she intended to pass as near as possible to leeward of the “Crusader.” The passengers of the latter ship hurried to the side nearest her, and a number of people were seen on board, some holding on to the shrouds, others leaning over the bulwarks.

“Why, as I’m a live man, there’s our mate, Bill Windy,” exclaimed one of the “Crusader’s” seamen, “and there’s Dick Hansom, and Tom Bowline, I do believe! Yes, it’s Tom himself!”

Emily and May heard these exclamations, and, eagerly gazing with beating hearts, they saw their brother Charles in the main rigging. They looked and looked again, scarcely trusting their eyes; but there could be no mistake. He waved his hand; he had seen them, and Bill Windy discovered them also.

“Heave to,” cried the mate, “and we will come aboard you.”

The two ships glided by each other. The helm of the stranger was put down, and with her headsails backed against the masts, she lay, hove to. Captain Westerway imitated the manoeuvre, and the “Crusader” likewise became almost stationary. Scarcely even now crediting what they had seen, and feeling as if they were in a dream, the two sisters watched the stranger. A boat was lowered. Several people jumped into her, and she rapidly approached. In a few minutes their dear brother Charles, for whom they had so long grieved as lost, was in their arms. May hung about his neck, and kissed him again and again. Bill Windy and the rest of the boat’s crew received the hearty greetings of their shipmates. The good captain, with a tear in his eye, warmly shook his mate by the hand. “I would rather see you here alive and well, my dear fellow, than be told I had a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds left me, and need no longer knock about the salt ocean. I had given you up as gone for ever, Bill.”

“I knew that you would do your best to look for us, captain,” answered the mate, “and that it was no fault of yours that you didn’t pick us up. We had a narrow squeak for it; but we had saved poor Tom, and that cheered us during the dangerous time we had to go through.”

“And how did it all happen, how did it all happen, Mr Charles?” exclaimed Mrs Clagget, as soon as she thought he and his sisters had kissed and welcomed him sufficiently, as she called it. “We’re dying to know how it happened, for we never expected to see you again.”

“I hope soon to tell you my story,” answered Charles, “but I must shake hands first with the friends who are wishing to speak to me.”

Mr Paget was among the foremost to welcome Charles, the rest of the passengers following, and expressing their pleasure at seeing him again.

“Now, Charles, you must know that I am very angry with you for jumping into that boat,” exclaimed Mrs Clagget. “The only way you can make your peace with me is to tell me your story at once. I can’t let you go and describe all to your sisters and other people, and allow me to have it second-hand.”

Charles laughed. “I must not disappoint you, then, Mrs Clagget,” he said. “But were I to give you more than the outline of my adventures, I should have to spin you too long a yarn; so you must excuse me if I somewhat curtail my story. Soon after we shoved off from the ship, we saw the lifebuoy, and Tom Bowline, the man who had fallen overboard, clinging to it, and driving away to leeward. We followed, and not without difficulty got him at last on board. We then attempted to secure the buoy, and while so doing, a heavy sea broke over us, and nearly swamped the boat. She had, we found, so slight a hold of the water that she drifted away even faster than the lifebuoy. One of the oars had been broken, and another was carried away while we were trying to haul in the lifebuoy. We thus in vain attempted to pull back to the ship, and found ourselves every instant increasing our distance from her. Sometimes, as we sank into the trough of the sea, she was hidden from our sight, and we knew, consequently, that we could not be seen from her deck; besides this, from the colour of the boat, when we were on the crest of the sea, we were well aware that she could scarcely be distinguished from the foaming water around. At length we saw the yards swung round, and then we knew that we must have been given up for lost. To reach her was impossible. You may fancy, my dear sisters, how acutely I felt for you, knowing the grief my supposed loss must cause you. That, indeed, was the hardest thing to bear. Our hopes revived when we saw the ship wear round, and stand back again nearly across the spot where Tom had fallen overboard; but she kept too far to windward. Though we could not row with any effect, we determined to try and sail. Happily, Jack Ivyleaf and Tom Loftus had in the morning been reclining at their ease in the boat to smoke their cigars, and, to make themselves comfortable, had thrown in some rugs and blankets. With these we devised some sails, the broken oar was fitted as a bowsprit, and two other oars were stepped as masts. Some of the emigrants had, fortunately for us, also left a child’s mattress in the boat. This, split open, formed a jib and fore-staysail We had a coil of rope, with which we fitted the stays and sheets. Our sails answered better than we expected; but we found that we could not lie sufficiently close to the wind to get up to the ship. Our disappointment was great when we saw her again standing on her course. Night was approaching, and we were by this time some five miles away; still, while the light lasted, we could clearly trace the rise and fall of her bowsprit with the swell of the sea. Bill Windy, however, did his best to keep up our spirits. ‘Never fear, lads,’ he exclaimed, ‘we are slipping along at a good rate through the water, and we shall not be so very far astern of the old ship after all; perhaps at daylight, when the sea goes down, as it is doing fast, she will catch sight of us, and we shall be aboard again for breakfast.’ The word ‘breakfast’ made us think of food, for we were feeling somewhat hungry; but not a particle could be found in the boat. The mate now divided us into two watches; he was in the one, I in the other. While one of us steered, another kept a look-out, and the rest slept. I confess that I felt from the first that the chance of catching the ship was but small; still I hoped that we might do so, and hope kept up my spirits during that long night. Sleep I could not for thinking of you both, and what would become of you should I be lost. I knew we were a long, long way from any land, without a drop of water or a particle of food. We could scarcely, therefore, expect to survive till we should reach even the nearest point. While I sat alongside the mate, talking of the possibility of overtaking the ship, I asked him whether he really thought we could do so.

“‘That depends whether during the night she carries much sail or not. The captain believes that the boat was swamped. To tell you the truth, Mr Dicey, I don’t think we shall overhaul her, however, we must not give way to despair. If the worst comes to the worst, we must try and make a little island which lies midway between the coast of South America and Africa, called Trinidada. It is a barren spot, but I have heard that water is to be procured there, and it is said that a few runaway seamen, with negro wives, manage to pick up a livelihood on it. If so, we shall not want for food, as where they exist we can manage to support ourselves till a ship passes within hail.’ By the mate’s calculation, the island he spoke of was about a hundred and twenty miles away to leeward. It was, however, but a small dot in the ocean to hit to a certainty; still he thought we should not fail to pass within sight of it. ‘However,’ he concluded, ‘mind, I don’t think that it is impossible we may, after all, be in sight of the ship at daylight.’ The boat was making fine weather of it, and slipping at the rate of five or six knots an hour through the water, so that, had we possessed something to eat and drink, we should have had less cause for anxiety. Notwithstanding this, the men kept up their spirits wonderfully, and as they were roused up one after the other to take their watch, each man had a joke on his lips. The thing they chiefly seemed to sigh for was a pipe of tobacco. Tom had had some in his pocket, he declared, when he went overboard, but it must have slipped out, and he mourned its loss more than that of his hat.

“When morning broke, you may be sure we eagerly looked out for the ship, but she was nowhere to be seen. ‘Then, lads,’ exclaimed the mate, in a cheerful voice, ‘what we have now to do is to steer for the island I have been telling Mr Dicey about. No fear as to getting there, and we may live like Robinson Crusoe, the lords of all we survey, till some craft comes by to take us off, and then we can go or not as we have a mind to do.’ ‘Hurra for Trinidada,’ shouted the men, inquiring of the mate what sort of a place it was. As the wind was right aft, we rigged the square-sail with the boathook as a yard, and though the sea was still running pretty heavily, we calculated that we were making a good six knots an hour. The mate advised the men to take a reef in their belts when they felt hungry. ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ answered Tom, laughing, ‘it’s the best way to keep hunger out, when there happens to be no plum-dough to stow aboard.’ ‘I wonder who will have ours,’ exclaimed another of the men. ‘I’ll lay anything Dick Handspike does his best to get my share.’ Thus the men joked and laughed as if we were not in the middle of the Atlantic, with a fearful probability of being starved to death. Bill Windy assured us that we should make the island by noon the following day, whispering to me, however, that he had hopes of reaching it by dawn, and we all made up our minds for another supperless night at sea. I had little notion before what were the actual sensations of thirst and hunger. I could not help thinking of your remark, Mrs Clagget, to me a short time ago, and wished that a covey of flying-fish would come on board. Some of the men had begun to scrape the broken pieces of the oar, and chew the wood to stop the gnawing of hunger. Another night, we all felt, would be very trying. The day wore on, and though we had kept a bright look-out on either side, no sail had been sighted. Believing that if I could get to sleep, I might better endure the pangs of hunger, I at length threw myself down in the bottom of the boat, and had been dozing away, though still conscious of where I was, when I heard a shout of ‘Sail, ahoy!’ We were all sitting up in a moment, and saw, on the port bow, the topgallant sails of a ship rising above the horizon. She was standing to the northward. We bore away and rapidly neared her. As we approached, she altered her course still more for us. We were seen, and had now every hopes of getting on board. At length she hove to, and we were quickly alongside. She was an American whaler, homeward bound. The captain received us with the greatest kindness; our boat was hoisted up; and while Windy and I were entertained in the cabin, the men were hospitably treated by the crew forward. Although we were no longer in danger of starving, I could not help still thinking of the grief you, my sisters, were suffering on my account, and wishing that some aerial telegraph existed among the wonders of nature by which I could send you a message to assure you of my safety. Months might pass before I could find a ship to rejoin you in New Zealand. When the captain heard of my anxiety, he promised to keep a bright look-out for any ship bound for the Cape or the Australian colonies, on board which he might put us. The mate and I spent most of each day relieving each other at the mast-head, not willing to trust to the eyes of others.

“Near a week had passed away, when Bill Windy, who was aloft, hailed the deck. A ship was in sight, steering southward. We stood for her, with a signal flying. She hove to. We did the same. She was bound out for the Cape. Wishing good-bye to the kind master, who would not receive even the boat which we offered him as payment for his hospitality, we went on board the other ship. We were as kindly received as before. We met with no accident, though we had a somewhat slow passage, till, to our joy, we recognised the ‘Crusader’ coming out of Simon’s Bay. Thus, Mrs Clagget, ends our adventures. I only wish you had heard them from my friend Windy, as he would have given them in a more graphic manner.”

“Oh, I intend to get them out of him before long,” said Mrs Clagget. “There are a number of things I want to ask him about, and remember, Mr Charles, that you never go and do so foolish a thing again. You don’t know how angry I have been with you.”

“I am much obliged to you, Mrs Clagget, and promise to remember your advice,” said Charles, laughing, as he descended with his sisters to their cabin, where they might talk of their dear home and the loved ones there. Charles greatly relieved their minds when he told them that he had written home, and that he hoped his letter would reach England as soon as that which conveyed the intelligence of his supposed loss. They had thought of remaining at the Cape, but Mrs Clagget and Captain Westerway had urged them to continue their voyage in the “Crusader.” Perhaps Mr Paget might have said something about the matter. At all events, they had determined to go on to New Zealand, thence to return home, should they find it desirable. Having recovered their brother, they had now no longer any doubts about the future, but believed—and surely that was but natural—that all would go smoothly and happily.

The ship stood to the south, till she again met with the steady westerly wind, which had already carried her so many hundred miles on her voyage. A change, however, again came over the ocean. Dark clouds were seen hurrying across the sky; the sea, hitherto rolling in regular billows, now began to foam, and hiss, and dance wildly about, the wind carrying the spray in thick sheets from their curling summits over the deck. Sail after sail was taken off the ship, till the topsails, closely reefed, alone remained set, the gale howling and whistling in the rigging. The waves continued to increase in height, and huge mountains of water rose up on either side, whilst others came rolling astern, as if about to break over the poop and sweep the decks of the stout ship. The emigrants were desired to keep below, the hatches were battened down, everything that could be washed away was secured. Lines were also stretched along the deck, by the aid of which the seamen could make their way from one end to the other. Four of the best hands, secured by ropes, were at the helm, where they stood struggling and clinging to it every now and then, in spite of all their efforts one or other being thrown on either side from the violent jerks it made. The wind increased every instant, low heavily laden clouds bounded the horizon, circumscribed to a couple of miles. Sometimes the ship sank so low in the trough of the sea that the curling summits of the waves appeared to reach above her mast-heads; now she climbed a watery height, to remain but for a moment, before she rushed down again on her impetuous course. In vain the captain and his mates shouted to the men, their voices were drowned by the loud uproar of the waves, the howling and whistling of the wind in the rigging, the creaking of the bulk-heads, the flapping of the canvas, the complaining of the masts and spars. A fierce hurricane was blowing, such as Captain Westerway said he had never before encountered in those seas. Charles and Mr Paget frequently made their way on deck to witness the grand spectacle which the ocean presented. A close-reefed fore-topsail, and a storm-staysail were the only sails set; but even with these the masts bent as if they would go by the board, and every moment it seemed likely that the canvas would be carried out of the boltropes. Looking astern, they saw the huge waves following them, now one came rolling up, its foaming crest towering over the taffrail, while ahead appeared another, the summit of which could just be seen above the fore-topmast-crosstrees. In an instant, the ship, escaping from the watery mountain astern, rose to the crest of that before her, and thus she careered onwards, again sinking so low down, that, sheltered by the surrounding seas, the wind could not be felt on deck, though still heard whistling aloft. Directly afterwards it came with a force against which it seemed scarcely possible to withstand. Frequently as the ship rolled, the ends of her yards flicked off the crest of the waves which rose up on either side. For several days the ship ran on, the gale in no way moderating. Emily and May longed to go on deck, to witness, with their brother and Mr Paget, the wild tumult of waters. They wisely entreated them not to make the attempt.

“No, no, young ladies,” said Captain Westerway, “you had better stay where you are. We are doing our best as seamen, but we cannot tell from one moment to another what may happen. A mast may go, and one of those waves following astern might break on board, and sweep the decks, and you will be carried away like feathers without the possibility of saving you.”

This reply made them very anxious whenever Charles and Mr Paget went on deck. One day they both had gone up as usual, promising to hold fast and not run any risk of the danger the Captain had pictured. Just as the ship had reached the crest of a sea a clap was heard like the sound of thunder. The fore-topsail had split. In an instant the larger portion was blown into ribbons, which, streaming out, flapped and twisted and curled themselves round the yard.

“Fore-topmen, aloft!” cried the captain, and, led by Bill Windy, several men mounted the rigging with axes in their belts. As the fragments of the sail beat wildly about, the men ran a fearful risk of being caught by them and hurled into the foaming sea. Bravely they faced the danger, and, cutting away the remainder of the sail, off it flew like a gigantic kite ahead of the ship. Now came the task of bending another sail. Notwithstanding the difficulty, this was accomplished, the ship happily escaping being pooped during the interval.

Several more days passed by and still the gale gave no sign of abating. How different was the aspect of the cabin now to what it had been during fine weather. The stern lights were closely shut in, the sky-light battened down and covered over, to prevent any sea which might come on board breaking through. A solitary lamp swung, both night and day, to and fro, casting a pale, flickering light around. Most of the passengers kept in their cabins, seldom venturing out, even at the breakfast and dinner hour, at which time the table was partially covered with dishes, firmly secured by puddings and fiddles, as the captain told them the lines and sandbags fastened to it are called. Even Mrs Clagget’s tongue was more silent than usual; sometimes, however, it could be heard amid the creaking of the bulk-heads, as she endeavoured to make Mr Jones listen to her complaints; but, though the notes of her voice were distinguishable, that much-enduring lady could but seldom catch the meaning of her words. “Terrible!” then the ship rolled and the bulk-heads creaked. “Deceitful!” and a blow on the quarter from the sea prevented the remainder of the sentence being heard. “Ought to have come another way,”—the increasing uproar drowned even her voice. “Complain to authorities,” showed that Mrs Clagget entertained strong doubts of the captain’s seamanship. Now and then, when he made his appearance in the cabin, though he was but seldom off the deck, she attacked him vigorously. He, however, only smiled at her complaints, and assured her that, had he the management of the weather, he would have arranged smooth seas and steady breezes for her sake, and for that of the other fair ladies on board. “But you see, madam,” he observed, “though the wind blows pretty strong, it is carrying us at a good rate on our course. In a few days we shall be at no great distance from the southern end of New Zealand; and, once under the lee of the land, we shall have, I hope, smooth water and a fair breeze to carry us into port.”

The gale, however, continued longer than the captain expected; but he hoped soon to make the land which he had spoken of. This news raised the spirits of all, and many who, during the continuance of the hurricane, had shut themselves up in their cabins, now once more appeared on deck.

“Do you really tell me that the sea has greatly gone down?” said Emily, as she watched the still mountainous billows amid which the ship laboured.

“Oh, they are mere mole-hills to what they have been,” answered Bill Windy, who was standing by. “The stout ship makes nothing of them. See, we have our three topsails set again, and shall soon be shaking out the topgallant sails and letting fall the courses.” The mate, however, was wrong in his prognostications. During the middle watch, while the second mate had charge of the deck, the wind suddenly chopped round. The ship heeled to the fearful blast. In an instant her lee-yardarms were dipping in the foaming seas. Before he had time to issue any orders the main topgallant mast was carried away, dragging the fore-topmast, and with it the jibboom. Still the ship did not rise—she was on her beam-ends. Captain Westerway and Bill Windy were on deck in an instant. The watch below came hurrying up without being summoned. Every one knew what had occurred.

“Cut away the mizen-mast, Windy,” cried the captain.

The mate, with a gleaming axe in his hand, stood ready to obey the order. The shrouds were cut.

“Cut,” cried the captain, and a few strokes sent the tall mast into the sea. The desired effect was not produced. The helm was put up, but the ship refused to obey it. The mate sprang to the mainmast. That, too, must go, or the ship might never rise from her dangerous position; but it was a fearful alternative; for, deprived of her masts, she might be driven at the mercy of the wind and waves, and cast helpless on some rocky shore of that bleak region, towards which, should the gale continue, she might be driven.

“Cut,” again cried the captain. The mainmast fell into the seething water, the seamen hurrying with axes to sever the ropes which kept it still attached to the ship. With a sudden jerk the ship in another instant rose to an even keel; but so violent was the motion that the foremast, deprived of its accustomed support, went by the board, and the “Crusader” lay a helpless wreck on the wild waste of waters.

It is needless to describe the dismay and anxiety of those below, though only partly aware of the dangerous position to which the ship was reduced. Now, answering her helm, she flew before the gale. While the captain was issuing orders to clear the wreck, the carpenter appeared with a face of dismay. He had been sounding the well.

“Three feet of water in the hold, sir,” he said. “It will be a hard job, with all the pumps going, to keep the leaks under.”

Mr Paget heard the announcement. “I will get the emigrants to work them,” he said, “and the cabin passengers will, I feel confident, set the example.”

“Rig the pumps at once, then, Mr Gimlett,” said the captain. “When the gale moderates we will get up jury-masts, and do our best to save the ship. Tell the poor people not to be downhearted, Mr Paget, but to put their trust in Him who has carried us thus far on our voyage in safety.”

Chapter Thirteen.

An Invasion of Seals.

Stores landed—Party sent to kill seals—A tent rigged—Woodcutters set to work—Tiger-seals—A mob of seals attacked—Peter chased by tiger-seal—Willy rescues Peter from the seal—Harry meditates on his responsibilities—The encampment at night—A storm threatens—Rain comes through the huts—Invaded by seals—Seals driven off—A hurricane—Boats in danger—The cutter hauled up—The launch wrecked—The huts blown down.

As soon as the thirst of the long sea-tossed party was assuaged, Harry called the officers and men round him.

“We have an abundance of work before us,” he said. “We have but a scanty stock of provisions remaining, and must obtain more without delay. We have wood to cut for fuel, and we must get up the best shelter we can manage for the women and children before nightfall. First, however, we must land our remaining stores, and secure them under cover. For these purposes we will form three parties.”

Dr Davis volunteered at once to go in search of seals; several, it will be remembered, having been observed poking their snouts out of the water as they came up the harbour. He had hopes also of finding more on the islands or rocks within its circuit. Captain Twopenny offered to accompany him, and Willy and Peter Patch begged that they might go also. Harry told them that they might take the cutter as soon as she was unloaded, with four of the men to pull. The boatswain and a large party took charge of the unloading of the boats and putting up the huts, while the remainder, armed with all the axes which could be mustered, were directed to cut down wood for fuel.

“And, please sir, what are we to do?” asked Mrs Rumbelow; “there are other hands here willing to work.”

“I think the best thing you can do is to look after the children,” answered Harry.

“Oh, sir, the ladies can do that; and they will pardon me for saying so. I and several other women can manage to bring in the wood as the men cut it, or to carry up the stores from the water. No one among us wishes to be idle.”

“I am not going to work,” said poor Mr Holt, who was seated by himself on a rock. “I was brought here against my will, and do not intend to be made a slave of.”

“Poor fellow,” observed Harry, “he is not yet recovered from his attack, Well, Mrs Rumbelow, I will accept your services; but what we have to do must be done quickly, as night will shortly be upon us.”

The wooding party under Paul Lizard, as soon as they had collected all the axes and large knives to be found, went off to the wood at a short distance from the landing-place. The cutter was quickly unloaded. The doctor, in the meantime, had been surveying the island across the harbour with a spy-glass. “I see several dark objects moving up the bank,” he observed. “I have no doubt they are seals; and, if so, we may hope to obtain an ample supply of fresh meat. We shall find clubs of more use than our guns,” he added; “make haste, and get some ready.” As soon as the clubs were cut from some small trees growing near the beach, the doctor, fearing that the seals might return to the water before they could get up to them, hurried his companions into the boat, which pulled away across the harbour. The launch had been hauled alongside the rocks, and as soon as she was unloaded, Harry and the boatswain set to work to erect a tent. The mast served as the ridge pole, and the spars and oars formed supports over these, while the sails of the two boats were spread and secured to the ground by stones placed along the lower edges. Besides this, the canvas was made fast with lashings and ropes to the poles. A tent of tolerable dimensions was thus formed, sufficiently large to protect all the women and children.

“Should rain come on, there is something it wants,” observed Mrs Rumbelow, who had been very active in bringing up the things from the boats. “We must spread a flooring of some sort. It will not do for Mrs Morley and the young ladies to lie on the bare ground.” Saying this, and summoning the other women, she hurried off to the wood. In a short time she and her attendants returned with loads of spruce fir-tops. These were spread over the ground at one end of the tent. The cutter’s foresail had been triced up, and served as a partition. “There, marm,” she said, addressing Mrs Morley; “we have fitted up a room for you, and the two young ladies, and Mrs Twopenny, where you may be tolerably private; I wish it were a better one. You have not been accustomed to this sort of rough life; but I and most of the other women have seen something of it before, and can manage very well in the rest of the tent. I only hope the children won’t disturb you at night.”

Mrs Morley warmly thanked her.

“Bless you, marm,” answered Mrs Rumbelow, “we have only done our duty. We could never do too much for our poor colonel’s lady; so pray, marm, don’t talk of thanks.”

Mrs Morley and the other ladies gladly took possession of that portion of the tent prepared for them, feeling truly thankful that they could rest without the dread of awaking and finding the dark seas tossing and foaming around them. As soon as the tent was set up, the boatswain and most of the other men joined the party in the wood, to collect the boughs and the thickest bushes they could find. With these they erected a number of wigwams, within which all the men might lie down and find shelter. Mrs Rumbelow would not yet let her attendants rest, but back again they went to the wood, and returned laden with as much fuel as they could carry. A large fire soon blazed up.

“I wish we had some seal-flesh ready for cooking,” observed the boatswain to her as she began busily to employ herself in roasting the last of the penguins, and the few remaining eggs which had been brought from the rock. “This sort of work makes one hungry.”

“If the doctor and the rest have any luck, we shall soon have as much as you and all hands can stow away,” she answered. “We’ll keep the fire blazing for them.”

The cutter had meantime made her way across the harbour towards the island. As she drew near it, the doctor and his party distinguished several large animals, apparently asleep, high on the beach.

“Why, I do believe they are lions!” exclaimed Peter Patch, as a huge monster, one of the nearest, lifted up its head and stared at the intruders with its large eyes. The creature’s mouth was of a prodigious size, furnished with teeth, four of which were of great length. It had long bristles on its lips, and from the neck and shoulders stood up a thick mane of coarse hair. As they continued to advance, it lifted up its head just as a dog would do, opening wide its mouth as if ready to attack them with its enormous teeth.

“I say, Dicey, surely the doctor is not going in to fight these savage creatures,” whispered Peter. “Why they will tear us to pieces and gobble us up in five minutes.”

“They look fierce enough,” said Willy. “But they are only seals, and as they have not got legs, I suppose we can easily manage to keep out of their way.” Captain Twopenny proposed shooting the sea-lion; but the doctor warned him not to fire, lest he might alarm the remainder, who might take to the water before they could land. He directed Willy, therefore, to steer the boat further round, so that they might get on shore at a little distance from the seals, and then, by creeping on them unawares, kill as many as they might require.

They soon landed, and the captain and doctor led the way, club in hand, followed by Willy, Peter, and three of the men, one having been left in charge of the boat. Willy shortly afterwards missed Peter, who had evidently no fancy for attacking the lions, as he still believed them to be. After making their way through the bush for a short distance, the rest of the party came upon an open space in which were at least a hundred seals, apparently fast asleep, divided into three bands, which the sailors called mobs, quite separate from each other. They were of all sizes; some were huge bulls, others cows; and among them were a number of young calves. The doctor told off two men to attack each mob. Willy thought that it must be dangerous work to fight such formidable creatures; still he was not inclined to flinch from it. The doctor directed them to knock over the young ones, and not to mind the others, unless the creatures should stand at bay, or attack them. “If they do, we must give them a hard rap on the nose, which, depend upon it, will settle them at once,” he observed.

Having placed their guns against a tree, they grasped their clubs at a sign from the doctor, who set them the example, and rushed in among the seals. The animals waking up, stared at the intruders with astonishment, while the doctor and his companions, wielding their clubs, struck right and left at their heads. A single blow was sufficient to kill the young ones, and in a few seconds more than a dozen were knocked over. The larger animals, seized with alarm, instead of turning to attack their assailants, scuttled off, moving themselves with their fins at a rapid rate towards the water. Three, however, of the large seals were killed, besides the smaller ones.

“Well done, my lads,” cried the doctor, delighted. “We shall have provisions enough to last all hands for several days. No fear of starvation now, I hope. Dicey, do you and two of the men bring the boat round to take the seals on board. Dick Sharp and Tom Wall, go with Mr Dicey.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the men named.

Willy hastened off to obey the order, carrying his gun with him. He had not gone far when a cry was heard. “Help! help! help! a savage brute is at me.” It was Peter Patch who was crying out. Willy and his companions hurried on, and in another instant they caught sight of Peter Patch scrambling up a tree, while a huge tiger-seal, as the sailors called the creature, on account of the colour of its fur, was charging at him with open mouth. Peter had barely time to draw himself up out of the monster’s way. The seal, seeing Willy and the other men approaching, now came dashing on towards them, and they had to leap actively out of its way to avoid its sharp tusks. So savage did it look that they had no wish to approach its open jaws; indeed, with such rapidity did it run and twist about in the thick bush, that they had considerable difficulty in escaping from it.

“Take care,” cried Peter; “he nearly killed me just now. If he catches you, you’ll repent it.”

At that moment the seal either heard Peter’s voice or caught sight of him, and again dashed up towards the tree. This enabled Willy and his companions to get into a more open part of the bush. Peter shrieked out, “Oh! oh! shoot him, shoot him, or he will be clambering up after me.”

Willy could not help laughing at his messmate’s fright, not believing that the creature could possibly climb the tree. He was now able to stop and take aim. He fired, and though the bullet went through the seal’s head, it seemed in no way incommoded, but, finding that it could not reach Peter, turned round and made again towards its other foes. Willy, who had begun to load, had to scramble as best he could through the scrub, to escape the charge of the enraged creature. The seamen, observing the dangerous position in which he was placed, hurried forward with their clubs uplifted. The animal turned towards Tom Wall, and seizing his club, wrenched it out of his hand, biting it almost through. Dick Sharp, however, at the same moment let fall his weapon on its nose with such force that the creature staggered and sank to the ground, thus allowing Tom to get back his club. Before, however, either of them could repeat the blow, the seal, recovering, again dashed at Tom, who had to leap out of its way, narrowly escaping an ugly gripe on the leg. Willy had again loaded, but was afraid to fire lest he might hit either of the seamen. The seal now stopped, seeming doubtful at which of his assailants he should next rush. When they stopped the creature stopped also; and directly they moved, either to one side or the other, it charged as fearlessly as at first. At length Willy got another shot. Again the ball entered the creature’s head, but without producing any apparent effect. Several times the brave old sea-lion charged, now on one side, now on the other, till it again got into the open space. It was now apparently beginning to feel the effects of the bullets, for, raising itself up on its fore-flippers, it remained several seconds glaring at its foes.

“Come on, Tom,” cried Dick Sharp. “We are not going to be beaten by a seal, I hope, though he does look more like an African lion than any creature I have ever before set eyes on.”

Peter, ashamed of his fright, now came down from the tree, and picking up his club, which he had dropped, he with the rest advanced towards the doomed seal. A well-aimed blow by Dick brought it again to the ground, and in another instant it was deprived of life. As it was too far from the boat to attempt to get it on board, they left it, and quickly pulled round to the spot where the other slaughtered animals lay. In a short time the boat was fully loaded. Just as they were shoving off, several wild-fowl were seen.

“We ought to try and get some,” said Willy, “for though this seal’s flesh will do for us and the men, the poor ladies require more delicate food.”

Captain Twopenny and the doctor at once crept up towards the birds, and soon killed a dozen; for they, being evidently in happy ignorance of the effect of fire-arms, were not frightened at the report of the guns. Willy also succeeded in bringing down three with his gun. It was quite dark, as the boat, with her welcome supply of provisions, crossed the harbour, the light from the camp-fire serving as a beacon by which Willy could steer his course.

The weather had been somewhat threatening, the wind freshened up, and deeply laden as was the boat, they were afraid that she might be swamped before they could reach the shore. At length, however, they got safely to land, and found the party still busy in putting up huts. Mrs Rumbelow was was among the first to welcome them. As soon as she saw the wild-fowl, she begged for a couple, and began picking them on her way back to the fire. The seals and the remainder of the birds were quickly landed, and an ample supply of their flesh was soon either boiling over the fire or roasting before it. Mrs Rumbelow prepared with the birds a more delicate meal for the ladies than the seal-flesh could afford. Willy had the satisfaction of taking it to them, with the last plateful of biscuit crumbs which remained. One of the compass lamps had been hung up to give light to the tent within which the four ladies were seated.

“The doctor says that he hopes to-morrow to find some roots which may serve instead of bread,” observed Willy; “and he begs, Mrs Morley, that you will accept the last apology for wheaten bread we are likely to have for some time.”

“Pray, thank the doctor, and we hope that you will share it with us, Mr Dicey,” said Mrs Morley.

“No, no, marm!” answered Willy, laughing at the bare thought of such a thing. “Mr Shafto has determined that the officers and men shall share alike, and we have all agreed to abide by his wishes.”

The arrangement for the night had scarcely yet been completed, but the people were so hungry that Harry Shafto allowed them to knock off work, that they might cook the seal-flesh which had just arrived. Three fires had been lit, round which eager faces were collected, some toasting pieces of seal-flesh on the ends of sticks, others more scientifically roasting them on spits, while Mrs Rumbelow was cooking more of the wild-fowl reserved for the women. Close to these fires were the huts just erected, of various shapes, some like Indian wigwams, others with circular roofs, others of a more square form, as the fancy of the architects had dictated; while beyond them was the more pretentious tent composed of the boats’ sails.

In front, the two boats floated in the bay, with a dark outline of the shore and hills of the other side of the harbour, while behind the camp rose tree-covered heights, some towering up towards the sky, out of which numberless stars were now shining forth. Harry had walked a little way from the camp, where he stood, considering what was next to be done. He felt the full responsibility of the position in which he was placed.

“We may still,” he thought, “reach New Zealand in the boats; but the risk of the passage across the stormy sea which intervenes is very great. We may be unable to make the English settlements in the northern island, and it is uncertain what reception we may meet with from the natives on any other part of the coast. It may be wiser to remain where we are; but, then, with regard to the matter of provisions? Do the seals frequent the harbour at all times of the year? If not, we shall have only the birds, and any wild animals which may exist, to live on. Perhaps even wild-fowl may not be found at all seasons, and then are there any other animals besides seals? I think I have heard that hogs and goats have been landed; but they may have been destroyed by the severity of the climate, or the want of proper food.”

Such and many more thoughts passed through the young officer’s mind. His meditations were interrupted by the shrill whistling of the wind in the trees. Dark clouds gathering to the northward had begun to course rapidly across the sky, soon obscuring the stars overhead, warning him that he must hasten back to the camp, and urge the men to hurry on with the huts, which might afford them some shelter from the coming storm. He found them seated round the fires, discussing the seals’ flesh. Most of them had been too hungry to wait till it was thoroughly cooked, and even the officers had been unable to refrain from beginning supper till he joined them. He, however, took but a hurried meal, and then went in search of the boatswain, who was seated at one of the fires.

“We have put up some huts for you and the other gentlemen, just in front of the ladies’ tent,” said Mr Bollard. “The men refused to build their own till they had made them pretty comfortable as things go. They will soon, however, have theirs ready, as we have plenty of boughs cut down for the purpose.”

Harry thanked the boatswain, and told him to hurry the men on with the work.

All hands were soon again busy, and in a short time the huts were finished, those of the men extending on either side of the little group intended for the officers. The three fires, with fresh fuel added to them, burned up brightly in a row between them and the beach.

Scarcely were the arrangements for the night completed, when the rain began to fall in torrents. The women hastened to their tent, which kept it out pretty well, but the leafy bowers, it was soon found, formed but a very imperfect protection. The men, however, wearied with their day’s exertion, were glad to get within, and coiling themselves up on the rough boughs which served as couches, most of them were soon fast asleep. Harry had Willy and Peter Patch as his companions; Captain Twopenny and the Doctor took charge of poor Holt. Willy could not help telling Harry of Peter’s adventure with the seal, and they had a hearty laugh at the fright he had been in.

“And so would you,” exclaimed Peter. “How could I tell that the beast was not going to swallow me up; he had a mouth big enough, at all events.”

It was some time before the inmates of the midshipmen’s berth (as they called their hut) could get to sleep. Though the leafy wall around them sheltered them from the wind, yet the rain penetrated in all directions; and they had to turn their collars up, and sit as close together as possible in the centre of the hut to avoid being wetted through. For some time they had sufficient light from the blazing fires to see, and were able to stop up some of the gaps in the roof; but by degrees the torrents of water which came down from the higher ground put them out, and they were left in almost total darkness. It was hopeless, while the rain continued, to relight them. Overcome by fatigue, Willy and Peter dropped off asleep, while Harry, though kept awake some time longer by the thoughts which occupied his mind, at length followed their example. As no human beings nor wild beasts inhabited the island, Harry had not thought it necessary to place a watch. He had been asleep for some time, when he heard Peter, who was nearest the opening of the hut, shrieking out loudly, “A lion! a lion! Oh! oh! the brute, he will eat me up!”

Harry naturally thought that his messmate was dreaming. “What is the matter, Peter?” he cried out. “Wake up. There is nothing to hurt you.”

“I am awake, and there is a huge beast shoving his snout right against me.”

Harry now sat up, and there, sure enough, he saw by the dim light the large head of an animal at the entrance of the hut. At the same instant cries and shouts burst forth from the inmates of the other huts, and the camp, till then so quiet, was in a complete uproar. Willy, awoke by the noise, jumped up. “Why, it is a huge seal,” he exclaimed. Fortunately he had brought his club into the hut, and telling Peter to stand aside, he dealt the animal a heavy blow on the nose. The poor seal, not expecting such a reception, began to back out, when another blow laid it lifeless. The midshipmen, on going outside their hut, saw the whole ground covered by huge black forms moving in all directions, while the seamen, armed with clubs or whatever they could pick up, were running about, striking right and left at the astonished creatures. The seals apparently had landed at one of their usual places of resort, not at all expecting to find it occupied by human beings. In their fright several charged right into the middle of the camp, and two of the huts were in a moment levelled to the ground. They paid dearly for their mistake, for the seamen, some frightened and others angry at being roused from their slumbers, killed ten or twelve of them before they made their escape. Some were seen moving at a rapid rate inland, bellowing loudly, while others crawled quickly down into the water. Harry, fearing that the ladies would be alarmed, hastened to their tent to assure them that there was no danger.

Once more, the seals having taken their departure, order and quiet was restored to the camp. In case they might return, a watch, however, was placed, that due notice might be given of the approach of the intruders. Sailors have happily a knack of going to sleep at times when other men would be kept awake, and in a few minutes all hands, with the exception of the watch, were again wrapped in slumber. Harry had hoped to get a good night’s rest, to be enabled the better to go through the duties of the next day. He had been asleep some time, when he was once more aroused by hearing Paul Lizard’s voice.

“It’s coming on to blow very hard, sir; and from the way the sea is breaking into the bay, I am afraid the boats, if we don’t look after them, will be knocked to pieces.”

“Call Mr Bollard, and we will see about it,” said Harry, springing to his feet.

It was indeed blowing a regular hurricane, and it did credit to the builders of the huts that they should have withstood its force. The waves, crested with foam, came rolling in from across the harbour, breaking with great violence against the rocks. The seamen, aroused from their sleep, hurried out of their huts, encountering as they did so thick showers of spray, which, driven by the wind, broke over them. The first thing to be done was to haul up the cutter, which, dashed about by the foaming seas, ran the risk at any moment of being knocked to pieces on the rocks. So violently, however, did the waves break on the shore, that the seamen could not without much difficulty get hold of her.

“Now, my lads,” cried Bollard, “we will make a dash at the boat. A strong pull, and a pull altogether, and we will have her in safety.”

Inspired by his and Harry’s example, the men succeeded in getting hold of the boat, and as the next sea lifted her, they hauled her up on a level part of the rock. The launch meantime was tossing about at her anchor; the foam-topped seas now breaking on board her, now lifting her up as if they would send her bodily on shore. The sailors watched her anxiously; for should no vessel appear to take them off the island, she would afford them the only means of escaping. The hurricane was apparently not yet at its height. The wind howled and whistled louder and louder through the woods, the sea, breaking in white masses along the shore, every instant roared more fiercely; first one hut, and then another was overthrown, and their materials scattered over the ground; but the men were too anxious watching the boat to care about the matter. Another and another foaming sea came rolling onwards. It was evident that they would either swamp the boat or drive her from her anchor.

“The cable has parted,” cried several voices. The boat rose to the top of a sea, and then came hurrying on towards the shore. All felt that there was but little hope of saving her. Notwithstanding this, they ran to the point towards which she was driving. Before they could reach it, she was thrown with tremendous violence against the rocks, rebounding a short distance, to be driven back again with greater force than before. The crashing of her planks and timbers could be heard as she was driven again and again against the pointed rocks. Those who endeavoured to reach her ran a great risk of being crushed or swept off by the receding sea. Harry, fearing for their lives, ordered them to desist, having a faint hope that she might be thrown high up on the rocks before her total destruction had been accomplished. He hoped in vain, for she continued beating with increasing violence against the rocks, till every timber and plank on one side were stove in, and in a few minutes, being driven again and again on the rocks, scarcely two of her planks remained hanging together, the fragments strewing the beach in all directions. With a heavy heart at the serious accident that had occurred, Harry returned to his hut, which, having been built more strongly than the rest, had hitherto escaped destruction. The ladies’ tent had also withstood the gale; but how long it would continue to do so it was difficult to say. The seamen, in no way disconcerted by the disaster, were laughing and cutting jokes with each other as they endeavoured to rebuild their huts in the dark; but scarcely had they tried to fix the boughs in a proper position than another gust would again scatter the whole structure far and wide. The sea, too, was making its way higher and higher up the beach, sending deluges of spray over the spot where the huts had stood, and reaching occasionally up to the tent. As may be supposed, no one in the camp got more sleep that night.

Chapter Fourteen.

Foraging.

Consequence of loss of launch—Mrs Morley’s resignation—Prepare to winter on the island—House-building commenced—The ladies’ cottage completed—More huts erected—Birds seek shelter in the cottage—The young ladies’ aviary—Industry of the settlers—Anxiety about provisions—Fish caught—Fish-hooks manufactured—Sea-lions attacked—Lizard charged by sea-lion—Escape of Tippo Sahib—Cow-seals’ milk—Young Broke takes milk to ladies—The doctor’s expedition inland—Seal-tracks up mountain—Ripe fruit found—Willy and Peter chased by a seal—A cavern discovered—Fight with the seal—Breakfast on the mountain—Difficult travelling—Enveloped in a thick mist—Encamp for the night—Willy sees a dog—Proceed on journey—Traces of hogs discovered—A ship close in-shore—The party hurry forward—The ship has gone—Their signal not noticed—Return along the beach—A hut in the distance—A dead sailor discovered—Proceed over the hills—Willy finds nest of parrots—Return to village—Digging for roots—Willy’s gallantry.

When daylight broke, the whole harbour appeared covered with white-crested waves, dancing and leaping wildly, while the beach was covered with the fragments of the launch.

Harry felt very unwilling to communicate the disaster to Mrs Morley. It must be done, however. As soon as she appeared, he told her of what had occurred.

“God’s will be done,” she answered. “Any suffering we may be called on to go through seems light compared with that others have had to endure. I have sought for strength from on high, and it will not be denied me.”

The rain had now ceased. In spite of the gale, fires were lighted; and Mrs Rumbelow, with the aid of several of the men, set to work to get breakfast ready. They had still some tea and coffee remaining, as they had been enabled to use but little of it during the voyage; their only other food, however, was the wild-fowl and seals’ flesh. Of the latter they had certainly an abundant supply, but would willingly have exchanged some of it for the coarsest sea biscuit.

As soon as breakfast was over, Harry held a council of war with the doctor, Captain Twopenny, and Mr Bollard. All hope of getting away, if no vessel appeared, was now cut off. They might have to remain many months—it was impossible to say how long. Winter would soon be upon them; and as shelter from the cold and wet was indispensable, the first thing was to build warm substantial huts, the next was to provide food. The doctor was of opinion that they could not depend on the seals remaining in the harbour, while he feared that the health of all would suffer unless some variety of food could be obtained. He advised, in the first place, that the seals’ flesh should be salted and dried, so as to have a store in reserve should the animals disappear. He volunteered also to set off, when the weather moderated, on an exploring expedition, to ascertain the natural productions of the country.

“We may find roots and fruits of some sort which may answer the purpose of bread and vegetables, and we may discover the hogs and goats you speak of, Dicey; and perhaps some other creatures,” he observed. “In my opinion, when people use their intellects, and exert themselves, there are few parts of the world so utterly unproductive that they must of necessity starve,—as we should certainly if we were to sit down in this little nook with our hands before us.”

“Very right, sir,” observed the boatswain. “I have a notion that we should also keep a look-out along the coast for any vessel which may be passing. If we remain up here, any number might go by and not discover us. As soon as the weather moderates, I’ll therefore, with Mr Shafto’s leave, take the boat down the harbour, and search for some point where we may establish a look-out place, and set up a flagstaff with which we can signalise any ship coming in sight.”

Harry at once agreed to Bollard’s proposal, and Captain Twopenny volunteered to accompany the doctor on his proposed exploring expedition.

In the meantime, as the weather continued too bad to move to any distance, it was arranged that all hands should turn to at house-building. The spot selected for the little village was on the driest piece of ground to be found at the foot of the hill; and it was agreed that the first house put up should be for Mrs Morley and her daughters, with another for Captain and Mrs Twopenny close to it. The best axe-men at once commenced felling trees. They were not long or thick enough, however, to form log-huts after the American fashion. It was settled, therefore, that they should be put in upright, close together, and the interstices filled with clay, while the outside walls, as well as the roofs, were to be thatched with the long grass which grew in abundance at the foot of the hills.

While the men were hewing down the trees, Mrs Rumbelow, with four of the most active women, set to work to cut the grass for thatching. It was no slight task, as it was evident that a large quantity would be required. By the end of the first day, they had, however, formed a stack of considerable size. In the meantime, Willy and Peter, with young Broke and the other boys, collected all the fragments of the boat which had been washed on shore. With some of the planks they proposed forming a floor for Mrs Morley’s cottage. The most perfect were kept for repairing the cutter, and Willy suggested that others might serve for manufacturing casks in which the seals’ flesh could be pickled.

“But where are we to get the salt from, now that the doctor’s still is not at work?” asked Peter.

“We shall find plenty of it among the rocks if we get some sunshine,” said Willy; “and if not, we must dig some salt pans. I heard him say that if we could obtain plenty of salt, there would be no fear of our starving.”

Where people labour with a will, under good management, work proceeds rapidly. Before the evening the timber for the first two cottages was shaped, and trees for several others were cut down; while grass enough had been stacked for thatching them.

The ladies were not idle. Fanny and Emma Morley insisted on carrying the bundles of grass, and even poor Mrs Twopenny tried to exert herself, but certainly did very little real work. When Mrs Morley was seen accompanying her daughters, Mrs Rumbelow came up to her. “Please, marm, I beg your pardon, but that must not be. What is play to us is killing work for you. Let an old woman advise you, and don’t go and knock yourself up. Mr Shafto commands here, and I am sure he will say I am right.” It was not, however, without difficulty that the poor lady could be induced to return to the tent.

The first two cottages were completed. They had fire-places composed of stone and clay at the further ends, the wall being of sufficient thickness to prevent the woodwork outside from burning; while the chimneys were formed of wood coated inside with clay. The roofs were made double; the lowest set of rafters were first covered with grass, and a layer of clay placed over them: above this was a thickly-thatched pointed roof, so that the snow and wet could not rest on it. Harry and Willy, with the assistance of the doctor, put up a porch in the front of Mrs Morley’s house, which gave it a picturesque look. As there was no planking to spare, the doors and window-shutters were formed of rough frames and bars across, with grass thickly interwoven between them. These served to keep out the wind and cold, and, as Willy said, looked excessively rural. The bedplaces, fixed against the walls, were raised some feet from the floor, and formed much after the fashion of the doors. In the centre was a table constructed out of the planking of the launch, with seats on either side. Bound the beds, with a sailor’s forethought, Harry had stretched some broad pieces of canvas, assisting to keep off any draughts which might make their way in blowing weather into the cottage. Captain Twopenny’s abode, though smaller than Mrs Morley’s, was constructed in the same manner. He and Harry, with all the men of the party, had been up by daybreak to complete them. As soon as breakfast was over, they invited the ladies to take possession of their new cottages. Mrs Morley and her daughters expressed themselves delighted with theirs.

“You have indeed, Mr Shafto, laboured hard to secure our comfort,” she said, “and we feel most grateful. I little expected so soon to have such excellent shelter.”

“What a fearful place to have to live in during the winter,” said Mrs Twopenny, as she surveyed the abode to which her husband introduced her. “Why didn’t you build it of brick.”

“Simply, my dear, because no bricks can be had,” answered the captain, not looking very well pleased; “and this you will, I hope, find warm and comfortable. We might have been very much worse off, believe me.”

Mrs Morley and her daughters at once set to work to arrange, with the scanty means at their disposal, the interior of their cottage, assisted by Mrs Rumbelow. Meantime, all hands were engaged in putting up the other huts. One of larger dimensions was in a short time finished for the women, into which they at once moved; Harry and the officers taking possession of the tent; while two other huts, one for the men, and another for themselves, were being erected.

The sun at length shone forth brightly on the little settlement: the woods were alive with song-birds, numbers of which came fearlessly flying up as if to ascertain what the strangers had been about. Their notes were very sweet, though their plumage was somewhat sombre. They seemed especially anxious to make the acquaintance of Fanny and Emma Morley, who were standing at the porch of their cottage watching them, and surprised at the bold way in which they approached. First one came hopping up, and then another, and when the young ladies stooped down and offered them some small bits of meat, the birds without hesitation took the food out of their hands.

“How cruel it would be to kill any of our little confident visitors!” said Emma. “We must beg Mr Shafto to allow no gun to be fired near our village, lest it should frighten them away.”

“I am afraid that if there is a scarcity of food it will be very difficult to persuade the people not to do so,” observed Fanny.

“But with so many seals and other large birds in the neighbourhood, I trust we may never be reduced to such an extremity,” answered her sister.

While they were speaking, a large flock of birds came flying rapidly towards them. Some darted through the open window, others made their way over their heads through the door into the cottage, and others flew round them, evidently in great terror. On looking out, they observed the cause of the birds’ alarm. Hovering in the air was a large hawk, about to pounce down upon the little songsters. They called to Captain Twopenny, who was approaching his cottage. He ran in for his gun, and in another instant the savage pirate fell to the ground. Instead of flying away at the report, the little birds seemed to comprehend the service which had been rendered them, and kept flying round and round the cottages, or settling on the roofs, as if perfectly satisfied that no harm was intended them. Harry, who soon afterwards appeared, promised to warn the people against injuring the little birds; and after this they made themselves perfectly at home among their visitors, flying fearlessly in and out of the cottages, no one attempting to interfere with them. They were, indeed, frequently seen settling on the hands of the children, who soon learned to make pets of the confiding little creatures. On several occasions after this large flocks pursued by hawks came for shelter among their friends, when the birds of prey seldom escaped the captain’s gun. Among their feathered friends was a pretty little green bird, which sung very sweetly; another was exactly like the English blackbird; and a third, with a red breast, came hopping up with the familiarity of the winter visitor of old England, the dear little Robin. One of the latter perched with perfect confidence on Emma’s hand, and seemed in no way disposed to fly away. After looking up pertly in her face, it hopped off to the trellis work of the porch, where it perched, apparently determined to take up its abode beneath their sheltering roof. In a short time several others followed its example; indeed, the porch looked like an aviary, except that the birds, instead of being confined within wire bars, could fly in and out as they pleased, and go off to the woods in search of the food they found most suitable to their tastes.

The young ladies, however, did not give all their time to their pets, for they were anxious to set an example of industry to the rest of the women. They had found some long grass, which they set to work to plait. They began by making some hats for the children; and these succeeding well, they manufactured others for the women as well as for themselves. Even Mrs Twopenny, seeing them employed, tried to make herself useful, and succeeded beyond the expectations of her companions. As soon as the huts were supplied with bedplaces, and tables, and seats, two or three of the men employed themselves in making wooden bowls and cups and plates, though, as they had no turning-lathe, the articles were somewhat rough in appearance. However, as the supply of crockery which had been brought in the boats was but small, they were very acceptable. Others were engaged in making casks for preserving the seals’ flesh. Mrs Rumbelow had also carefully collected all the feathers from the wild-fowls which had been killed. With these she made several warm quilts, the first of which she presented to the ladies, telling them that she hoped still to have enough feathers to supply all the women and children.

Another important object, which Harry especially desired to succeed in, was the manufacture of the seal-skins into leather. He was anxious to have these to serve as bed-coverings for the men as soon as possible; he foresaw, too, that their shoes and clothing would soon wear out, and that the seal-leather would be the only material with which to supply their places. On making inquiries among the men whether any of them knew how to dress the skins, Dick Sharp said that he had been apprenticed to a currier, and thought, if he could obtain some suitable bark, he should be able to dress the skins, and make them fit for any purpose which might be required.

“Very well,” said Harry; “we must appoint you to that duty; and, doctor, it must be your charge to look out for bark with tanning properties.”

His chief anxiety, however, was to provide food for the party. The boat had been sent over every day for seals, but they were already becoming wary, and fewer were killed than at first. Some mussels had been found on the rocks, but they were only to be obtained at low water, and in no large quantities. The doctor and Captain Twopenny had also gone out every day with their guns in search of wild-fowl; but they were compelled to be very economical of their powder, of which they had only a limited supply. Before long that must come to an end. What then was to be done? Should the seals go away altogether, unless they could entrap the birds by some means or other, they would run a fearful risk of starvation.

While Harry was considering this important matter, Paul Lizard appeared with a good-sized cod which he held up triumphantly as he came towards the village. “I have brought this for Mrs Morley and the other ladies, sir,” he said; “and if I had some proper hooks I could get as many as would serve all hands. I often used to catch fish when I was a boy; and so I thought I would just knock out a couple of hooks from crooked nails, and see, what could be done. I took young Broke down with me; and before long we got plenty of bites, but not one could we hook, till at last I caught this fellow.”

“There will be no difficulty in getting the hooks,” said Harry. “We will set the armourer’s mate to work to try what he can do for you.” The bellows had fortunately been kept in good order, the stove serving as a forge, and a block of stone as an anvil. In the course of an hour, under Paul’s superintendence, a hook was produced which satisfied him thoroughly. This served as a model for others. Some long sticks were cut for rods, while the mussels made excellent bait. Taking two other men with him, Paul hastened back to the part of the shore where he had caught the cod. In the course of a couple of hours the party returned, laden with as many fish as they could carry. The supply was indeed most welcome, and they were received with warm congratulations from Mrs Rumbelow, who forthwith set the women to work to clean and cook as many as were required. The poor children especially were in want of a change of food. Though they had apparently suffered but little from exposure in the boat, several were now ill, and demanded the doctor’s constant attention. Little Bessy was among the invalids; and hoping that she might benefit by being removed from the other children, the Miss Morleys offered to take charge of her. From that day she became the inmate of their cottage, and was a constant source of interest.

Paul and young Broke, with Tom Wall and another man, were now regularly constituted the fishermen of the settlement. Next morning, at daylight, they set out, hoping to get some fresh fish for breakfast. They made their way further down the harbour than they had before gone, intending to go out to the end of some rocks which formed one side of a small bay. Peter and Tom Wall had carried clubs with them, on the chance of falling in with seals. On climbing over the rocks above the bay, they caught sight of a mob of sea-lions, apparently fast asleep. Approaching, they were quickly in the midst of the animals, and had killed three cows and their calves before the rest discovered them. Most of the animals, on awaking and seeing their foes, scuttled off in their usual fashion into the water. One old bull, however, a large and savage-looking creature, indignant at having his family thus destroyed, charged at Paul, who was unable to turn and defend himself. Supposing that he could run faster than the sea-lion, he scampered off inland, not a bit alarmed, but shouting and laughing at the idea of having to run away from a seal. The other men followed, trying to attract the attention of the savage beast, who appeared to have singled out Paul as the object of its vengeance. Paul ran on as fast as his legs could move; but the old seal kept way with him as long as he remained on the level ground. Matters were becoming serious, and he saw that, should the creature catch him, he might suffer severely. Fortunately, a high and rugged rock appeared before him; he made towards it, and succeeded in scrambling up its side just as the seal reached his heels. The animal was not to be stopped, and made a great effort to follow, but a sailor in climbing was not to be overtaken by a seal; and just as Paul reached the top, the disappointed brute tumbled over on its back. Tom Wall, with his companion, who had just come up, was on the point of striking the seal when Paul cried out, “Let the old fellow alone; he deserves to live for the pluck he has shown, and we have more meat already than we want.” The bull, on recovering himself, instead of attacking his other foes, made off round the rock, and took refuge in a wood a little beyond it, where they could hear him bellowing loudly in his rage and disappointment.

“I have heard tell of an old fellow in India, one Tippo Sahib, and to my mind that’s a good name for that old chap,” said Paul. “If we ever come across him again I shall know him by his ugly phiz.”

While they remained in the neighbourhood Paul, however, could not help looking round every now and then, expecting to see Tippo Sahib charging out of the wood towards him.

On returning to the shore, they found young Broke by the side of the cows. “Look here,” he exclaimed, “the creatures have got first-rate milk. If I had a bowl now, I might carry some for little Bessy. I should not be surprised but what it would set her all to rights.”

“Well, then, boy, you run back and get the women to give you a couple of cans, and tell four or five of the men to come along and take the seals’ flesh to the village, while we three remain here fishing.”

Young Broke ran off in high glee; and as the Miss Morleys came out of their cottage in the morning, he appeared with a bowl of fresh milk in his hands.

“Where have you got that, my boy?” asked Fanny.

“Please, miss, we killed some cows this morning, and I have brought it for little Bessy,” answered the boy.

“Some cows!” exclaimed Mrs Twopenny, who had just joined her friends. “I had no idea there were any on the island. And could the men have been so foolish as to kill them?”

“They are not real cows, please, marm,” answered young Broke, “but those fish sort of creatures. The doctor has tasted the milk, and he says it is much better than goats’ milk, and will do the little girl a great deal of good. There’s more than she can want, and I hope that you ladies will take the rest. I must be off again, because I have to bring some fish for Mrs Rumbelow to cook for your breakfast.”

Without waiting to receive the thanks of the ladies, the lad hurried away.

Mrs Rumbelow boiled some of the seals’ milk, of which there was a good supply, with sugar, in order to preserve it. So beneficial was its effect on the children, with the assistance of the fish, that the doctor was now able to commence his proposed exploring expedition. He and Captain Twopenny, carrying their guns, set out at daybreak the next morning, accompanied by Willy and Peter, with axes in their belts, and Tom Wall and Dick Sharp, the two latter taking their clubs to do battle with any seals they might encounter. The doctor had also a wooden spade with a sharp point which he had manufactured, and carried like a sword by a belt round his waist. Willy had a similar implement, which he had made after the doctor’s model.

“If I mistake not, Dicey, we shall find our tools of as much value as our guns,” observed the doctor. “By their means we may discover the treasures hidden beneath the soil, and which we can at all times obtain; whereas the birds may fly away, and the beasts, if any exist besides seals, may not always be found.”

The explorers soon began to climb the steep sides of a mountain which rose beyond the harbour. “Why, surely this country must be inhabited,” exclaimed Willy, as they got into a pathway which led up the mountain.

“It is very evident that such is the case, but we have already made acquaintance with the inhabitants,” said the doctor. “This is a seals’-track; and, see, there are others leading up from the water. The creatures are fond of travelling inland, though I should not have supposed they would have made their way up the mountains.”

They followed the track for a considerable distance, and still it continued, till they calculated that they were at least four miles from the shore. They were struck by the evergreen appearance of the trees and the herbage generally. Some of the trees were in blossom.

“Here, here,” cried Willy. “Look at these red berries. They seem quite ripe, and I saw several birds perched on the tree eating them.”

The doctor hastened up, and nibbled one of the berries in a cautious manner, to ascertain its nature.

“Ah, yes, a subacid flavour; they are wholesome, I should think. Peter, just eat a handful, and we will judge whether or not they are poisonous.”

“But suppose they prove the latter?” asked Peter.

“Why, then you will have the honour of suffering for the benefit of science,” answered the doctor, laughing. “But you need not be alarmed; I will set you an example.”

The doctor tasted another berry. Peter then ate nearly a handful, acknowledging that, though the flavour was pleasant, they were very acid.

“We will mark the spot,” said the doctor, “and on our way back carry a load down to Mrs Rumbelow to preserve.”

“But where is the sugar to come from, doctor?” asked Willy; “we have but a small stock remaining.”

“Perhaps we may find some on our journey,” said the doctor. “Numerous roots possess saccharine qualities, and from the flavour of one I dug up just now I have hopes that we may manufacture sugar from it. At all events, it will form a valuable addition to our daily fare. What do you think of this?” The doctor produced a good-sized root, which resembled, on being cut open, something between a potato and a turnip, but of rather a drier character than either. “This will serve us for bread, if we cannot find anything better;” and the doctor tasted it two or three times.

“Yes, there is an abundance of saccharine in it,” he observed, “and I have little doubt also that we can manufacture beer from it, which will suit the tastes of the men better than cold water, and serve instead of tea for all of us when our store runs short. If we find nothing else during our expedition, we should be well satisfied. But remember that, however insignificant a plant may look, we should examine it thoroughly to ascertain its character.”

“I have seen plenty of those leaves at no great distance from the village,” said Peter Patch; “but I had no idea that there were roots under them.”

“Ah! so much the better; we shall have a supply of food at our doors, and when we return you shall go out and dig them up, Peter,” said the doctor, who perhaps, rather doubted the correctness of the midshipman’s assertion.

Willy and Peter in their eagerness frequently went ahead of the rest of the party. The latter was a little in advance of his companion, when he uttered a loud cry. “Oh! there is another of those horrid brutes.” At that instant a fierce bellow was heard, and a huge tiger bull-seal started up and gazed fiercely at the midshipmen. They grasped their axes to attack the seal; but the animal, rushing forward, warned them that “discretion was the best part of valour.” With such short weapons they could not hope to strike it without the risk of being seized by its formidable tusks.

“Run, Dicey, run,” cried Peter; and Willy, brave as he was, felt that it was prudent to follow Peter’s example. The seal came after them at full speed, bellowing loudly. His voice and their shouts brought the seamen to their assistance; but the animal, seeing fresh foes in front, turned aside, and before the men could reach it, dashed at a rapid rate through the bush.

The doctor and captain now joined the chase, and away they all went, the seal bellowing and the men shouting and laughing. The doctor, who was not so active as the rest of the party, was soon distanced. The captain in vain attempted to get a shot at the animal’s head; he knew that a wound in any other part of the body would produce no effect. On went the seal, down the side of the mountain, following a well-marked track. “Where he goes we can follow,” cried Willy; “come on, come on.” The seal soon showed that he could not only run for a short distance faster than they could, but that he could keep at the same speed for a longer time.

“This beats coursing,” cried Peter Patch. “The creature will give us as good a chase as a hare. If we had but some dogs it would be fine fun. We must have run a couple of miles already.”

“We may have to run a couple more before we catch him,” said Willy, “and it won’t do to give it up.”

They were approaching the shore, or, rather, the head of a gulf which ran up from it. Should the seal reach the water he would be lost. The party doubled their speed, when the animal, then about fifty yards ahead, suddenly disappeared. Willy and Peter could with difficulty stop, and save themselves from falling into a deep narrow gully with perpendicular sides which appeared before them. They leaned over the edge. It was thirty or forty feet deep, a stream of water running at the bottom. Had they gone over, they would probably have broken their necks.

“He will escape by the end of the gully,” cried Willy. “Sharp and Wall, run round to the beach and try and stop him.”

The men did as they were directed; while Willy and Peter scrambled down with the assistance of some bushes which grew in the sides to the bottom of the gully. On making their way towards the sea, they found that the gully was arched over, and they now entered a spacious cavern, down the centre of which the stream made its way. It was separated into two parts by the stream; each part was about fifty feet long and fully twenty wide, while the roof appeared to be nearly thirty feet above their heads. A flood of light came through a round hole in the centre of the roof, and enabled them to survey the cavern. The walls and ground were perfectly dry, and they agreed that it would not be a bad place to live in, provided the wind did not set through it. As they were proceeding on, they heard the captain’s voice shouting to them, he wondering where they had got to. Looking up, they caught sight of his head appearing through the hole.

“Here we are, all right,” said Willy.

“Why, boys, how could you get down there?”

Willy told him.

“What has become of the seal?” asked the captain.

“I suppose he is somewhere not far off, if he hasn’t reached the sea,” answered Peter. “Yes, sure enough, and there he comes.”

The seal at that moment appeared, rushing back, having encountered the men at the outlet.

“Run, Dicey, run,” cried Peter, “or he’ll be upon us.”

The midshipmen were caught in a trap. It was more easy to climb down the side of the gully than to get up again. The monster came rushing towards them with open mouth. Willy this time determined not to fly, but, flourishing his axe, stood on the defensive. The consequences might have been serious had not the captain, getting sight of the animal at that moment, fired. The bullet struck it on the head, and though it did not stop its course altogether, Willy was enabled to spring out of its way, and Tom and Dick, coming up, despatched it with their clubs. As no seals had been killed for several days, the meat was very acceptable.

“We may have some seal-steaks for dinner, at all events,” said Peter, as the men prepared to cut up the animal.

Having performed their task, they were directed to carry the remainder of the seal’s flesh to the village, while the captain and midshipmen, with a good supply of steaks, made their way up the side of the mountain. Following the seal-track, they at length found the doctor, who was sitting down, waiting their return.

“See, our island produces one species of ferae which I did not expect to find,” he exclaimed, holding up an animal by the legs.

“Why, it’s a cat,” cried Willy.

“Exactly so,” said the doctor. “Our feathered friends will be much obliged to me for killing it. Should these creatures increase and multiply, they will in time nearly depopulate the island of its most attractive inhabitants.”

The explorers now proceeded onwards for some way over very rough and uneven ground. As they were anxious to obtain a view of the whole island, they climbed to the highest point in sight, which the doctor calculated was about a thousand feet above the sea. Hence they could look around in all directions. On every side appeared rocky and barren heights, thrown up into all possible variety of shapes, while beyond was the ocean, now blue and calm, and shining in the rays of the bright sun. The cold, however, was considerable, and all the places usually rendered soft by springs were frozen hard. This enabled them to proceed over spots they could not otherwise have crossed.

The scene was full of wild and rugged grandeur. Here and there perpendicular precipices and chasms, several hundred feet in depth, were visible, while the summit of the central mountain was crowned by a ridge of rock, which, from its appearance at a distance, they called the Giant’s Coffin.

As the atmosphere was remarkably clear, the whole group could be seen, extending for about thirty-five miles in length from north to south, and fifteen miles at the broadest part from east to west. Several deep indentations forming harbours were observed, while a number of reefs, over which, even on that calm day, the surf broke violently, extended from the shore to a distance of ten miles. In the far north an island of some size could be seen, while several smaller islands appeared close to the rocky coast. The shores everywhere appeared clothed with scrub and stunted timber, but on some of the hills the trees were of respectable height and size.

“See,” cried Willy, pointing to the north-east. “Is that smoke? Can it be a burning mountain?”

All the party looked, and though their eyes were not so keen as Willy’s, they also distinguished a thick wreath of smoke ascending in the clear air. Though it was at a considerable distance off, yet, eager to ascertain its cause, they determined to make their way towards it. After descending the mountain for some time, hunger compelled them to stop, as they had eaten nothing since daybreak. A fire was soon lighted, and their seal-steaks were soon spitted on sticks before it; while the doctor, after scraping several of the roots which he had just discovered, put them into the hot ashes. On being raked out, they were found to be tolerably well done, though somewhat hard and dry; but to people who had eaten neither bread nor vegetables for many weeks they were very welcome.

“We shall find a better way of cooking them by-and-by,” observed the doctor. “We will try how they answer scraped or pounded; and though they may not be very palatable, they will assist materially in keeping us in health. Well, Peter, do you feel any uncomfortable sensations.”

“I hope not,” answered the midshipman, surprised at the question.

“We may then venture to make our desert on the berries,” said the doctor, laughing. “We are much obliged to you for having proved them not to be poisonous, but I had my doubts, I confess.”

“What a shame!” cried Peter. “Suppose I had died, what would you have said?”

“Oh, there was no fear of that,” answered the doctor. “In case of accidents I brought some antidotes in my pocket, and should soon have got you round again.”

“The next time, please make your experiments on Dicey,” cried Peter. “It is not fair that I should be the only one to run the risk of being poisoned. Suppose your antidotes had failed?”

“The doctor fixed on you, Peter, as the least likely to be missed of the party,” said Willy. “You know you have never done anything for the common good.” Peter had, in truth, generally preferred wandering about the harbour, and scrambling over the rocks, to working.

“But I found the roots, and could have got any quantity,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, but you dug none up, and told no one of them,” rejoined Willy.

“Well, you shall see that I can be of as much use as you are, Master Dicey,” exclaimed Peter, bristling up.

“Come, boys, no quarrelling,” cried the doctor. “It’s time we were moving.”

Refreshed by their frugal repast, the explorers proceeded on their way. They found the road far more difficult than they had expected, and soon came to the edge of a steep precipice, down which it was impossible to get; and they had, therefore, to scramble a mile or more before they found a practicable path into the valley. They went along it for a considerable distance, hoping to be able to climb up the cliff; but the sides were perfectly perpendicular, and at last they determined to turn back and make their way by the shore. Just then Willy, who had run on ahead, shouted out, “I see a break in the cliff, and very possibly we may get up by it.” His advice was followed, and assisting each other, they succeeded at length in reaching the higher ground. Another high and steep hill appeared before them; but they, hoping to find the ground beyond more easy for travelling over, commenced the ascent. It was, however, steep and difficult, and in some places they came to perpendicular precipices, down which a fall would have proved fatal to any one who had happened to slip.

They had got about halfway down the mountain when a thick mist was seen sweeping over the sea from the southward. It came on so rapidly that before they could decide what path to follow they were entirely enveloped in it. They could now only venture to move with the greatest caution; any moment they might arrive at the edge of some frightful precipice similar to those they had before passed. Anxious, however, to escape the cold and damp to which they were exposed on the mountain side, they descended by the only practicable route they could find. The mist every instant grew thicker, and the short day was drawing to a close. In what direction they were going they could not with any certainty tell. At last the captain declared that he would proceed no further. The doctor agreed with him. Just then they saw before them the edge of the forest, which reached up the mountain side to a considerable distance from the shore. They agreed that it would be wise to camp here for the night; and while Willy and Peter cut down some boughs to form a hut, and wood for fuel, the doctor and the captain endeavoured to shoot a few birds for supper. They could hear them singing in the woods in great numbers, but the mist shrouded them from their view till they were close upon them. The birds were, however, so tame that they succeeded in killing a few; and these, with some of the roots which the doctor dug up close at hand, gave them a sufficient meal.

As night came on, they made up their fire and crept into their leafy bower for shelter.

“I suppose, doctor, we ought, to keep watch,” said Willy. “We may have a big tiger-seal poking his nose in among us, or there may be other wild beasts, though we have not seen them.”

The doctor agreed to the wisdom of this, and when supper was over they drew lots as to who should keep the first watch. It fell upon Willy. After they had sat up some time, the rest of the party went to sleep. Willy had some difficulty in performing his duty, but by running out every now and then to throw a log on the fire he managed to keep his eyes open. As he did so on one occasion, he saw an animal scamper by him. “It looked very like a wolf,” he said to himself. He got the doctor’s gun to have a shot at it, should it again appear. There was no use, he thought, in waking up his companions. In a short time afterwards he heard a loud bark. He listened. The bark was repeated. “Why, it’s a dog. I wonder if there are people in the neighbourhood,” he said to himself. “If there are, they will find us out; but they are not likely to be otherwise than friendly. However, when I call the captain I’ll tell him to keep a sharp lookout.” When at length his watch was over, he roused up Captain Twopenny and told him what had occurred.

“Perhaps there may be natives on the island, after all,” observed the captain. “Depend upon it, I will not be taken by surprise.”

Willy, who was longing to go to sleep, lay down, and before another minute had passed was far away in the land of dreams. He was awoke by Peter Patch, who had had the last watch. Daylight was already breaking; the dogs had been heard barking during the night, and Peter said he had seen two or three creatures, which seemed from their movements to be like cats, stealing by; but each time, before he could get a shot, they had disappeared. Nothing else had occurred.

As the sun rose the mist cleared off; and as soon as they had breakfasted the doctor proposed that they should once more climb the mountain, in order to ascertain what direction to take. They had not gone far when some footmarks were observed on the soft ground over which they were crossing. The doctor examined them. “Hogs,” he exclaimed. “We shall have pork for dinner soon, I hope. They, at all events, are always in season, and will not take their departure like the seals and wild-fowl. We shall not starve here if like wise men we exert our wits. Cats and dogs may serve us at a pinch; I prefer bacon. Captain, I daresay you will manage to shoot a porker before long.”

This discovery put the whole party in spirits, the doctor was so positive about the matter. Willy had gone on as usual some way ahead, when, looking out in the direction the smoke had been seen, he caught sight of a large vessel hove to close to the shore. He could scarcely believe his eyes. He rubbed them again and again. There was no doubt about it. He waved to his companions, who made their way up to the rock on which he was standing. He pointed in the direction of the vessel.

“She is a long way off from this,” observed the doctor, after looking at her for some moments. “We must get down to the beach as fast as we can.”

“What has brought her in here, I wonder?” said Captain Twopenny.

“Probably the smoke we saw yesterday may have something to do with the matter,” observed the doctor. “At all events, there is no time to be lost.”

He gazed as he spoke over the intervening country. There were deep valleys to be passed, and steep hills, with rugged rocks and precipices, to be scaled. Having taken the bearings of the vessel, they set out. They first had to descend the mountain side. They soon came to a soft boggy ground, and were obliged to make a wide circuit to avoid it. Not without considerable difficulty did they at length reach the bottom of the valley. A stream was to be crossed; they waded through it, regardless of the cold. Now they came to a precipice. Considerable time was spent before they could find a way to the top. Then they were involved in a labyrinth of huge rugged rocks. The sun shining brightly enabled them to keep a tolerably correct course, otherwise it would have been difficult to determine in what direction they were going. On and on they went. The hope of obtaining relief for themselves and their friends kept up their spirits; but Peter Patch at length cried out that he could go no further. They had brought some baked roots and cooked wild-fowl with them. A stream which came trickling down the side of the hill afforded a refreshing draught of water. They would not stop to light a fire, but, taking a hurried meal, again pushed on. The doctor himself confessed that he was beginning to get knocked up; still they thought that they must soon reach a height from which they could make a signal to the ship. For the last hour or more, however, they had been unable to get sight of her.

“Had she been at anchor, I should have had more hopes of doing so,” said the doctor; “but still we must not despair.”

“That’s the hill,” cried Willy; “I know it by its shape. If we can get to the top of it we shall reach the shore in a short time.”

The rest of the party thought Willy was right, and thus encouraged, made their way with renewed ardour. The summit of the hill was free of trees. They gained it at length. Willy was the first to reach the top. A cry escaped him. “She is gone! she is gone!” he exclaimed. He waved his cap frantically; he shouted as if his voice could reach across the intervening ocean. The rest soon joined him. A ship under all sail was standing away with a fresh breeze from the land, from which she was already some three miles distant.

“The smoke of a fire might still attract the attention of those on board,” said the doctor. Willy and Peter ran down the hill, and began hewing away at the driest bushes they could find. A fire was soon lighted. More bushes were brought; a thick column of smoke ascended in the air. How eagerly they gazed at the receding ship. Still she stood on. No attention was paid to their signal.

“They either do not see it, or think that it is the result of accident,” observed the doctor.

More bushes were thrown on the fire, and then they hurried down the hill.

“Perhaps she may be a sealer, and landed some of the crew to catch seals from the shore. If so, she may return,” remarked the captain.

“She does not look like one,” said Willy.

The bottom of the hill was reached. They made their way along the beach. In a sheltered spot a hut was seen. It was rudely constructed from the wreck of a vessel. Outside there were the ashes of a fire still smouldering; within were several bedplaces covered with leaves. Other signs showed that it had been lately occupied. Whoever the people were, they had just been taken off by the ship,—probably part of the crew of some vessel wrecked on the shore. They looked about in the neighbourhood, and discovered six or seven mounds which had the appearance of graves.

“Well, my friends, I am very glad that the poor fellows, whoever they were, got away; and for ourselves, we are not worse off than we should have been had we not discovered them,” observed the philosophical doctor. “Don’t let us be cast down. If one vessel comes, so may another; and next time we may be more fortunate. And now I advise that without loss of time we make the best of our way back to the settlement.”

As the shore appeared for some distance tolerably free of rocks, they agreed to keep along it till compelled by the rising tide to take their way over higher ground. Still, as they walked along they could not help every now and then turning round to watch the receding ship. Gradually her hull disappeared, her courses sank beneath the horizon, the topsails followed, and then Willy alone could discern a small dark speck, which soon faded from view. He heaved a sigh. “I should like to have sent home news, at all events, that I was safe, and perhaps Charles and the girls may by this time have reached New Zealand. They will be very sorry when they hear that the ship has been lost, and of course they will think that I was lost in her.” Willy seldom allowed himself to give way to thoughts like these.

The doctor was very anxious to get back that night; so, although pretty well knocked up himself, he urged his companions to proceed as fast as they were able. For several miles they continued along the beach, occasionally having to climb over high ledges of rocks which jutted out into the water, or to go round bays or small inlets. Still, after the experience they had had of the interior of the island, they considered that this road was less fatiguing than the way they had come. Seeing a succession of rocks running out into the ocean, they were at length about to strike across the country, when a small hut was discovered at the head of a little bay just below them.

“Why, perhaps, after all, there are human beings besides ourselves on the island,” exclaimed Willy.

“If such is the case, we will make their acquaintance,” observed the doctor, and they descended into the bay. They hurried towards the hut. On reaching the entrance, even the doctor started back. Part of the roof had been blown off, allowing the light to strike down into the interior. On a rude bed, raised a couple of feet from the ground, lay the body of a man. He was fully clothed, but the eyeless skull and parchment-like cheeks showed that he had been long dead. He was dressed as a seaman. A sou’-wester was on his head, and a woollen muffler round his neck, while a blue serge vest and a dark jacket and trousers clothed his body. Several pairs of woollen socks and stockings were on his feet, one of which was tied up with rags, as if it had received some injury. His legs were crossed, and the arms and fingers stretched out straight on either side. Had it not been for the light which struck down on the head, the body lay in so natural a position that the man might have been supposed to be asleep. Close by was a small heap of limpet and mussel shells, and within his reach were two bottles—one was empty, but the other was full of water. Another object attracted their attention. It was a piece of slate, on which were scratched several zigzag marks, which had apparently been formed by the hand of the dying man, who had probably in his last moments attempted to write his name and give some account of his sad history.

The doctor, after examining the body for some minutes, observed, “He has died of hunger, poor fellow. Probably he belonged to the crew of some hapless vessel wrecked near this, the survivors of whom were taken off by the ship we saw this morning. Poor fellow, we must come back and bury him another day, but we must delay no longer.”

The sad spectacle they had just witnessed made the explorers turn their thoughts from themselves.

They pushed on as fast as they could go, but were often nearly dropping with fatigue. Marshes had to be passed, and frequently they were plunging across boggy ground, running the risk every instant of sticking or sinking beneath it; several streams were forded, and rugged heights climbed similar to those they had traversed on the previous day.

Just before sunset they stopped to dig a quantity of roots, which the doctor was anxious to carry with him, while Captain Twopenny shot several birds. While Willy was hunting about, he heard a low clattering sound. Searching more narrowly, he found in a small bush a large nest with five young birds. “Here, here,” he cried to Peter, who ran up. “Why, I do believe they are parrots. They are nearly fledged. How delighted the Miss Morleys will be to have them.”

“But how can we carry them?” said Peter.

“See, I will tie them up in my handkerchief, and sling them round my neck,” said Willy, securing the nest as he proposed. The young parrots were, as may be supposed, a constant care to him for the rest of the journey. Peter every now and then looked into the handkerchief as it hung at his back, declaring that the birds were getting on very well, only opening their mouths as if they wanted to be fed. They seemed to like the berries which had been found, and meeting with another bush, Peter collected a supply to feed them with.

At length it grew so dark that they could with difficulty see their way. They were about to encamp, when Willy caught sight of the lights in the village, far below them. Just then they got into a seal-track, along which they proceeded.

“Look out, Peter, lest we should find a lion in the path,” said Willy. He had scarcely spoken when a bellow was heard close to them. It was repeated in all directions.

“I don’t quite like it,” exclaimed Peter. “Can those horrible noises really be made only by seals?”

“No doubt about that,” said the doctor. “They are not likely to attack us, and the best thing we can do is to push on.”

To those not aware of the cause, the loud bellows which resounded through the woods would have indeed seemed terrific. Once or twice one of the monsters was seen scrambling among the bushes, but was soon out of sight, and none appeared to be combatively disposed.

At length the lower ground was reached, and in a short time they were welcomed by their friends at the village.

Harry Shafto was especially thankful when he received the report of the doctor; and it was arranged that the next morning, as soon as some more spades could be manufactured, a party should set out to dig roots, while Captain Twopenny volunteered to lead another in search of hogs.

“At all events, I trust we need have no fear of dying of starvation,” Harry remarked in a tone which showed the relief he felt. “Had it not been for you, doctor, however, I confess we should have been badly off.”

Willy awoke at early dawn to feed his parrots, which were chattering away at his ear. As soon as breakfast was over, he took them up to the Miss Morleys. “I have brought an addition to your menagerie,” he said, exhibiting his prizes; “but as they are nearly fledged, you must find some means of preventing them from flying away.”

“Oh, I hope we may tame them sufficiently to make them wish to stay with us,” said Emma. “What pretty little lively creatures. We are so much obliged to you, Mr Dicey.”

“Perhaps Mrs Twopenny would like to have one,” said Fanny. “And do you not wish to retain one yourself?”

“I am afraid that I should not have time to attend to it,” said Willy. “But I will take one to Mrs Twopenny; and if you will bring up one for me, I should like to carry it home with me for my sisters.” Mrs Morley, who heard the remark, smiled faintly. She was thinking, perhaps, of the little probability there was of their ever returning to the shores of England.

Chapter Fifteen.

A Ship!

The island flag—Expedition to establish a look-out place—Cutter proceeds down the harbour—Pierce attack of seals—Tippo Sahib put to flight—Flagstaff set up—Lookout hut erected—Night in the hut—The boatswain’s yarns—Harry puts off to return—Blowing hard—Boat in danger—Return to lookout point—The storm rages—Peter wraps himself in the flag—Anxiety about the boat—Hut on fire—Attempts to save hut—Pass night by the fire—A ship seen.

The cutter had been thoroughly repaired, and Harry resolved at once to go down the harbour and fix on a look-out place whence a signal could be made to any ship approaching the southern end of the island. A flagstaff had been constructed out of the spars of the launch, and some of the straightest trees which could be found. The boatswain had rigged it completely, so that it was ready at once to set up. Willy and Peter laughed heartily when they saw the flag which had been formed. It consisted of two boats’ ensigns, increased in size by a petticoat and part of a seaman’s shirt.

“If its materials can be distinguished, it will tell pretty plainly the character of our party,” remarked Harry.

Harry took the boatswain, with Peter and Willy and four other seamen, one of whom was Paul Lizard, and another Tom Wall. As the excursion might prove a long one, and as in that uncertain climate they might be detained by bad weather, they carried provisions for a couple of days, hoping, should they be kept out longer, to be able to kill some seals or wild-fowl for their support. The rest of the party were to search for roots and berries, from the latter of which Mrs Rumbelow announced that she could make an excellent preserve, could sugar be manufactured. The doctor promised to exert his scientific knowledge to the best of his power for the public good.

The wind being light, Harry and his party had to keep close in-shore, to avoid the tide which was still running up the harbour. Just as they got off the bay, where Paul and Tom had the adventure with the old sea-lion, several seals were seen swimming about, apparently fishing, darting rapidly to and fro in various directions in chase of their prey. Presently there was a great commotion in the water ahead, and two huge animals appeared struggling together. “Why, they are fighting,” cried Willy. “What tremendous digs they give into each other’s necks with their sharp tusks.”

One was a tiger and the other a black seal. Now they separated, now they dashed at each other, just like savage dogs, not uttering the slightest sound all the time. Now they sank below the surface, now rose again, tearing away at each other as before.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that one of them was the big fellow you called Tippo Sahib, who attacked you the other day, Paul,” said Willy.

“May be, sir,” answered Lizard. “But see, there’s another on the rocks. That’s master Tippo, I suspect. He looks as if he was watching for us, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he was to give chase.”

Willy laughed at the notion; but directly afterwards the old lion plunged into the water, and his snout was seen within a few seconds rising close to the oars. Harry ordered the men to pull on, as he did not wish to expend any shot on the animal. Tippo, however, seizing the blade of Paul’s oar, held it so tightly that he nearly hauled it out of his hands. Not till he had received several blows on the nose from the other oars would he let go.

“Why, he has nearly bitten my oar in two,” cried Paul.

“Better that than your leg,” observed Willy.

“That’s Tippo; I have no doubt about him,” cried Paul. “He means mischief.”

The sea-lion, however, was kept at bay by the oars, while the boatswain stood up in the stern with a club, ready to give him a blow should he come nearer. After swimming round the boat for some time, he seemed to consider that he could gain nothing by a battle with the four-legged strange creature, as he doubtless considered the boat, and so leisurely swam back to the rocks he had left, up which he scrambled, and sat watching the cutter as she continued her course along the shore.

A breeze at last sprang up, and sail being set she ran down to the mouth of the harbour. On the northern shore, near the eastern entrance, was a point rising for a hundred feet or more above the water. Here the party landed, and Harry and the boatswain agreed that it was the best station on which their flagstaff could be planted. From its summit they could look over the whole of the southern island; while the flag would be visible far out at sea, beyond the western entrance of the harbour. The flagstaff was accordingly landed, and as all hands were required to set it up, and the boat could not be left alone, she was hauled up on the beach. But as they had only wooden spades to work with, some time was occupied in digging the hole in which to plant the flagstaff. It was at length got up, and stayed by four shrouds. The flag was hoisted and flew out to the breeze.

“That will show that some one is not far off,” observed Mr Bollard. “But should a vessel send her boat on shore, the people may not know where to find us.”

“I have been thinking of that,” said Harry, “and will leave a bottle with a paper in it directing them to the settlement.”

“But if another gale was to spring up, and there is every chance of that, the flag might be blown to pieces, or the flagstaff itself carried away,” observed the boatswain. “If you think fit, therefore, Mr Shafto, I’ll remain here with one or two of the men; and, depend on it, we will keep a bright look-out for passing vessels, so that we need only hoist our flag should one come near enough to see it.”

“We can ill spare you at the camp, Bollard,” said Harry; “and if you remain here you will require shelter and food. This hill is a bleak place, and if we could not get to you with a supply of provisions, you would run the risk of starving.”

“As to shelter, we have our axes, and we might easily put up a hut; and for the matter of food, if we are hard-pressed, we can make our way overland to the settlement; it cannot be much more than five or six miles.”

As the boatswain was so anxious to remain, Harry at last consented to his proposal.

“We must put you up a hut, however, before we return to the settlement,” he observed; “and after we have had dinner we will set to work about it.”

There was a wood at some little distance; and, as soon as the meal was over, all hands repaired there to cut timber for the proposed hut. They worked away very hard, Harry and the midshipmen labouring as well as the rest. As soon as several trees were felled, Harry, leaving Bollard and two of the men to cut more, with the rest of the party carried them up the hill. They had then to dig the foundation of the hut. While this was doing, Willy and Peter collected a supply of grass from the hillside.

So busily were they all employed that evening arrived before they thought the day was half spent. Dark clouds had been gathering, and the wind increasing, and they had the prospect of a stormy night. The hut, however, was roofed in, and they were able to take shelter from the torrents of rain which now came down. Fuel having been collected, they lighted a fire in the front of the hut, but the wind blew the flames about so furiously that there was a risk of the walls, and a still greater one of the roof, catching fire. No one, therefore, ventured to go to sleep; indeed, there was not room for all the party to stretch their legs.

The first hours of the night were passed, as they sat close together to keep themselves warm, watching the bending flagstaff, and listening to the howling of the wind and the roar of the surf as it broke on the rocky shore. Harry did his best to keep the party amused, and got Paul Lizard, who could sing a good song, to strike up a merry stave; and Paul, once set going, was generally loath to stop. His full manly voice trolled forth many a ditty, sounding above the whistling of the storm and the roar of the waves. Then adventures and stories were told, and yarn after yarn was spun, most of which were no novelties to the hearers. The boatswain, who seldom condescended to tell his adventures except to the other warrant officers, narrated several wonderful ones he had gone through; and Willy and Peter could not help being surprised, after encountering so many dangers and hardships, he should be still living to narrate them. He had been left alone on an iceberg in the Polar seas, when the boat in which he was chasing a whale and all the other hands had been lost. He had been stranded on the coast of Africa, and made captive by the natives; when escaping, he had been nearly torn to pieces by a lion, only managing to scramble up a tree just as the monster’s claws were within a few inches of his heels. He had got on board a slaver, which had gone down while being chased by a man-of-war, and had been picked up again just as a shark was about to seize his legs. A ship he had been on board had blown up, when only he and a dozen more had escaped. On another occasion his ship had caught fire, and the crew had to take to their boats. Three times besides he had been wrecked. “And yet, you see, mates,” he wound up by saying, “here I am, alive and well, and fit for duty; and if you ask me if I think we are to get out of this place, I tell you. To be sure I do. We are not half as badly off as I have been a score of times.” Encouraged by their officer, the men kept up a brisk conversation till daylight dawned.

The weather appeared to have somewhat moderated, and Harry hoped, as soon as breakfast was over, to be able to launch the boat and return to the settlement. As the party were descending the hill, however, a seal was heard bellowing in the wood. As it was important to secure the supply of meat the animal might afford, they set out in chase. The cry of the creature guided them towards her; but as they advanced, it became evident that she was going away from them. They therefore increased their speed, hoping before long to come up with her.

“May be she has lost her calf; and if so, we must keep a look-out,” observed Paul Lizard. “She will prove mighty savage.”

“She is not likely to show fight against half-a-dozen men,” said the boatswain. “Come along, lads, we have lost a great deal of time already.” At last the bellowing grew louder, and the seal was seen looking about her, wondering perhaps at the unusual sounds which struck her ear.

The boatswain was the first to emerge from the cover of the wood. The creature lifted up its monstrous head, and opening wide its jaws, made a dash at the intruder. So formidable did she appear that the sturdy boatswain, though he would have faced a human foe without trembling, turned tail and ran for his life. The seal followed, but just then, Paul Lizard coming in sight, she bolted at him, moving over the ground with her flipper-like feet at a rapid rate. Paul, having learned a lesson from experience, dodged behind a tree, and when the seal nearly reached him, sprang on one side, giving her a blow with his club on the nose. It was not sufficiently well dealt, however, to bring her to the ground; and, again catching sight of the boatswain, she once more rushed at him. Imitating Paul’s manoeuvre, he managed to escape her charge. She, however, had fixed her eyes on him, and continued the pursuit, the rest of the party following. Before they could get up with the animal, the boatswain had run a considerable distance in an opposite direction from the flagstaff. Matters were growing serious; for he had well-nigh lost his breath, and the seal was so close to him that he could not venture to turn round and strike at her. Willy and Peter could not help laughing, thinking the matter very good fun, a notion the boatswain in no way shared with them. At last Paul and Tom Wall so distracted her attention that she stopped short, allowing the boatswain to bring up and face about. The three then dashed at her with their clubs, and quickly ended her life.

“Well, mates, we have deserved our dinners, at all events,” exclaimed Paul, as he commenced cutting up the seal. “Mr Bollard will have gained an appetite for his.”

“I had rather have gained it in a more dignified way,” observed the boatswain, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “I had no notion one of these brutes would show so much fight.”

“You should have had Tippo Sahib at your heels, sir,” said Paul. “He showed us yesterday that he was ready enough to fight, and he is twice as savage on shore.”

Some time was occupied in cutting up and packing the seal’s flesh, and then, each man carrying a load, they turned their steps towards the Flagstaff-hill. It was past noon before they got back, but Harry still hoped to be able to reach the settlement at nightfall. The fire had to be relighted, and as soon as some of the seal had been cooked and eaten, they hastened down to launch the boat. It took some time to do so; but at length she was got afloat; and, leaving the boatswain and two of the men at the look-out station, Harry and the rest made sail. Though the weather appeared threatening, he was unwilling to abandon his intention. The wind was contrary, and he had to stand out some way from land to fetch the mouth of the inner harbour. He had just gone about when the wind shifted, and a furious blast from the north-west blew directly in his teeth, making the boat heel over, and nearly capsizing her. The sails were lowered just in time to prevent such a catastrophe, but it soon became evident that it would be a difficult matter to reach the harbour’s mouth. The sails, however, being closely reefed, Harry determined to try what could be done. The boat looked up bravely for some time to the gale, but the wind increasing still more, he saw that the attempt was hopeless. The open ocean lay broad on his beam, foaming and raging, and there was now the danger of his being blown out to sea. The only spot where he could hope to land without losing the boat was the little bay he had just before left. Keeping as close to the wind as he could, he therefore stood towards the shore. Even with the reduced canvas she carried, and all hands sitting up to windward, the boat heeled over fearfully. Harry was at the helm, looking out anxiously through the spray, which beat up in showers over the bows, for the point which formed the northern side of the little bay into which he wished to run. Sometimes the boat’s head fell off, and he was afraid that he should be unable to reach it.

“I don’t like the look of things,” whispered Peter to Willy; “what if we don’t reach the bay?”

“We may perhaps lose the boat,” answered Willy, “but I trust that we may be able to scramble on shore somewhere or other.”

At length they got near enough to distinguish Bollard and his companions, who had come down to the beach to assist them. A fiercer blast than before struck the boat’s sail; down she heeled, till the hissing water ran over her gunwale. For a moment Harry feared she would not recover herself. As he put down the helm she once more rose, and in another minute was under the lee of the point; and he steered in towards the only spot of sandy beach which the bay afforded. The sails were hauled down, and all hands stood ready to leap out as she touched the shore. Aided by the next sea which came rolling in, she was run high upon the beach.

“This is indeed unfortunate,” said Harry to the boatswain. “It is too late to get back to-night, and I am afraid our friends at the settlement will become anxious about us.”

“But they will see it is blowing hard, sir, and that will fully account for the boat not being able to get up the harbour,” answered the boatswain.

Perhaps Harry was thinking that the fierce gale then blowing would only increase the anxiety which some, at all events, of the inhabitants of the settlement would feel on his account.

By the time they reached the hut the day was well advanced. There was still a short time of daylight, however, and the men employed it in cutting a further supply of fuel, that they might keep up a good fire during the night. A stream had been found at the bottom of the hill, from which they replenished their water-casks. Their supper, as on the previous evening, consisted of roast seal and a few roots cooked in the ashes, washed down with tea boiled in an iron bowl which had served as a baler for the boat. The night as it advanced became even more tempestuous than the preceding one. A few bough-tops served to keep them off the damp ground, and on these as many as could find room lay down to sleep, while the rest sat up keeping watch over the fire. Peter Patch finding the flag, which had been hauled down at sunset, wrapped himself up in it—a fortunate circumstance, as it afterwards proved, although the midshipman’s object was of a purely self-interested nature. No songs were sung that evening, and though a few yarns were spun, they were often wonderfully long-drawn, the drowsy listeners scarcely comprehending the drawling words which struck on their ears. The night passed slowly by. They were thankful that the boat had been drawn up on the beach, and placed, as they hoped, in safety, out of the reach of the sea.

The gale increased, thunder roared, and lightning flashed, and the whole harbour, as far as the eye could reach, was lashed into fury.

“I don’t like the look of things, Mr Shafto,” observed the boatswain to Harry, who had just sat up to make room for others. “If the sea was to reach the boat it would soon knock her into splinters. I cannot stand it any longer. With your leave, sir, I’ll go and see if she is all safe.”

Saying this, Bollard started up, Paul Lizard following him. In a short time they were heard shouting, and all the party hurried down to join them, Peter Patch, very unwilling to be roused, bringing up the rear, wrapped, to keep himself warm, in the flag which he had appropriated. They were not a moment too soon. The foaming water had already reached the stern of the boat, and was every now and then lifting her up and letting her fall again on the sandy beach. In a few minutes more she would have been carried away or knocked to pieces. By great exertion they managed to haul her up out of the reach of the surf, though every now and then the water washed up almost round her in a sheet of foam. As it was high tide, they had hopes she would remain safe during the night. Still, although drenched to the skin, they were unwilling to leave her when so much depended on her preservation. Again and again they tried to drag her further up. They were still standing round her, when Willy, looking towards the hill, exclaimed, “Why, surely our fire is blazing up brighter than before.”

“Our fire!” cried Harry. “I am afraid that the hut is in flames! On, lads, we can do no more for the boat, and we may still manage to save the hut.”

The whole party rushed up the hill; but already, as they drew near the top, they saw, to their dismay, that not only the walls, but the roof itself had caught fire. Fanned by the wind, the flames rapidly spread round the building which had cost them so much labour to erect; and so fiercely did the dry grass with which it was covered burn that they could not approach it. Not without difficulty, indeed, did they save the shrouds of the flagstaff, towards which the wind drove the flames.

“And all our grub is inside,” cried Paul Lizard. “I’ll try and save that, even though I get scorched a bit.”

Paul was rushing forward. “Avast,” cried Harry, seizing him by the arm. “My gun and powder flask is within, and any moment the powder may explode.”

Scarcely had he spoken when a loud report was heard, and the shattered flask flew out, just passing between them, and in all probability would have struck Paul on his legs had he gone a few paces further. In a few moments the gun itself went off, but fortunately being in an upright position the shot with which it was loaded flew over their heads.

“The danger is over now, at all events,” said Paul. “And though our breakfast must be pretty well cooked, we must save some of that.” Saying this, he rushed up to the hut with a long stick which he had picked up, and began raking away at the ashes. Tom and another man joined him, and succeeded in scraping out a portion of the seal-flesh and some roots, though, as he observed, holding them up, “somewhat over-roasted.”

“You have forgotten the axes, lads,” cried the boatswain. “Try and get them out, or we shall have a hard matter to put up another hut.” After making several efforts, the heads of the axes were raked out, though the handles had been so burnt and charred as to be useless.

“Never mind that,” observed the boatswain. “We may manage to replace them.”

The walls of the hut, from being of some thickness, continued to burn for a long time.

“Well, lads,” said Harry, “as we cannot save the huts, we must now make up a rousing fire with the remains of the wood, and try and warm ourselves. The rain has fortunately ceased, and we shall get dry in time, I hope.”

The seamen, caring apparently little for the accident, began to pile up the wood they had cut on the remains of their fire, which they scraped to a sufficient distance from the burning hut to enable them to sit round it, laughing and joking as they did so.

“Shouldn’t be surprised but what our bonfire had been seen from the village,” said Paul Lizard. “They will be thinking that a burning mountain has burst forth. Come, lads, pile on more logs. It’s precious cold still, in spite of the fire.”

Fortunately, more wood had been cut for the hut than was required, and this, in addition to the fuel they had collected, enabled them to keep a fire burning till daylight. As may be supposed, no one ventured to go to sleep; indeed, all hands underwent a regular roasting process, sitting now with their backs to the fire, now with one side, now with another, and then facing it, till their wet clothes were tolerably well dried. By the boatswain’s advice they then stripped off their inner garments, which they dried and then put them on again, thoroughly warmed. The latter part of the night was employed in fashioning some fresh handles for the axes out of the toughest pieces of wood they could find, so that they might be ready by daylight to go to work.

“There, my axe is as good as ever,” cried Paul Lizard, as he secured the handle he had just finished.

“And so is mine,” said Tom Wall. “We will soon have the hut up again, and make it a little bigger the next time.”

“That’s the spirit I like, lads,” observed the boatswain. “Never strike your flag while the ship swims. That’s the motto for English seamen; and I hope, lads, you will always stick to it. Now, Paul, just; give us a stave; we have not heard your sweet voice all the night. Just see if you cannot shout as loud as the gale.” Paul thereon, nothing loath, struck up, “Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer.” Paul’s example was followed by others, and daylight broke on them even before they expected its appearance.

Willy was the first to spring to his feet, saying that he would take a run down the hill and up again to warm himself. Peter Patch followed him. They had got a little distance from the bright glare of the fire, when Willy turned his eyes seaward.

“Why, Peter,” he exclaimed, after gazing earnestly for a few seconds, “there is a sail, and not far off the mouth of the harbour.”

“A sail! a sail!” shouted the midshipmen together. All the party sprang to their feet, and every eye was turned in the direction Willy pointed to.

“She is trying to beat in; no doubt about it,” exclaimed the boatswain. “She is a large ship, under jury-masts, but will find it a hard job, though.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Ensign Holt makes himself useful.

Proceedings at the village—Various employments—School established—Ensign Holt recovers his senses—Mrs Morley reads the Bible—The doctor’s excursion inland—The dead seaman buried—Ensign Holt makes himself useful—Anxiety about Harry and his party—Fanny’s meditations—Holt leads expedition to look for Harry.

The party at the village were busily employed. The doctor had set the armourer and cooper to work, to make, under his superintendence, an apparatus for manufacturing sugar and beer. The women, directed by the ever-active Mrs Rumbelow, were scraping the roots which had been collected for that purpose, while the tanner was trying various ways of preparing the seals’-skins. Two or three of the men were endeavouring, with fair success, to make shoes from some they had roughly cured, to replace those of several of the party which were nearly worn-out.

Captain Twopenny and his party returned from his hunting expedition with three hogs. Though they had seen traces of many more, the animals were so active and the country so difficult that they had been unable to kill them. Still it was satisfactory to know that the island possessed means of giving them support besides that which the waters afforded. He had also shot as many birds as the men could carry.

The doctor, ever fertile in resources, had had a stone hut constructed in which both birds and fish could be smoke-dried after the fashion practised in England and elsewhere.

The children had now plenty of work in plucking the birds ready for curing, and afterwards in sorting the feathers for beds and coverlids.

From the first Mrs Morley and her daughters had visited the women’s hut every evening to read the Scriptures and to comfort them in their sorrow. The poor women, most of whom had left their husbands on board the “Ranger,” well knew how truly Mrs Morley could sympathise with them, and listened to her exhortations and advice. Some who had before been very indifferent to matters of religion now looked forward with satisfaction each day to the time when they were to receive a visit from her and the young ladies. She and her daughters held school with all the children at their cottage. It was carried on under difficulties, for they had only one book, but that was the Bible. The young ladies devised, however, various means for teaching the little ones. Some thin flat stones served as slates, and young Broke cut out several sets of letters from wood, which were greatly valued. On Sunday the whole party assembled in the men’s hut, where Harry had conducted a service, and every evening also he had borrowed Mrs Morley’s Bible, and read a chapter to the men. During his absence she now did the same. This system tended greatly to keep the people contented and orderly. They saw that those of superior education among them were resigned to the trials they were called on to endure, and were trusting to the support and protection of that great and merciful God whose message of love to man they every day heard read, and who would send them relief in His good time.

Young as Harry Shafto was, by his firmness and decision he had maintained a strict discipline among the little band, and even the few who might have been disposed to be mutinous never ventured to dispute his authority. Even now that he was absent, they implicitly obeyed the doctor, whom he had left in command.

Poor Ensign Holt has not been mentioned for some time. He had gradually been improving in health and spirits.

“Come, Holt,” said Dr Davis to him one morning. “It is time that you should rouse yourself. We are all exerting ourselves to the utmost for the common good, and I wonder you are not ashamed to sit in the hut doing nothing. Surely it is more degrading to eat the bread of idleness than to labour like the rest of us. Take a spade in hand, and come and dig for roots; or, if you like it better, try to catch, some fish. At least endeavour to gain your daily bread.”

“If I do anything, I’ll work as hard as the rest of you,” said the ensign, with more intelligence in his countenance than had long been there. “What are you going to be about, doctor?”

“To dig for roots. That I suspect was among the first occupations of primeval man, and requires no great exertion of the mind,” answered the doctor. “Here is a spade. Come along.”

Without another word the young officer followed his kind friend, and having been shown the leaf beneath which the root was to be found, set to work and dug away diligently till he had collected as many as he could carry. The doctor sent him back to the village with them, and told him to return without delay. All day long he worked away, and seemed very proud of the pile of roots he had dug up. That evening, by the doctor’s invitation, he attended the meeting in the men’s hut, and listened with great attention while Mrs Morley read the Bible. She afterwards spoke a few kind words to him, expressing her pleasure at seeing him so much improved in health. He burst into tears.

“I have been a good-for-nothing foolish fellow,” he said at length. “But oh, Mrs Morley, if you would but take me in hand, I think there might be a chance of my improvement.”

“If you seek for strength and guidance whence alone it can come, you may be very certain there will be an improvement, dear Mr Holt,” said Mrs Morley, kindly. “The trials you have gone through, and may yet have to endure, will then prove a blessing to you. I will gladly give you counsel and advice, but more I cannot do. Let me remind you only of God’s promise, ‘that if you seek you will find; if you knock, it shall be opened unto you.’”

From that day forward a great change was perceptible in the young ensign. He laboured as hard as any one; and whenever he could borrow Mrs Morley’s Bible, he would sit up for hours together at night reading it diligently.

This had occurred some days before Harry went on his expedition to the harbour. The doctor reminded Captain Twopenny of their intention of burying the body of the unfortunate seaman they had found on the beach. He invited Ensign Holt to accompany him, taking also two men, with spades, who also carried their clubs in case they should fall in with seals. He had his gun, and proposed that Holt should take one also. “No,” answered the ensign. “I am but a poor shot, and should only throw away powder. I will carry your game. I am not of use for much else.” Formerly, how indignant he would have been had such an idea been suggested to him.

They started at daybreak, hoping to get back at night, and to find Shafto and his companions had returned.

The journey was a very fatiguing one. Though the captain knew the way tolerably well, it was noon before they reached the little bay where the dead seaman lay. The ensign seemed greatly struck when he saw it. “Poor fellow,” he said, contemplating the body. “I thought my fate a very hard one, and yet how infinitely worse was that poor fellow’s, cast on this inhospitable shore, perhaps deserted by his companions, and left to die in all the agonies of starvation, without a human voice to soothe his last hours.”

“It won’t do to give way to such thoughts as those, Holt,” observed the captain, who had no sympathy with the ensign’s present state. “Come, lads, we will bury the poor fellow, as we promised, and when we get back, I daresay Mrs Morley will speak about the subject. We have no time to lose, or we shall run the risk of being benighted on the mountain side.”

A shallow grave was dug in the soft earth at the foot of the cliff, and the melancholy remnant of humanity was lifted into it.

“Poor fellow,” said one of the seamen. “You or I, Bill, may come to this one of these days, though, as Mrs Morley says, it matters little if we are prepared.”

“Come, lads,” cried the captain from the top of the cliff, “be quick now. We must make the best of our way homewards.”

The party were tolerably successful in obtaining provisions during the excursion. The captain killed a hog and a number of birds, and the men, after a short combat, knocked a seal on the head whom they found wandering in the woods. The ensign shouldered the hog—fortunately for him, not a very heavy one—the men having cut up the seal, divided the pieces between them, and the captain carried the birds; and thus heavily laden they reached the village soon after nightfall. Before this the rain had begun to fall in dense showers, and a strong gale was blowing.

They found their friends in considerable anxiety about Harry Shafto and his party, who had not returned. The next day was Sunday, and he had promised to be back without fail. A fire was kept burning on the beach, by the doctor’s directions, during the night, to guide his boat into the bay. Emma and Fanny, who had persuaded their mother to go to bed, sat up watching anxiously for his return. Frequently they went to the door, hoping to hear the voices of him and his companions; but the only sound which reached their ears was the howling of the wind through the neighbouring trees, and the roar of the surf upon the rocky shore. They had a good excuse for sitting up, little Bessy being somewhat ill and restless.

“I trust no accident has happened to Mr Shafto,” said Emma, when, after waiting several hours, Harry did not appear. “His life is of great consequence to us all.”

“It is indeed,” sighed Fanny. “Oh, no, no, it would be too dreadful to think of. But what can have delayed him?”

“The boat may have struck on the rocks, and have been injured,” observed Emma; “or, as the wind blows down the harbour, that may have delayed him.”

“But the wind was blowing up the harbour all day,” said Fanny. “I hope Dr Davis will send an expedition along the shore to search for them. They took, I am afraid, but a small amount of provisions, and may be suffering from hunger.”

“I daresay they will, after all, appear early to-morrow,” observed Emma. “They can row up, if they are unable to sail.”

Fanny was less hopeful than her sister. She could not help acknowledging to herself that she felt a deep interest in the brave young officer, under whose guidance, and in consequence of whose judgment and courage, the lives of the whole party had—humanly speaking—been preserved. Though Harry had treated her, and her mother and sister, with the most gentle and thoughtful attention, he had not by word or look showed that he felt especial regard for her. But this, she was sure that, under the circumstances in which they were placed, he would be very careful to avoid doing, “Yet why should I allow such thoughts to enter my mind,” she said to herself. “Perhaps it may be our lot never to leave this place, and how selfish in me to think thus when my poor mother is weighed down with such a burden of grief, which it should be my sole thought how best to alleviate!”

The morning came. The gale was blowing with even greater violence than during the night. Still there were no signs of the boat. The seamen told the doctor that this was no wonder, as she would be unable to get up while the wind held in its present quarter. Still, several of them went down along the shore to a considerable distance, but came back without having seen any signs of the missing party, two of them who went beyond the rest declaring that they could not get any further, as Tippo Sahib had chased them, and that they had had to run for their lives.

The usual Sunday service was conducted in the men’s hut, and all seemed especially serious and attentive. As soon as it was over, Ensign Holt, as he accompanied the doctor to their hut, said, “I hope all is well with Shafto; but still the ladies seem very anxious about him; and if you will let me, doctor, I will start off, and try to find our friends. I daresay, one or two of the men will be ready to accompany me, and we will take as large a supply of provisions as we can carry. They may, at all events, be hard up for food, wherever they are.”

“A good idea of yours, Holt,” answered the doctor, “though, as probably they would have been able to kill a seal or two, I have no apprehension on that score. My idea is that the boat has met in with an accident somewhere round the coast. The danger is that you may miss them, as they will probably take the shortest route across the country. We will talk the matter over. It is late for starting to-day; but if they do not appear to-night, or early to-morrow morning, I should say that you ought to set off.”

Had Fanny Morley been consulted she might possibly have advised the ensign to set off immediately. She was very grateful to him when she heard of his proposal; and she and Emma assisted Mrs Rumbelow in arranging some knapsacks and baskets, in which he and his companions might carry provisions for the party.

The day passed by—the morning came—the boat did not appear—and the ensign, with two men and young Broke, who begged to accompany them, prepared to set out on their expedition.

Few would have recognised the helpless creature who landed on the island a short time before in the active young man, with a bright and intelligent eye, who was to lead the party. He felt that he had work before him, and that he could be of use to his fellow-creatures.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Wreck of the Crusader.

Watching ship from Flagstaff-hill—Ship approaches harbour—Pronounced to be an emigrant ship—Launching boat to assist ship—Ship enters the sound—The emigrant ship in danger—Cutter puts off—The ship anchors near reef—Boat gets alongside—Mrs Clagget’s tongue heard—Passengers lowered into boat—Dangerous passage to the shore—The “Crusader” driven on the reef—Watching wreck from the beach—Harry returns to the wreck—Bill Windy’s brave exploit—Communication established with shore—Sea breaking over ship—Captain Westerway the last to leave—Encampment on the shore—Good hope for the future—Arrival of Ensign Holt—Mutiny among the crew—Mawson ringleader of mutineers—Resolve to build a vessel.

We left Harry Shafto and his companions on the brow of the hill, watching with intense eagerness the ship they had just discovered as she endeavoured to beat up towards the mouth of the harbour.

“They must have seen our hut blazing during the night, and it probably served them as a beacon,” remarked Harry. “What we considered our misfortune was to their advantage.”

“Ay, ay, Mr Shafto, it’s an ill wind that blows no one good,” observed the boatswain. “I only wish she had the wind freer. It will be no easy matter for that big ship, rigged as she is, to beat up this harbour, and when she is inside it is hard to say where she can bring up; for, with the wind shifting and veering about, there is no safe anchorage that I could find for her.”

“She would not attempt to come in here unless she was in distress,” remarked Harry. “And if, as is probable, there are passengers on board, they may be landed here with less danger than on the open coast, even should she get on shore.”

“I should not like to insure her against doing that,” said the boatswain. “Heaven help her and the poor people on board. If the captain knows the place, he would rather have kept out at sea than tried to come in here. See, she is about again, and is standing to the south’ard. Perhaps, after all, he thinks he had better not make the attempt.”

“We must run up the flag. It will help them to find the mouth of the inner harbour, at all events,” said Harry. “Come, Patch, you must give up your cloak; you can do without it now.”

The curiously-contrived flag was quickly hoisted and flew out to the breeze.

The party stood in silence watching the ship for some time. They were too anxious about her to make many remarks. The gale continued blowing as hard as ever. Suddenly it shifted to the southwest, the ship fell off a few points, and then she was seen slowly to come about, and once more she headed up towards the harbour.

“He has made up his mind to come in. No doubt about that,” observed the boatswain.

“It is time, Mr Shafto, for us to launch the boat, to go off to her, and we may then be ready. The captain thinks if he is once inside he will be all safe, but to my mind he will be greatly mistaken.”

“I’ll follow your advice, Mr Bollard,” said Harry. “We will do our best, lads, to help the people if the ship gets on shore. I know that I can depend on you.”

“Ay, ay, sir, and never fear,” answered the men, as they followed the young officer down the the hill. They kept the ship in sight all the way, and could still see her clearly from the beach.

On she stood, and the wind holding, she was able to steer directly for the harbour. Under ordinary circumstances she would have appeared secure of entering a haven of safety; but with the wind constantly shifting, the rocky shore on either side, and deep water close up to it, there would still be great danger, even should she succeed in making the entrance.

The boat was reached, but now came the difficulty of launching her; for the wind having shifted to the south, the sea raised across the broad estuary drove directly into the bay. Could they once get her safely through the surf, however, they might obtain shelter under the western point, where a reef running out formed a natural breakwater. They ran her down the beach, but when near the water both Harry and the boatswain hesitated about attempting to launch her. Should they not succeed in getting her quickly through the surf, one of the heavy seas which were breaking on the shore might roll her over and knock her to pieces, as well as endanger all their lives. Still, if they waited till any accident happened to the ship, they might be too late to render assistance to those on board.

As the stranger stood in, the English flag was seen flying at her peak, and from her appearance the boatswain pronounced her to be a merchantman, probably an Australian emigrant ship, and that if so she would probably have numerous passengers on board.

“She has evidently been fearfully knocked about,” said Harry, who was looking at her through his spy-glass. “And I can only see one quarter-boat. Come, lads, we must try to launch the cutter. Dicey and Patch, do you jump in and stand by with the oars. When I give the word, we will run her down without stopping, and back out as the sea falls off.”

Harry waited till a heavy sea broke on the shore, then all hands uniting their strength, in another instant the boat was afloat. They leaped in, the oars were out in a moment, and before the next sea broke, the boat had been urged fifty fathoms from the beach. Only one small patch of water was visible where she could remain in safety, close inside the reef. They pulled towards it, the seas, as they rolled in, threatening to capsize her. It was reached, and by keeping the boat’s head towards the outer rocks they were able to lie in comparative safety, and watch the progress of the ship.

“If the wind holds she will get in, and may be come to anchor under the south island,” observed Bollard.

“It would be safer for her, then, to run up the inner harbour; for should the wind afterwards shift, she would be placed in a dangerous position,” said Harry.

“No doubt about that, sir,” observed Bollard. “The chances are that she will leave her ribs on the rocks.”

“If so, we must do our best to save the people,” said Harry. “The sea breaks heavily along the shore, and they will be placed in great danger.”

The ship meantime was standing boldly on, keeping close to the southern shore, for the purpose evidently of being well to windward. She had already reached the entrance of the sound, and now she was in comparatively smooth water, though the fierce gale made her heel over, threatening every instant to carry away her masts. It must have been an anxious time to those on board. Away to leeward the waves were dashing fiercely on the rockbound coast, and well they must have known, should any accident happen, that no power could save them from driving against it, when few could have hoped to escape with life.

The party in the boat continued anxiously to watch the ship. Harry was considering how he could best render her assistance. It was a long way by land to the mouth of the sound, and should she drive on shore in that direction, all on board might be lost before he and his party could reach the spot. Still the masts held, and the captain evidently dared not shorten sail, as only by carrying on could he hope to keep to windward.

“He is a brave seaman, whoever he may be,” observed Bollard. “Hold on, good sticks, hold on, and you may still bring the stout ship into port!” he added, apostrophising the masts.

“They see our flagstaff, and will probably steer for it,” said Harry. “Or perhaps they are aware of the existence of the inner harbour, and purpose running up to an anchorage.”

The ship had now got within two miles of where the boat lay; and, sheltered somewhat by the land, she stood up more bravely than before to her canvas. The captain evidently did not like the look of the shore on his port side, as no preparations were made for coming to an anchor.

“She will do it now,” cried Bollard, “if the wind holds for another quarter of an hour. See, she is keeping away. They have made out the entrance of the inner harbour. We might pull outside the reef, Mr Shafto, and get on board, to pilot her in. If they see us coming, they will have ropes ready for us.”

“It would be no easy matter to reach her, and we shall risk our lives and the loss of the boat, if we make the attempt till she is in smoother water,” said Harry. “However, we may pull round to the harbour, and lead her in; they will be looking out for a boat, and will be sure to see us. Now, lads, give way. Dicey and Patch, you must keep the bailers going, for we shall ship some seas, and must be prepared. We will first get to windward, and step the mast, and then run merrily up.”

The ship was now standing almost across the sound, making directly for the mouth of the inner harbour. As she drew nearer, the gush of water from her sides, evidently forced out by pumps at work, showed her distressed condition, and the reason which had induced her commander to seek a haven instead of keeping the open sea. The boat had just got from under the shelter of the reef, when the wind again shifted several points to the westward, and blew with greater violence than before. The crew tugged bravely at their oars; but all their efforts could scarcely send the boat ahead in the teeth of the gale. The ship, heeling over, made her way across the sound. The mouth of the harbour was almost reached, when with redoubled violence the wind struck her. Down she heeled, and all her masts in one instant falling over her side, she lay a helpless wreck upon the water, driving rapidly towards the reef. So close was she already that Harry could see the people running along her decks. An anchor was let go, but even when the whole cable had run out, so great was the depth of water that it did not hold. Another anchor followed. Still the ship drove onwards.

Harry, forgetting his previous caution, urged his men to pull out, in the hopes of getting alongside before she struck, and saving, if possible, some of the females who might be on board. There was but little time to do so, however, for she was already within three cables’ lengths of the rocks.

“She holds! she holds!” cried Willy. The last anchor had brought her up. “Whatever becomes of the ship, lads, the people may be saved.”

It was now seen that the only boat had been stove in when the masts were carried away.

“The lives of those on board may depend on our exertions, lads,” cried Harry, when he discovered this. The crew thus encouraged and incited, used every effort to reach the sorely battered vessel. Several persons were seen collected on the poop, eagerly watching their approach. It was too probable that the anchor would not long hold, and when, driven on the reef, her destruction would be inevitable.

At length the boat succeeded in getting under the ship’s quarter. “Let no one attempt to get into the boat till the women are cared for,” cried some one from the poop in a stern voice, as the boat lay tossing up and down.

A chair slung by ropes was lowered with a female in it, who shrieked out as she descended, “Hold on tight, hold on tight, good sailors! hold on, I pray you, hold on tight! Don’t let me drop into the water. I was ready to sacrifice myself for the good of the rest by coming first; hold on, hold on!”

Her tongue had been heard even before the chair was over the side, and continuing till she was unlashed and handed over to the boatswain into the stern of the boat, where she continued uttering exclamations without intermission. “Oh, do take care of the girls, they are under my charge. Let them come next; I must not be separated from them.”

“Why,” exclaimed Willy, as he caught sight of the lady’s features, “are you not Mrs Clagget, and are my sisters and Charles with you?”

“Yes, to be sure they are, and there comes Emily. And is it possible that you are Willy Dicey, and can I believe my senses?” was the answer.

Willy did not stop to reply, but sprang to the bow of the boat to assist his sister, who was just then being lowered down. May followed her. Harry recognised them. “Is Charles with you?” he asked, as he carried May aft.

“Oh, yes. Can he come with us?”

“Not till the other women are safe,” he answered. “I am sure he would not.”

There was no time to exchange further words, for more women and children were being lowered down. Poor Mrs Bolton, when she had got all her children with her, cried out for her husband, but the necessary rule was adhered to.

“He will come next trip, when you are all landed,” said Harry.

Though anxious to take off as many as the boat could carry, Harry, afraid of overloading her, at length resolved to take no more.

The passage to the shore, though short, was full of danger. The oars were got out, the rope which held her to the ship cast off, and now came the fierce struggle with the seas. The crew had to exert their utmost strength to clear the end of the reef. Those who watched her from the deck must have trembled for their safety. Often it seemed as if she must be driven into the surf, which broke in sheets of foam over the rocks; but the strong arms of the crew and their tough oars did not fail them. The point of the reef was doubled, and the boat now glided into comparatively smooth water within it. Instead of attempting to run on the beach, Harry steered her towards some rocks which formed the inner part of the reef. Even here the landing was far from easy. While some of the men kept the boat from being dashed against the rocks, Harry, with the boatswain and the rest, leaped into the water.

“Come, marm,” said Mr Bollard to Mrs Clagget. “You were the first in the boat, and you should be the first out, and do just cling on to my back, and I will soon place you on dry ground.”

“Oh, you will let me into the water, I know you will,” answered Mrs Clagget.

“No, no, marm, don’t be afraid,” said Bollard, seizing her hands, and lifting her up on his shoulders as he would have carried his hammock. “You must set the rest of the ladies an example.”

Mrs Clagget’s tongue did not cease; but the boatswain, regardless of what she said, ran with her over the rocks, and putting her down, quickly returned to the boat. Harry in the meantime having landed May, the boatswain next took up Emily, and bore her to the shore, while Willy and Peter scrambled over the rocks, each with a child on his shoulders. One after the other, the whole of the passengers were thus landed.

The midshipmen were then about to jump into the boat. “No, Dicey, do you and Patch remain on shore, and take care of the women,” said Harry. “If we are lost, there will be no one to send for help to the settlement. You understand me? I can trust to your judgment. Good-bye.” Saying this, Harry ordered the crew to shove off, and once more pulled away to the ship.

Harry had frequently cast an anxious glance towards her. She appeared already to have got nearer the reef; and his fear was, knowing the depth of the water on the outside and her already leaky condition, that, should she strike, she might go down before the rest of the people could be landed.

The boat had got to the outer end of the reef, when so heavy a squall met her that the crew, though exerting all their strength, in vain attempted to pull against it. The ship felt its force; nearer and nearer she drew to the reef, pitching her bows into the seas as they rolled along nearly the whole length of the broad estuary. At last she rose to a heavier sea than ordinary. The cable parted, and the hapless “Crusader” drove stern-on to the rocks. She struck heavily, the falling sea driving her broadside on to them. To rescue any of those on board from the outside of the reef was now an operation of too much danger to be attempted, and Harry, by the boatswain’s advice, steered back, hoping to establish a communication with the ship across the reef.

Emily and May Dicey stood on the beach, watching with fearful apprehension the ship as she lay with her broadside against the reef, the sea wildly breaking over her. “Oh! they will be lost, they will be lost,” cried May.

Emily clasped her hands. “Willy, can nothing be done for them?” she exclaimed.

“I hope so,” said Willy. “If man can help them, Harry Shafto and Bollard will do it.”

Most of the poor women were uttering cries and lamentations in their terror for the safety of their husbands left on board. There were still also a number of poor women and children. Willy felt more anxious for them even than for the men.

The boat was seen coming back. “Oh, they have given it up. There is no hope for them! Dear, dear Charles! he will be lost. I wish we had stayed with him,” cried May.

“I am very sure Harry Shafto has not given it up,” said Willy. “He knows that the only way to get the people out of the ship is on this side. We shall soon see what he is about to do.”

The part of the reef where the ship had struck was under water, and some distance from the point of rocks which ran out from the shore. Had she gone to pieces and no boat been at hand, although so close to the land, the greater number, if not all, might have perished, for the surf as it receded would have carried them off, and even the strongest swimmer would have found it difficult to make way against it.

Harry and his brave crew were now seen to approach as near the ship as they could venture without the risk of being carried on the rocks. Several persons were standing on the ship’s starboard bow, which was now nearest the shore. One of them held a coil of light rope in his hands; he hove it, but it fell short. Again and again he made the attempt. At length a person standing near was observed to fasten it round his waist, when, holding on by another rope, he lowered himself down. He waited till the receding sea had gone past him, and then, as another rolled up, he leaped on its crest, and was borne onwards, striking out boldly towards the beach. On he struggled. Again the receding sea bore him backwards towards the reef. He redoubled his exertions. Harry ordered the cutter to “back in,” anxious to assist the brave fellow. The rocks appeared fearfully close. He stretched out his hand to grasp the swimmer’s arm. “Give way, lads, give way,” he shouted; and the boatswain coming to his assistance, they hauled the man in, and secured the rope which was fastened to his waist. They now pulled away across the little bay formed by the reef and the shore, towards a high rock which jutted out from the beach.

“I thought Bill Windy would do it,” exclaimed the man who had been rescued; and without shaking the water from his clothes, he began hauling in on the line which he had brought with him. At the other end was a hawser which the boat now towed towards the rock. Leaping on to it, the boatswain and Lizard made fast the hawser. A communication was thus established between the vessel and the shore.

Emily and May, with the rest of the party on the beach, had been watching these proceedings with intense eagerness. The boat again pulled back towards the wreck. The brave mate was seen to cling to the hawser, and work his way back. Several times the surf covered him, but he held on tight, and, emerging from the water, clambered up the bows of the ship. The hawser was tautened up, while the boat hung on to it, ready to receive the next comers. The mate was soon again seen making his way along the hawser, carrying another line and a block. He reached the boat in safety, when the block was secured, just above the boat. A cradle, which had meantime been prepared, was slung on the hawser; but eager as those on board were to reach a place of safety, they appeared to hesitate about trusting themselves to it.

“Why are they losing so much precious time?” cried Emily. “How fearfully the sea is breaking over the ship; any moment she may be dashed to pieces, or fall off the rocks into the deep water. Oh, see! see! there is a man making the attempt with two children. It is Mr Paget.” That gentleman, finding others hesitated, had taken two infants from their mothers’ arms, and had seated himself in the cradle, to set an example to the rest of the people on board. Holding on with one hand, and steadying the cradle with the other, though the surf as it rose washed over him more than once, he reached the boat with his charges.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Emily. “He is safe! he is safe! And there is Charles; he is following the brave example.”

Several other persons succeeded in gaining the boat. Tom Loftus, Jack Ivyleaf, and Mr Bolton, the father of the large family already on shore, were among them. Each brought either a couple of children or one of the women with him—the latter being afraid of trusting themselves alone. The boat was already full, and as yet no casualty had occurred; but the danger was every instant increasing. The tide was rising, the sea striking with fearful violence against the side of the ship, making every timber in her quiver. It need not be told how heartily those who now reached the shore were welcomed by the party already on the beach—how his wife and children clung round Mr Bolton; how Emily and May pressed Charles’ hand; and how, in voluble language, Mrs Clagget expressed her satisfaction at seeing her fellow-passengers out of the terrible wreck.

Harry, without stopping a moment after the last person had landed, again pulled across the bay. Already several of the sailors were seen making their way along the hawser independent of the cradle. As the boat approached, they then dropped one by one into her. Bill Windy rated them for not remaining on board.

“You should have stopped to get up provisions, you rascals,” he exclaimed. “How are all these people to be fed?”

“Little hope of getting provisions or anything else,” answered one of the men, “when the chances are that the ship will be knocked to pieces, or go down before the day is many minutes older.”

“Greater need for you to have stopped and helped to get them into the boat,” said Windy. “But, bear a hand, and assist these people off the cradle.”

The same operation as before was repeated, till the boat was once more full, all the remaining women and children being got into her.

A rush was now seen to take place towards the forecastle, and a heavy sea struck the after-part of the ship, carrying away a large portion of the stern upper works. What would next happen it was not difficult to foretell. Several unfortunate people who had remained there were hurled into the surf. In vain they struggled—no assistance could be given them—and, one by one, they were carried away. Had anything been necessary to make the nigh worn-out crew of the boat increase their exertions, this would have done so. Happily, the hawser still remained secure. Harry shouted to the master, who unflinchingly was standing on the forecastle directing the landing of the people, to put himself into the cradle. “No, no,” he answered. “Not while a man remains on board will I quit the ship.” At length, contrary to the expectations of many, nearly all the surviving passengers and crew were got safely into the boat. Besides the captain, only one trembling wretch remained. He clung frantically to the bulwarks, afraid of quitting his hold, and trusting himself to the cradle.

“Come, Mr Mawson,” exclaimed Captain Westerway, “I am hauling the cradle back for the last time, and if you do not go, before many minutes you will be carried off by the sea, and no power on earth can help you.”

The wretched man looked up with pale cheeks and staring eyes. “I dare not, I dare not,” he answered. “But will you not save me, Captain Westerway?”

“Save you! I want you to save yourself!” said the captain, taking him by the shoulder. “Come, get in there, and hold tight;” and the captain lifted the trembling wretch, and forced him into the cradle. He shrieked out with alarm as he felt himself moving, clinging convulsively to the hawser; but the men in the boat, more for the captain’s sake than his, hauled away, and quickly had him out; and the cradle was travelling back for their brave commander. As he was placing himself in it he felt the ship tremble violently. The sea which struck her washed over him. Those in the boat thought he was gone, but to their joy they saw him still holding on to the hawser. They hauled away with all their strength, for a few seconds’ delay might have caused his destruction. A loud cheer burst from their throats as he reached the boat, and at that moment the upper part of the ship, to which the hawser was made fast, parted, and was speedily washed away.

The old captain sighed as he watched the ship breaking up. “I would gladly have been among the poor fellows lost; and yet, no. I am wrong to say that. It is my duty to look after those who are saved.”

The survivors of the passengers and crew of the ill-fated “Crusader” were now collected on the beach. Though saved from a watery grave, how fearful would have been their condition had Harry and his companions not been there to assist them! As it was, starvation stared them in the face. How could all be fed with the scanty supply of provisions which he possessed. Bill Windy proposed going back to the wreck; but now that the communication with her had been cut off, it was impossible to get on board without the greatest danger. Evening, too, was approaching, and shelter must be found for the women and children. Harry despatched some of his men for the axes to cut wood for fuel and building huts, while he and others hauled up the boat, and by turning her partly over under the cliff, provided shelter for the whole of the women and children; while a large fire made in front enabled the shipwrecked party to dry their drenched garments. Willy and Peter hastened off to the spring to obtain water. The poor children were crying out for food. Such as Harry had he divided among them and their mothers, but nearly the whole party were already suffering from hunger.

At the settlement all might be fed and sheltered, but many hours must elapse before they could reach it. He knew, too, that in the dark it would be almost hopeless to make the attempt. He resolved, however, to start the next morning with a party of the men, who might return with provisions; but in the meantime he feared that many would suffer greatly. He held a consultation with Captain Westerway, Mr Paget, and Charles as to what was best to be done.

“Should the weather moderate in the morning, or the wind shift, I still have hopes that we may get some provisions from the ship,” answered the captain. “If not, the men, at all events, can hold out a few hours; and as there seems to be an abundance of wood in the island, we may form litters, and carry the women and children who are unable to walk. We have hitherto been so mercifully preserved that I do not fear for the future. Had it not been for the light you showed on shore, Mr Shafto, we should none of us at this time have been alive. The men were nearly worn-out at the pumps, and I had no hopes of keeping the ship afloat many hours longer, when, as we were standing to the eastward, we caught sight of the light on shore, and I at once knew that it must be on a part of the Auckland Islands.”

“Our hut did not catch fire by chance, then,” said Harry. “We were mourning its loss, little thinking of the advantage it would be to others. You would probably not have seen the ordinary fire we had kept burning.”

While they were talking a shout was heard, and Willy and Peter Patch were seen hurrying up, followed by Ensign Holt with a couple of men and young Broke, each carrying a heavy load of seals’ flesh on his shoulders.

“Here is food for you all, good people,” shouted the midshipmen. “No fear of starving now, for Holt says they left a couple more big fellows which they knocked on the head not a mile away.”

Harry warmly welcomed him. The ensign’s astonishment was, as may be supposed, very great at seeing so large a party. He at once volunteered to go back to the spot where he and his companions had killed the seals, with any of the people who would accompany him, to obtain a further supply of their flesh.

Meantime, Harry and Captain Westerway set all hands to work. While some were cooking the seals’ flesh, others brought in fuel, and poles, and boughs to build huts. A tent was formed of the boats’ sails which Harry begged the Miss Diceys, Mrs Clagget, and the other ladies to occupy. Some, however, of the merchant seamen grumbled on being ordered to work by the young naval officer, asserting that as they were now on shore, and their ship stranded, they were free men, and would do what they liked.

“As you please,” said Harry. “But no work, no pay. You will have, at all events, to forage for yourself.”

The mutineers, who had sat down at some distance from the rest of the party, at length appeared to repent of their resolution, and one of them came up, humbly begging for some meat, and fuel to keep up a fire. Harry, not sorry to be relieved of their society, granted them their request. They were joined by some of the younger emigrants, and Charles observed that Job Mawson stole off and sat himself down among them.

Ensign Holt and his party returned at dark with an ample supply of food, and by this time all the huts for which they had materials were erected, and the shipwrecked people, thankful that their lives had been spared, prepared to pass their first night on shore, no one knowing how many more they might have to spend on the island before they could make their escape.

The storm continued blowing, but the rain held off. Harry and his men went about renewing the fires, so as to keep the poor women and children as warm as possible. The chief annoyance arose from the noise made by the mutineers. They had been seen wandering about, and appeared to have hauled something on shore. Not long afterwards they began to sing, and shout, and shriek out in the wildest fashion. At last the sounds died away, and their fire alone, smouldering in the distance, showed where they were.

Captain Westerway took but little rest; he seemed dreadfully cast down at the loss of his ship, in spite of the consolation which Charles, Mr Paget, and Harry tried to give him.

“I had thought, when I came in here, to get the leaks stopped, and continue the voyage to New Zealand,” he said, sighing deeply.

“We do not know what can be done yet,” said Harry. “At all events, we may build a new vessel out of the old one; and though she cannot carry all the people, she may give notice of our condition, and a larger one may be sent from New Zealand to our relief. So you see, Captain Westerway, your loss is our gain; for had you not come in, months or years might have passed before we could have made our escape, and the anxiety of our friends have been relieved.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Shipbuilding.

Preparations for moving to village—Litters formed for ladies—Holt leads the party—Willy and Peter carry May—The journey commenced—Stores and boat recovered from wreck—Mutineers disappear—Keel of “Young Crusader” laid.

The morning was too tempestuous to allow the boat to make the passage to the settlement. Harry, therefore, set all the men to work to construct litters on which the ladies and the weaker women and children might be carried, Ensign Holt having undertaken to show the way, which he declared practicable, though in places somewhat rough and marshy.

The women meantime were busily employed in preparing breakfast. Paul Lizard had, fortunately, some hooks and lines in his pocket, and he set the boys to work to catch fish.

The mutineers did not appear; but Willy and Peter were sent to see what had become of them, and they reported that they were lying asleep round the ashes of their fire, with a spirit cask near them, a small portion of the liquor only remaining in it. Harry felt that it was important for him to return to the settlement, in order to make preparations for the support of so many people, or he would gladly have remained with Captain Westerway, to assist him in getting stores from the wreck, and seeing what could be done to build another vessel, as had been proposed. He left, however, Bollard and Lizard with him; while he, taking young Broke as his guide, and four of the emigrants, set off towards the settlement, it being arranged that Ensign Holt, aided by Mr Paget, Charles, and the other gentlemen, should conduct the main body.

Captain Westerway undertook, should he be able to obtain the provisions, to send them up in the cutter, under charge of Mr Bollard, One of the ship’s boats, though stove in so as then to be useless, remained on deck; and the captain hoped, should she not be washed away, to repair her sufficiently to be of use in visiting the wreck.

Some time passed before the young ensign’s party were ready to start, and had been supplied with food. Several of the women had found biscuits in their pockets, which afforded support to the younger children. The young ladies had begged to be allowed to walk, but were assured that their shoes were unfit for the rough ground which they would have to traverse. Willy and Peter, with two other boys, insisted on carrying May, while Emily’s litter was borne by her elder brother, Mr Paget, Tom Loftus, and Jack Ivyleaf. Mrs Clagget declined taking her seat on the litter prepared for her. “No, no; you men will be letting me down in the middle of a bog,” she exclaimed. “If some one would lend me a pair of boots, I would show you that I could trudge as well as any body.” As may be supposed, no boots were to be procured; but Jack Ivyleaf, ever fertile in resources, undertook to fit the old lady with a pair of seal-skin moccasins, which would protect her feet from the rocks.

The party formed a long line, not unlike a caravan prepared to cross the desert. They were in tolerable spirits, but the more thoughtful ones could not help feeling anxious about the means of supplying so many mouths with food.

As soon as they had started, Captain Westerway launched the boat, to be ready to visit the wreck directly the weather moderated sufficiently. Meantime, while some of the people were collecting the pieces of timber and planking which were washed on shore, others were engaged in cutting wood for building the huts they required to shelter them from the cold and rain at night.

Towards evening the sea had gone down sufficiently to enable the captain and his first mate, with Mr Bollard, to get alongside the ship. A short inspection soon convinced them that she was a hopeless wreck.

“It cannot be helped, Windy,” said Captain Westerway, with a sigh. “We must now try to make the best of what remains of her.”

“Cheer up, captain,” answered the mate; “though the old ‘Crusader’ will carry us no longer over the ocean, we will have a ‘Young Crusader’ built before long, and she will do good service if, by her means, we can get away to some Christian land. We might have been much worse off than we are, and, to my mind, we have no cause to grumble. Here’s our boat still safe, and, with some tinkering, she may be made to swim and serve us well. We will tow her on shore; but first we will see what provisions we can come at to carry with us.”

Bill and his companions at once set to work. A cask of beef, another of pork, and three of flour were found, besides several articles—among the most valuable was the carpenter’s tool chest, and a quantity of iron. These were at once lowered into the boat. A number of sails were also got up, and thus laden they returned in her to the shore.

Another trip only could be made that night, when more hands were taken off to assist in the work.

The various articles brought from the wreck greatly raised the spirits of the party. The sails, stretched on poles they had cut, made comfortable tents, and they had now food in abundance.

“I wish those mutinous chaps had not been such fools,” observed Windy. “I wonder what has become of them.”

On inquiries being made, it was found that the mutineers, headed by Job Mawson, had been seen making their way across the country in the direction of the settlement.

“I hope they will not have gone to annoy the people there,” observed the boatswain. “The men are often away hunting or fishing, and only the ladies and a few other women and children are left at the huts.”

“They are not likely to get there before Mr Shafto, at all events,” said the captain. “We need not trouble ourselves about them.”

Still Bill Windy was not quite comfortable in his mind. Three or four of the crew were great scoundrels, and several of the emigrants were ruffianly fellows, ready to engage in any sort of mischief.

The captain and his mates, with Mr Bollard, sat up for several hours arranging the plan of the vessel, which they proposed commencing as soon as the timber could be got from the wreck. By daybreak they commenced repairing the boat, and she being put to rights, they were able to proceed more rapidly in getting the stores and provisions on shore. A raft was also formed to facilitate the operation.

So hard did they work—the weather still continuing favourable—that before many days had passed the keel of the “Young Crusader” was laid, the old ship disappearing by the efforts of those who a short time before were so anxious for her preservation.

Nothing had been seen of the mutineers. “They must take the consequences of their foolishness,” observed Bill Windy, “and, the chances are, will have to spend the best part of their days on this island.”

Meantime, Captain Westerway had not forgotten the party at the settlement, and sent up Mr Bollard in the cutter, laden with some of the provisions which had been saved.

Chapter Nineteen.

The Cutter is carried off.

Journey of emigrants to village—Rough travelling—Pursued by mutineers—Tippo comes to the rescue—Welcome at the village—Arrival of provisions—Arrangements for victualling the settlement—Mutineers seen watching village—The cutter carried off—The “Young Crusader” completed—Mrs Morley resolves to remain—Mrs Rumbelow stays with her charges—Preparations for embarking—The “Young Crusader” at the settlement.

Ensign Holt and the party of emigrants he was leading made very good progress on their journey towards the settlement. The only grumbler was Mrs Clagget, as she trudged on with a long stick in her hand, sometimes by the side of the Diceys, and at others addressing her remarks to Mrs Jones. However, as it was so evident that she talked for the sake of keeping her tongue in motion, no one minded her. She regained her good humour when, soon after mid-day, the party halting for dinner, fires were lighted, and steaks frizzling before them. They had had woods to cut through, boggy ground to cross, and rugged stony hills to climb. She, however, got along as well as any one, and her example encouraged the other women who had to travel on foot. Their spirits were revived when their young leader told them that they were within a mile of the settlement.

The last of the party were climbing the ledge of rocks which formed one side of the sandy bay when, on looking back, they saw several men following.

“Why, I do believe they are those fellows who would not work yesterday,” observed one of the emigrants. “And there is that ill-conditioned chap, Job Mawson, among them. I cannot help thinking they mean mischief.”

The mutineers, for such they evidently were, on seeing the party, hurried on; but as they got halfway across the sandy shore of the bay, a huge seal suddenly darted out of the wood, and seeing the men running, made chase. He soon overtook the nearest, whom he knocked over, giving him a fierce bite, and then rushed at the next, whom he treated in the same way. Willy and Peter, who had stopped on the top of the ridge to rest, hearing the cries, looked round.

“Why,” exclaimed Willy, “that is our old friend Tippo Sahib, and he is giving those fellows their deserts.”

Tippo Sahib sure enough it was. The mutineers, who had never seen such a creature before, seized with a panic, ran off in all directions, two or three overtaking the party of emigrants.

“No, no, we don’t want you fellows,” cried the men. “You be off now, or you will be sorry for it.”

Two of the mutineers humbly petitioned to be allowed to keep with the party, when Willy at length told them that they might do so if they would behave better in future. The rest by this time were nowhere to be seen, having run into the wood to escape, as they hoped, from the strange beast which had attacked them.

As the travellers neared the settlement, Mrs Morley, with her daughters and Mrs Twopenny, came out to welcome them. The former invited Emily and May to their cottage, while Mrs Clagget, introducing herself to Mrs Twopenny, told her she should be happy to take up her abode with her.

Harry having reached the settlement some time before, preparations were already being made for the reception of the party. The men willingly turned out to give up their huts to the women and children. Fires were lighted, and several of the people were busy, under the direction of Mrs Rumbelow, cooking food, while the men were employed in bringing in wood for forming fresh huts. Harry started off a fresh party to assist those already engaged in the work. The gentlemen laboured as hard as any of the men, and in a short time a row of huts, constructed after the fashion of those already built, rose near them.

Harry’s chief anxiety was, however, to provide food for so many mouths, as he saw the store which had been made for the former party rapidly diminishing. Some of the emigrants grumbled, too, at not having a greater variety. Seal-soup and fried roots served for breakfast, and boiled or roasted seal, with baked roots and water, for dinner, while the same fare was served at supper. Sometimes fish varied the material for their meals; but neither they nor mussels were to be obtained when the weather was stormy, and the sea broke with violence on the rocks.

Several days passed away, when a sail was seen coming up the harbour. She was recognised as the cutter. Nearly all the inhabitants of the little settlement ran down to welcome her. She had on board several casks and kegs brought by the boatswain from the wreck. They were eagerly rolled up to the huts, when they were found to contain flour and beef, raisins and suet. “Hurrah! we shall have English beef and plum-pudding now,” exclaimed numerous voices. The doctor, however, who acted as store-keeper, ordered them at once to be placed in safe keeping, to be served out as required. He soon afterwards held a consultation with Mrs Rumbelow. Under his directions, an oven was constructed, while he set to work in his laboratory to manufacture some yeast, or risings, as Mrs Rumbelow called the composition; and the next morning a supply of hot rolls was distributed among the women and children. How delicious they appeared to those who had for many a long day not tasted a morsel of bread!

Bollard brought word that considerable progress had already been made in building the “Young Crusader,” and Captain Westerway requested that he might be supplied with such provisions as the island afforded, in order to husband those which had been saved from the wreck, as they would be required as stores for the vessel. Among other things, he brought several cases of gunpowder, and the sportsmen were therefore able to range the island with their guns in search of game.

Parties went out daily to dig for roots. Traps were constructed for catching birds; at low water, mussels were sought for on the rocks; and more hooks being made, the number of fishermen was greatly increased. The days, however, were short, and the weather frequently so very bad that they had literally to make hay while the sun shone. As provisions could be obtained they were sent by sea to the shipbuilders, and when the wind blew too strong to allow the boat to make the passage, they were sent overland.

Harry’s cares, in providing food and maintaining order among so mixed an assemblage, were greatly lightened by the assistance offered him by Mrs Morley and Mr Paget, as well as by Charles, Tom Loftus, and Jack Ivyleaf, who also did their best to instruct and amuse the people, old and young, when their hours of labour were over. The school was kept with less difficulty than before, as several books had been saved from the “Crusader.” Harry’s great care was to keep all employed; indeed, he foresaw that it would be necessary for every one to exert himself to the utmost to obtain a sufficient supply of food for the support of their lives during the winter. Happily, the weather was not nearly so cold or stormy as he had expected to find it; and though occasionally it froze hard, the frost seldom lasted long, while the snow which fell quickly disappeared again from the lower ground.

Nothing was seen for some time of the mutineers. It was supposed that they were living a savage life by themselves in the woods, unwilling to submit to the discipline to which they would have been subjected in the settlement. One day, however, when Captain Twopenny and several of the other gentlemen were starting on a shooting expedition, they caught sight of a man in the neighbouring wood, whence he had apparently been watching the settlement. As soon as he found that he was discovered he ran off, and disappeared before they were able to overtake him. This circumstance gave Harry some little anxiety, though, as it was known that the only arms the men possessed were their knives and an axe or two, they were not likely to prove formidable enemies. The probabilities were that the man only intended to steal into the village, and carry off any provisions on which he could lay his hands.

Two or three days passed away; the cutter had just returned, after taking supplies to the shipbuilders, and had been hauled up for safety on the beach. Early in the morning the boatswain and several men went down, intending to go off in her in search of seals. She was not to be seen. They went up and down the shore, but not a trace of her could they discover. It was too evident that she had been carried away by the mutineers. This was confirmed on the following day, when the “Crusader’s” boat, which had been repaired, arrived with the information that she had been seen passing down the sound early in the morning; but whether those in her intended to attempt a passage to New Zealand, or only to land on another part of the Aucklands, it was difficult to say. As, however, they could have had but a scanty supply of provisions, and little means of carrying water, it was most likely that they intended to land on the northern part of the island.

Although the loss of the cutter was a very serious matter, still Harry felt that it was satisfactory to be relieved of the presence of such lawless characters. Captain Westerway sent word that he would either leave his own boat or build another of sufficient size to go in search of seals, the chief purpose for which she was required.

At length the satisfactory intelligence arrived that the “Young Crusader” was ready for sea. It was now necessary to determine who should go in her, as she was unable to carry more than a sixth of the number. When Harry asked Mrs Morley what she wished to do, she replied, “My daughters and I are determined to remain, and watch over those who are entrusted to our care. When the schooner reaches New Zealand, a vessel will probably be sent to our assistance; until then we feel confident that He who has hitherto preserved us will keep us in safety. And what do you intend doing, Mr Shafto?”

“My duty is clear. I will remain, for the same reason, Mrs Morley,” he answered. “And Dr Davis desires also to stay with us; indeed, few, I believe, of the ‘Ranger’s’ people wish to quit the island. I will, however, send young Dicey, with his brother and sisters, and he will apply to the senior officer on the station, who will probably send a man-of-war, or some other vessel, as soon as one can be despatched.” The question was put to the various members of the community, “Whether or not they would desire to remain.”

“Remain! to be sure I will,” exclaimed Mrs Rumbelow, when she was asked. “While the wife or child of one of the men of our regiment stops here, it’s my duty to stay and look after them. And especially if the colonel’s lady stays, do you think I would desert her, Mr Shafto? Her husband was like a father to the regiment, and I would as soon desert my own mother as her.”

The Diceys, however, and Mr Paget, as well as Tom Loftus and Jack Ivyleaf, resolved to sail in the “Young Crusader.” Though Captain Westerway warned them that the voyage might prove boisterous, and not without danger, still Charles was anxious to reach the colony, that he might begin the life of a settler, and write home to relieve the anxiety of his family. The greater number of the emigrants, however, begged to remain, unwilling again to encounter the dangers of the sea, especially when they compared the size of the “Young Crusader” with that of the large ship which had brought them to the island. She had come up to the settlement in order to land such stores as could be spared, and to take others, as well as her intended passengers, on board. As Harry surveyed her, he was well pleased with her appearance. She was a stout little schooner of about 30 tons, and he felt satisfied to entrust his friends on board her, especially under the guidance of such experienced seamen as Captain Westerway and Bill Windy.

Chapter Twenty.

Conclusion.

The “Young Crusader” sails—Voyage along the coast—A storm—Schooner puts into harbour—Fate of the mutineers—The “Young Crusader” proceeds on her voyage—Stormy passage—New Zealand sighted—Enters a beautiful harbour—Hostile appearance of natives—Mr Paget advises flight—The schooner makes sail—Escaping from the harbour—Pursued by canoes—Man-of-war appears—The canoes give up chase—On board the “Ranger”—Good news for the settlement—How the “Ranger” was saved—Return to the Aucklands—All safe on board “Ranger”—Harry obtains his reward—Our friends settle in New Zealand—Conclusion.

The whole of the little community, men, women, and children, collected on the shore of the bay to witness the “Young Crusader” take her departure. Loud cheers burst from their throats as the anchor was tripped, the sails set, and with a fine westerly breeze she glided down the harbour.

Emily and May, with Mrs Clagget, stood at the stern, waving their handkerchiefs, the Miss Morleys returning the salute with tears in their eyes, for they could not help thinking of the dangers to which their friends would be exposed on board the little vessel.

“Good-bye, kind friends, good-bye,” cried Mrs Clagget. “We will send you relief; don’t be afraid. It won’t be our fault if your condition is not made known.” She continued, at the top of her voice, uttering these and similar expressions long after it could possibly have been heard by those on shore.

Flagstaff-hill was rounded, and they could look into the small harbour where the schooner had been built. On its shores stood the huts they had occupied, with the reef before them, on which a small remnant of the wreck was still visible. They soon reached the mouth of the sound, the wind enabling them to haul up and stand to the northward, parallel with the coast. They had, however, to keep some distance from it, to avoid the reef which ran out from the shore.

The little schooner had nearly reached the north end of the island when the fickle wind changed, and a heavy gale right ahead sprang up. Though the “Young Crusader” behaved well, the captain was unwilling to expose her, with so many people on board, to its fury; and the mouth of a harbour being clearly made out, he determined to run in and take shelter till the wind had abated. After running up some way, the schooner came to an anchor in a small cove, where the captain hoped she might lie in perfect security. Darkness came on soon afterwards, the sails were furled, and all was made snug.

Though disappointed at being delayed on their passage, those on board, as they heard the wind howling above their heads, and the sea roaring in the distance, were thankful that they were safe from the fury of the tempest.

The usual watch was set, and most of the passengers retired to their narrow berths. The ladies had a small cabin aft, in which Mrs Clagget declared that there was scarcely room to allow her to move her tongue, an observation which brought a smile on the countenances of her companions.

Willy was walking the deck with Bill Windy, with whom he had become very friendly, when he caught sight of a dark object moving towards the vessel. “There is a boat,” he exclaimed; “where can she come from?”

“She is the cutter, depend on it, which those scoundrels ran away with,” answered Windy. “They may mean mischief. Call the captain and the watch below; it’s as well to be prepared for them.”

Captain Westerway and all hands were quickly on deck. The boat approached cautiously, as if those in her were doubtful whether or not they were perceived. At length she came alongside. The schooner’s crew stood ready for an attack, and it was then seen that she contained but three people.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” asked Bill Windy.

“Oh, take us on board and give us some food,” answered a voice. “We are dying of hunger.”

“Make fast the boat and lend them a hand,” said Captain Westerway, and the three men were helped up the schooner’s side.

They were found to be two of the emigrants and one of the seamen who had mutinied. They appeared thoroughly humbled and wretched. As soon as they had taken a little food, they gave an account of their sufferings.

They stated that they were themselves the only survivors of the party—two having fallen down precipices, one having been killed by a seal which he incautiously approached, another having been drowned when scrambling out on the rocks in search of mussels, and the rest having died of starvation. Job Mawson, they declared, had been their ringleader. They had last seen him lying in a sinking state in the woods.

Although the vessel had already as many on board as could be accommodated, the captain humanely received them, and the next morning the cutter was sent on shore to be hauled up on the beach, as she was too large either to tow or to be taken on board.

The patience of the passengers was greatly tried; but at length, after a detention of three days, the weather moderating, the “Young Crusader” again put to sea. Still she was doomed to experience contrary winds.

Provisions were running short, and all hands, with the exception of the ladies, were put on short allowance. Day after day they beat backwards and forwards, the captain being anxious, if possible, to make the entrance of Cook’s Straits, should he be unable to reach the more northern settlement of Auckland. At that time the natives of many parts of New Zealand were in open hostility with the settlers, and he was therefore unwilling to run the risk of landing on any other part of the coast.

The stormy weather still continued, but at length a slant of wind from the westward enabled the schooner to lay her course. Water and provisions were running fearfully short, and her passengers and crew were already beginning to feel the effects of their scanty fare. Many anxious eyes kept a lookout for land. The thick weather had prevented an observation from being taken for three days. Willy had the morning watch with Bill Windy. As the day broke, and the sun, rapidly rising above the horizon, shed its beams across the foaming sea, they lighted up the snowy summits of a range of mountains. “Land! land!” he shouted.

“You are right, Mr Dicey; but I am afraid it’s a long way from Auckland,” observed Bill Windy.

The deck was soon crowded with eager spectators. As the sun rose higher, and the little vessel sailed onwards, the intermediate lower shore could clearly be perceived. The vessel stood on till the mouth of a harbour of sufficient size to admit the schooner appeared ahead. Sail was shortened, that she might approach it cautiously, and a bright look-out kept ahead for sunken reefs. Captain Westerway was in hopes that, by going in, even though no settlers might be there, he would be enabled to obtain a supply of water, as well as wild-fowl or other birds, to support the people till some more hospitable place could be reached. The schooner, under easy sail, sounding as she went, entered the little harbour, and after making several tacks, brought up at no great distance from the shore. It was a lovely spot, and the eyes of all were gladdened by a sparkling stream which ran down the hillside. The boat was lowered, the empty casks were put into her, and Charles Dicey, with two other gentlemen, carrying their fowling-pieces, went on shore.

How delicious was their first ample draught of water! A cask being filled, they sent back the boat with it to the ship while they filled the others. This done, they proceeded over the hills in search of game. They had not gone far before they perceived, in a little cove that was not seen from the deck of the vessel, several large canoes drawn up on the beach.

“There must be natives in the neighbourhood, and we may probably obtain provisions from them,” observed Charles. “Their village cannot be far off.”

“What is that curious-looking stockade on the top of the hill?” asked Jack Ivyleaf.

“A native pah or fort,” said Mr Paget. “We must approach it cautiously, for we cannot depend on the friendliness of the inhabitants. See, there are several men gathering close outside. They have arms in their hands. Their numbers are increasing. Take my advice, and let us make the best of our way to the boat. They may attack us before we can explain that we have no hostile intentions.”

As he spoke, the natives were seen running down the hill towards the canoes. Charles urging the party to follow Mr Paget’s advice, they hastened to the place where they had landed. The boat had returned and taken on board several of the water-casks.

“Never mind the remainder,” cried Mr Paget. “The water will be dearly purchased if we wait to allow these savages to overtake us. Shove off, shove off!”

Captain Westerway was on deck, surprised to see the boat coming back. Willy was standing near him. They observed Mr Paget making signs to them. “He is telling us to get under way, sir,” he observed.

“So I believe he is,” exclaimed the captain. “Mr Windy, turn the hands up and make sail.”

The people, who were below, jumped on deck, wondering what was the matter. The boat was quickly alongside; those in her leaped on board, and she was hoisted in.

“Shall we weigh the anchor?” asked Windy.

“Not if we wish to escape from the savages’ canoes,” said Mr Paget. “Captain Westerway, these people are not to be trifled with.”

“We will slip the cable, then,” said the captain. “It is better to lose that than be cut off, as several vessels have been, by these people.”

The headsails quickly filled, the wind blew out of the harbour; the after-sails were set, and the “Young Crusader” glided rapidly towards the ocean. As she got into the middle of the harbour, the cove in which the canoes lay opened out, and a large number of savages were seen in the act of launching them. They were soon afloat, and, filled with men, made chase after the schooner. Of their hostile intentions there could now be no longer any doubt. On they came, paddling at a rapid rate over the smooth surface of the water. All the sail the schooner could carry was set; but still it was too evident that the canoes, unless the wind freshened greatly, would overtake her. The few fire-arms on board the schooner would avail but little against the vastly superior numbers of the savages. The wind increased; still the canoes were gaining ground. Had the captain waited to weigh the anchor, the “Young Crusader” would to a certainty have been captured; even now there appeared little probability of her escaping.

“The savages are gaining on us fearfully,” observed Willy to his brother. “We shall have to fight for it; at all events, we may kill a few of the savages before we are taken.”

“That would be but a small satisfaction,” observed Charles. “I little expected such a termination to our adventures.”

The breeze continued to freshen. Notwithstanding this, the schooner did not gain on the canoes.

“Captain Westerway,” cried Willy, suddenly, “there is a sail to the northward.”

“Yes, and she is standing this way,” said the captain. “We will haul up for her. Starboard the helm, Windy. Get a pull at the fore and mainsheets.”

The savages had probably not seen the stranger, or perhaps they wanted to overtake the schooner, before she could get within signalling distance. The ship was a large one, and under all sail. With the freshening breeze she came on rapidly. A shot was now fired from the leading canoe, another and another followed. The ladies who were on deck were hurried below. Loftus and Ivyleaf were about to discharge their fowling-pieces in return. “Don’t fire, my friends,” said Mr Paget. “It will be useless. Let us rather trust to the protection of Heaven. When the savages discover that yonder ship is a man-of-war, as I have no doubt they soon will, they will give up the pursuit.”

In another minute his words proved true. The canoes were seen to stop, then to sweep round, and to paddle back again at full speed towards the land.

Willy intently watched the ship as she approached. He rubbed his eyes again and again. “What is the matter?” asked Charles, seeing him almost gasping for breath.

“Why, Charles,” he exclaimed, “she is the ‘Ranger.’ Yes, I am as sure of it almost as I am of my own existence.”

In a short time the “Young Crusader” was hove to, and the boat, with Willy and Peter Patch in her, was pulling towards the ship, which, it being seen that the schooner wished to speak her, was also brought to the wind. The two midshipmen quickly scrambled up the side. On the quarterdeck stood Commander Newcombe, with Mr Tobin, the first-lieutenant, and several of the other officers.

“Come on board,” said Willy and Peter, going aft, and touching their hats.

“What! are you the midshipmen I thought lost, with so many other poor people?” exclaimed the captain, starting back with astonishment, and then holding out his hands towards them. “Yes, I am surely not mistaken; and have the rest, too, escaped?”

“Yes, sir; Mrs and the Miss Morleys, Harry Shafto, Mrs Rumbelow, and the boatswain are all safe, though they would be very glad if you would run down to the Auckland Islands, where we left them a fortnight ago, and take them away. They are very hard up for food, I am afraid, and it is not the pleasantest of countries to live in.”

Willy and his companions received the warmest congratulations from all the officers; and the news soon ran round the ship that those whom they supposed had long been numbered with the dead were still alive and well.

“It will do the sergeant’s heart good when he hears that that first-rate wife of his is all right and well,” observed the quarter-master, who was one of the first to catch the news.

Willy and Peter felt great satisfaction on hearing that Colonel Morley, with his regiment, was at New Zealand, and though grieving at the supposed loss of his wife and daughters, had been greatly supported in his affliction, and enabled to perform his duty like a true soldier.

“But how, sir, did the ‘Ranger’ escape?” asked Willy. “We thought we saw her go down.”

“She was well-nigh doing so, my lad,” answered Commander Newcombe; “but by the courage and perseverance of the men, through God’s mercy, she was kept afloat till we could get an additional sail under her bottom, when, as we steered to the northward, we fell in with a ship which towed us to the Mauritius. There the ship being repaired, we were sent on to New Zealand to land the troops. So confident were all on board that the boats had gone down, it was at first deemed hopeless to look for you. At length, however, from the representations of Colonel Morley, I was despatched to visit the islands at which you might possibly have touched, on the merest chance of gaining some tidings of your fate.”

As soon as the commander heard of the requirements of the schooner, he sent a supply of provisions and water on board. The “Young Crusader” then steered for Auckland, near which Colonel Morley was stationed, to convey to him the glad tidings of the safety of his wife and daughters, while the “Ranger” proceeded to the Auckland Islands. She quickly arrived at Charnley Sound, and brought up in the deep bay near its entrance, on the north side. Hence, with Willy Dicey as pilot, her boats were sent up to the inner harbour. As they approached, Willy’s heart beat high at the thought of the joyful intelligence he was bringing. The first person he met was Harry Shafto who, on seeing the boats approach, had hurried down to the bay. Harry recognised several well-known faces of his old shipmates. A few words served to tell how the “Ranger” had escaped. The two friends hurried to communicate the intelligence to Mrs Morley and her daughters. On their way they met Mrs Rumbelow, who had seen the arrival of the boats. She, too, had recognised the faces of their crews. Willy took her hand, and shook it warmly.

“Happy news, Mrs Rumbelow,” he exclaimed; “the sergeant is alive and well. I heard of him on board; and I hope in a few days you will see him in New Zealand.”

“You are a good angel, Mr Dicey, to bring me such tidings,” she exclaimed, putting her arms round his neck, and bursting into tears. “My good brave husband! I’ll never forget who it was that told me I should meet him again down here on earth, for I felt sure we should be joined up aloft there.” And the strong-minded energetic woman, who had held out so bravely, never allowing a tear or complaint to escape, sobbed for very joy.

They found Mrs Morley, with Fanny and Emma, just leaving their cottage. “God has indeed been merciful to me,” were the only words Mrs Morley could utter. Fanny unconsciously gave Harry Shafto her hand. “How my dear father will thank you for all the care you have taken of us,” she said. “We can never sufficiently show our gratitude.” Harry kept the hand thus offered him. What Harry said in return it is not necessary to repeat.

As there was but little property to carry away, in a few minutes every individual was ready to embark. Harry Shafto was the last person to leave the shore. The boats, laden with passengers, pulled down the harbour. The sea was smooth, and without accident they, before nightfall, got alongside the “Ranger.”

A bright moon enabled them to put to sea that night, and, the weather continuing unusually fine, within a week they landed in New Zealand.

Harry Shafto gained his well-earned promotion, and in two years became a commander and the husband of Fanny Morley.

A remittance sent out by Mr Nicholas Steady, when he heard of the loss which the Diceys had suffered from the wreck of the “Crusader,” enabled Charles to commence his career as an emigrant. His nearest neighbour was Mr Paget, who, it surprised few to hear, became the husband of his sister Emily. Sergeant Rumbelow got his discharge, and he and his wife settled near them; while Mrs Clagget, who took up her abode with her relatives in the town, paid them frequent visits, and never failed to tell all the news of the place, which she detailed with her accustomed volubility. Charles won the heart of Emma Morley, and, when his sister May married Tom Loftus, she became the mistress of his house. Dr Davis settled in their neighbourhood, and was a very constant visitor at the houses of his old friends, not only in cases of sickness, which were rare, but on all festive and other interesting occasions.

Little Bessy, left an orphan, was adopted by Sergeant and Mrs Rumbelow, and, growing up a good, steady girl, married young Broke, who, become a warrant officer, found his way at length to New Zealand, where he ultimately settled.

Willy Dicey is now a post-captain, and Harry Shafto, though still young, an admiral. Ensign Holt sold out of the army, and forming a partnership with Peter Patch, who had got tired of a seafaring life, they became successful settlers at no great distance from their former friends.

The old “Ranger” has long since been laid up in ordinary, and the “Young Crusader,” under the command of Bill Windy, to whom Captain Westerway presented her, traded for many years between the settlements and Australia, till she had gained a comfortable fortune for her owner, who at length settled on shore near the friends his courage and kind heart had gained for him.

The former passengers of the two ships often met at the gatherings of the settlements; and a new generation, which sprang up in their midst, delighted to hear them recount the adventures they met with during their voyages in the “Ranger” and “Crusader.”

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Rival Crusoes"

Preface.

The title of the following tale was given to a short story written by the well-known authoress, Agnes Strickland, more than half a century ago, when she was about eighteen years old. I well remember the intense delight with which I read it in my boyhood, and was lately surprised to find that it had been so long out of print. The publishers, however, consider that the work, esteemed as it was in former years, is, from the style and the very natural mistakes of a young lady discernible with regard to matters nautical, scarcely suited to the taste of the present day. They therefore requested me to re-write it, believing that the subject might be worked into a deeply interesting story of much larger proportions than the original. This I have endeavoured to accomplish, and I trust that the new version of “The Rival Crusoes” may become as popular among the present generation as its predecessor was with the last.

W.H.G. Kingston.

Chapter One.

At Keyhaven—In dangerous company—The old smuggler—A frigate after battle—Dislike of Ben for the Royal Navy—An unexpected landing—Overbearing conduct of the midshipmen—Angry words—Lord Reginald Oswald—Toady Voules—At the village inn—Old messmates—Temptation—Susan Rudall’s anxious life—An adventure on the way to Elverston—Home at last—Reception at the hall.

“I tell you what, Dick, if I was Farmer Hargrave I would not turn out to please Lord Elverston or any other lord in the land,” exclaimed Ben Rudall, as he stood hammering away at the side of his boat, which lay drawn up on the inner end of Hurst beach, near the little harbour of Keyhaven, on the Hampshire coast, at the western entrance of the Solent, opposite the Isle of Wight. His dress and weather-beaten countenance, as well as the work he was engaged on, showed that he was a seafaring man.

“But Mr Gooch the bailiff says there is a flaw, as he calls it, in the lease; but what that means I don’t know, except that it’s not all right, and that father must turn out, whether he likes it or not,” answered Dick Hargrave, who was standing near, and occasionally giving Ben a helping hand. He was a lad about sixteen years of age, strongly built, with a good-looking face, exhibiting a firm and determined expression. His dress was more that of a landsman than of a sailor, though it partook of both.

“Flaw or no flaw, I say again, I would hold on fast to the farm, unless I was turned out by force. Your father, Dick, is worth ten of such lords, or a hundred, for that matter. He has held that farm since his father’s time. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather, and I don’t know how many before them, have held it. And right honest people they were. They never thought of interfering with us seafaring men, and would as soon turn spies to the French as give notice to the revenue when a cargo was to be run. If they guessed that any kegs of spirits, or packages of silks or ribbons, were stowed away in one of their barns, they took good care not to be prying about too closely until they knew that the goods had been started off for London.”

“My father always wished to live at peace with his neighbours, and would not injure a smuggler more than any other man who did not interfere with him, though I believe he has never received a keg of brandy or a piece of silk for any service he may have done the smugglers,” said Dick.

“You’re right there, my lad,” said Ben. “I mind once offering your good mother a few yards of stuff to make her a Sunday gown, and, would you believe it? she would not take them. When I just hinted that I should leave them behind me, she was quite offended, and declared that if I did she would speak to your father and have the outhouses kept closed, and that it would be our own fault if some day all our goods were seized. She shut me up, I can tell you. Yes, she is a good woman, and as kind and charitable to the poor as any lady in the land. To my fancy she is a lady just as much as Lord Elverston’s wife. I mind when he was only Squire Oswald. Because he kept hounds and was in Parliament, and came into a heap of money, he got made a lord, and then a marquis, and now he is setting his face against all us seafaring men hereabouts, and vows that he must uphold the revenue laws, and put a stop to smuggling.”

“I have no cause to care for the Marquis of Elverston or his sons either, for often when I have passed them and touched my hat, as in decent manners I was bound to do, they have looked at me as if I was a beggar-boy asking for a ha’penny. The young one especially—Lord Reginald—I had words with him one day, when he swore at me for not picking up his whip which he had let drop out riding; and at another time, when I was fishing in the lake at Elverston, he ordered me to be off, because I was catching more than he was—though father has always had the right of fishing there. He came up, with his fists doubled; but I threatened to knock him into the water if he laid hands on me, and he thought better of it. I was right glad when he went off to sea, where I hope he will have learned better manners.”

“He will have learned to become a greater bully than ever,” growled Ben. “I have heard enough about king’s ships, and catch me setting foot on board one. I’d sooner be sent to Botany Bay, or spend a year in prison, which I did once, when I was taken running a cargo down Portland way with a dozen other fine fellows. Many of them accepted the offer to go on board a man-of-war; and where are they now? Three or four shot or drowned; the rest have never come back, though whether dead or alive I cannot tell. No, no, Dick; don’t you ever go on board a man-of-war of your own free will, or you’ll repent it; and, I say, keep clear of pressgangs when you get a little older, or you may be having to go, whether you like it or no.”

“I’ll take your advice,” answered the young farmer, for such Dick might properly have been called, though he had besides, being an ingenious fellow, picked up a good knowledge of carpentering and boat-building; “but what I was going to say just now was that, although the marquis and his sons may not be liked, no one can utter a word against my lady and her daughters. They always smile and nod kindly like when one passes. When my sister Janet was ill last year, they came to the farm, and asked after her just as if she had been one of themselves, talking so sweet and gentle. If it wasn’t for them, I don’t think father would dream of giving in, as he does now.”

“Give in? He mustn’t do that!” exclaimed Ben. “Their talking and smiling may be all very fine, but I know what that’s worth.”

“You are wrong there, Ben; I couldn’t speak a word against them. But, I say, do you think we can finish the boat in time to get off and catch some fish this evening? I want to take home a couple of bass or whiting pout for Janet. She likes them better than anything else. Poor girl! it’s only fish and such light things she can eat. She’s very ill, I fear, though she talks as if she was going to be about soon; but the doctor tells mother he has no hope of her ever being well again.”

“That will be a sore pity, for, blind though she is, there’s not a prettier maiden to be found throughout the forest,” answered Ben. “I’ll do my best to serve you, Dick; but there’s two hours’ more work to be done before we can get the craft afloat.” Ben surveyed the boat from stem to stern as he spoke, and then continued boring holes and driving nails as diligently as before.

While he was thus employed, Dick, who was looking towards the Isle of Wight, exclaimed, “See, Ben, see, what a fine ship yonder is, just come in at the Needles!”

The fisherman, clenching the nail he had just driven in, turned his eyes in the direction to which Dick pointed. “She’s only a frigate, though a good big one,” he remarked. “She’s not long since been in action, too, with the enemy. Look at her topsails and top-gallant sails; they are pretty well riddled. I can count wellnigh a score of shot-holes in them; and her side, too, shows the hard knocks she has been getting. Just run to the top of the beach, and see if any other ships are following. Maybe the fleet has had a brush with the enemy, and yonder frigate has been sent on ahead with news of the action.”

Dick, doing as he was bid, soon reached a point of the shingly bank whence he could obtain a view of the sea to the westward. “Hurrah!” he shouted; “here comes another ship under a fore-jurymast and her bowsprit gone. She seems to me to have not a few shot-holes in her canvas, though it’s hard to make out at the distance she is off.”

Ben, in his eagerness, forgetting his work, ran up to where Dick was standing. “Yes, there’s no doubt about it, yonder craft is a prize to the first. When she gets nearer we shall see that her sails are well riddled and her hull battered, too. Those Frenchmen don’t give in till they’ve been thoroughly drubbed; but I doubt whether we shall know more about the matter to-night than we do now, for the wind is falling, and the tide making out strong against her. See, the frigate can only just stem it, and unless the breeze freshens, she must bring up or drift out through the Needles again.”

Such, indeed, was likely to be the case, for though still going ahead, her progress was very slow. She had already got some little distance to the eastward of Hurst Point, when, the wind freshening again, her sails blew out, and, gliding majestically on, she edged over to the Isle of Wight shore.

“She’ll not get to Spithead to-night, notwithstanding,” remarked Ben, “for there’s not a breath of air away to the eastward; see, the sails of that brig out there are hanging flat against the masts.”

Ben was right. The wind again dropping, presently the hands were seen flying aloft, the studding-sails were quickly taken in, the courses brailed up; the topsail yards being rapidly lowered, the ready crew sprang on to them, and in another minute the frigate dropped her anchor in Yarmouth Roads.

“All very fine!” growled Ben, as he saw Dick’s look of admiration at the smartness with which the manoeuvre had been effected; “but if you’d been on board you would have seen how it was all done. There’s the first lieutenant, with his black list in his hand, and the other lieutenants with their reports, ready to note down anything they may think amiss; then there are the midshipmen, the boatswain and his mates, cursing and swearing, with their switches and rope’s ends in their hands, and the cat-o’-nine-tails hung up ready for any who don’t move fast enough. Again, I say, don’t you ever enter on board a man-of-war if you wish to keep a whole skin in your body.”

The old smuggler’s picture, though exaggerated, approached too nearly the truth as to the way in which discipline was enforced on board many men-of-war in those days. Happily, some were as free from the reproach as are those of the present time, when the seamen of the navy have good reason to be contented with their lot, as everything is done which can conduce to their comfort and improvement.

Ben’s remarks did not fail to have their effect on Dick’s mind.

“Don’t think I’m a fool!” he answered. “I’ll keep out of their clutches, depend upon that, for, as I am not a seaman, a pressgang can’t catch hold of me.”

“Well, do you be wise, my boy, and don’t forget what I say,” remarked Ben. “But if we stand talking here we shan’t get the boat finished, so come along, and don’t let us trouble ourselves about the frigate. We shall hear by-and-by what she has been doing, and how the captain and officers are praised for the victory the seamen have won for them.”

Saying this, Ben led the way back to his boat, and went on with his work, though Dick Hargrave could not help every now and then casting a look at the beautiful ship as she lay at anchor a little distance off. Ben was labouring away as assiduously as before, when Dick exclaimed—

“Here comes a boat from the frigate. I thought I saw one lowered; she is steering for this point, and it will not be long before she is here.”

“Then they intend to put some one on shore at Keyhaven,” observed Ben; “but as the boat can’t get up the creek with this low tide, whoever he may be he’ll have to trudge along the beach.”

“There seem to be several officers in her,” remarked Dick, who stood watching the boat as she came rapidly on the blades of the oars, as with measured strokes they were dipped in the water, flashing in the sunlight. “They fancy that they can get up to Keyhaven, but they’ll not do that until the tide rises,” observed Ben, looking up from his work with a frown on his brow. “Let them try it, and they’ll stick fast.”

The boat passed the spot where Ben and his companion were at work, and very soon what he had predicted happened. Two of the officers, whom Dick recognised by their uniforms to be midshipmen, were heard abusing the men and ordering them to urge the boat on. But all the efforts of the crew to get her afloat were vain.

They then endeavoured to back her off, and at length four of them, tucking up their trowsers, leaped overboard. The boat thus lightened, the men, by shoving her astern, soon got her again into deep water. When, however, they sprang on board their blackened legs showed the nature of the mud into which they had stepped, and produced a malicious chuckle from Ben, who watched them with half-averted head. By moving their legs about in the water they soon got rid of the black stains, when, having resumed their places, they pulled the boat in close to where Ben and Dick were standing. As she reached the beach the two midshipmen leaped on shore.

“I say, you fellows,” shouted one of them, “come along here and carry our portmanteaus to the inn, if there is one in that village there, and tell us if we can find a post-chaise or conveyance of some sort to take us to Elverston Hall.”

“Don’t you answer,” said Ben to Dick, hammering on and pretending not to notice what was said.

“Ahoy, there! don’t you hear us? Knock off that work!” cried the younger of the two midshipmen, and he repeated what he had just said.

“Yes, we hear,” growled Ben looking up; “but we are not slaves to come and go at your beck, youngster.”

“We don’t want you to carry our traps for nothing, my man,” said the elder midshipman. “We’ll give a shilling to each of you for the job, and that’s handsome pay.”

“To those who want it, it may be,” said Ben; “but that youngster there must learn to keep a civil tongue in his head if he expects any one to help him. Hurst beach ain’t the deck of a man-of-war, and one chap here is as good as another, so you may just let your own people carry up your traps.”

The crew of the boat sat grinning as they heard the smuggler bandying words with their officers, siding probably with the former.

“Do you know to whom you are speaking, my man?” exclaimed the elder midshipman. “This is Lord Reginald Oswald, and his father is the Marquis of Elverston. His lordship will be exceedingly angry when he hears the way you have treated his son.”

Ben, turning away his head, muttered loud enough for his companion to hear him, “He might be the marquis himself for what I care; but I’m not his lordship’s slave to come and go at his beck any more than I am yours.”

Dick looked hard at the young lord, and the recollection of their former intercourse would have made him unwilling to do as he was asked, even had the request been couched in less dictatorial language.

“Come, come, we will pay you a couple of shillings each, if you are extortionate enough to refuse our first offer; but carry up our traps you must, for the boat has to return immediately to the frigate, and we cannot delay her.”

“Extortionate or not extortionate, we are not slaves, as some poor fellows are,” said Ben, glancing at the boat’s crew; “if we don’t do what you want for love, we are not going to do it for money, so you may just carry your portmanteaus yourselves.”

“Impertinent scoundrels!” exclaimed Lord Reginald to his companion. “Just see, Voules, if that young fellow is more amenable to reason than that sulky old boatman.”

“I’ll try him,” answered Voules. “Come here, you young chap. If you will carry Lord Reginald’s portmanteau I will shoulder mine; we must not delay the boat any longer.”

“Don’t seem as if you heard him,” said Ben to Dick in a low voice, then looking round he shouted, “Maybe the ‘young chap’ is deaf, and if he wasn’t, he’s not a mule or donkey to carry a load on his back. Let Lord Reginald carry his own portmanteau, and just do you understand that I’m not the man to stand any nonsense from him or from any other lord in the land.”

“There is no use in bandying words with these scoundrels!” exclaimed Voules. “I’ll carry your portmanteau, Oswald, and let my own take its chance. I don’t suppose these fellows will dare to steal it, until we can send somebody to bring it on.”

“No, no,” answered Lord Reginald; “we must get Jennings to allow two of the men to come with us, and he can explain to the captain the cause of the delay.”

Jennings, the master’s assistant in charge of the boat, naturally indignant at the way his messmates were treated, consented to this, although he was infringing orders by so doing. He accordingly directed two of the crew to take up the portmanteaus and accompany the midshipmen, who set off at once along the shingly beach. As they moved on, a peal of laughter, in which Ben indulged himself, saluted their ears, which contributed not a little to increase Lord Reginald’s anger and indignation.

“I have a notion that I remember the countenance of the youngest of those two rascals!” he exclaimed. “He is the son of one of our tenants, and used often, when a mere boy, to be impudent to me. I felt inclined more than once to thrash him, but he happened to be the stronger of the two, so I didn’t try, but I’ll pay him off one of these days. I’ll tell my father how we were treated, and he’ll show him that I am not to be insulted with impunity.”

“Certainly not, Oswald. I’ll bear witness to the impertinent way in which he behaved. I only wish that a pressgang may be sent on shore here some night; I’ll take good care that they do not overlook either the young fellow or that surly old one. They are not very particular in the service just now as to age, and both may be taken.”

“Pray don’t let me hear anything more about the matter, or when I reach home I shall not be in a condition to receive the congratulations of my family,” said Lord Reginald. “I wish that the tide had been in and we had been able to get up to the village instead of having to trudge over these abominable shingles.”

“Certainly,” said Voules; “but the fellows are beneath your notice, though the incident was sufficient to put one out of temper. If I had thought Jennings would have consented, I would have proposed landing the boat’s crew and ducking the fellows; it would have brought them to reason pretty quickly.”

“You don’t know the character of the men hereabout, or you would not say so,” observed Lord Reginald. “That fellow Hargrave is a desperate young villain, and they are all smugglers and poachers, who would not scruple to burn down the hall if they had an opportunity. My father is determined to put a stop to their poaching and smuggling, but he has not as yet had much success, I believe. The smugglers, somehow or other, manage to land their cargoes when the revenue officers are out of the way, and the poachers dodge our gamekeepers, who vow that although they hear their shots, they can never catch them.”

“It will be good fun some night to try what we can do,” observed Voules. “We should soon get hold of them, and if they are sent to prison or shipped off to Botany Bay, it will keep the others in awe.”

The two seamen who carried the portmanteaus were listening to the remarks of the young officers spoken in loud tones. Every now and then they turned to each other, exchanging winks, and smiling contemptuously, though they looked as grave as judges when Voules happened to turn round for a moment to ascertain how far they had got from the boat. On and on they trudged, until at last harder ground was gained, and they soon reached the village inn, or rather beer-shop, for it aspired to no higher dignity. Great was their disgust to find that no conveyance of any sort was to be obtained nearer than Lymington, some three or four miles off, and it was doubtful whether the single post-chaise or yellow fly, which belonged to the place, would be disengaged.

“But Lord Reginald Oswald cannot walk all the way to Elverston Hall, and we must have a carriage of some sort or other, my good woman,” exclaimed Voules to the landlady.

“Then I must send out and find my man, who has been carting coals for old Captain Knockills on the top of the hill there. Our cart ain’t exactly fit for young gentlemen like you, but it’s better than nothing, as it will carry your ‘portmantles,’ and you can get in and ride when you are tired; so, if you will walk in and sit down in the bar, I’ll send the boy off at once. It won’t be long before my man is here, as he must have finished his work by this time.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Voules. “Lord Reginald Oswald to be driven home in a coal-cart!”

The idea, however, seemed to tickle the fancy of the young lord, for he burst into a fit of laughter. “It will be better to reach the hall even in that way, than to wait in this wretched hole until we can obtain a carriage. Only, I say Voules, get them to put some clean hay or straw into the cart, or we and our portmanteaus will be covered with coal-dust.”

In the mean time the two seamen looked with wistful eyes at the cask of beer in the corner of the tap-room, but Voules, without offering them any, ordered them to hasten back to the boat. They grumbled as they went, looking back to ascertain if the midshipmen had left the inn, resolving to return, should they have the chance, to drink as many glasses of ale as they had money in their pockets to pay for.

Voules, however, must have suspected their intentions, for he kept an eye on them as long as they were in sight. Just before reaching the frigate’s boat, they met Ben and Dick, who had been on the watch for their return. Ben put out his hand and shook that of one of them.

“Well, Bill Webster, I knew you as soon as you stepped on shore. Glad to see you with a whole skin on your back,” he exclaimed. “How do you like serving his Majesty afloat? A pleasant sort of a life, isn’t it?”

Bill shrugged his shoulders as he answered, “Well, it’s better than rotting in prison, though I’d rather be at the old work again.”

“Then why not give them leg-bail at once; you’ve a chance you’ll not find again in a hurry, and we can stow you safe away, where they’ll have a hard job to find you.”

“No, no, mate,” said Bill’s companion, Jack Coyne. “I know what running away means. It’s being caught, with a sharp taste of the cat on one’s back at the end of it.”

“Then, mates, you’d rather be slaves than free men?” said the old smuggler.

Jack Coyne, however, was firm; and notwithstanding the arguments Ben used, he finally persuaded his shipmate to return to the boat which, immediately they stepped into her, shoved off and pulled for the frigate.

“Each man to his taste, and some day they’ll be sorry they didn’t take my advice,” muttered Ben. “Now, Dick, let’s you and I get the boat into the water, and try to catch some fish for your sister Janet.”

As the boat was placed on a steep beach, she was easily launched, and Ben and Dick, each taking an oar, pulled away some distance from the shore, when they let down a big stone which served as an anchor. They had not to wait long before Ben hauled up a fish, and Dick soon afterwards got a bite. In a short time they had caught several bass, a whiting pout, and two grey mullet, with which, well satisfied, as the shades of evening were already creeping over the water, they pulled for the shore. As the tide had now turned, they were able to get up the creek to the spot where Ben generally left his boat moored.

“I’m well pleased that I am to send these to your young sister,” said Ben, handing over the mullet and two of the other fish to Dick. “Your mother won’t mind receiving them, though they haven’t paid duty, seeing as how they are not taxed, though when they will be is more than I can say. Always glad to see you down here, my lad; some day you’ll take a trip across the water, aboard the Nancy. You’ll like the life, I know, especially if we are chased by one of those revenue craft. It is a pleasure, I can tell you, to give them the go-by, though, to be sure, we do sometimes have to heave our kegs and bales overboard, but we generally keep too bright a look-out to have to do that.”

“I should like it well enough, Ben; but there are others at home who would object to my going away on board the lugger. However, I won’t say no, so good night, Ben, and thank you for the fish;” and Dick Hargrave set off at a brisk pace towards his home, while his evil adviser—for such Ben Rudall undoubtedly was—entered his cottage, where his wife was busy preparing supper for him and their children.

An anxious woman was Susan Rudall. Sometimes there was an over-abundance on the board, and she had more money than she well knew how to spend. At others it was a hard matter to find a few shillings to pay the week’s bills for bread and other necessaries, though, to be sure, she could generally obtain credit, as it was hoped that, on the return of the Nancy, Ben would again be flush of money. Sometimes, however, she, as well as the tradespeople, were disappointed. Then often and often, while south-westerly gales were blowing, she had the anxious thought that the Nancy was at sea and might perchance founder, as other similar craft had done, or be cast on the rocky coast, or be taken by a revenue vessel, when Ben and his companions, if caught with a cargo on board, would be thrown into prison, or sent to serve his Majesty on board a man-of-war for three or four years or more.

Poor Susan’s lot was that of many other smugglers’ wives, who, notwithstanding the silks and laces with which they could bedeck themselves, and the abundance of spirits and tobacco in which their husbands might indulge, had often a troubled time of it. Not that she, or any other of the wives and daughters of those engaged in the lawless trade, thought that there was any harm in it. Probably their fathers and grandfathers before them, and most of their male relatives, except those sent off to sea, followed the same calling, and when any were caught or killed, they looked on their fate as a misfortune which had to be borne, without considering that it was justly brought upon themselves.

Meantime, the two midshipmen, after waiting till their patience was almost exhausted, having seen their portmanteaus put into Silas Fryer’s cart, set off on foot for Elverston Hall.

“I really regret, my dear Oswald, that you should be exposed to this inconvenience. For myself, I confess I do not care; the pleasure of accompanying you and the honour of being received by your family, will make ample amends to me for a far greater annoyance. As a miserable younger son, with little more than my pay to depend upon, I have often had to tramp it. But you, I fear, will be greatly fatigued.”

“Not a bit of it,” answered Reginald. “I can walk as well as any man, and could get over the distance if it were twice as great. I was only vexed at the impertinence of those fellows.”

“Of course, of course,” said Voules, soothingly; “but leave them to me, and if I have an opportunity while remaining here, I’ll endeavour to pay them off.”

Mr Alfred Voules, though an especial friend of Lord Reginald Oswald, was not a favourite on board his ship, where he was known by the name of “Toady Voules,” an appellation he richly merited by the mode in which he paid court to any shipmates possessed of titles or amply stored purses. He had lately won his way into the good graces of Lord Reginald, who had obtained leave to take him on a visit to Elverston Hall, while the frigate was refitting at Portsmouth. When she brought up in Yarmouth Roads, Lord Reginald explained that his home was a short distance off on the opposite coast, and that it would save him and his friend a long journey if they were to land at Keyhaven, as they could easily reach it from thence. Much to their satisfaction, their captain allowed them—certainly an unusual favour—to be put on shore as they desired. Voules himself stood well in the opinion of the captain and lieutenants, as, although he might not have exhibited any especial gallantry, he always appeared attentive to his duty.

As the two midshipmen stepped out briskly, they soon distanced the cart, though darkness overtook them when they were still three or four miles from the hall. Lord Reginald, however, knew the road, and there was light enough from the stars to enable them to see it without difficulty. Elverston was situated some distance from the coast, within the borders of the New Forest. They were laughing and talking merrily together as they made their way along an uncultivated tract, covered with heather and occasional clumps of trees, here and there paths crossing the main road, when Voules exclaimed—

“What are those objects moving beyond the trees there? They seem to me to be like men on horseback; and, surely, that is the sound of cart wheels.”

As they stopped talking, a low murmur, as of human voices in subdued tones, reached their ears, and continuing on, they made out distinctly a train of carts, accompanied by horsemen riding in front and rear.

“What they are is pretty clear,” said Lord Reginald. “Those are smugglers. I have heard they muster at times in great force to convey their contraband goods up to London.”

“I wish that we had some of the frigate’s crew with us,” said Voules; “we’d soon put a stop to their journey.”

“Will you, young masters?” said a voice. “You’ll just come along with us, and spend the night in different company to what you expect!”

Before the midshipmen could turn round, they found their arms seized by half a dozen stout fellows, who had apparently been detached from the main body, and had come up thus suddenly upon them.

“Unhand us!” exclaimed Lord Reginald, indignantly. “What right have you to stop us in this way?”

“The right of might, young master,” answered the man who had before spoken. “Tell us what brings you here at this time of night!”

Voules, seeing that it would be to their advantage to speak the truth, answered, “My good friends, we have only just landed from our ship, and being unable to obtain a carriage, are walking on to Elverston Hall. We have not the slightest wish to interfere with you or any one else we may meet on the road; and it would be a serious inconvenience to us to be detained.”

“You speak fairly, my young master,” said the man; “and if you and this youngster here will give us your word of honour that you will not mention having met us, we will let you go on in a few minutes; but do not interfere in a matter which does not concern you.”

“Oh! certainly, my friend, certainly,” answered Voules. “We will hold our tongues, depend upon that, and we shall be much obliged to you if you will let us go at once, for we are desperately hungry, and want our suppers.”

“That may be,” said the smuggler, laughing; “but you have not given us your word yet that you will hold your tongue, and we want to know what this other lad has to say for himself.”

“Oh, I’ll give you my word to say nothing about you, if on that condition you will let us proceed on our way,” said Lord Reginald; “although I cannot make out what reason you have for asking us.”

“Our reasons do not concern you, so give us your answer without further delay.”

“I promise, then, on the word of an officer and a gentleman, not to mention having met you,” said Voules.

Lord Reginald repeated the same words.

“Well, then, you may go about your business,” said the smuggler; “only don’t in future talk of putting a stop to smuggling; it’s what neither you nor your elders can do. Now, good night, lads. Remember, if you break your words it will be the worse for you.”

Saying this, the smuggler and his men rejoined their companions, who had already crossed the road, and the two midshipmen, glad to escape so easily, proceeded on their way.

“I thought we were in for it!” observed Voules; “it would have been very unpleasant if they had carried us off, or knocked us on the head!”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Lord Reginald; “they are bold fellows to travel through the country so openly, even at night; but, as my father says, ‘Bold as they may be, they must be put down.’”

“Well, we must try to forget the circumstance at present, or we shall be letting something slip out,” remarked Voules. “Are we approaching the hall yet?”

“We cannot be far off, though I should be better able to answer the question in daylight. I am only certain that we are on the right road, and have not reached the lodge gates; we shall see a light shining in the window when we get near.”

Nearly another half-hour passed before the light Lord Reginald spoke of appeared. The park-keeper and his wife, who had their minds filled with the dread of an invasion from the French, or an attack from the smugglers, were at first very unwilling to open the gates. Not until Lord Reginald had explained who he was, and had mentioned several circumstances to prove that he spoke the truth, would they admit him and his companion.

“Beg pardon, my lord; but we hope you won’t take it amiss,” exclaimed the gate-keeper.

“We meant no offence, that we didn’t, my lord,” chimed in his wife. “But you see, your lordship, that there are all sorts of bad characters about—smugglers and highwaymen and gipsies, and we couldn’t tell if it was some of them come to murder us and burn the hall down, as they swear they will; or if it was the French, for it’s said that they will land one of these nights, and turn out the king and Parliament.”

“Hold your tongue, wife, and don’t be keeping Lord Reginald and the other gentleman waiting,” exclaimed the husband. “You see, my lord, how my good woman is afeered, and so I hope your lordship will pardon me, as I mustn’t leave her alone, if I don’t go up with you to the hall, for if any strangers were to come there would be no one to open the gate.”

“Stop and look after your wife; I can dispense with your attendance, for I know my way perfectly,” answered Lord Reginald, laughing. “Come along, Voules, I shall be glad to be at home at last.”

The authoritative pull which the young nobleman gave to the hall bell soon brought the domestics to the door. The marquis and Lady Elverston, with their two fair daughters, and Lord John their eldest son, hurried out to meet Lord Reginald. His mother and sisters embraced him affectionately, gazing into his well-bronzed countenance, while his father and brother warmly wrung his hand, as they expressed their joy at his safe return. He then introduced his messmate Mr Voules, who received a polite welcome to Elverston Hall.

“And now, pray tell us, Reginald, to what circumstances we are indebted for seeing you so unexpectedly,” said the marquis.

“The kindness of Captain Moubray; who, hearing, when our frigate came to an anchor in Yarmouth Roads, that we were within a short distance of this, allowed me and my messmate Voules, at my request, to come on shore and pay you a visit, while the Wolf is refitting at Portsmouth.”

“What brings her back?” asked his father. “I understood that she was not expected home for some time.”

“We have had a glorious fight with a French frigate, which we compelled to strike, and have brought home as our prize; though, as we did not get off scot-free, it will take the Wolf some time to repair damages.”

“Did you lose many men?” asked the marquis.

“Twenty or more killed or wounded,” answered Lord Reginald, in a careless tone.

“My dear boy, how thankful I am that you escaped!” exclaimed the marchioness, gazing at him with a mother’s love in her eyes.

“Oh, do tell us all about it,” cried Lady Lucy, his eldest sister.

“All in good time,” answered Reginald; “but to say the truth, we are very sharp set after our long walk, and should prefer refreshing the inner man before we exhaust our energies by talking, and I will refer you on the subject to Voules, whose descriptive powers are far superior to mine. All that I can tell is that we saw a ship, which we soon discovered to be French, and, coming up with her, fired away until, in the course of a couple of hours, having had enough of it, she hauled down her colours, and that when we were sent on board to take possession, we found that we had knocked over some forty or fifty stout fellows.”

The marquis rang the bell, while the midshipmen retired to their rooms to prepare for supper.

Voules gazed round the handsome chamber in which he found himself, with a well-satisfied look. “I have fallen on my feet for once in my life, at all events,” he said to himself. “If I play my cards well, who knows what may happen? It is evident that his family think a good deal of this young lordling, and I must take care to keep in his good graces. He is fond of flattery, though it doesn’t do to lay it on too thick, but his sisters and mother will be well pleased to hear his praises sung, and as I have a fair groundwork to go upon, I may praise him to the skies behind his back; he is sure to hear what I say of him, and will be more pleased than if I flattered him to his face. I shall thus get into the good graces of the ladies, who may induce the marquis to use his influence at the Admiralty to obtain my promotion.”

His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of a valet, who came to offer his services. Voules, supposing from his appearance that he was one of the other guests who had mistaken his room, made him a polite bow, and said something to that effect. The valet, uncertain whether the young gentleman was a lord or a commoner, thought it wise to be on the safe side, and addressing him as “My lord,” said that he had been sent by Lord John to brush his clothes and shoes, and as the portmanteaus had not arrived, to put any of his lordship’s wardrobe at his disposal.

“Oh, ah! my good fellow,” said the midshipman, discovering his error; “much obliged to Lord John; but as there is not time to shift my rigging, I’ll just trouble you to give me a brush down and to bring me a pair of slippers, and I shall be all to rights.”

The valet quickly performed the duties required of him, and Voules, perfectly satisfied with himself, followed him downstairs to the drawing-room.

Chapter Two.

Voules makes himself at home—Eager listeners—Fight between the Wolf and a French frigate—Lord Reginald’s account—Merit and modesty—A bumper round—Voules makes headway—Dick Hargrave—An encounter in the forest—Smugglers—Good Faithful—The farmer’s home—Dick’s mother—Sound advice—Contending influences—Bitter feelings—A prudent resolution.

Several guests were staying in the house, and a large party were soon assembled round the supper-table. The two midshipmen were objects of general interest, and they had more questions asked than they could well answer. Voules had the honour of sitting near Lady Elverston. Lord Reginald was at the other end of the table, where his father had placed him, anxious to hear from his own lips an account of what had occurred. Just then, however, being very hungry, the young lord was more interested in discussing the viands placed before him than in narrating the particulars of the engagement. Voules had therefore the field to himself, and although quite as hungry as his brother midshipman, he restrained his appetite, for the sake of giving full play to his tongue.

“I can assure your ladyship that we have had as fine an action as any which has been fought during the war, and though his modesty might induce him to disclaim any peculiar merit, Lord Reginald played no unimportant part in it,” began Toady Voules, bowing to the marchioness, and then giving a quick glance towards the other end of the table to ascertain whether his messmate was listening. Finding that he was fully engaged with the viands before him, he went on. “We were about thirty leagues from the coast of Spain, in the latitude of Cadiz, when early one morning, we discovered a sail to the south-west, we having the wind at the time from the north-east. As you may suppose, we immediately bore up in chase, for we had every hope that the stranger would prove an enemy. It was some time, however, before we could settle the point, as the wind was light and we made but little way. At length, to our great joy, we were almost sure that she was a French frigate by the cut of her canvas and the appearance of her hull; at last, when she hoisted her colours and fired a gun to windward, we had no doubt about the matter. She was hove to, with her mizzen-topsail aback and the main-topsail shivering, waiting for us. This showed that her captain was a brave fellow, and would give us some trouble before we were likely to make him strike.

“We were all in high spirits, and I never saw Lord Reginald look cooler or more at his ease than he then did. Our captain, to prevent the French frigate from escaping, made up his mind to engage her to leeward. Our men were at their quarters, with matches in their hands, ready to fire. The word, however, was passed along the decks that not a gun should be discharged until the captain should give the signal, though the enemy had begun to blaze away, and his shot was passing through our sails and cutting up our rigging. The enemy, seeing our intention, wore and foiled the manoeuvre. As she sailed much better than the Wolf, our captain at length saw that he must adopt a different plan to that which he had at first intended. The Frenchman several times filled and wore so as on each occasion to bring a fresh broadside to bear on the Wolf, which annoyed us greatly. It was trying work to have her shot crashing on board without being able to return the compliment. Fortunately, the Frenchman firing high, few of our men were hurt. We now steered directly down upon the enemy, and having got within pistol-shot of her, the satisfactory words reached us, ‘Give it her, my lads, and enough of it.’ We did give it her, the men tossing their guns about like playthings, running them in, loading and firing two shots to the Frenchman’s one. We were now what we wanted to be, engaging the enemy broadside to broadside, within pistol-shot distance, pouring into each other a fire of round, grape, and musketry. I am afraid you would not understand the various manoeuvres we performed. As we carried a press of sail, we shot past the enemy, who, bearing up, managed to cross our stern and pour in a raking fire. As our captain saw what she was about to do, he ordered all hands to fall flat on the deck, and many who might have had their heads knocked off thus escaped. As the shot flew over us like a shower of hail, the only person I saw on his feet besides the captain and first lieutenant was Lord Reginald. He told me afterwards that he could not bring himself to bend before a Frenchman. ‘Better, my dear Oswald, to do that than to be knocked down by a Frenchman’s shot,’ I observed. ‘No, no!’ he answered. ‘I should have died an honourable death.’ I beg to observe that I did not agree with my noble messmate; but I mention the circumstance only to show what stuff he is made of.

“We were quickly on our feet again, and engaged in firing every gun we could bring to bear. After some time, having crossed each other’s courses, we being ahead of the French ship, she stood right at us, bringing her larboard bow against our starboard quarter, over which her bowsprit ran, pressing against the mizzen rigging. The captain immediately ordered it to be lashed there, to prevent her escaping. Lord Reginald was, I can assure you, among the first to obey the captain’s order. Several men were shot in the attempt, but at last it was successful. Scarcely, however, was it done, and we had the Frenchman fast, than we saw the greater portion of her crew rushing forward, ready to spring down on our decks. It was as much as we could do, I can tell you, to keep them at bay. Our marines, stationed on the quarter-deck, fired away at them as fast as they could load and discharge their muskets, but not until our captain himself, at the head of our own boarders, armed with cutlasses, pikes, and pistols, rushed to our quarter, over which the enemy had begun to pour, was their progress stopped. It was desperate work; those who had gained our deck were cut down, others were hove into the sea, while the remainder beat a rapid retreat. Their foremost guns then began to thunder away at us, and we could not bring one to bear in return, until a couple of pieces were dragged aft on the main-deck and run through the cabin windows, which had been cut down to serve as ports. We had now an advantage of which we made good use. Every shot we fired told with tremendous effect, but the enemy was still unconquered. The lashings which held the bowsprit of the French ship to the mizzen rigging giving way, she began to forge ahead. As she did so, a fortunate shot cut away the gammoning of her bowsprit. We were now exchanging broadsides yardarm to yardarm, but the drubbing they had already received seemed to dishearten the Frenchmen. Still they held out, showing a wonderful amount of pluck. They had sent men into the tops, armed with muskets, who were firing down on our deck, and had already wounded several of our officers. I was standing a short distance from our captain, when I saw Lord Reginald seize the musket of a marine who had just been killed, and at the same time shove the captain aside and fire at the maintop, when down came a man on deck. The captain was saved. The fellow had been taking aim at him, and there is no doubt that he owes his life to the coolness and resolution of Lord Reginald, although he looked rather astonished at being treated in so unceremonious a manner by a midshipman—”

“Why, you make Lord Reginald a perfect hero,” observed a dowager duchess sitting opposite to Voules, who might possibly have suspected that the young gentleman was drawing on his imagination as to the details of the action.

“Pray go on, Mr Voules,” said Lady Julia. “I could not listen to you without trembling; and, did I not see my brother sitting safe there, should be thinking all sorts of dreadful things. I wonder any one remained alive on the decks of the ships engaged in so fearful a battle.”

“A good many did lose the number of their mess, but fewer were killed than might have been supposed, for round shot and bullets fortunately have a happy knack of making their way between the heads of people without hitting them.

“By this time our gallant frigate, which had lately been under a cloud of canvas, swelling proudly to the breeze, made a deplorable appearance with rope’s ends and torn sails hanging down from every mast and yard. The French ship, however, was in a still worse condition. The sails, however, were of sufficient service to force the two ships through the water, and the Frenchman took advantage of this, and hauled up, in a short time getting out of gun-shot, we being unable, in consequence of the loss of our gaff and topsails, to follow. Our captain, however, had no intention, as you may suppose, of letting her escape. All hands set to work to knot and splice our rigging, to refit braces and repair other damages. While thus employed, we saw the Frenchman’s foremast fall over the side. Our crew, as you may suppose, raised a loud cheer at the sight, and redoubled their efforts to be ready, should a breeze spring up, for again getting within range of our opponent. Scarcely had the hands reached the deck, when we saw a ripple playing over the ocean; the sails were trimmed, and once more, with eager hearts, we steered towards the French ship. We did not suppose that she would hold out long, but after the pluck her captain had exhibited, we fully expected to be at it again. In a few minutes the crew were at their quarters, ready to fire a broadside, when down came the Frenchman’s colours.

“‘She has struck! she has struck!’ resounded through the ship. We at once hove to. The first lieutenant was sent on board to take possession; I had the honour to accompany him. The sight I had witnessed on board our own ship was bad enough, for we had upwards of twenty men killed and wounded, the former still lying in their blood where they fell; but on stepping on the Frenchman’s deck, it seemed literally covered with dead men, for the rest of the crew had been too busy to throw any of them overboard, while the cockpit below was filled with wounded, many of whom were too much hurt to recover.

“The French captain, who came to the gangway to present his sword to the first lieutenant, informed us that the ship was the Reynard, when we found that she was not only of larger size and carried four more guns than we had, but had commenced the action with upwards of two hundred men more than we mustered. The French captain, Monsieur Brunet, who had really fought his ship very gallantly, shrugged his shoulders, exclaiming, ‘It is the fortune of war!’ as he delivered up his sword, and was requested, having packed up his personal effects, to go on board the Wolf, in a boat sent for the purpose. The boats of the French frigate were too much knocked about to float, and it took us some time to remove the prisoners and send a prize crew on board. It was night, therefore, before we were ready to make sail, when we steered a course for the north-west, to avoid the French fleet, which was supposed to be off the coast of Spain or Portugal.

“The scene on board the prize made me very glad to get back to my own ship. Though we had gained the battle, we were not allowed to sleep on beds of roses. Our prisoners considerably outnumbered our own crew, and our boatswain, who spoke French, having been taken during the earlier part of the war, overheard some of them discussing a plan for overpowering us and regaining the prize. As we could not put them all in irons, we had to keep a strict watch over their movements.

“The weather remained fine, but there was a thick mist which prevented us from seeing far ahead. It had just gone two bells in the morning watch, when, as I was forward, I heard a tinkling sound. I listened attentively. Again the sound distinctly struck my ear. It came borne along the surface of the water from some distance. I reported the circumstance to the officer of the watch, and he immediately sent to inform the captain. He soon reached the deck, and after listening for a while, announced it to be his belief that the sounds proceeded from the French fleet. He immediately ordered the ship’s course to be changed to the westward. In another hour we again hauled up to the northward. When morning broke, the look-out from the mast announced a fleet in sight to the south-east. All the sail we and our prize could make was set. We soon discovered, however, that several large ships were in chase of us, but our captain was not the man to give in while a stick remained standing. We continued our course, hoping that a change of wind or some other chance might enable us to escape our pursuers. It would have been tantalising to have lost our prize and have been taken prisoners ourselves, and some of the least hopeful declared that such would be our fate. ‘Well,’ exclaimed Lord Reginald, ‘we must submit, but nothing can take away the honour we have gained by capturing a French frigate of superior force.’ Your ladyship will perceive the courage and spirit of your gallant son; indeed, he has exhibited them on many occasions, and I hope that some day we may see him leading England’s fleets to victory.”

“What’s that you are saying about me?” exclaimed Lord Reginald, from the other end of the table, for during the sudden silence of those around him he had caught the last words uttered by his messmate.

“Mr Voules is only speaking of you as you deserve, my dear Reginald,” said the marchioness. “He has been giving us an account of the battle and the gallant way in which you behaved.”

“We all behaved gallantly, or we should not have thrashed the enemy,” said Reginald, laughing.

“I hope Mr Voules has given you a clearer account than Reginald has himself, for, except that the two ships spent the morning in pounding away at each other, and that at length the Frenchman, being tired of the amusement, and having lost his foremast, hauled down his colours, I have heard no details of the action,” said the marquis.

“Then his modesty prevented him relating how he lashed the bowsprit to the rigging and saved the captain’s life,” observed the marchioness.

“I lash the bowsprit to the rigging? Why, the men did that, and very imperfectly they performed the work, or our antagonist would not have got clear again; and as to saving the captain’s life, I know only that I took up a musket and brought down a Frenchman, or he would have knocked over the captain or me, or somebody else.”

“Whose account is to be relied on?” asked the marquis, looking somewhat puzzled.

“I do not wish to gainsay my noble messmate, but your lordship must make allowance for his modesty, and give me credit for stating facts as they occurred,” answered Voules.

“I see how it is,” observed the marquis, glancing approvingly at his son.

“Merit is always modest, which may account, Mr Voules, for your not having described your own gallant deeds,” said the marchioness, looking hard at him. Being a clear-sighted woman, she may have suspected why the smooth-tongued young gentleman had praised his noble messmate.

“But how did the Wolf and her prize manage to escape from the enemy?” asked Lady Julia. “Pray go on and tell us, Mr Voules.”

“For some time I must own that we fully expected to be captured, for wounded as our masts and spars were, we could not venture to make more sail; indeed, it is a wonder those of the prize which remained standing did not fall over the side. Fortunately, we had a good start, and the wind being light, the French ships did not gain on us as fast as they would otherwise have done. To our infinite satisfaction, just about noon, we saw them haul their wind, having been probably recalled by their admiral, who thought it possible that they might run into the jaws of an English squadron, which he must have known was cruising in the neighbourhood. We had still no small anxiety about our prisoners, and, I believe, it was not a little owing to the vigilance of Lord Reginald that they were prevented from rising. His perfect knowledge of French, for which he tells me he is indebted to his sisters, enabled him to speak to the men, warning them of the danger they would run should they make the attempt, and in a short time he brought them into good humour, notwithstanding which, as before, a strict watch was kept on their movements. Having stood well to the westward, we got a fair breeze, which carried us up Channel and safe inside the Isle of Wight, where I hope the prize is by this time, for she was close in with the Needles, and was only prevented following us for want of wind and the ebb still making out against her. It would be a serious matter if she were to run on shore during the night, or be retaken by a French cruiser.”

“No chance of that,” observed Reginald. “No French cruiser would ever venture so close in with our shore, and within two or three hours at most the prize would be able to follow the frigate.”

“I must get you, Mr Voules, to repeat the account you have given of the action for my benefit, as Reginald is wonderfully reticent on the subject,” said the marquis.

“I shall have great pleasure, my lord,” answered Voules, bowing.

“In the mean time, do me the honour of taking wine, and we will afterwards drink a bumper round to the future success of the Wolf,” said the marquis.

“The very toast I was going to propose,” said an old general, who had long since been placed on the shelf. “Though my fighting days are over, an account such as we have just heard warms up my stagnant blood, and I beg to second your lordship’s proposal.”

“Charge your glasses, gentlemen, and I hope, ladies, that on this occasion you will join us,” exclaimed the master of the house.

No one declining, the fair sex put out their more moderately sized glasses to be filled as the bottle went round. The toast was drunk, the whole party standing, with the exception of the two midshipmen, who, with assumed modest looks, retained their places.

“And now we will give three cheers for our naval heroes,” cried the old general, making an effort to stand up on his chair, but giving it up, as he reflected on the danger he might run of toppling over among the dishes which still covered the board.

“Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!” and the supper-room rang with the sounds, which were taken up by the servants outside and repeated in the hall below, where the domestics not in waiting were making merry.

When all the guests sat down they looked at the two midshipmen, while Reginald made signs to Voules to speak.

“You are the eldest, old fellow, and having been longest in the service, it is your business to reply.”

Voules, nothing loth, rose to his feet. His only difficulty in commencing being the doubt whether he should address his friends as “My lords and ladies.” His tact, however, prevented him doing so, and he contented himself by neatly expressing his thanks for the honour done to the glorious service of which he was so humble a representative. “Had Lord Reginald been induced to speak,” he added, “he would have said more to the purpose. My belief is, that should the war continue a few years longer, my noble friend will be found in command of as fine a frigate as the Wolf, and will outshine the deeds of his predecessors. Should I be so fortunate as to have reached the rank of lieutenant by that time, I hope that it will be my privilege to serve under him.”

Voules’s modest remark in reference to himself drew forth, as he intended it should, a reply from his host, who assured him that any interest he possessed should be exerted to obtain for him the promotion he deserved, and that he hoped to see him a post-captain as soon as his son had obtained that rank.

“Thank you, my lord, thank you!” exclaimed Voules, highly delighted. “Your lordship will allow me to remind you of your promise, whenever Lord Reginald obtains a step in rank. I do not aspire to be promoted before him, and shall be glad to serve in any ship to which he is appointed, until we are both eligible for independent commands.”

The ladies now withdrew, and when the gentlemen left the supper-table it was found that they had retired to their rooms. Voules was too prudent a man generally to take more wine than his head could stand. So delighted, however, did he feel with his bright prospects, that he found considerable difficulty in restraining his tongue, and excusing himself on the plea of fatigue, was glad to make his way to his room, where he was followed by Lord John.

“I came to thank you, Mr Voules, for the very handsome way in which you spoke of my brother,” said the latter. “He is a very fine fellow, somewhat thoughtless and impetuous, and requires guiding, and I rejoice to think that he has found so steady a friend as you are to guide and restrain him.”

Voules put on as sedate an air as possible, although just then he did not feel very capable of guiding himself, for he had had considerable difficulty in steering a straight course along the passage which led to his room. “You may depend upon me, my dear Lord John, that I will do my best to keep your lordship’s brother out of mischief. I do not profess to be his monitor, but I may exert an unperceived influence over him to his advantage.”

“And did he really perform all the gallant acts you describe?” asked Lord John.

“Every one of them, and others besides,” answered the midshipman. “There’s not a more gallant young officer in the service, and he’ll make the world know it some day, if no harm befall him.”

In spite of all the efforts he made, Voules could not help yawning, and Lord John, perceiving this, allowed him to go to bed in quiet, while he went to have a further talk with his brother, who, however, by that time, had turned in and had already fast closed his eyes.

In the mean time Dick Hargrave hurried towards his home with the fish he and Ben had caught, anxious to present them to his young sister, whom he dearly loved. He stopped at the village inn, the Admiral Benbow, and found that the two midshipmen had only just left it for Elverston Hall. “I have no fancy to meet the young lord and his friend,” observed Dick, “or we may chance to fall out, so I’ll take the other road, and shall soon get ahead of them.”

Following this wise resolution, he set off at a pace which soon brought him to the borders of the forest. He knew the road too well to be impeded by the darkness. He was running on, his own footsteps not allowing him to hear other sounds, when on passing beneath some overhanging trees, the shadow of which prevented him from seeing objects ahead, he suddenly found himself close upon a body of men, some on horseback and others on foot, escorting a line of carts. Dick at once knew what they were about, and not wishing to be stopped, he sprang on, hoping to remain concealed behind the trunk of a tree until they had passed by; but he had been observed, and two of the men came up to him.

“What business have you here, youngster?” asked one of them, seizing his arm and dragging him forward.

“I am Farmer Hargrave’s son, and am on my way home with some fish Ben Rudall and I have been catching for my sister Janet,” he answered.

“All right, Master Dick,” said the man; “we know you well enough; but don’t say that you have seen us, and if Ben has taken care to show himself, the revenue people won’t suspect what’s in the wind, as they will think that he would be sure to be along with us. Have you any news?”

“Nothing that much concerns you, Master Fryer,” answered Dick, who recognised the speaker. “A frigate anchored in Yarmouth Roads this evening, and two of the officers, one of them Lord Elverston’s son, have landed and gone on to the hall.”

“I should like to pay them off for the trouble the marquis gives us,” said Fryer; “though we have put him on a wrong scent, and he is not likely to find out this time what we are about, until the goods are safe in the hands of the London merchants.”

“It would not do us much good to interfere with the youngsters,” observed the other man. “If the marquis would but let us alone we should have no ill will towards him. All we want is free trade and fair play.”

“You are right there, mate,” observed Fryer; “and now, Master Dick, you may go your way, and remember to keep a quiet tongue in your head.”

Dick, escorted by his captors, who explained who he was, passed unquestioned through the main body of the smugglers, who had halted for some reason for a few minutes, just as he got up to them. Dick again hurried on, while the smugglers proceeded along by-paths across the country, shortly after to fall in, as has been seen, with the midshipmen. Dick was met by his faithful dog, who was always on the watch for him when he was away from home, and having an especial duty to perform, seldom accompanied him. That duty, which he performed with exemplary patience, was to lead about blind Janet, who, under his guidance, when she was well, would venture in all directions without the slightest fear of a mishap. Every one in the neighbourhood knew her and her dog, and even the roughest characters treated her with courtesy. Of late her walks had been greatly curtailed, for the last few days Faithful’s office had become a sinecure, though he still remained at his post, ready to perform his duty if required. He was a handsome spaniel, and had been brought up from a puppy by Dick, who had thoroughly broken him in. Though fond of scampering across the fields and poking his nose into every hole he could find in the hedges and ditches, he became as sedate as a judge the moment Janet called him and fastened the ribbon by which she was led to his collar. Dick was naturally very fond of his dog, but had become still more so since the animal had shown how useful it could make itself to poor Janet.

Faithful, who had long been on the watch, when he heard his master’s footsteps, with a bark of welcome leaped over the palings, and came frolicking and leaping round him, licking his hands to show his joy, and together they entered the house.

Mrs Hargrave, a comely, pleasant-looking dame, was seated busily stitching by the side of the table. “What has kept you so late, Dick?” she asked in an anxious tone. “Your father has gone to bed, as he must be up betimes. We thought that you had got into some mischief; but I am thankful to see you back, my son.”

Dick explained what he had been about, and exhibited the fish he had brought. “And how is Janet this evening?” he asked. “I thought that I should have been back in time for her to have one for supper, but they’ll do for her breakfast or her dinner to-morrow.”

“She’s asleep, sweet dear! though I’m afraid she’s no better. The Lord’s will be done, if He thinks fit to take her; and then, Dick, I want you to remember that you will be your father’s chief hope and stay in his trouble. Whether or not we shall have to turn out of our home, and seek for another farm, is more than I can say. Your father doesn’t wish to displease the marquis, but he thinks that it is his right to remain where he is, and that he would not be acting like an Englishman to give up that right.”

“Of course he would not,” exclaimed Dick. “Ben Rudall says he would not knock under to the marquis or any other lord, and he would hold on fast with tooth and nail.”

“I don’t want to say anything against Ben Rudall, my son; but I wish that you were not such friends with him. He is a smuggler, and may draw you into mischief, though maybe you’ll think it ungrateful in me to say so, when he has helped you to catch those fish. Remember that you cannot associate with bad characters without getting some harm and being looked upon as one of them.”

“Ben is a right honest fellow, and true as steel,” answered Dick. “I don’t like to hear anything said against him, mother; if he were ever so bad, he would not lead me astray.”

“He is a smuggler, Dick, and though he may be true to his companions, he is false to his country, or he would not be trying to cheat the revenue, as the smugglers do.”

“I had not thought of that; but don’t you trouble yourself about Ben,” answered Dick. “Now, mother, I am pretty hungry, and should like some bread and cheese;” and Dick turned round to go to the larder.

“Sit down, my son, and I’ll get them for you,” said Mrs Hargrave, taking the fish at the same time. “While you are eating, I’ll clean these, and they’ll be ready in the morning if Janet has a fancy for one of them.”

She soon returned, not only with some bread and cheese but some cold meat, and a mug of home-brewed beer, showing that the good housewife did not stint her family.

Dick described the arrival of the young lord and his shipmate. “I’d as leave he had stopped at sea, for, somehow or other, he and I are always getting foul of each other. But there will be rare doings up at the hall to welcome him home, especially if there’s been a battle, as Ben thinks, and his ship gained the day.”

“Then, Dick, do you keep out of his way, and no harm can come of it,” said Mrs Hargrave. “I am glad, however, for her ladyship’s sake, and the young ladies, for they will be main pleased to see him. Only this morning they came here to visit Janet, and when I told my lady what Mr Gooch says, she promised to speak to the marquis, and that makes me hope that the matter will be settled better than your father expects.”

“Not if that young lord finds out about it. He’ll try and set his father against us. You should have heard him and his shipmate this afternoon blackguarding Ben and me, because we wouldn’t carry their portmanteaus.”

“There would have been no disgrace in so doing. It shows that they thought you stronger men than themselves,” observed Mrs Hargrave.

“I should not have minded doing it, if it hadn’t been for Ben; but the way they spoke put his back up, and he gave them a piece of his mind.”

“Just now, Dick, you said that you would not be influenced by Ben; but surely you were on that occasion,” remarked Mrs Hargrave. “However, Dick, I do not want to blame you, but just try to keep clear of those men, and show what a help you can be to your father on the farm. Now, as you have had your supper, you had better go to bed, and I’ll close the door. I want to sit by Janet’s side, in case she should awake before I lie down. Do not forget to say your prayers, my son, and sing one of the hymns I taught you, though you look so sleepy that I am afraid you will not think much about what you are saying.”

Dick had in truth given way to several wide yawns, while his eyelids had begun to droop. He followed his mother’s advice, as far as he was able, and especially in the last particular; but he was fast asleep as soon almost as his head touched the pillow.

Chapter Three.

Good intentions—Blind Janet—Poor Faithful shot—A trying moment—Dick’s anger—Desire of revenge—A dangerous speech—Threatening to shoot—The consequences—Tempted—Indignation of the farmer’s son—A sorrowful duty—Grief of the blind girl—A scheme of Mr Gooch—Dick’s fears of arrest—Running away from home—At the smuggler’s cottage—On board the Nancy—Safe for the present.

Dick Hargrave kept to his resolution of trying to avoid meeting with Lord Reginald. Should he do so it would not be his fault, and should he fall in with him, he would endeavour to retain his temper, should his lordship speak to him in his former style. He likewise refrained from going to Keyhaven, or any other place where he was likely to meet any of his associates engaged in smuggling, although it was difficult to say who was not, more or less, implicated in the lawless proceedings so general at that time along the south coast. He assisted his father on the farm, and occasionally took Janet out for a short walk, as, notwithstanding the doctor’s expectations, she was able to get up again the very day after she had appeared to be so ill.

She declared that it was owing to the nice fish Dick had brought her. Again, however, she was confined to her room. As she could not take out Faithful, she begged that Dick would give him a run. “The poor dog sits so quietly at my feet all day, and if he sees me moving, I hear his tail thumping on the floor, and he begins to scamper about, fancying I am going to take him out. It is very dull for him, poor dog, and he deserves some amusement,” she said.

Dick promised to follow her wishes, and the next morning, saying that he would try to shoot a rabbit, and summoning Faithful, who bounded after him, he set off with his gun in his hand. With the assistance of the dog, he soon shot a couple of rabbits, with which he was about to return home. Faithful, however, highly delighted at finding himself abroad, went ranging wildly over the fields. Dick called to him, but the dog was too eager in the chase or too far off to hear his voice, and did not, as usual, return. Some minutes passed, when Dick heard a shot coming from the direction in which Faithful had disappeared. He hurried on, fearing that one of the keepers had caught sight of him; but then they all knew Janet’s dog, and the most surly would not have had the heart to fire at the honest brute, even though he might have been infringing the game laws by scampering for amusement after a hare or rabbit. Dick looked out anxiously, hoping to see the dog return; but though he shouted, “Faithful! Faithful!” and whistled shrilly, the animal did not make its appearance. Wondering what could have become of it, he went on calling its name. At last he saw it crawling towards him, dragging its limbs along in evident pain. At length the poor dog, unable to get further, sank to the ground. Dick, darting forward to where it lay, stooped down to ascertain how it was hurt. Its lacerated side, which bled profusely, showed that it had been shot.

“What villain has dared to hurt you, my poor Faithful?” exclaimed Dick.

The dog’s only reply, true to its name, was to lick his hand and endeavour to rise, but again it fell back, and after a few convulsive struggles, expired.

“Poor, poor Faithful! Janet will miss you, that she will! She will never find so trusty an animal to lead her about; but I’ll be revenged on the fellow, whoever he is. He ought to have known that you never poached, though you did love to run after a hare, for the fun of the thing. If I can meet the savage brute I’ll shoot him, as sure as my name is Richard Hargrave.”

“What’s that you say, you young ruffian?” exclaimed a voice near him.

Dick had not observed three persons who had approached. Looking up, he saw Lord Reginald and his brother midshipman, attended by a keeper.

“I do say that the heartless fellow who shot this dog deserves to be shot himself,” exclaimed Dick, looking boldly up.

“I shot the dog; it deserved to be killed for chasing hares on my father’s property,” answered the young lord. “You yourself must have set him on to drive the hares towards you. You are a poacher; we must have you up before the magistrates and punish you accordingly.”

“I did not set him on,” answered Dick, rising to his feet, “and I had no intention of killing any hares on the Elverston property. These rabbits I shot on my father’s farm, and I had a perfect right to kill them. The dog belongs to my blind sister. As she is ill, I took the poor brute out for a run.”

“A very likely story!” exclaimed Lord Reginald. “You have a gun in your hand and rabbits over your shoulder, and you had sent your dog scampering over the fields in search of more. I know your name, and shall report you to my father, so you may expect to take up your quarters in prison before many days are over.”

“The lad speaks the truth, my lord, about the dog,” observed the keeper, who had stepped forward and examined poor Faithful. “I have seen it many a time leading Farmer Hargrave’s blind daughter about, though whether he shot the rabbits on his father’s farm or not is another matter. We have never found him poaching before, so that part of the story may be true also.”

“I am sorry to have shot the dog, if it was useful to his blind sister,” said Lord Reginald; “and, I say, Jackson, I wish you’d look out for another to give the poor girl, instead of this one; she’ll not find out the difference.”

“I wouldn’t let her receive it if you should give her one!” exclaimed Dick, his anger in no way pacified by the young lord’s expressions of regret. “No dog could be found to equal Faithful; but I myself will look after a dog to take its place.”

“Really, my dear Oswald, I cannot stand by to see you thus insulted by this ungrateful young ruffian,” said Voules. “He has threatened to shoot you, and he looks like a fellow capable of doing what he says. The sooner he is taken up and sent to prison the better.”

“I have not been poaching! If you lay hands on me it will be the worse for you,” said Dick, grasping his gun.

“Come, come, Master Dick, do you go to your home, and do not be so foolish as to threaten mischief. It is dangerous to use such words, and you’ll be sorry for them by-and-by,” said the keeper, wisely interposing between the exasperated young men. “I know where to find you if you are wanted; but I don’t suppose the marquis will be hard upon you, when he hears how it was your sister’s dog was shot. If, my lord, you’ll please to let the lad go, I’ll undertake that he shall not come into the park again. His father is not the man to allow him to do anything against the law.”

Lord Reginald, who really much regretted having shot the dog, willingly listened to the keeper’s advice, and Voules, who had no object to gain in irritating him further against Dick Hargrave, said no more on the subject.

“Well, Hargrave, I will try to forget your threats, and I again assure you that had I known the dog was your sister’s, I would not have shot it,” said Lord Reginald, turning aside; and without waiting for an answer he led the way, followed by Voules and the keeper, in the direction of the hall, leaving Dick still standing by the side of his dog.

“I do not trust his fair words,” said Dick, looking after the party; “but I am obliged to Jackson for speaking a word in my favour, for if it had not been for him, matters would have become worse. Poor Faithful! I don’t know how I shall ever have the heart to tell Janet what has happened,” and stooping down he again examined the dog, to assure himself that it was really dead. Of this he was soon convinced. “I’ll not let you lie here, my poor dog!” he exclaimed, and taking it up in his arms, he walked away with it towards his home. He was crossing the road from Keyhaven, when a voice hailed him, and looking round he saw Ben Rudall approaching.

“What hast thou got there, Dick?” asked Ben. “Your sister’s dog—and killed, too! How did that happen?”

Dick told him, describing what had occurred.

“And thee wouldst trust the chaps, would thee?” said Ben, speaking in the Hampshire dialect. “No, no; don’t be doin’ that. Measter Jackson may have spoken fair enough, but he knows that he’s got his thumb on thee, an’ can come down on thee when he loiks. Now, just listen to what I have got to say. I was going to look for thee. The Nancy is expected in before many days are over, an’ she’ll be sailing again the next morning. If thee’ll come down to Keyhaven, there’ll be a good chance of taking a trip, an’ ’twill be safer for thee to be out of the way in case the young lord should change his mind an’ have thee up for poachin’. When the marquis hears of it, it’s my belief that he won’t let thee off, for he’s wonderfully strict about the matter, and if he had his will he’d be sending half the people hereabouts to prison.”

Dick had not forgotten his mother’s advice to keep clear of Ben Rudall, and he knew well enough that even though he should only go as a passenger, he would be committed to whatever was done by her crew.

“You mean kindly, Ben, I know,” he said; “but I cannot leave Janet, she’s so ill; and if she gets better, there’ll be no one except mother and me to walk out with her, now poor Faithful’s gone; but if I hear there’s a chance of my being had up for poaching, maybe it’s the best thing I can do.”

Ben laughed scornfully. “They’ll not let thee know what they intend to do; but thee would find thyself carried off to Winchester jail some fine morning, so just don’t be a fool, Dick, an’ come along with me.”

Dick, however, was firm in his resolution not to go off without seeing his mother and sister, and Ben was obliged to be content with his promise that he would come down to Keyhaven to talk the matter over. He would have been wiser had he not given that promise.

Ben returned the way he had come, and Dick, carrying the body of his dog, continued on towards his home.

On reaching the cottage, he carried the dog to a corner of the garden, while he went in for a spade to dig its grave. While he was searching for one in the outhouse, his mother saw him.

“What has happened, Dick?” she exclaimed, observing the blood on his clothes.

He at once narrated what had occurred, for although he had many faults, he was truthful to her.

“I am very sorry for what has happened. Poor dear Janet will almost break her heart. She said that she should like to take a stroll to-morrow with Faithful, if you were not able to accompany her. However, we must bear with it. From what you say, the young lord would not have shot the dog if he had known whose it was, and if he gives Janet another, she may become as fond of it as she was of Faithful.”

“I should not like her to become fond of Lord Reginald’s dog,” answered Dick. “If he sends one, I shall have a mind to shoot it, or send it back to him with a kettle tied to its tail.”

“That would not be a right thing to do,” observed Mrs Hargrave. “We should not harbour ill feelings towards others, though they have done us wrong. Come in now, and let me wash the blood off your coat. It looks bad, and if your father were to return, it would frighten him, as it did me. We’ll just break the news gently to Janet, and don’t say you won’t receive another dog if the young lord sends one. Remember how kind his mother and sisters are, and I dare say he is not so bad at heart, though he has more than once fallen out with you.”

“He has an abusive tongue in his head, and that shows what sort of heart he has got,” answered Dick, not inclined to agree with his mother about Lord Reginald. “You tell me the ladies speak so sweetly, but, as Ben Rudall says, that’s all outside show, and I would not trust them.”

“That’s because you have never been at home when they have called, or you would have agreed with me, if you had,” observed Mrs Hargrave. “Stay here while I get a sponge and some hot water; I can’t let you go about as you are; I cannot tell what people would say. If you were seen, there would be all sorts of tales about you.”

“I don’t care what is said, and I should just like them to know that Lord Reginald is a brute. That’s what I call him.”

“Hush! hush, Dick!” said his mother. “Sit you down here, until I have taken off those blood stains, for although poor Janet cannot see them, some one else may come in, and ask what has happened.”

Dick seated himself on a bench to which his mother pointed, and she quickly returned with soap and water. It was no easy operation, however, to get rid of the stains, and Dick declared that before he came in he must bury the dog. To this Mrs Hargrave consented, as she thought it would be a good opportunity to tell Janet of the loss of her favourite.

Dick, taking up the spade, and having selected a spot for Faithful’s grave, began digging away. More than once he stopped and gazed at the animal, feeling unwilling to put it so soon out of sight; then he went on more energetically than before. Having just completed his task, he leaned on his spade, while the tears rolled down his cheeks, as he thought he should never see his dog again. The wind had begun to blow strong, and dark clouds were gathering in the sky. The gloomy aspect of Nature suited his feelings. On looking up, he saw his mother and Janet approaching.

“Mother has told me, Dick, what has happened,” said his sister, as she came up. “I want to stroke Faithful’s head once more before you put him into his grave.” She stooped down by the side of the dog. “Oh! He doesn’t feel my hand now,” she said. “I am very sorry; but, Dick, I want you to promise me not to nourish anger against the young lord. He would not have fired had he known the dog was so useful to me. He told you as much. If I forgive him, you must.”

“I may forgive, but I do not forget,” said Dick. “If he keeps to his word, I’ll believe that he did not intend to do the cruel act. However, we must put poor Faithful in his grave, and if I do not make a vow to be revenged on Lord Reginald, it is because you are here to prevent me, Janet.”

“I would that you had a higher motive than that,” said Mrs Hargrave. “Now, Janet, you must return to the house; I promised you’d stop but one minute; Dick will soon have finished his task, and then he’ll come in to supper. Father will soon be home, Dick, so don’t delay.”

Dick, having at length brought himself to place the dog in its grave, hastily shovelled in the earth, muttering as he did so, “He’d better not cross me again; if he does he’ll have to repent it. Lie there, poor dog!” he added, as he finished the work. “I’ve a mind to put up a tombstone, and write on it, ‘Wantonly killed by Lord Reginald Oswald.’”

On entering the cottage, he found that his father, having come in, had heard what had happened. He was thankful at all events that he had not had to break the news to Janet. Farmer Hargrave said what he thought would pacify his son, and declared his belief that the young lord had not killed the dog with any malicious intent.

Dick pressed his lips together and made no reply. He could not trust himself. They were just finishing supper when a knock was heard at the door, and Dick, opening it, Mr Gooch the bailiff entered.

“Good evening, farmer; good evening, dame; somewhat stormy weather,” he said, throwing back his wet coat, and placing his dripping hat on the floor, as he took the seat offered him. “I didn’t think it was coming on to be so bad, until just before sunset. It blows hard enough now, and the rain is coming down in torrents, but I wanted to talk over that affair between us, so I came out in spite of the weather.”

“What have you got to say, Mr Gooch?” asked the farmer. “You know as well as I do that I have no wish to leave this farm. It will be a heavy loss to me to give it up, and I am determined to abide by my rights.”

“Very good, Mr Hargrave, very good,” said the bailiff, in a bland tone. “His lordship doesn’t want to be hard upon you, and if you have the right to remain, he would be the last man to ask you to turn out, but as I before told you, you have not the right, and if you go to law you’ll be worsted. Now, a little piece of information has come to my knowledge which may make you see that it would not be wise to go to law, even supposing there was a chance of your winning. I have not communicated with my lord on the subject, so I act on my own responsibility. This lad here, your son, has put himself in an awkward position. He has been poaching—not for the first time, either. I have just heard all about it from Jackson, the keeper, and from a young gentleman who is staying at the hall. They can give evidence, not only that he was poaching, but that he threatened the life of Lord Reginald Oswald—a very serious business, let me tell you. Had he fired, as he threatened to do, he would have been hung to a certainty, and as it is, I see every probability that he will be sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude. Now, of course, his lordship has it in his power to overlook the offence, and if I can tell him that you will yield to his wishes and consent to give up the farm, I am pretty sure that you will hear no more about the matter, only you must restrain your son from poaching in future, or from associating with smugglers, as I have evidence that he is in the habit of doing.”

The farmer listened to all the bailiff said, while Dick sat clenching his hands, with his eyes to the ground, every now and then giving a look at his mother.

Ben was right, then, in warning him. Had he accompanied the old smuggler at once, and got out of the way, Mr Gooch would not have been able to obtain the upper hand of his father.

When the bailiff had finished, Mr Hargrave replied, “I have before given you my answer. I believe the marquis to be a just man. If he finds I have the right to continue in the farm, he would not wish to dispossess me. In regard to Dick, the provocation he received by having his dog killed would excuse any thoughtless words he might have uttered. So I cannot offer to give up my rights for fear of the consequences, and I will never believe that Lord Elverston would act as you suggest.”

“Then you dare to say that you doubt my word, Farmer Hargrave?” exclaimed the bailiff, in a tone of indignation, rising from his seat. “I’ll give you until to-morrow to think over the matter; but you’ll take the consequences if you have the same answer ready for me. And dame, I would advise you to persuade your husband to act as I recommend, or, whether you go out of the farm or not, that lad of yours, before many days are over, will be lodged in Winchester jail, and be sent to Botany Bay, if he doesn’t get the chance of entering on board a king’s ship. Perhaps they won’t give him his choice, for threatening to shoot a lord is a serious matter.”

“Oh, Mr Gooch, you would not be so cruel as to wish to send our Dick to prison!” exclaimed Janet, who had been listening to what was said.

“All your father has to do is to agree to what I propose, and he is safe enough,” answered the bailiff. “I can stay no longer. I called in to give some friendly advice. If not taken, it is not my fault; so good night to all. I hope that you’ll settle the matter between you!”

Mr Gooch got up to go. Dick opened the door, having no wish to detain him. Looking out, he saw that the account given of the weather was not exaggerated.

“Is is plaguey dark, Mr Gooch!” he observed. “You’d better take a lantern, sir.”

“No, no; I know my way as well in the dark as in the daylight,” was the reply, and Mr Gooch stepping out, was soon lost to sight.

No sooner was the door closed than Dick exclaimed, “Don’t give in, father. I’d sooner go to prison, or Botany Bay, or be sent to sea, or be hung, for that matter, rather than that you should yield up your rights and be turned out of this farm.”

“I will not give up the farm if I have a right to keep it, but if the law is against me, go I must; still, I would not have you suffer, Dick, unless you deserve it, and if it is proved that you were poaching, and that you threatened to shoot the young lord, you must, as the bailiff says, take the consequences, though it would well-nigh break my heart to see you punished. But I have not much fear on the score either way. It is my belief that the marquis does not know much about the matter of the farm, and from beginning to end it is all the doing of Mr Gooch. What he cares for is to please his master, and as he knows that his lordship has a fancy for extending the park, he wants to get me to turn out, and now that he thinks he has got hold of you, he fancies that he can frighten me to do so. In regard to your affair, Dick, when the marquis hears of the provocation you received, I don’t think he will be hard upon you.”

The farmer made these remarks to tranquillise as far as he could the mind of his wife. Perhaps he did not feel so confident himself. So Dick at all events thought. The family soon afterwards separated for the night.

Dick went to his room, but could not sleep. The storm itself, though it whistled and howled around the cottage, would not have kept him awake. He thought over all that had happened, what he himself had said, and how Lord Reginald had looked and replied. “Whatever the gamekeeper may say, that other young fellow is against me, and if they take me before the magistrate, Mr Jackson will be upon his oath, and compelled to corroborate the midshipman’s statement. It all depends on what they choose to do. There is no doubt I did threaten to shoot Lord Reginald, and I felt wonderfully inclined to do it, too. There’s only one way I can see to get out of it and save father, and that is to take advantage of Ben Rudall’s offer and to keep out of the way until the affair is blown over; I won’t tell father or mother or they may be wishing to stop me; but I’ll write a letter just to wish them and Janet good-bye for a short time, without saying where I am going, for that would spoil the whole thing. Ben says I shall like the life on board the lugger; so I shall, though I would not have gone if there had not been this good reason. I cannot fancy that either father or mother will be really sorry when they find that I am safe out of the way.” So said Dick to himself, and having come to this resolution, he at length fell asleep.

It was not a wise one, for it was like falling out of the frying-pan into the fire. There was a very remote risk of his being summoned before the magistrates, and if summoned, of his being committed for trial, whereas, in addition to the dangers of the sea, if captured on board the lugger, he would to a certainty be condemned as a smuggler and be sent to jail, if even worse did not come of it. For a lad to be sent to jail in those days was a fearful punishment, for there was no separation of prisoners, and should Dick go there he would be herded with ruffians of every description, and could scarcely fail to come out again without being very much the worse for his incarceration. Just then, however, he only thought how he could best keep out of the way of Mr Gooch, and thus prevent him from inducing his father to yield up his rights, which he might do, notwithstanding his resolutions to the contrary, should he be thus able to save his son from punishment.

Dick awoke just as the light of the early dawn made its way into the room. The storm had ceased, and the clouds were fast disappearing, giving promises of a fine day. He had been a good penman at school, so that he had no difficulty in writing his letter. He had bade an affectionate good night to them all, and he would not run the risk of being hindered in his project by remaining for breakfast. His letter was brief.

“Dear father,” it ran, “don’t give up the farm. I shall be all safe, though I don’t want you or any one else to find me until the matter is settled, but I have made up my mind that they shall not make a cat’s paw of me. Love to mother and Janet. So no more from your affectionate son, Dick.”

Leaving the letter on the table, with a bundle of clothes and a few other articles in his hand, he slipped silently downstairs, thankful to find that his father was not yet stirring. Filling his pocket with some bread and cheese from the larder, he hurried out by the back door, which was not likely to be opened for some time, and made his way by by-paths in the direction of Keyhaven. He felt, it must be confessed, somewhat like a culprit escaping from justice. Every now and then he looked back to ascertain if he was followed; then again he ran on. He wished, if possible, to avoid meeting any one who might question him as to where he was bound at that early hour. The labourers would be going to work, but a considerable portion of the country through which he passed was still uncultivated. Twice when he saw people coming, he turned aside and hid himself behind a hedge until the men had passed. He thus reached Ben Rudall’s cottage, without, as he supposed, being seen by any one who knew him. Ben was not at home; but Susan asked him to come in and sit down.

“He has been out nearly all night, Master Richard, but I am hoping to see him back safe every minute,” she said. “He got notice that the Nancy was standing in for the coast, and went out to lend a helping hand. I don’t mind telling you, as I know that you are not one of those who side with the revenue people, or would go and give information—”

“Which would injure any of my friends,” put in Dick. “No, indeed, I would not. To say the truth, your husband promised me a trip on board the Nancy, which I have come to accept.”

“He’ll be main glad, for he has agreed to go himself the next trip, and he told me that he thought the lugger would be away again to-night or to-morrow at furthest. She’s not likely to be long away, though, and I don’t mind his going as much as I used to do. Sometimes he has been from home for six weeks or two months at a time, either looking out for a cargo or waiting for a good chance to run across and land one on the English coast.” Mrs Rudall did not hesitate to describe the doings of the smugglers to Dick, though she would have been wonderfully reticent to a stranger; yet she showed her anxiety by frequently going to the door and looking round the corner in the direction she expected her husband to appear. “Here he comes! here he comes!” she cried at length, and Ben, with a sou’wester on his head, a thick flushing coat on his back, and his legs encased in high boots, made his appearance.

“All right, Susan!” he said, as he reached the cottage. “We’ve done the job neatly, and the goods are twenty miles inland by this time. We’d a famous night for it, couldn’t have had a better, got the revenue men away on the wrong scent, and had the coast clear long enough to land a dozen cargoes. If we get such another night for the next run, we shall do well.”

“I am thankful,” said poor Susan, who thought more of her husband’s safety than probably of his share of the profits. “Now, come in; here’s a visitor you’ll be glad to see.”

Ben put out his hand and shook Dick’s, but before asking questions he kissed his children, who came jumping up round him.

“Now, let’s have breakfast, for I am main hungry, and I dare say our friend here is,” he exclaimed. “Have you taken my advice, and made up your mind for a trip on board the Nancy?” he asked, turning to Dick.

Dick replied in the affirmative, and described the visit Mr Gooch had paid them the previous evening.

“The sooner you get on board and out of his way the better, for they’ll not think of looking for you there, and before to-morrow morning the Nancy will be away again across the Channel,” said Ben. Breakfast was just over, and Ben was smoking his pipe in front of his cottage door, when, looking to the southward, he exclaimed, “There she comes; she is a beauty!” and he pointed to a fine lugger, which, under all sail, having rounded Hurst Point, was standing towards Yarmouth.

Ben having put up a few articles, led the way down to his boat, accompanied by Dick, and followed by his elder children, one carrying a boat-hook, another the oars, while he himself bore the boat’s mast and sails on his broad shoulders. The children stood on the beach, watching them as they pulled away. The breeze being favourable, Ben soon stepped the mast and hoisted the sail, when he came aft with the mainsheet, and told Dick to steer.

“You should never lose the chance of learning to be handy in a boat,” he observed; “you don’t know when it may come in useful. You are very well as it is, but you are not like one born to it. Howsumdever, you’ll pick up something on board the Nancy, and we shall have you turning out a prime seaman one of these days.”

Dick really steered very well, and Ben every now and then gave him an approving nod. Being perfectly familiar with the surrounding scenery, he scarcely noticed it, occupied as his thoughts were just then by the position in which he was placed. Away to the right were the white Needle rocks, their pointed heads standing high up out of the sea, with chalky cliffs rising high above them; wide, smooth downs extending eastward; below which were cliffs of varied colour, with a succession of bays and rocky reefs; while ahead were the picturesque heights of Freshwater, covered by green trees, amid which several villas and cottages peeped out. Further east still, appeared the little seaport town of Yarmouth, with its old grey castle and grey stone houses, their gardens extending down to the water; on the starboard quarter was Hurst beach, with its massive round castle and tall, red lighthouse; while to the northward, extended a wood-covered shore, on which could be distinguished numerous residences, some of considerable size, and the town of Lymington running up the side of a steep hill.

Ben was proud of his boat, though to the outward eye there was nothing to admire, as the paint with which she had once been bedecked had been worn off, her sails were patched, and her rigging knotted in several places.

“I look at what she can do!” he observed; “and a better sea-boat or a faster is not to be found between Hurst and Spithead. It must blow a precious hard gale before I should be afraid to be out in her night or day.”

That she was fast was proved by the speed with which she ran across the Channel. In a short time she was alongside the lugger, which had brought up close in shore, her crew evidently fearless of the revenue men, two or three of whom stood watching her.

All on board knew Ben, and gave him a hearty welcome. “I have brought a fresh hand, Jack!” he said, addressing the skipper in a familiar tone. “I have long promised him a trip, and as it happens, it is as well that he should keep out of the way of the big-wigs over there.” Ben then briefly explained the danger Dick was in for threatening to shoot the son of the Marquis of Elverston.

This announcement gained him a warm reception from the smugglers, who, engaged in lawless pursuits themselves, were naturally inclined to approve of such an act, and would possibly have looked upon him with still greater respect had he fired as he had threatened.

“Glad to see you, my lad,” said John Dore, putting out his hand. “Make yourself at home on board the Nancy. We’ll give you work when work has to be done, and now, if you’re tired, you can turn into my berth and go to sleep till the evening, when, unless the wind shifts round to the southward, we shall be at sea again.”

“The best thing you can do,” observed Ben. “I must go to Keyhaven to get a hand to take my boat back and look after her while I am away.”

Dick, wishing to escape the notice of any one who might visit the lugger from the shore, accepted the skipper’s offer. As he had closed his eyes but a very short time during the previous night, he was soon fast asleep.

Chapter Four.

Under way—Life on board the Nancy—Off the French coast—Shipping the contraband goods—Run for England—A strange sail—The chase—Escape of the lugger—Landing the cargo—Revenue officers—Coolness of Dore—“Yield, in the king’s name.”—A little too late—Dick questioned.

When Dick awoke, he knew by the motion of the vessel and the sounds he heard that she was under way. The Nancy was a craft of nearly a hundred tons, decked all over, with three short, stout masts, the after one leaning over the taffrail, with a long out-rigger. On each of the masts a large lug was carried, and above them could be set flying topsails, and when before the wind studding-sails could be rigged out. She could also hoist an enormous squaresail. To set these sails, she carried a numerous crew of tried seamen; promptitude and decision being required in the dangerous work in which she was engaged. Her armament consisted of six short guns and a long nine-pounder, which could be trained either fore or aft, to bring to a merchantman endeavouring to escape, or to knock away the spars of an enemy chasing her. Besides these guns, she had an ample supply of cutlasses, pistols, and boarding-pikes, to enable her crew to repel an attack made by boats or from a hostile craft which might run alongside her. She was truly an Arab of the seas, with every man’s hand against her, and her hand against every man. The captain, by means best known to himself, had obtained a privateer’s licence, and in that character he appeared when in English waters, though her real employment was more than suspected by the revenue officers, who were on the look-out to catch her. In this they had invariably failed, owing to the vigilance of her crew, and to the exact information they received from their agents on shore. Dick, turning out of the skipper’s bunk, went on deck.

He was greeted by Ben Rudall. “You are safe enough now, lad, from the constables who may be hunting for you through the country; and glad I am to have you on board the Nancy. When we get back you must remain stowed away until we are at sea again, and in a short time they’ll get tired of looking for you.”

“I hope they won’t revenge themselves on my father,” said Dick; “that’s what’s troubling me now!”

“No fear of that, for he is not answerable for what you do, any more than you are for his acts, and as he doesn’t know where you are, he can’t tell them.”

“I wish, however, that I could let mother and Janet know that I am all safe; they may be fretting for me,” said Dick.

“Never you fear, they’ll guess that,” said Ben, trying to set Dick’s mind at ease on the subject. “It doesn’t do to think about home or anything of that sort when we are out on a cruise. Cheer up, lad! cheer up!”

A fresh breeze was blowing from the north-west. The stars were shining brightly out of a clear sky, and the lugger, close hauled, was passing the Needle rocks, which could be dimly seen rising out of the dark water like huge giants on the lee beam, while astern were visible the lights on Hurst point now brought into one. The lugger having rounded the western end of the Isle of Wight, the helm was put up, the yards squared away, the flying topsails and big squaresail set, and she stood across Channel, bounding lightly over the dancing seas. A craft with a fast pair of heels alone could have caught her. Her hardy crew remained on deck, for all hands might at any moment have been required for an emergency, either to shorten sail, or to alter her course, should a suspicious vessel appear in sight. All night long the lugger kept on her course, steering westward of south.

“I say, Ben, how do the Frenchmen treat us if we go on shore, seeing that we and they are fighting each other?” asked Dick.

“Never you fear; we shan’t go on shore, except it may be at night, in company with friends. You will soon see how we manage things,” was the answer.

The lugger made such good way, that when morning dawned, the coast of France was seen close aboard. No vessels of any description were in sight. As she got closer in, the French flag was hoisted, and other flags were got ready for making signals. Dick heard the skipper talking to three men whom he had not before observed, and whom he now discovered to be Frenchmen. He asked Ben who they were.

“One of them is to act as captain, the other two as his mates. They will go on shore and arrange about getting our cargo shipped. They won’t take long, as it will be all ready. If we have another favourable night, we may run it, and it will be up in London before a week is over.”

A bright look-out was kept in every direction. As no suspicious sail appeared, the Nancy stood on. The signal which she made was answered from the shore.

“All right,” said Ben; “no fear of interruption for the present.”

The topsails were lowered, and under the foresail and mizzen she glided on into a small harbour between rocks of sufficient height to hide her short masts from the view of any craft passing outside. The crew of the Nancy appeared on deck, dressed as much as possible like French seamen, while they wisely kept their tongues quiet, so that their true character might not be suspected.

The two Frenchmen went on shore, while the third remained on board to answer any questions which might be put to them. Dick observed that the lugger lay in such a position that she could easily slip out again, should danger threaten. The crew seemed perfectly at their ease, laughing and talking when below, as if their situation was one to which they were well accustomed.

The day passed away; still no cargo was forthcoming, nor did the Frenchmen re-appear. This made Dick fear that the authorities might have discovered the true character of the Nancy, and in spite of their precautions the smugglers might be taken in a trap. He did not, however, express his apprehensions, and neither Ben nor any of the men appeared troubled on the subject. At night the crew lay down on the deck with their pistols in their belts, and their cutlasses and boarding-pikes by their sides, each man at his station so that the cable might be cut and the sails hoisted at a moment’s notice. It showed Dick that his fears were not altogether without some foundation. Nothing, however, occurred during the night, and the following day passed away much as the first had done.

Dore, however, grew impatient, and a boat was sent to watch outside the harbour in case any enemy might be stealing along the coast to prevent the Nancy’s escape. At length, some time after it grew dark, a boat came off from the shore, bringing the two Frenchmen, who reported that the cargo was ready and would shortly be on board. All hands stood prepared for hoisting it in. Several boats were quickly alongside, and with wonderful rapidity bales of silks, laces, and ribbons, and kegs of spirits and tobacco were transferred to the Nancy’s hold. As soon as they were stowed away, the anchor was got up, and the boats going ahead towed her out of the harbour, the Frenchmen wishing her “Bon voyage,” and a speedy return.

Dick breathed more freely when the sails were set, and the Nancy gliding swiftly over the smooth water, the dark outline of the French coast grew more and more indistinct. “How soon shall we get back to England?” he asked of Ben, by whose side he naturally kept when on deck.

“That depends on what may happen,” answered Ben. “We shall have to wait for a dark night, and to take care that the coast is clear before we run in. It may be to-morrow, or it may be a week hence. We have done very well as yet, but there’s many a slip between tin cup and the lip, as I have found to my cost more than once.”

Dick had to rest satisfied with this answer. There were plenty of people on board ready to talk to him, but their conversation was not of an improving character. Their chief delight seemed to be to abuse the royal navy as well as the revenue laws, and those engaged in preventing their infringement. Dick was not accustomed to look too deep into matters, and thought that what they said was very right. It did not occur to him that the same men would greatly have objected to free trade, which would completely have deprived them of their present illegal way of gaining a livelihood; and though there might have been some truth in what they said about the navy, they were wrong in the sweeping condemnation they pronounced against the service. There were some abuses still existing, but many had been removed; and there were not a few commanders of king’s ships who did their best to advance the welfare of their crews, and were at all times kind and considerate to those placed under them, as had been shown by numerous instances of devotion on the part of the men to their officers. The remarks of his associates, however, gave Dick an unmitigated horror of the navy, while he learned to look upon smugglers as a much-injured body of men, who were unjustly interfered with while engaged in endeavouring to gain their daily bread. At length, growing sleepy, he was glad to go below and lie down on one of the lockers in the little after cabin.

Next morning the lugger lay becalmed. While the breeze lasted, the smugglers had been in good humour, but as the watch below turned out, they swore and grumbled at finding their craft lying idle on the smooth surface of the ocean. No sail was in sight, and as long as the calm continued they could not come to harm; but an enemy might bring down a breeze which would enable her to get close up to them before their sails were filled. This was what they dreaded. All their seamanship and courage would not avail if she was a vessel too powerful for them to cope with.

Hour after hour passed away, and still the Nancy lay floating idly, and carried down Channel by the ebb tide, and swept up again by the flood. An anxious look-out was kept for signs of a coming breeze. Evening was approaching. From whatever quarter the wind might come, it might bring up an enemy. English or French were equally to be dreaded. The skipper paced the deck, making short turns, telescope in hand, every now and then sweeping the horizon with it, and casting an eye on the dog-vanes which hung unmoved by a breath of air. At last he kept his glass longer than usual turned to the eastward.

“There’s no doubt about it!” he exclaimed. “Those are the royals of a big ship of some sort; she’s got a fresh breeze, too, or we shouldn’t have risen them so fast above the horizon.”

Dick could only see a white spot on which the sun was shining, but it appeared to be increasing in size and growing higher and higher. The gaze of most of those on board were turned towards her. That she was either an English or a French cruiser was the general opinion. Some thought that she was a frigate, others a corvette; for no merchantman, at that period, would have come down Channel alone. One thing was certain, that she was steering directly for the lugger.

“What chance have we of escaping her?” asked Dick of Ben.

“Many a chance, lad,” answered his friend. “If she’s English she may not send a boat on board to examine us, and we shall pass for a privateer, or we may get the breeze in time to slip out of her way to the northward, or to keep ahead of her and give her the go-by during the night. If she’s French, we must put the Frenchman in command, show our French papers, and bamboozle the mounseers, or if the worst comes to the worst, tumble the crew of their boat overboard and try to get away.”

“But suppose they fire into us?” said Dick, who though often thoughtless was alive to the true state of the case.

“We must run the chance of that, my lad,” answered Ben, “though my idea is that yonder craft is an English corvette, and although she may be a pretty fast sailer, when once the Nancy gets the breeze, we shall show her a clean pair of heels.”

Dick sincerely hoped that such would be the case. He had not reckoned on the chance of being captured as a smuggler, or made prisoner by the enemy, or shot by either the one or the other. The crew were at their stations, ready to trim sails the moment the slightest breath of air should reach them. The topsails had before been set. The squaresail and studding-sails were got up ready to hoist at an instant’s notice. Still the lugger lay motionless, and the corvette, for such she was pronounced to be, came rapidly on, under every stitch of canvas she could carry. She was soon within a mile of the lugger, when some cat’s paws were seen playing over the water; the dog-vanes blew out and then dropped, the canvas flapped lightly against the masts. The skipper swore, and the crew swore, until once more they saw the sails bulging out slightly.

“Hurrah! here it comes at last! We’ll keep out of that fellow’s way,” cried Captain Dore, eyeing the stranger. The lugger began gathering way. “Port the helm, Tom. We’ll stand to the northward, and shall soon see whether he wishes to speak us. If he does, we’ll take leave to disappoint him.”

The yards were braced up on the starboard tack, and the lugger stood on the course proposed, so that the corvette, should she continue on as she was now steering, would pass astern. Dore kept his eye fixed on her.

“She’s a fancy to know more about us,” he remarked, as he observed the stranger also keeping up to the northward. “Her shot can’t reach us yet, and we shall soon see, now we have got the breeze, which is the faster craft of the two.”

As Dick looked over the starboard quarter, he saw the sails and dark hull of the corvette, lighted up by the rays of the setting sun, making her appear so much nearer than she really was, that he wondered she did not fire a shot to make the lugger heave to. He had no cowardly fears on the subject, but he again thought that he should have acted more wisely had he stowed himself away safely on shore, instead of coming on board the lugger. The corvette looked so powerful, that it seemed to him that a single broadside from her guns, would send the Nancy with all on board to the bottom. He observed, however, that Dore walked the deck with as calm an air as usual, all the time, however, narrowly eyeing the king’s ship, ready to take advantage of any change which might occur.

“We shall have darkness down upon us soon, and then we will show yonder fellow a trick or two. He wants to jam us up against the English coast; but we are not to be so caught,” he observed to his mate, Ned Langdon.

The breeze had freshened considerably, and was now blowing so strong, that the lugger could, on a wind, with difficulty carry her topsails, which were still set. The corvette had handed her royals, presently she took in her topgallant sails. She had lately been gaining on the lugger. Dick, with the rest of his companions, seldom had his eyes off her; the darkness was increasing, and her outline was becoming less and less distinct. Presently he saw a bright flash dart from her bows, and the roar of a gun reached his ears. The shot, however, had fallen short. The smugglers laughed.

“You may blaze away, but you won’t do us much harm!” observed Dore.

Another and another shot followed. The commander of the cruiser evidently wished to make the lugger heave to. If he had before had doubts of her character, he must now have been thoroughly satisfied as to what she was, and would become more eager to capture her.

“Stand by, my lads, to make sail!” cried Dore. “Keep up the helm, Tom, and hoist away on the squaresail!”

The lugger was put before the wind, running considerably faster than she had hitherto been doing through the water. The corvette must have observed her change of course, as she also kept away, and once more her topgallant sails were loosed. It was too dark to observe how the masts stood the pressure.

“I only wish that they would set the royals; with this breeze there would be a good chance of the spars being carried away,” said Dore.

It was very doubtful whether the corvette was gaining on the lugger. Though the advancing night gradually shrouded her more and more in gloom, she could still be discerned, her canvas rising up like a dark phantom stalking over the ocean. The crew of the lugger stood at their stations, ready at a moment to obey their captain’s orders. He kept his eye on the topsails, though if blown away the accident would not be of much consequence. The masts were tough, and bent like willow wands.

“They’ll hold on as long as we want them now,” observed Dore. Again and again he looked astern. Presently he shouted, “Lower the topsails! Starboard the helm, Tom! Haul away at the starboard braces!” and the lugger, on the port tack, stood close hauled to the southward.

The sharpest eyes on board were turned in the direction their pursuer was supposed to be. Some time passed away.

“There she is!” cried Ben. “Although we see her, she doesn’t see us, as we are stern on, and much lower in the water than she is.”

Dick looked with all his might. He could just discern some object moving along over the water, but so indistinctly that he could not be certain it was a ship. Still, the commander of the corvette might suspect that the lugger had changed her course, and changed his also.

“All right!” cried Dore, after watching the phantom-like stranger in the distance, until she totally disappeared. “She’ll not catch us this cruise.”

The lugger was put about, on the starboard tack, and once more stood towards the English coast.

“Shall we be in to-morrow morning?” asked Dick.

“No, no,” answered Ben. “Whatever happens, we shall make the coast at night, when the revenue men can’t see us. We have friends on the look-out, who will make signals to show us when and where to run in. The weather is too fine at present, so that we shall have to dodge about and wait for a dark night, with thick rain or fog; but we don’t much trust fogs, they may lift suddenly and show our whereabouts to those we do not want to see us. However, we must run some risks. We want to land our goods in quiet, but if any one interferes with us, we of course must fight to defend our property. All right and square, you will understand, but if there’s bloodshed, it is the fault of those who wish to take it from us.”

Dick did not ask himself whether Ben was right or wrong. He forgot that one party were breaking the laws, the other performing their duty in protecting them.

Next morning, when Dick came on deck, he found the lugger hove to, with the blue line of the English coast to the northward. Though the shore could be seen, the vessel herself was too far off to be discerned from thence. Most of the crew were below, but the watch on deck, vigilant as ever, were turning their eyes in every direction, so that, should a suspicious sail appear, they might at once shape a course which would enable them to avoid her. Dick, who had been accustomed to an active life, began to grow weary at having nothing to do. He walked the deck with his hands in his pockets, talking to the men, or he sat below listening to their yarns, which were generally not of a very edifying character.

The greater number of the crew passed their time, either sleeping or playing at cards or dice. Sometimes, for a change they turned to and cleaned their muskets and pistols, or burnished up their cutlasses. It was a relief when a stranger appeared whom it was thought better to avoid. The lugger making sail stood to the southward. She returned to her former position, however, as soon as the suspicious craft had passed. This occurred twice during the day. At night she stood close in to the coast, to look out for signals, but none were seen, and before the morning she again took up her former position at a sufficient distance to be invisible from the shore.

For several days the same sort of proceeding took place. Two or three times she made all sail, it being supposed that she was chased, and once she had a narrow escape from a French cruiser, who probably took her for an English privateer. The wind continued moderate, and the sky clear, and Dore began to swear and to wish for some real honest Channel weather. At last the wind shifted, first to the southward and afterwards to the south-west, from which direction a thick bank of mist was seen coming up, and the lugger, directly she was shrouded by it, made sail for the English coast. Although there was no fear of her being seen from any distance, she still ran the risk of falling into the lion’s jaws, to avoid which a sharp lookout was kept, and all hands stood ready to trim sails in case it should be necessary.

The night was coming on, and it was soon dark enough to suit their requirements. She now frequently hove to, to sound as well as to watch for any signal from the shore. At length a light was seen, faint and dim through the mist, another was shown a short distance from it, and then a third appeared, when all three in an instant disappeared. The lugger stood on, sail was shortened, and the anchor dropped. Scarcely had she brought up when half a dozen boats dashed alongside.

“Be smart, my lads!” cried Dore. “If we are quick about it, we may run the whole of the cargo before the revenue men are down upon us.”

Not another word was spoken; every one knew exactly what he had to do. The lugger’s crew hoisted out the bales and kegs, and the men who had come off stowed them away in the boats. The lugger’s own boat was not idle. Having loaded her, Ben and Dick, with three other men, jumped in and pushed for the shore. The surf was pretty heavy, but without accident they reached the beach, where a large party of people were collected, with a number of pack horses and carts. The boats were at once surrounded, and their cargoes quickly taken out of them and placed either in the carts or on the backs of the horses. The work was carried on with the greatest rapidity, and by the time Dick and his companions had launched their boat, the whole had begun to move off, and before the lugger was reached, not a single person was to be seen on the beach.

On their return to the Nancy, the boat was hoisted in and preparations began for making sail. The operation required care, for should she cast the wrong way, she might drive on shore. The skipper himself took the helm. The hands went to their stations. The instant the anchor was away the sails were sheeted home, and the lugger, casting, as desired, to port, stood off from the dangerous coast, close-hauled. She had not got many cable lengths from the beach when two boats dashed alongside. A number of armed men sprang on board.

“We’ve caught you, my fine fellows,” exclaimed an officer. “Yield, in the king’s name!”

“Happy to see you, gentlemen,” answered Dore, with the greatest coolness. “You are welcome to look over our craft, and if you find anything contraband on board—for that I suppose is what you are after—we’ll yield fast enough.”

The officer was evidently nonplussed, but he was still not inclined to take the smuggler’s word. He allowed the lugger, however, to stand further out, until she could heave to with safety, when he ordered the foresail to be backed. He, with several of his men, then went below, Dore ordering Dick and another lad to carry a couple of lanterns, that the officer might see his way. The search, as Dore well knew would be the case, revealed nothing on which the revenue could lay hands—not a bale nor keg of spirits, nor even a few pounds of tobacco.

“Circumstances certainly were suspicious. You have cleaned her out completely,” said the officer, turning to Dick, and as he did so eyeing him narrowly. “Where was the cargo run?”

Dick was very nearly replying, “Not long ago,” and thus confessing that the cargo had been run, but recollecting in time that the smugglers might object to such an answer, he said—

“I am merely a passenger on board, sir, and it is not my business to answer questions.”

“What’s your name, my lad?” asked the officer.

Dick was on the point of replying, when Ben, who had heard the question, stepped up. “It is your business, Mr Lieutenant, to overhaul this craft and see that there are no smuggled goods on board, and when that business is over you have nothing more to do. That youngster’s name may be Jack Robinson, or it may be Tom Jones, but whatever it may be is no business of yours.”

The officer put several questions to others of the crew, but neither from them nor from the captain could he elicit any of the information he required. They were perfectly civil to him, and offered not the slightest opposition to his going through every part of the vessel, and joked with the boats’ crews, several recognising old shipmates. They shook hands, patted each other on the back, and appeared on the most friendly terms. Yet the case would have been very different had the Nancy’s cargo been on board. There would then have been a death struggle, the one to defend, the other to take possession of the craft, and they would have fought until one or the other had been defeated.

“Well, Captain Dore,” said the lieutenant, “you have been too smart for us this time, but we intend to catch you some day or other.”

“Maybe the Nancy will be sunk by an enemy’s cruiser before then. You seem to have an idea, lieutenant, that we are smugglers. I didn’t think fit to gainsay you before, but if you’ll step back into my cabin I’ll show you my privateer’s licence, which will prove to you that we are engaged lawfully, making war against the French trade,” answered Dore.

“Well, well, whichever you are, I won’t longer detain you; but before I go I wish to have a word with the youngster I saw on board, the son of a respectable farmer living out Milford way.”

“We detain no one on board against his will, except he has signed articles. If the lad is the person you suppose, and is willing to go, go he may, provided you can promise that no harm can come to him.”

“I wish to prevent him getting into harm,” said the lieutenant, and he sent one of his men to find Dick, who was soon afterwards brought aft.

Dick was in two minds about going. When the lieutenant told him of the anxiety of his father and mother, he was on the point of accepting the offer. Just at that moment Ben stepped up.

“You’d better not,” he whispered, “for the officer may mean you well, but remember there are others who want to get you into their power, and you will repent it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dick. “I have come on board this vessel of my own free will, and would rather stay where I am. If you will see father and mother, and tell them I am all right, I will be obliged to you.”

“You see, sir, that the lad doesn’t want to go, and as you have found nothing on board to enable you to detain this vessel, I must beg you to let us make sail, for we are drifting in shore closer than is safe.”

Again the lieutenant appealed to Dick. Dore, however, suspected that if the lieutenant got him into his power he might induce him to come forward to prove that the Nancy was engaged in smuggling, and that he should then be deprived of his privateer’s licence, so, giving a hint to his men, they surrounded Dick and carried him forward.

As the lieutenant had performed his duty, he ordered his men into the boats and they pulled away for the shore, while the Nancy stood out to sea.

Chapter Five.

At the hall—Refusal of Lord Reginald’s gift—Lady Elverston and her daughters—Troubles of the farmer’s wife—Preparations for rejoining the Wolf—Lieutenant Hilton—Information received of an intended landing—Lord Reginald and Voules join the revenue party—Fight with the smugglers—Success of the king’s party—An encounter between the young lord and Richard Hargrave—Dick’s defence—Lord Reginald hurt—Escape of the farmer’s son—Unfavourable opinion of Dick at the hall—The marquis and Voules—The midshipmen rejoin the Wolf.

Lord Reginald and his messmate greatly enjoyed their stay at Elverston Hall. Parties of all sorts were got up for their amusement, and guests were invited to meet them—Voules taking good care to sing the praises of his friend.

He employed his time, much to his own satisfaction, in paying court to Lady Elverston, and endeavouring guardedly to win his way into the good graces of the younger ladies. They were always ready to listen to him while he was talking of their brother, whose faults they either had not discovered, or were willing to overlook. To them, at all events, he was always affectionate and courteous, whatever he might be to others.

The rest of the household were not altogether so well satisfied with his dictatorial, overbearing manners, though they acknowledged that he might be a very brave officer, who would some day prove an ornament to his profession; but the wish was general, if not expressed, that he would soon go off again to sea.

Though still feeling angry with Dick for the impertinent and bold way in which he had spoken to him, he did not forget his promise to replace the dog he had shot; and as soon as he could find a suitable animal he despatched it by a groom to Farmer Hargrave’s daughter, sending, at the same time, a note expressing his regret at the accident. It arrived just as Mr Gooch had left the cottage, and the interview the farmer had had with the bailiff had not been calculated to soothe his feelings. Mr Gooch had again threatened him with legal proceedings, and had accused him of sending his son out of the way to avoid the consequences of his misdeeds. Farmer Hargrave, of course, denied this, asserting that he did not know where his son was.

He was standing at the door when the groom, leading the dog, arrived, and delivered his message from Lord Reginald.

“Tell my lord that my daughter doesn’t require a dog. None can replace the poor brute that was killed, of which she was very fond. So I beg you’ll take it back, and say I am much obliged to him for his intentions,” he said.

“I don’t think my lord will be well pleased to hear this, Farmer Hargrave,” answered the man. “He thought he was doing your daughter a great honour in sending her a dog, but he didn’t do it on account of your son, I’ve a fancy.”

“The very reason why I refused to receive the animal,” answered the farmer. “I have nothing more to say; and the least said the soonest mended.”

“Am I to take this message, then?” asked the groom.

“Yes; I have no other to send. Good day to you,” said the farmer, turning round as if about to enter his house.

The man led off the dog, observing to himself, “The young lord will be in a pretty way when he hears this; it won’t be the better for the farmer or Master Dick. That young fellow will get into more trouble if he doesn’t mend his manners.”

Lord Reginald, who had just returned with Voules from a ride, was standing in front of the house when the groom appeared, leading the dog.

“I thought I ordered you to take that dog to Farmer Hargrave?” exclaimed the midshipman.

“So I did, my lord, but Farmer Hargrave won’t have him, and says he doesn’t want any gifts from your lordship.”

“Impudent fellow!” observed Voules. “The father must be as great a barbarian as that precious son of his.”

“Did you give him my message properly?” asked Lord Reginald.

“Yes, my lord, word for word, and I advised Farmer Hargrave to take the dog, but he would not on any account.”

“Then his daughter must go without the animal. I sent it to her, not to him,” said Lord Reginald, turning to Voules. “This sort of thing is really provoking; the people about here are next door to savages. I was rather inclined to pity the old Hargraves on account of their blind daughter, but I shall persuade my father to do as Gooch advises. His house and barns are a great eyesore from the dining-room windows, and we shall be able to add several acres to the park if he could be removed.”

“Whether he is right or no, he ought, for the sake of pleasing the marquis, to be ready to give up his farm,” said Voules, “and if he won’t do so of his own accord, he should be compelled. I have no idea of the commonalty venturing to set themselves up against the aristocracy in the way they have done since the French Revolution.”

Lord Reginald had been induced by a right motive to send the dog, and the refusal of the farmer to receive it again raised his angry feelings against Dick. “If I come across the young fellow, I’ll punish him for his own and his father’s impertinence!” he exclaimed.

The incident, slight as it may appear, prevented him for some days enjoying, as he might otherwise have done, the pleasures of home. Lady Elverston had fulfilled her promise of speaking to the marquis.

“I would not, of course, act unjustly towards Hargrave,” he answered; “but Gooch, who has consulted the lawyer, tells me that I have a perfect right to turn him out; besides which I have offered him an ample sum to go, but he has refused to receive the compensation, and insists on standing up for what he calls his rights. I, of course, cannot be thwarted by a man at my own gates, and have given authority to Gooch to proceed as he thinks necessary for my interests.”

“But we consider the farm-house, the stacks, and the buildings, picturesque objects in the distance, and we could not desire to have near us more respectable, worthy people than the Hargraves,” urged Lady Elverston.

“He is an obstinate fellow, and a Republican at heart, and will to a certainty vote against our son, should John stand for the next Parliament,” answered the marquis. “However, I promise you I will act with perfect justice; but you could not wish me to submit to the insolence of a fellow of his description.”

Poor Lady Elverston, though not convinced that her husband was right, was unable to say anything more. She saw that he had been strongly biased against the farmer, and she was naturally displeased with the way his son had behaved to Lord Reginald. Her compassionate feelings for Janet, however, were not altered. In the afternoon, accompanied by Lady Julia, she took a drive in her pony carriage. In passing Farmer Hargrave’s house she stopped to see Janet, wishing also to ascertain the reason for the objection Mr Hargrave had to giving up his farm, and hoping to induce him to yield with a good grace to the wishes of the marquis.

The ladies found Janet and her mother seated in the parlour. A smile played over the countenance of the blind girl when she heard the voice of the marchioness.

“Very kind, my lady, very kind in you to come and see us, and mother wants so much to talk to your ladyship about the matter of the farm,” she said, after the ordinary inquiries had been made and answered.

Lady Elverston was glad of this opportunity of entering on the subject, and she begged to hear what Mrs Hargrave had to say.

“My husband, my lady, doesn’t desire to oppose the wishes of the marquis, but as every Englishman should—as your ladyship will agree—he stands on his rights, and as he has a long lease of this property, which his fathers for many generations held before him, he refuses to be compelled to give it up. You see, my lady, Mr Gooch has been here and threatened that the law will force him if he refuses, and when my good man told him that the law could not compel him, the bailiff said that he would bring up our son Richard before the justices for threatening to shoot Lord Reginald, which I cannot believe he ever did, even though he was vexed at his lordship killing his dog. My husband, my lady, is a determined man, and neither I nor any one else can induce him to change his mind if he thinks he is doing what is right.”

“I certainly would not ask him to do what he thinks is wrong,” said Lady Elverston, “and I am quite sure that the marquis did not give authority to Mr Gooch to use any threats. Lord Elverston told me this morning that he was willing to offer any reasonable compensation to your husband for quitting the farm, and he would probably give him ample time to find another equally suitable.”

“I was sure, my lady, that the marquis would not have allowed the bailiff to make use of the threats he did; and if you will speak again to his lordship and induce him to make a fair offer to my husband, though it would well-nigh break our hearts to move, I will try and get him to accept it.”

Lady Elverston, who suspected that the marquis had been deceived by Mr Gooch, promised again to speak to him; though well aware that he was as obstinate as the farmer, she did not say that she was certain of success. Lady Julia in the mean time was talking in her gentle way to Janet, and promised to call for her the first sunny day to take her out for a drive in the pony-carriage. Her ladyship then inquired for Dick, and expressed a hope that he would harbour no ill feelings towards her son.

“I pray that he won’t, my lady; he has ever been a good and faithful son to us, though somewhat headstrong at times, but he has not a revengeful spirit, and I am sure he would not wish to harm Lord Reginald. We are in sad trouble about him, for Mr Gooch frightened him so by his threats, that he has gone away, we don’t know where.”

“Have you no clue to his hiding-place?” asked Lady Elverston. “I should much like to have some conversation with him, and I trust that I might soften any lingering ill feeling—should such exist in his breast—towards my son.”

“I shall never forget your kindness, whatever happens, my lady,” said Mrs Hargrave.

After some further conversation, the marchioness took her departure, accompanied by Lady Julia, still, however, in considerable doubt whether she had done much to settle the vexed question.

The time of the two midshipmen’s stay at Elverston Hall was drawing to a close. Voules had received a letter from a messmate, saying that the Wolf was nearly ready for sea. He flattered himself that he had not let the grass grow under his feet; that he had established himself in the good graces of Lord and Lady Elverston; and he had even the vanity to suppose that he had made some progress in those of Lady Julia. He was gentlemanly in his manners, and Lord Reginald always spoke of him as “a capital fellow,” and seemed to regard him with affection.

Lord Reginald himself, accustomed to an active life, was, however, beginning to grow somewhat tired of his stay on shore; though attached to his family, he was perfectly ready to go back to his ship. He had experienced, indeed, lately some difficulty in finding amusement for himself and companion. He and Voules had made the acquaintance of the lieutenant of the neighbouring coastguard station, who, having seen a great deal of service, and being a merry fellow, with a fund of anecdote, was an amusing companion. Lieutenant Hilton had several times been invited to dine at the hall, an honour he highly appreciated, although it cost him a long trudge there and back, over a somewhat wild region, with the risk of encountering some of the lawless characters of the neighbourhood, who looked upon him as their worst foe. He had one day been dining at the hall; the gentlemen having indulged freely in the bottle, as was too common in those times, were about to join the ladies in the drawing-room, when a servant entered to inform Lieutenant Hilton that a person wished to see him immediately on important business.

“He has probably brought information that a run is to be made to-night, and if so, Hilton, we’ll accompany you to see the fun,” said Lord Reginald. “Don’t go off without us, remember. We’ll mount you, and we will ride together, with any one else who likes to come.”

Lieutenant Hilton hurried out to see the messenger. He returned to say that Lord Reginald was right in his conjectures, and that there was no time to be lost, as a suspicious lugger had been seen off the coast, and that as the night promised to be dark, there was no doubt she would try to run her cargo before the morning.

The other gentlemen declined the proposed expedition, and Voules would gladly have remained behind, but he could not venture to allow Lord Reginald to go without him, especially as he himself had proposed assisting the revenue, should an opportunity occur. Very unwillingly, therefore, he went to his room to prepare for the ride, instead of passing the evening, as he had hoped, in the society of Lady Julia.

The marquis, although he would rather his son had not undertaken what might prove a hazardous expedition, could not object, as he had expressed his resolution by every means in his power to put down the smugglers. The horses were soon ready, and the lieutenant and the two midshipmen, led by the mounted exciseman who had brought the information, set off by a road which would lead them to the westward of Milford. The excise officer informed the lieutenant that a messenger had been despatched to obtain the assistance of a party of dragoons stationed at Lymington, and that a small body of sea-fencibles, belonging to the district, were hurrying on towards the expected scene of action. With the aid of the lieutenant’s own men, a sufficient force would thus, it was hoped, be collected to seize the goods should they be landed, while the boats on the station were despatched to try and capture the lugger herself before she had completely discharged her cargo. The exact spot where it was intended the lugger should run her cargo was unknown, but it was supposed that it would be somewhere between Hurst and Christchurch. The cliffs here are of considerable height, rising above a narrow beach, and, continually crumbling away, exhibit numerous fossil remains. In some places they are broken by narrow gullies, which, sloping up gradually from the shore to the downs above, afford easy pathways up which both men and loaded animals can climb without much difficulty.

Since information had first been received of the intended run from a treacherous confederate of the smugglers, preparations for their capture had been carried on with the greatest possible secrecy and rapidity. It was important to prevent the smugglers’ associates on shore from discovering that the revenue men were approaching.

Lieutenant Hilton having reached his station, summoned eight of his own men to accompany him. Here the midshipmen were provided with pistols and cutlasses. Their services were likely to be of use, as it was certain the smugglers would muster in large numbers. The horses were left at the station, while the lieutenant and his party proceeded to the spot where the sea-fencibles were posted, waiting for any information they might receive to guide their future proceedings.

It was in a hollow, surrounded by trees and brushwood, and about half a mile or so from the sea-shore. The night, as had been expected, was very dark, the wind a moderate breeze, blowing from the north-west. Not a word was spoken above a whisper, for fear lest their position should be discovered by any passing associates of the smugglers. The latter had given it out that the run was to be made on the other side of Christchurch head, and to induce them to suppose that this was believed, a party of revenue men had started off in that direction, taking care that their movements should be observed. It was hoped by this that the smugglers would be deceived, and would attempt the run at the spot named in the private information which had been received.

“This is dull work!” whispered Voules to Lord Reginald. “I thought we should be up and doing long ago.”

“Dull enough! I vote we set off by ourselves, to try and find out what the smugglers are about,” answered Lord Reginald.

“I should recommend riding back to the hall, and letting our friends here follow their own devices,” said Voules; “but it would not do, now that we have once put ourselves under Hilton’s command, to desert him.”

Their patience was to be further tried. At last, one of the scouts who had been set to watch the direction taken by those who were sure to assist in the landing, came in with the intelligence that he had traced them midway between the hamlets of Barton and Ash, and that he had seen suspicious lights both on shore and at sea. The latter were, it was guessed, shown on board the lugger, which was exchanging signals with the spotsmen on shore, leaving little doubt as to where the goods would be run. As the distance to the spot was considerable, there was no time to be lost, for not only might the lugger’s cargo be landed, but carried far away into the interior before the revenue men could get there. There was a danger, however, should they arrive too soon, of their being discovered by the smugglers, who would in that case put off to sea again and wait for a more favourable opportunity.

The road followed by Lieutenant Hilton and his party led some distance from the shore. They proceeded as fast as they could move, forming a compact body, that they might run the less risk of being seen. The commander of the sea-fencibles arranged the plan of proceeding. He, with his men, would go to the westward, while the lieutenant was to attack the smugglers on the opposite side, and the excisemen were to guard the upper part of the hollow or gully which led down to the water, so as to catch any of the smugglers who might be making their way up it to escape. This plan was arranged as they went along.

On reaching the neighbourhood of the spot, they halted, and scouts were sent out to ascertain if the smugglers had collected where they had been expected. In a short time the scouts returned, stating that a large body of men were on the beach, and one of them added that he had nearly been discovered by a party with pack animals proceeding down the gully which led to the same part of the shore. Lord Reginald was on the point of exhibiting his satisfaction by giving a loud shout, when Voules stopped him.

“On my lads!” said the lieutenant in a low voice; and he led his men by a narrow path which wound down the cliff to the west of the village of Barton, while the rest of the party, by a wide circuit, made their way to the opposite side.

It was agreed that Lieutenant Hilton should fire off a couple of pistols in rapid succession, as the signal for attacking the smugglers, and that both parties were to rush on them simultaneously, while the men at the top of the gully should stop them from making their escape in that direction.

Lord Reginald was eager for the attack, but Voules, as he made out the numbers in which the smugglers mustered, heartily wished that he had remained to enjoy the society of the ladies at the hall.

“We are likely to get more kicks than ha’pence, and little honour, at all events,” he muttered to himself.

From where they lay concealed, they could observe the boats coming on shore with the lugger’s cargo. The lieutenant watched until he considered that the larger portion had been landed. He directed Lord Reginald and Voules, with three men, to guard the foot of a pathway leading up the cliff, by which possibly some of the smugglers might attempt to make their escape. The outlaws had been carrying on their undertaking in perfect silence. Not a sound had been heard, when the report of the two pistols echoed among the cliffs. It was the signal for a general uproar. The revenue men dashed forward from both sides towards the party on the beach, who began shouting and swearing vehemently. Then came the flash of firearms, and the clash of cutlasses. The smugglers fought desperately. Some were hurriedly loading the horses, hoping to escape with a portion of the goods by land, others were engaged in throwing the packages back into the boats, and endeavouring to shove off, and regain the lugger. The revenue officers, knowing that this would be attempted, rushed forward to prevent them. Here some of the hottest fighting took place. As they could not escape through the gully, no attempt was made to stop them from entering it. Before long, however, the smugglers discovered how they had been entrapped, when those who had gone off came running back with the disastrous intelligence. All attempts to save the goods were abandoned. Each man thought only how he could best make his escape. Some endeavoured to climb the cliffs, others rushed beneath them, to the westward. One party made a dash for the pathway guarded by Lord Reginald and Voules. So furious was their onslaught, that Voules was knocked over, and while their men had each an opponent, two other smugglers rushed past Lord Reginald. He fired, but whether his bullet took effect or not, he could not tell; by the flash, however, he thought that he recognised the features of Dick Hargrave, whose companion, wresting the young lord’s sword from his grasp, dashed on up the path, and both were soon lost to sight in the darkness. Lord Reginald made a vain attempt to follow the fugitives, but, unable to see his way, was glad to rejoin his companions.

“I know the young rascal, and have now proof positive that he is a smuggler!” he exclaimed. “Voules, did you see him?”

But Voules, who had been lying on the sand where he had been thrown, some feet below, only just then began to recover. Several seconds elapsed before he was again able to take part in what was going forward. The other smugglers, who had tried to escape up the path, were secured.

The fighting continued, however, for some time longer, till, one after the other, the smugglers were knocked down and captured, four being killed, and a large number wounded, while two of the revenue men lost their lives, and several others were severely hurt. Dore, with the few people still remaining on board the lugger, waited in the hopes of the boats getting off, but when they knew by their not returning that their friends must have been taken, the cable was cut, and the Nancy stood out to sea. She had, however, proceeded but a short distance when two revenue boats dashed alongside, and her diminished crew, being unable to make any effectual resistance, she was captured, with the remainder of the contraband goods on board, more than sufficient to condemn her.

Lieutenant Hilton was very well pleased with the result of the enterprise. Seldom had so large a capture been effected. He had, however, still a difficult task to perform, as he had scarcely men sufficient to guard the prisoners, whose desperate character he knew full well, while he had the additional duty of conducting the packhorses.

The smugglers at first appeared to submit quietly enough, but that was no proof that they would continue to do so, should they find an opportunity of escaping.

As there were not more than three lanterns among the whole party, it was difficult to ascertain whether the prisoners were properly secured. At any moment, they might break loose and effect their escape. They had, indeed, every motive for doing so. They had not only been captured smuggling, but had weapons in their hands, opposing the king’s authority, and one and all of them might be tried for the death of the two revenue men who had fallen. All who had been taken were now brought together and placed under the cliffs, watched by a strong guard, while the bales and kegs, which lay scattered about in all directions, were collected and packed on the horses.

The order to march was given. The pack animals went first, followed by the captured smugglers, who uttered curses, deep if not loud, on their hard fate. Then came the men told off to carry the wounded who were too much hurt to walk. Lord Reginald and Voules brought up the rear. The killed were left above high water mark on the beach, until a party could be sent to carry them to Barton churchyard, where the revenue man and smuggler were destined to lie side by side.

The party at length reached the top of the cliff, and directed their course towards the high road running between Christchurch and Lymington. They had proceeded about a mile, when a number of armed men, springing out from behind the hedges on either side, suddenly attacked the conductors of the pack-horses, which they endeavoured to carry off. The prisoners, taking advantage of the confusion, attempted to escape, and there appeared every probability that some would succeed.

“Cut down the fellows, if they try to get off!” cried Voules, and the other officers repeated the order.

At that moment the clattering sound of horses’ hoofs coming along the road was heard. A cry arose, “The dragoons are upon us!” The men who had made the last daring attempt to recover the goods took to flight. Two were captured by the soldiers, who went in pursuit, but the rest effected their escape.

Mr Hilton gladly handed over the prisoners to the charge of the military, while he accompanied Lord Reginald and Voules back to the station where they had left their horses.

“I wish that you would remain here until the morning,” said the lieutenant, when they reached it. “There are a number of rough characters allied with the smugglers, who, should they fall in with you, may take it into their heads to revenge themselves by shooting you.”

“I am not afraid of them,” answered the young lord. “Voules and I together are able to tackle a dozen such fellows. Thank you for your invitation, but our friends at the hall will be anxious to know what has happened, and I want to tell my father how admirably you have managed affairs.”

The lieutenant, finding that the midshipmen could not be induced to remain, ordered the horses to be brought out, and Lord Reginald, saying that he would the next morning send a groom for the animal the lieutenant had ridden, being well acquainted with the way, set off with Voules for the hall.

“As there is no fear of our losing the road, even in the dark, we may as well take a short cut,” he observed, after they had gone some distance. “We shall save a mile or more, and have the advantage of turf. The moon, too, will soon be up, and we shall be able to gallop a good part of the distance.”

Voules had nothing to say against this proposal, though he would have preferred the high road.

“This lane will lead us on to the heath, and as the sky is clear, there will be light enough, even before the moon rises, besides which our horses know the way as well as I do,” said Lord Reginald.

They rode down the lane at a more steady pace than they had hitherto been going, for it was full of ruts, and somewhat narrow and winding. It conducted them on to a wild heath, beyond which could be discerned the outskirts of the New Forest, the trees in some places projecting over the heath like the advance guard of an army, while in others wild glades opened out extending far into the interior. Towards one of these glades Lord Reginald directed his course.

“By keeping a little to the right it will lead us to the high road again,” he observed. “There’s the moon just rising above the trees. We shall be able to push along now, without fear of rushing into a hedge.”

Crossing the heath by a tolerably well-defined footpath, they entered the forest, and were galloping along a grassy glade, on which their horses’ hoofs produced scarcely a sound, when Lord Reginald uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Halloa! I see a fellow ahead. Where can he be going?”

“Probably one of the smugglers, who managed to make his escape,” answered Voules.

“Whoever he is, we will stop him and ascertain why he is out at this time of night. Stop, you fellow!” cried Lord Reginald; “we want to speak to you.”

The person, who apparently had not before heard them coming, only increased his pace; on seeing which the young lord spurred on his horse.

The stranger, who might possibly have escaped by darting in among the trees, instead of making the attempt, finding that his pursuers were gaining on him, stopped and faced them, holding a thick stick, which might properly have been called a club, in his hand.

“Throw down that bludgeon and come here,” said Lord Reginald.

“Not while I am spoken to in that tone,” answered the stranger. “I have as much right to be out in this forest as you have.”

“You must tell us who you are, and where you are going!” cried Lord Reginald, riding up to him.

The stranger lifted up his club, exclaiming, “Hands off! If you attempt to touch me, you must take the consequences.”

Just then a gleam of light from the rising moon shone on the stranger’s face.

“I know the rascal!” cried Lord Reginald; “it’s that young Hargrave. Not the first time we have met tonight. You are one of the fellows who made their escape from the excisemen; but you are not going to do so from us; so yield at once! Come, help me, Voules!” and the young lord, spurring forward his horse, attempted to seize Dick by the shoulder.

The latter sprang back, and, whirling round his club, struck Lord Reginald a blow on the arm which effectually prevented him from using it, and before Voules could lay hold of him, Dick had rushed off among the trees, which quickly concealed him from view.

In vain Lord Reginald, in spite of the pain he was suffering, urged his horse after him. The stems of the trees, growing thickly together, prevented him from following, and Dick was soon safe beyond the pursuit of the horsemen.

“This is provoking; but we will have him yet!” cried Lord Reginald.

“I am afraid the villain has broken your arm!” exclaimed Voules.

“It seems something like it from the pain I am suffering,” answered Lord Reginald; “however, the sooner we can get home to have it looked to the better.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Voules; “I am deeply grieved. I would have shot the young savage had I thought he would have had the audacity to strike you.”

“No, no; I should have been sorry if the fellow had been killed,” said Lord Reginald. “All I wanted was to take him prisoner, and send him off with the rest to sea, for I suppose that will be the lot of all who are fit to serve. However, as we are not likely to see more of him for the present, I shall be glad to get home. This arm of mine hurts me fearfully.”

They again put their horses into a gallop, and continued on until they reached the end of the glade, which led out on the high road. Lord Reginald bore the pain manfully; indeed, it was surprising that he did not faint and fall from his horse. The trotting along the road was even worse than the gallop, and at last he had to tell Voules to stop and walk. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when they reached the hall. They found Lord and Lady Elverston, with Lord John, sitting up for them.

“Most thankful to see you back,” said Lord Elverston, who came out to meet them; “we were too anxious to go to bed. One of the grooms had brought word that there had been a desperate fight between the revenue men and the smugglers, and that there had been a number of killed and wounded. Good Heavens! what is the matter? You look very pale. Are you hurt?”

“Yes, but not in the fight,” answered Reginald, as he entered the drawing-room and sank into a chair. He then described the encounter with Richard Hargrave.

“The young ruffian must be punished,” exclaimed the marquis. “It is evident that he is leagued with the smugglers, and this last outrage shows his desperate character. Do you feel much pain?”

“Very much; indeed, I fear that my arm is broken,” answered Lord Reginald.

On hearing this Lady Elverston came to his side. “My dear boy, I trust not,” she said; “you must go to bed, and let Mrs Cross and me examine your arm.”

“If it is broken we must send off for a surgeon immediately,” said the marquis.

“I would rather have some supper first. I dare say so would Voules, for we both of us felt very hungry as we came along, and I hope after all, no bone is broken.”

The tray was at once brought up, and though Voules did ample justice to the viands it contained, Lord Reginald, after making several ineffectual attempts to eat, had to confess that the pain overpowered him, and he allowed himself to be led off to his room by his mother and brother.

Mrs Cross, the housekeeper, was soon in attendance, having evidently, by the way her dress was put on, with her night-cap on her head, just risen from her slumbers. The young lord was quickly undressed, when, on his arm being examined, Mrs Cross declared it as her opinion that no bone was broken; and all that was required were fomentations and rest.

“I am sorry to hear so bad a character of young Hargrave. His mother and blind sister are at all events good people, and it will grieve them sorely,” observed Lady Elverston to her husband, who answered only with the significant exclamation of—

“Humph! Perhaps so.”

The pain was somewhat relieved by the fomentations applied by the housekeeper, who offered to sit up with the young lord; and though he declared that he should do very well without assistance, he was glad at length to accept her offer.

Voules came in just before going to bed, to express his deep concern.

“I shall do very well in a day or two,” said Lord Reginald, “and it won’t prevent me from joining my ship.”

Notwithstanding his assertion, he was very feverish during the night, when he was constantly uttering expressions which showed the animosity he felt against Dick Hargrave, complaining that he was the cause of the pain he was enduring. This was reported the next morning by Mrs Cross to the marchioness.

“It is a shame, my lady, that so bad a lad should be allowed to be at large. I hope my lord will have him taken up and sent off to Botany Bay, or anywhere out of the way, for if he meets Lord Reginald again, I don’t know what will come of it.”

Next morning the doctor, who had been sent for, arrived, and greatly relieved the minds of Lord and Lady Elverston by assuring them that their son’s arm was not broken.

“No thanks to the young ruffian who inflicted the blow,” observed the marquis; “we must have him apprehended, for such an outrage must not be allowed to go unpunished.”

The doctor directed Lord Reginald’s arm to be fomented, and observed that he must carry it for a few days in a sling, assuring him that he need not fear any serious consequences.

“Then it will not prevent him from joining his ship?” observed the marquis, who had his reasons for wishing that the midshipmen should not remain longer at Elverston.

“Not if he can perform his duty without going aloft, or using his arm for the present,” replied the doctor.

Lord Elverston said he would write to the captain on the subject.

“In that case his lordship may join his ship immediately,” observed the doctor, who seemed to understand the marquis’s wishes.

Voules, who had been present during the discussion, was far from satisfied with the doctor’s decision. He had hoped that the injury Lord Reginald had received would serve him as an excuse for remaining until the frigate was on the point of sailing, as he himself was in no hurry to leave Elverston Hall.

The marquis, however, had observed his attentions to Lady Julia, and although he gave his daughter credit for discretion, he thought it was as well to send the young gentleman away. Having a pretty good knowledge of the world, he had taken the measure of Toady Voules more accurately than his son had done, and had seen through him. When Lord Reginald, faithful to his promise, had begged his father to use his influence at the Admiralty to get Voules promoted, the marquis replied that he should be happy to serve any friend of his, but for certain reasons he could make no promise, and that he must know more about the young gentleman before he could recommend him to their lordships.

“But he is really a capital fellow,” said Lord Reginald. “He sticks like a leech to me, and I can always depend upon him.”

“Leeches suck blood,” answered the marquis, laughing. “I don’t think you have well considered the simile.”

“I mean that he is always ready at hand when I want him to do anything I require,” answered Lord Reginald. “He is the most convenient fellow I ever met.”

“Well, well, I will remember your wishes,” said the marquis.

Lord Reginald saw that he must not press the point further. Voules looked very melancholy at the thought of leaving Elverston. He was in an especially bad humour too, for though Lady Julia treated him as she had always done, he began to suspect that he had made no great way in her good graces. The utter indifference she showed when he talked of going away, convinced him of this, and although to the last the family treated him, as Lord Reginald’s friend, with the utmost kindness, no one expressed the hope that they might soon again have the pleasure of seeing him.

A couple of days having passed, the midshipmen were ready to obey the order to rejoin their ship. A Yarmouth pilot vessel having been engaged to convey them to Portsmouth, they set sail in her from Keyhaven. Taking a favourable tide, with a fair wind, they might easily get there in six hours, whereas the journey by land would have occupied nearly a couple of days. The crew of the pilot vessel, as they stepped on board, looked at the midshipmen askance, evidently having heard of the part they had taken in the capture of the smugglers, many of whom were their relatives and friends. The captain, however, treated them with the greatest civility, but took good care not to answer any questions they put to him concerning the smugglers, leaving them to suppose that he was ignorant of the existence of such persons, and was not even aware that there was any smuggling on that coast.

Of Dick Hargrave nothing had been heard, but a warrant had been taken out for his apprehension, and people were on the watch to capture him should he make his appearance, or should his place of concealment be discovered. A fresh breeze quickly carrying the cutter up to Portsmouth, Lord Reginald and Voules once more found themselves on board the Wolf, which had hauled away from the dockyard, ready to go out to Spithead.

Chapter Six.

The second trip of the Nancy—Particulars of the landing—How it fared with Dick and Ben—Wandering in the forest—In hiding—Nearly caught—Seized by a pressgang—Kindness of the landlady at the Admiral Benbow—Ben Rudall a prisoner—On board the tender—Off Cowes—The Wolf—Mr Bitts, the boatswain—Dick recognises Lord Reginald and Voules—An attempt to make an exchange.

When Dick Hargrave sailed the second time on board the Nancy, he forgot the saying that “the pitcher which goes often to the well gets broken at last,” or that few who follow a lawless occupation escape from suffering in the end. Of course, he should have been influenced by a far higher motive, but he had not been taught to look upon smuggling in the same light which an honest man does nowadays. Even his father regarded it with a lenient eye, though he had ever refused to take a share in the proceedings of the smugglers by permitting his horses to be used in transporting the goods when landed on the coast. Dick had a tolerably pleasant life on board the Nancy, as Dore and the crew always treated him kindly.

The lugger, as before, ran into the quiet little harbour in which she was wont to take her goods on board, and had a narrow escape from a French cruiser; but had got free by the very common device of lowering all her canvas during the night and allowing her pursuer to pass her. Without further cause for alarm, she made the English coast. Dick, though he liked the life well enough, had no wish to continue in it; he wanted to see his parents and Janet, and to relieve their anxiety about him. He had resolved, therefore, to quit the Nancy, and to go on shore with Ben, who did not intend to make the next trip in her. It was settled, therefore, that he and Ben were to pull in one of the boats engaged in landing the cargo, and that afterwards they were to assist in escorting the goods safe into the interior. After they had once got away from the coast, there was but little danger of their being captured.

“All right,” said Ben to Dick, as the lugger stood in to the westward of the Shingles; “the revenue men have been told that there is to be a run made this very night, Portland way, and they will all have gone off there and left the coast clear for us, so that there is no fear as to our getting the goods safe on shore.”

There seemed every probability that Ben’s prognostications would prove true. The night was dark, and the wind sufficiently off shore to enable the Nancy to stand close in. The expected signals were seen. The anchor was dropped, the boats lowered, and immediately afterwards, others came off from the shore, bringing the satisfactory intelligence that everything was clear for the run. The vessel was rapidly unloaded. The greater part of her cargo had been discharged, and was already on the beach, when the reports of Lieutenant Hilton’s pistols were heard, and the smugglers found themselves beset on both sides by their enemies. Dick and Ben were already on shore, and were engaged in loading the packhorses.

“You get out of it, Dick,” said Ben, “either climb the cliff or run along the beach; you’ve nothing to fight for.”

Dick hesitated; he felt that it would be cowardly to desert his companions.

Ben, though not thus influenced, suspected his motive. “Come, lad,” he said; “there’s a path not far from this, and the chances are there is no one to stop us going up it; I’ll show thee the way.” Saying this, he dashed forward quickly, followed by Dick.

He was disappointed in one respect—the path was guarded, but knocking over the first person who opposed him, who happened to be Mr Voules, and wrenching the cutlass out of Lord Reginald’s hand, he dashed on. Dick, who kept close behind him, had a narrow escape of being shot, and felt pretty sure that Lord Reginald, whom he recognised, had seen him.

Continuing on a short time, they were satisfied that they were not pursued, and might proceed homewards with little risk of further interruption. Still, Ben could not resist the temptation of trying to ascertain the fate of his companions. It appeared to him that they had been attacked by a comparatively small party, and that could a number of determined men be collected, they might effect a rescue. He and Dick made their way, therefore, to a farm-house, in which it had been arranged that the heavier part of the goods should be stowed, until they could be conveyed away to a distance. Here he found several persons, to whom he gave the first intelligence of the disaster. They instantly hurried off to collect other men from all directions. As it was well known what road the party with the captured goods would take, they intended to form an ambush to surprise them, but the smugglers, not having time to do this, made their attack in a less favourable position, with the result which has been seen.

Dick again escaped, but what became of Ben he could not tell, though he hoped that he also had got off. Much as he had wished to see his father and mother, he now almost dreaded to meet them. His intention was to reach home by daybreak, and having seen them again to go off and hide himself in a woodman’s hut in the forest, or in some other place, where he could remain until the search after him had ceased. It was not likely indeed, that much trouble would be taken, unless Mr Gooch, for the sake of influencing his father, tried to get him into his power.

With this intention he was making his way towards home, his thoughts so occupied that he did not hear the approach of Lord Reginald and Voules until they were close upon him. He would gladly have avoided an encounter, but at the same time he determined not to be taken prisoner when he saw that such was the young lord’s intention. What happened has been described. On escaping from Lord Reginald, he soon reached a thick bush, behind which he could conceal himself with little chance of being discovered. He there lay perfectly quiet until he heard the two horsemen ride off.

“I am thankful I had not my gun with me, or I might have been tempted to use it,” he said to himself. “Why should that young lord persecute me? He had no business to come and help the revenue men, and it could do him and that other fellow no good to make me a prisoner, except to boast of what they had done. If I go home now they will accuse poor father and mother of harbouring me, and I shall bring them into trouble. I wonder, after all, if Ben got off. If I thought that he did, I’d go to his cottage. He would hide me there until these two fellows have gone back to their ship, and the rest have got tired of looking for me. If poor Janet could see, I’d go home and let her alone know that I had come, and she would hide me away. As she can’t help me, poor girl! I don’t know what to do.”

Such were some of Dick’s meditations. Overcome with fatigue, he lay down to rest a little, and, as was very natural, fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was broad daylight. It would not now do to venture down to Keyhaven. He would too probably meet some of the revenue men, who would to a certainty capture him. Home he dared not go; his only alternative was to remain in the forest until the return of night, when he could traverse the country with less risk of encountering any one. He was very hungry, but he was equally afraid of going to any cottage to beg for a crust, lest he should be recognised. Not far off was a pool, of which there were many in the forest, where he quenched his thirst. Hips and haws were now ripe, there were plenty around could, he eat enough to satisfy the cravings of hunger. There were tench, too, in some of the pools—fine, fat fish, which he might catch, as they lay under the bank, with his hands, but he had no means of lighting a fire to cook them. He walked about listening, lest he might be surprised by any one coming; then, growing weary, he again sat down under his bush. He was very hungry and very unhappy. Sometimes he thought he would go home in spite of the risk he would run, and try to see his mother alone. He might easily hide in one of the out-buildings, and steal in when his father had left the house, but then, knowing that he had been recognised by Lord Reginald, who would, he supposed, inform against him, he feared that he might be discovered by those who would be sent to search for him, though his mother, he felt sure, would do her best to conceal him.

“I had better not,” he said to himself; “it shall only get father and mother into trouble; if they don’t know where I am, they cannot say. I’ll go down to Susan Rudall’s; she’ll stow me away, if I can reach her cottage without being seen. No one will think of looking for me there.”

Dick, when on board the lugger, had been rigged out thoroughly as a young sailor. The dress, as he thought, was a sufficient disguise, should he meet any one in the gloom of the evening. His hunger made him very eager to reach Susan’s as soon as possible. Soon after the sun had set, therefore, he started for Keyhaven, going along by the by-paths, and keeping himself concealed as much as possible among the trees and brushwood. He calculated that it would be perfectly dark by the time he got to the village, and that he might enter Susan’s cottage without being perceived. For some time, meeting no one, he became bolder, and made his way along the lanes with less caution than he had before used. He had just turned an angle of the road, when he saw in the distance several persons coming towards him. He darted back, hoping that he had not been seen, and, getting through a hedge, he lay down in a dry ditch.

Though perfectly concealed, he was almost afraid to breathe, lest he might be heard by the people passing. They had been too far off when first seen to enable him to ascertain who they were, and he dared not look through the hedge, lest they should perceive him. His heart beat quickly as he heard their footsteps approaching; he felt like a criminal escaping from justice. Though constitutionally brave, the consciousness that he had acted wrongly in many respects made him a coward. The men were only, as far as he could judge, labourers returning home after their day’s work. He heard them talking of the attempted run of contraband goods, the capture of the Nancy and her crew, as well as of the number of people assisting in the landing who had been taken.

“It will go hard with some of them,” observed one of the speakers; “they’ll bring it in ‘murder,’ maybe, as two of the king’s officers were killed, if they can prove who fired the shots. Whether of not, Botany Bay is the best they can expect, and many a year before they can see their wives and families again.”

“A reward is offered for catching the chaps who escaped,” said another.

What more was said Dick could not hear; he was thankful that he had not been seen by the men, or they would probably have detained him for the sake of the reward. He waited until they had got some distance, and then, creeping along the hedge, he again got into the lane, and ran on as before, looking out ahead so that he might not come suddenly on any other persons. Hungry and tired, he at length got close to Keyhaven. To pass through the village without being seen would be difficult. He heard voices, as if people were still about, and lights shone in the windows of the cottages in sight. Had he not been so hungry, he would have again hidden under a hedge until later in the evening; but eager to obtain something to eat, he hurried on, hoping by good chance to reach Susan’s cottage without being observed. He was passing the Rodney’s Head, when several persons issued from the door.

“Hullo! make that fellow heave to, and see who he is,” said a voice; and two men came rushing after him.

The words made Dick start off as fast as his legs would carry him. The men, however, followed. He might still, he hoped, escape, and reach Susan’s cottage. It was before him, but should he be seen to enter, it would afford him no shelter. If he could get round it, however, he might double back, making his way along on the other side of the village. He was unusually weak from long fasting, and found his strength failing him. His foot struck against a piece of an anchor fast in the ground, and down he fell. Before he could rise his pursuers were upon him.

“You made a good run for it, my lad, but you are caught notwithstanding,” said one of the men. “No use in kicking up a shindy, so come along with us and make the best of it, as many another lad has done.”

“Who are you? What are you going to do with me?” asked Dick.

“We are men-of-war’s men, and are going to make you serve his Majesty, as we are doing,” was the answer, as Dick was led back to the village inn.

“Won’t you let me go and see my friends first, or let me send them a message to say where I am gone?”

The men laughed. “You can send a message when you are safe on board the tender. You’ll be sent off there presently, with a few other fine fellows we have laid hands on. Don’t be cast down, lad, you’ll like the service well enough when you get into our ways; and if you don’t, like many others, you’ll have to grin and bear it.”

Dick made no answer; he was in for it, and it was useless to complain. The disappointment, however, did not take away his appetite. He quickly felt his hunger pressing him as at first. “I wish that you’d let me have a crust of bread and a piece of cheese, for I have not put anything into my mouth for many a long hour.”

“Mrs Simmons will soon find that for you, and a glass of ale, too, my lad,” answered the seaman. “Maybe, if you’ve no shiners in your pocket, you’ll find some friend inside who will treat you.”

On reaching the inn door, Dick saw a large party of seamen under an officer who had just mustered them outside, while several remained within, guarding persons with handcuffs on their wrists and seated on the benches. Two or three of them looked very disconsolate, but the rest were endeavouring to keep up their spirits by laughing and joking and talking to each other, or with their captors. Among the former, Dick, to his sorrow, saw his friend Ben Rudall, who, however, did not appear to recognise him. The landlady looked far from pleased at the guests she was compelled to entertain. Dick caught her eye.

“Do give me something to eat, Mrs Simmons!” he exclaimed. “I’m pretty nigh starved.”

“Bless me, Richard Hargrave! is that you? You shall have what little I have in the house; but it will be a sad night to those at home when they hear that you are taken.”

“I wish that you’d send up and tell them, and get it broken gently to my mother and Janet,” said Dick, as Mrs Simmons placed bread and cheese, and a piece of cold bacon before him, with a mug of ale.

“Be smart, my lad, and stow that food away,” said the seaman, who stood by with a pair of handcuffs. “You’ll get some breakfast on board the tender to-morrow morning.”

“Maybe; but I should be starved to death before to-morrow morning, if you don’t let me eat this,” answered Dick, munching away with all his might. He had never eaten so fast, for he expected every moment that the seaman would lose patience and clap the handcuffs on him. He was allowed, however, to swallow the contents of the plate as well as the ale.

“I’ll pay you, Mrs Simmons, some day when I come back; and thank you in the mean time,” said Dick, when he had finished his hasty meal.

“You are welcome to it, my boy,” said the landlady, “and who knows but that you’ll one day come back a captain.”

The sailor laughed as he clapped the handcuffs on Dick’s wrists. Directly afterwards the officer ordered the prisoners to be brought out, as the boat had arrived from the tender to carry them on board.

Ben Rudall, who had hitherto been silent, finding that he was at once to be carried off, rose to his feet and lifting up his manacled hands addressed the officer, “It is hard lines for me, sir, to be dragged away from my wife and family, without so much as saying good-bye to them. They live not many doors off, down the lane; won’t you just let me go down and kiss the children? Maybe you are a father yourself, and you wouldn’t like to be carried away from your young ones without saying a few last words to cheer them up.”

“It can’t be done, my man,” answered the officer, turning away. “If I grant you the favour, all the rest will be wanting to go and wish their wives and children farewell, and a fine account I should have to give of them! Bring the prisoners along!” he shouted to the seamen.

“You’ll tell poor Susan what has happened,” said Ben, as he passed the landlady. “Tell her to keep up her spirits. I’ll be back home as soon as I can.”

“Trust me, Ben,” said kind-hearted Mrs Simmons; “I’ll see your wife to-morrow morning, and tell her what you say.”

The officer, losing patience, ordered his party to move on. The men-of-war’s men kept close around their captives, who would, they knew, attempt to escape if there was the slightest chance of their doing so, or they thought it possible that the smugglers’ associates might endeavour to rescue them. The boat, however, was reached without any attempt of the sort being made, and the prisoners were compelled to step on board.

Some of the more daring resisted, hoping that perhaps even then assistance might come to them, but a seaman’s pistol held at the heads of the refractory ones compelled them to obey, and in another minute they were all seated in the boat, which at once pulled away for the tender.

Dick found himself seated next to Ben.

“A bad job this, my boy; I never thought you and I should be hauled away like this,” whispered Ben. “If they hadn’t put our wrists in irons we’d be overboard and soon stowed away where they wouldn’t find us in a hurry.”

Dick did not say he thought that it was owing to Ben he was brought into his present condition. He merely answered, “I wouldn’t try to escape if I could. If a man-of-war is as bad as you say, I shall be dead in a short time, and it won’t much matter to any one.”

“Silence there, men!” shouted the officer, who overheard Ben and Dick talking. “Give way, lads!”

The boat was soon alongside the tender, a large cutter, which lay off the mouth of the creek. The captured men were compelled to mount her side, two stout fellows standing by to lift them up by the collars of their jackets, as they were unable to use their hands, when they were at once sent down into the hold of the vessel, over which a sentry with a loaded musket kept guard.

It was a large, gloomy place, lighted by a single ship’s lantern, which hung from one of the beams. Dick could see that it already contained about twenty people, most of them rough, seafaring men, seated with their backs against the side, or stretched on the deck. Some were talking in low, grave tones, others were endeavouring to forget themselves in sleep. A few looked up and nodded as they recognised acquaintances, but not many words were exchanged between them. Dick saw several persons whom he knew, but the greater number had been captured by the pressgang on other parts of the coast. Dick, though no longer hungry, was very tired, and seeing a vacant spot, threw himself down with his back against the after bulkhead.

“I have found out all about it,” said Ben, who some time afterwards seated himself by his side. “It is all owing to that young lord and his father. The marquis, I hear, wrote over to Portsmouth some time ago to have this pressgang sent down here to make a clean sweep of all the seafaring men they could lay hands on. If they had come a few days sooner, they would have stopped the Nancy from attempting the run, and we should have got off again; but as ill luck would have it, they arrived just in time to catch us, and the other poor fellows who had come on shore. I wish that I could lay hands on that Lord Reginald; I’d pay him off.”

“Little chance of that,” observed Dick; “he’ll soon be safe on board the Wolf, and we shall be sent off, maybe, in some ship to the other end of the world. I don’t care where I go; but it seems to me what we have now to do is to make the best of it. I have been thinking over the matter since I have been staying here, and of course, as the king wants men to fight his battles, and as it is my luck, good or bad, to become one of them, I’ll do my best and try to keep clear of the cat-o’-nine-tails which you used to tell me about.”

“You’ll be precious lucky if you are able to do that, my lad,” growled Ben. “Howsumdever, as we’re in for it, I don’t want to make you think things are worse than they are. You’ll soon find out what’s what.”

“I suppose I shall,” answered Dick, who was becoming very sleepy, and in spite of the noises going on around him—the loud talking—the tramping of feet overhead—the movement of the vessel, which had got under way, and his uncomfortable position, he was soon in happy forgetfulness of all his troubles.

The cutter, after proceeding some distance, met with a strong head wind, and was soon pitching her bows into the fast rising seas. Dick was awakened by finding himself slipping away to leeward, and presently afterwards the vessel shipped a sea, the heavy spray from which came down through the main hatchway, and gave an unpleasant shower-bath to those below it, and Dick had to scramble as best he could out of the water which collected to leeward. The cutter, under close-reefed mainsail, stood on, heeling over to starboard for some time; then she went about, and directed her course towards the north shore. Once more she tacked in the direction she had before been going. The smugglers grumbled and swore, expressing very little confidence in the seamanship of the dockyard maties. At length, however, they heard the order to take in the jib. The vessel came on an even keel, the anchor was let go; she had brought up in Cowes Roads.

“If this wind holds, we shan’t see Portsmouth harbour to-day,” said Ben. “I suppose they can’t intend to keep the irons on our wrists, now they have got us all safe. If we stop here for the night, I have a great mind to try and get away. I have many friends on shore, and some of them are sure to come off to learn what this craft is about. If I get the chance, I’ll slip overboard and swim to one of their boats. What do you say, Dick; will you come?”

“We haven’t got the chance yet,” answered Dick; “if I get off where should I go? I cannot return home, and I should just have to starve or beg, or take to some worse course. No, no; you may try it if you wish, but I’ll stay here and learn what a man-of-war is like.”

Ben made further vain attempts to induce Dick to join him. Their conversation was interrupted by several men coming from forward with a supply of biscuits and cold salt beef and a grog tub, which, with a number of tin mugs, was placed in the centre of the deck. The latter seemed to afford infinite satisfaction, and the prisoners, in much better humour than before, laughed and talked and joked as if they had no cares in the world. A strict watch was still, however, kept over them, as, from their desperate character, it was suspected that they would not fail to try and take advantage of any opportunity which might offer of getting free.

For upwards of three days the cutter lay at Cowes, the captured men being narrowly watched, though tolerably well fed and not ill treated. The time passed heavily away. Growling and swearing was the order of the day. Dick heard some of the smugglers vow that, if taken on board a man-of-war, they would sooner blow the ship up than remain in her; that all ships were alike—perfect hells afloat; and that it would be better to be shot or hung at once than to endure the existence they would have to lead on board. Of one thing he himself was certain, that he was heartily sick of being kept down in the cutter’s hold. He felt eager to get free, even though he might have to exchange it for one of the much-abused king’s ships.

At length, the weather moderating, the cutter got under way and stood for Spithead, where several men-of-war rode at anchor. While the cutter lay hove to, a boat with a lieutenant from one of them came alongside. The officer, on stepping on board, ordered the men to be mustered. Dick watched him, and thinking from his countenance that he must be a good-natured, kind man, hoped that he himself might be among those he was about to select for his ship. The lieutenant spoke to the men one by one, asking them various questions, and finally chose a dozen of the best hands, who were forthwith ordered to get into his boat.

Dick was greatly disappointed on finding that Ben and he were not taken. The commander of the cutter then received directions to run into Portsmouth harbour, and to take the remainder of the prisoners on board another ship, which lay there ready to receive them. Various surmises were offered as to what ship she might be. Neither Dick nor Ben could gain any information.

“It matters very little; they’re all alike,” growled Ben.

On entering the harbour the question was soon settled. A fine frigate lay at anchor off the dockyard, with her sails bent, and with every appearance of being ready for sea. The cutter brought up close to her, and a signal being made, she at once sent a boat alongside.

“Now, lads, tumble up!” cried the lieutenant. “You have got to serve his Majesty, and I would advise you to put a good face upon the matter, and show that you are honest Englishmen, ever ready to do your duty and fight for your country. You’ll come back with your pockets full of prize money, and be glad you went.”

Dick listened. “That’s what I want to do,” he said to himself; “and I will if I can.”

Some of the old hands—Ben among the rest—were not influenced in the same way.

“All very fine!” he growled out; “but the proof of the pudding is in the eating. We shall get more scars on our backs from the cat than guineas in our pockets, I’ve a notion.”

The boat was soon alongside, and Dick with his companions were ordered up on deck, where they stood grouped together until the first lieutenant came to take down their names, and enter them on the ship’s books. It was the first time Dick had ever been on board a man-of-war. He gazed round with astonishment at the extent of the white decks, the size of the highly polished guns, the height of the masts, the ropes neatly flemished down, and the order which everywhere prevailed.

“She’s a fine ship, at all events; and if it wasn’t for father and mother and Janet, I should not be sorry to have come,” he thought.

The first lieutenant, an active, kind-eyed looking officer, spoke to the men much in the same way as the commander of the cutter had done. When he came to Dick, he inquired whether he had been to sea before.

“Only on board a lugger, sir,” answered Dick.

“Well, my lad, I do not inquire what you were doing on board her; but I tell you, as you look a smart lad, that if you do your duty you will be sure to get on, and soon obtain a good rating.”

Dick touched his cap, as he had seen some of the men doing when they spoke to an officer, and replied, “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“That’s right, my lad,” observed the first lieutenant, as he turned away to attend to some other duty.

Although on deck strict order and discipline prevailed, Dick on going below found a very different scene, and it was some time before he got accustomed to the uproar, the men in hoarse voices bawling to each other, and laughing and joking and playing all sorts of tricks, some rushing here and there, others seated in groups, amusing themselves in a variety of ways.

“At all events, there can’t be much to make them unhappy, for they seem to be a merry set of fellows,” thought Dick, as he was standing by himself, watching what was going forward. An officer, with a silver chain and whistle round his neck, coming by, asked him his name. Dick told him, and replied to a few other questions. The officer passed on.

“Who’s that?” asked Dick of another lad who happened to be standing near.

“That’s Mr Bitts, the boatswain.”

“He seems a fair-spoken gentleman,” observed Dick.

“Gentleman! I don’t think he calls himself a gentleman; but he has a good deal to do with us, and it is wise to stand well with him, for he can use that rattan he had in his hand pretty smartly.”

Shortly afterwards Mr Bitts came back. Touching Dick on the shoulder, he said, “I want a boy, and I have applied for you. You’ll understand you are to attend on me, so look out and do your duty.”

Dick, on inquiring of the other lad, found he was to be the boatswain’s servant, which, although not an office of much honour, had its advantages, if he could manage to please his master. Dick soon found that his duties were not very onerous, and provided he was smart and active, Mr Bitts appeared to be satisfied. Altogether, when the hammocks were piped down, and he was allowed to turn into the one allotted to him, which the boatswain ordered one of the men to show him how to sling, he was tolerably well pleased with the prospect before him. As he was not placed in any watch, he had the advantage of sleeping through the whole night.

When the hammocks were piped up the next morning, he turned out refreshed and ready to do anything required of him. He had lost sight of Ben, who having found several acquaintances on board, and being engaged in talking with them, did not trouble himself about him.

The next day, the captain coming on board, the crew were mustered, when all the men as well as the officers had to come on deck. Dick was thinking what a fine body of men they appeared, when his eye, glancing aft, fell on two of the midshipmen, one of whom had his arm in a sling, and he at once recognised Lord Reginald and Mr Voules. The former seemed to know him, for he saw the young lord turn to the other midshipman and say a few words, and then look again towards him. Dick had not before inquired what ship he was on board, but he now found that he belonged to the Wolf.

“I hope we shall not come across each other, and I’ll do my best to keep out of his way,” he said to himself. “He’ll not forget, however, how he came to have his arm in a sling, and maybe he’ll try to pay me off; if he does, I’ll show him that I won’t stand bullying aboard, any more than I would on shore.”

Captain Moubray, having made a short address to his crew, reminding them of the renown they had already gained, and expressing his confidence that they would keep up their credit, ordered the boatswain to pipe down.

Dick, according to his resolution, kept clear of Lord Reginald.

“It is lucky for you, my lad, that I had applied for you, as the midshipmen have asked for you to be the boy of their mess,” said Mr Bitts, when Dick was attending on him that evening. “That young lord and Mr Voules wanted me to swap you for Tom Dolter, but I took Tom’s measure some time ago, and let me tell you, my lad, that you may bless your stars. It’s not pleasant to serve a dozen masters, though, if I hadn’t held out, that young lord and Mr Voules would have had their way.”

Dick had good reason to be thankful at his escape. Next day the frigate went out to Spithead, took her powder on board, and blue-peter was hoisted, as a signal that she was about to sail.

Chapter Seven.

Defiant looks—The spirit of ill-will increases—Some “very kind intentions”—Dick’s persecutors—In the midshipmen’s mess—Paddy Logan and Toady Voules—The last look at Old England—The first encounter—Mr Bitts to the rescue—Ideas of revenge—A sail on the lee bow—Preparing for action—A fierce battle—The Wolf victorious—Bravery of Dick—Hard work to keep the prize afloat—Bound for Plymouth with the prize.

The frigate’s sails were loose, the crew at the capstan tramped round to the merry sound of the fife, the boatswain’s pipe was heard shrilly repeating the orders he received; the sails were sheeted home, the anchor came to the bows, was catted and fished, and the Wolf, with canvas widespread to the breeze, glided majestically through the waters of the Solent. Dick wisely kept as much as possible out of the way of Lord Reginald. When they occasionally came in sight of each other, he did not fail to remark the angry look the young lord cast at him, while he himself could not help glancing at the other’s arm, still in a sling.

“That young ruffian’s insolence is unbearable!” exclaimed Lord Reginald, on one occasion, turning away and addressing Voules, whom he happened to meet. “I wish that he had been caught on shore, when he would have been sent off to prison, and we should not have been troubled with him here. I was half inclined to denounce him as a fugitive from justice when I first saw him on board; but as we wanted hands, I thought that the captain would not thank me.”

“We’ll pay him off somehow or other,” answered Voules. “I’ll find the means to do it, and he’ll wish he had been sent to prison before he stepped on the Wolf’s decks.”

“I say, Oswald, what’s happened to your arm?” asked Charles Ludlam, the senior mate of the berth, in which most of the members of their mess happened to be collected.

“A blow I received on it,” answered Lord Reginald, not being willing to explain matters.

“He got it while attempting in a very gallant way to seize a fellow who was suspected of being a smuggler,” observed Voules, coming to his friend’s rescue. “You may depend upon it that Oswald would have caught him if it had not been for that.”

“Faith! What business had he to be trying to seize a smuggler?” asked Paddy Logan, who was no admirer of Lord Reginald, and still less of Voules.

The latter was somewhat puzzled how to reply. “In support of the law which you Irish fellows delight in breaking,” he at length answered.

“Do you dare to cast reflections on the honour of Irishmen?” exclaimed Logan, firing up. “Naval officers are not expected to be excisemen. Of course the fellow had every right to defend himself.”

“I cast no reflections on the honour of Irishmen, but you yourself show your readiness to take the part of a lawless character,” answered Voules. “Besides, the young scoundrel had previously grossly insulted Oswald and me.”

“Then he was influenced by private motives rather than public spirit,” observed Ludlam, who was fond of speaking the truth, even though it might be unpalatable to his hearers. “Still, Oswald, I am sorry you are hurt, and hope that you will be wiser in future.”

“I shall always be found ready to defend my own rights whether against my equals or plebeians,” answered Lord Reginald, haughtily. “I consider that I acted properly, and do not require to be pitied by you or any other person, merely because I happen to get an inconvenient blow on the arm.”

“Mayn’t any one else pity you?” asked Tommy Shackel, the smallest midshipman on board, who was apt to take a malicious pleasure in seeing his seniors have a scrimmage among each other.

“Hold your tongue, Master Jackanapes!” exclaimed Voules; “Oswald knows best what he likes and dislikes.”

“I only asked a question,” said Tommy, in his squeaky voice; “and I put it to Oswald, and not to you.”

“How dare you speak to me in that fashion?” exclaimed Voules, about to give the small midshipman a box on the ear.

“You’d better let him alone!” cried Paddy Logan, jumping up. “I appeal to Ludlam, who allows no bullying in the berth. Because you have had the honour of staying at Elverston Hall, you fancy you can exhibit your airs to us, but you are mistaken, my boy, as much as Oswald was when he first joined.”

Voules retorted, and Paddy and he would soon have come to blows, had not Ludlam interfered, and by the exercise of the authority he maintained in the berth, restored order.

This scene took place on the first evening that the members of the berth all met together.

The frigate was now standing down between the mainland and the wooded shores of the Isle of Wight. Calshot Castle—then held as a fortress, with a governor and a garrison—was seen on the right. On the left hand was the little town of Cowes, surrounded by woods, among which, here and there, a few cottages peeped out. Then Lymington became visible on the Hampshire shore, and, beyond it, the long shingly beach of Hurst. Many eyes on board were turned in that direction. Lord Reginald and Voules, using their spy-glasses, thought that they could catch a distant view of the hall, while forward, Dick Hargrave, Ben, and several other men were turning their gaze on well-known spots. Dick felt more sad than he had done since he came on board. He was thinking how anxious his father, mother, and poor Janet would be about him; even should Mrs Simmons have conveyed his message to them, they would only know that he had been carried off in the tender, and would remain ignorant of the ship on board which he had been sent. He had not written, for he possessed neither pens, ink, nor paper, and would have found it a difficult matter to indite an epistle with the uproar going on around him. Poor Dick gazed on until the tears came to his eyes. Though it was greatly owing to his own fault that he was being carried away from home and those he loved, he was not the less to be commiserated. While he thus stood, scarcely conscious of what was going on around him, Lord Reginald, who had been sent forward with a message to the third lieutenant on some duty, passed him.

“What makes you stand idling there, boy?” exclaimed the midshipman, looking at him as if he had never seen him before, giving him a blow with the end of a rope. “You have no business on deck; go and attend to your duty below.”

Dick’s first impulse was to raise his arm to defend himself. It was with difficulty he could refrain from retaliating.

“I have no duty that I know of to attend to, and I have a right to look towards yonder shore, which neither you nor I may see for some time to come,” he answered. “What! You are a sea lawyer, are you?” exclaimed Lord Reginald, angrily, Dick’s words adding intensity to the vindictive feelings he already entertained towards him.

“I’ll report you to the first lieutenant, and he’ll soon find means to make you mend your manners.”

Dick was going to reply, when he saw Voules coming along the deck, and he had the discretion to hold his tongue, knowing that the worst interpretation would be put on whatever he said. This was the commencement of hostilities on board the frigate between the young lord and the farmer’s son. Scarcely a day passed that they did not come in contact with each other, when Lord Reginald never lost an opportunity of abusing the ship’s boy, or striking him, if he had the least excuse, with a rope’s end. Dick bore the ill treatment manfully, and endeavoured to the best of his power to do his duty. Though treated kindly by the boatswain, with the ordinary feelings of a yeoman’s son he would not willingly have rendered menial service to any one, but as it was his duty he did not complain, and did his utmost to please his master. Mr Bitts had, by some means or other, discovered how Lord Reginald behaved to Dick, but had not actually seen him struck. The boatswain was not a man to allow any one to interfere with his prerogatives. He at length, however, saw the young lord, who did not observe him, strike Dick across the shoulders with a rope’s end, and order him off to perform some duty or other.

Mr Bitts immediately came forward and confronted the midshipman, with an angry glare in his keen eyes, for although Mr Bitts was not a man of many inches, he was a determined person, with huge whiskers, a firm mouth, large forehead, and broad shoulders. “Are you aware, Lord Reginald Oswald, that you are infringing the rules of the service? That boy belongs to me, and I’ll let you know that neither your lordship nor any one else shall dare to ill-treat him.”

Lord Reginald looked somewhat astonished at this unexpected address. He was too proud to apologise, as he might have done and so settled the matter. “The fellow was idling,” he answered, haughtily, “and I am not expected to know what boys you consider belonging to yourself. If I find him or any one else neglecting his duty I shall see that he attends to it.”

“I shall report you, Lord Reginald Oswald, if I find you interfering again with that boy, or any other over whom you have no authority,” retorted the boatswain.

“You may stand well in the opinion of the captain and some of the officers, but others, let me tell you, hold you at a much cheaper rate.”

“This insolence is unbearable!” muttered Lord Reginald; but he recollected that, although he was the son of a marquis, the boatswain was his superior officer in the service, and that he should be guilty of insubordination should he continue the dispute. He walked away, therefore, with feelings more embittered than ever against Dick Hargrave. Soon afterwards, meeting Voules, he told him what had occurred.

“I don’t know what will become of the discipline of the ship, if the warrant officers venture to interfere in the way old Bitts has done,” observed Voules. “We must pay him off some day; but as to that fellow Hargrave, he is beneath your notice. I wish that we could have got him as our mess boy; we would soon have tamed his spirit. However, I won’t let slip any opportunity of punishing him as he deserves.”

Voules was as good as his word, every time the opportunity occurred, though he took very good care that Mr Bitts should not see him ill-treating Dick. He told Lord Reginald what he had done, apparently taking a pleasure in nourishing the resentment the young lord felt against the farmer’s son. It was but natural that Dick himself should feel ill-will towards his persecutors. He did not complain to Mr Bitts, of whom he stood not a little in awe, but he frequently did so to Ben Rudall, who ground his teeth and clenched his fists as he listened.

“We’ll pay the chaps off one of these days,” he muttered. “You’ve heard tell, Dick, of the mutiny at the Nore, when the men rose and took the whole fleet from their officers, and would not give in until the Admiralty granted their terms. To be sure, a few of them were run up to the yardarm, but the men won’t stand bullying now any more than they did in those days. If officers don’t know how to behave themselves they must be taught. I wouldn’t advise you to give the young lord tit for tat, or turn round when he next hits you, and use the rope’s end on his back, but I should be wonderfully inclined to try it on, and let them hang me afterwards if they like.”

Dick listened eagerly to what Ben said—the advice was too much in accordance with his own feelings.

Voules had spoken of him to the first lieutenant and to some other officers, and described him as a young ruffian who had been leagued with smugglers, and was now the associate of men of the worst character on board.

Dick was accordingly strictly, if not harshly treated, and though he had at first been well-disposed to do his duty, he became every day more and more discontented, and ready to retort upon those whom he looked upon as tyrants.

The frigate had been ordered to cruise in the Channel off the French coast, and a sharp look-out was kept night and day for an enemy.

“We shall soon see how these young gentlemen behave if we get alongside of mounseer. They can hold their heads high enough now, but when the Frenchman’s shot come whizzing about their ears, they’ll duck them fast enough,” said Ben.

“Is there a chance, then, of our having a battle?” inquired Dick. “I should like to be in one, just to see how things are managed.”

“If Captain Moubray is the sort of man I have heard him described, he’ll do his best to look out for an enemy,” replied Ben.

Still, day after day passed by and no suspicious sail was met with. At length, one evening, soon after dark, the Wolf was standing in towards the French coast. Having passed the Island of Groix, she continued on until several shots were fired at her from a fort, which, however, did no damage. She put about, and a short time afterwards, the wind being East-North-East, the look-out aloft shouted—

“A sail on the lee bow!”

The stranger was now seen to be running west by south. The Wolf immediately made all sail, and as she got nearer, two muskets were fired towards the chase, which appeared to be a large ship, to bring her to. Instead of so doing, however, the Frenchman, for such she undoubtedly was, set all the sail she could carry, endeavouring to escape. This seemed strange, for as far as could be judged, she was a larger ship than the Wolf.

“Will she get away?” asked Dick, who was standing near Ben Rudall at one of the bow-ports on the maindeck, through which they could dimly see the chase rising like some phantom giant stalking over the deep.

“Not if we continue to overhaul her as we are now doing,” answered Ben.

“Will she fight?” inquired Dick.

“Ay, and fight hard, too, just as a rat does when caught in a corner. It’s a way those Frenchmen have, though why she runs now is more than I can tell. Maybe some of us will be losing the number of our mess. I should not care if I was among them myself. It’s a dog’s life I lead on board here; but I am thinking of poor Susan. If I am hit, it will be hard lines with her; she and the young ones will have to bear up for the work’us, for there’s no one will care for the smuggler’s wife, as they call her.”

“But I hope you won’t be killed, Ben,” said Dick; “there’s no reason why you should be more than any one else.”

“Well, well, I’m not afraid,” answered Ben; “the enemy’s shot are in no ways particular, and I should not be so very sorry if one of them was to take off the head of that Lord Reginald or Toady Voules, as his messmates call him.”

“I could not bring myself to wish either one of them such a fate as that,” observed Dick, who had not altogether forgotten his mother’s instructions and Christian principles.

“I have no reason to love either the young lord or his toady, and I should not weep my eyes out if they were to be killed—they’d only get their deserts; and for my own part, I would like to see them both knocked over by the same round shot,” growled Ben, between his teeth.

The frigate was now approaching the chase. The drum beat to quarters, and the crew hurried up from below, most of them stripped to the waist with handkerchiefs round their heads and loins. The glare of the fighting lanterns, hung up on the beams along the deck, cast a glow on their muscular figures, the breaches of the guns and other salient points, while all the rest were cast in the deepest gloom.

Ben went to his gun, and Dick was ordered below to the magazine to bring up ammunition. Though much bigger than any of the other lads so employed, as he had been only a short time at sea, he had to perform the humble duty of a powder monkey. He would far rather have been engaged in working one of the guns.

The Wolf was carrying all the canvas which could be packed on her, studding-sails on either side and royals aloft. The chase also, under all sail, was still doing her utmost to keep ahead, but the Wolf, being the fastest ship of the two, gained rapidly on her. The men stood at their guns, waiting eagerly for the moment that the order to fire should be given, laughing, however, and cracking their usual jokes. The officers went their rounds, to see that all necessary preparations had been made.

Dick was seated on his ammunition tub on the maindeck, when Lord Reginald and Voules, who had each a certain number of guns to look after, passed him.

“I say, Oswald, that young smuggler looks pale enough now,” observed Voules, in a voice sufficiently loud for Dick to hear him. “We must keep a sharp look-out on him, or he’ll be running below to stow himself away in the hold.”

“Trust me for that! those ruffians ashore are the greatest cowards afloat,” answered the young lord, as he passed on.

Dick heard him. “I’ll show him that I am no coward,” he said to himself.

Ben also, who was stationed at one of the guns it was Dick’s duty to serve, heard the remark. “‘Cowards!’ does he call us?” he muttered. “He and Mr Toady will be the first to show the white feather, I’ve a notion.”

Shortly afterwards the sounds of two guns were heard. One shot, glancing along the Wolf’s bow, sent the splinters flying off it, while the other was seen to ricochet over the smooth water. The enemy had fired her stern chasers. The Wolf, without yawing, could not reply. She stood on, therefore, eager to come up with the chase. The latter was seen directly afterwards taking in her studdingsails and royals. The British crew cheered as they saw this. There was no longer any doubt that the enemy was ready to fight. The order was now given to take in all the studdingsails. The royals were next handed; the crew, who had left their quarters for the purpose, immediately hurrying back to their guns. Both frigates were still rapidly running through the water. Suddenly the chase put down her helm and luffed up on the starboard tack, intending to rake the Wolf, which was now coming up on her weather quarter.

“Hard a-starboard!” shouted Captain Moubray, and the Wolf was brought up on the opposite tack, thus avoiding the raking fire, and receiving the enemy’s shot on the starboard side. “Well done!” cried the captain. “Now hard a-port!”

The ship once more came up to the wind, and just clearing the French frigate’s starboard quarter, shot up right abreast of her to windward. Both thus in near proximity, poured their broadsides into each other, and the battle became hot and furious. The British crew ran their guns in and out, the frigate’s shot dealing death and destruction along the decks of her antagonist. It was just the position English sailors like the best. Dick saw several of his shipmates knocked over, and one poor boy, with whom he had just been talking, fell close to his side. He knelt down to help him, but not a movement was perceptible. He took his hand; it fell on the deck. The boy was dead.

Dick’s tub was soon exhausted of its contents, and he hurried below to the magazine to get it refilled. He lost not a moment, but was again at his station.

“They shan’t say I’m skulking,” he muttered. “I wonder what Lord Reginald is doing.”

Dick might have seen the young lord, in spite of the shot crashing on board and sending the splinters flying about in all directions, killing or wounding several near him—the colour in his cheeks somewhat heightened, perhaps—attending to his duty and cheering on his men, and when the captain of a gun was killed, taking his place and laying hold of the tackles to haul it in for reloading.

For some time the two frigates ran off before the wind; as tacks and sheets and yards were shot away, gradually decreasing their speed. In consequence of the injuries the French frigate had received, the Wolf shot slightly ahead, when the former attempted to cross her stern, for the purpose of raking her, or gaining the wind, but not having room for this manoeuvre, she ran her jib-boom between the British ship’s main and mizzen rigging.

The third lieutenant, calling several of the men, attempted to lash it there, while the Wolf poured in a fire which swept across the Frenchman’s bows, but half those engaged in the effort, while hanging in the rigging, were shot, and the lieutenant himself fell badly wounded to the deck. Immediately afterwards the ships separated and stood on as before, exchanging furious broadsides. Dick saw Ben still working away at his grin, as eager as the rest of the crew, having evidently forgotten all about his gloomy anticipations of losing the number of his mess.

For upwards of two hours the ships had been engaged, and no perceptible advantage had been gained by either. At length the Wolf again forged ahead. Captain Moubray did not neglect the much-wished-for opportunity, but ordered the helm to be put hard a-starboard, and, while thus passing across the hawse of the French frigate, poured in a broadside which swept her decks fore and aft, killing and wounding many of her crew, and inflicting serious damage on her masts and rigging. Again the Wolf’s helm was put hard a-port, which brought the enemy a little before her starboard beam, when again the ships ran on with the wind about a point on the starboard quarter. Still it remained doubtful which would gain the victory. The British officers and crew had, however, made up their minds not to give in while a stick was standing; but the most indomitable bravery cannot always overcome the chances of war.

While Captain Moubray, with the master by his side, was eagerly watching every movement of his antagonist, to take advantage of what might occur, a shot from her struck the mizzenmast, already severely wounded. With a fearful crash down it came on deck, inboard, killing one of the men at the wheel, which it much damaged, and severely injuring many others, while it encumbered the whole quarterdeck with its rigging, spars, and sails. They could hear the crew of the French ship cheer as they saw what had happened.

“You may ‘hulloo’ as long as you like, mounseers, but we’ll be giving you as good before long,” cried Ben; several of his shipmates echoing his words.

They were right, for scarcely had the Frenchmen’s cheers ceased, than down also fell their mizzenmast with a tremendous crash, evidently doing much damage. Almost immediately afterwards the mainmast followed, though the foremast still stood, enabling her to continue the action.

The boatswain and his crew hurried to clear the wreck, while the carpenter endeavoured to repair the damaged wheel. The two ships again lay abreast of each other, though at a greater distance than before. The Wolf, however, did not, in consequence of the accident, slacken her fire, and she and her opponent were gradually sheering closer together, when the latter was seen to put her helm hard a-starboard, so as to lay the Wolf on board. The order was now received from the captain to load the maindeck guns with double shot and the carronades with grape.

“She will strike us on the bow,” observed Captain Moubray to the master, “and as she is sure afterwards to rebound, the quarters of the two ships will be brought together. She intends to board us. Boarders, be prepared to repel boarders!” he shouted. At the same time the word was passed along the decks, not again to fire until the order was received from the captain.

The two ships drew closer and closer together, until the bows met with a loud crash, and although the Frenchmen at the same time let fly a broadside, the English gunners, obedient to their orders, refrained from firing in return. As was expected, the bows rebounded from each other; the quarters of the two ships almost immediately came together. The quarter of the French ship was seen crowded with men, ready to spring on board the Wolf.

“Now, my lads, give it them!” cried Captain Moubray, and his word was passed along the decks.

The big guns sent their balls, and the carronades their showers of grape, into the very midst of the Frenchmen. Fearful must have been the effect among the crowded masses, and cries and groans resounded through the night air.

Four guns only replied to the last broadside, showing the havoc and confusion it had caused. At the same moment flames burst forth from the Frenchman’s deck. The English worked their guns with redoubled vigour. Scarcely had the fire disappeared from one part of the French ship, than it broke forth in another. Her shrouds and running rigging had been cut away, and her remaining mast was tottering. Still the Frenchmen fought on, though they could scarcely, it seemed, have hoped for victory.

Once more the ships separated, still continuing to exchange broadsides, though many of the Frenchman’s guns had been silenced. Still, from the number of men seen on her decks, they might hope to gain the victory by boarding. To guard against such a contingency was now Captain Moubray’s chief care. Again the bows of the two ships met, when the outer arm of the Wolf’s best bower anchor, entering the foremost main-deck port of the French frigate, held her fast.

Though the English continued to pour broadside after broadside into their enemy, no signal of surrender was shown. Every moment it seemed as if the foremast of the latter, already tottering, would go by the board, and probably fall on the deck of the Wolf.

“We must put an end to this!” cried Captain Moubray. “Boarders, follow me!”

He sprang forward, several of his officers and those to whom he had given the word, pressing round him, all eager to be the first on the enemy’s deck. Among them was Lord Reginald, who, regardless of danger, burned to distinguish himself. The gallant boatswain led another party, hastily collected on the main-deck. Richard Hargrave, on hearing the boatswain’s summons, and finding that ammunition was no longer required on his side, left his station and joined them. Two stout planks had been thrust through the Frenchman’s second bow port. By this means the boatswain’s party forced their way, for the gun which filled the port, having been dismounted, allowed them ingress.

With cheers and shouts the British seamen, led by the captain, leaping down on the Frenchman’s deck, with pistols flashing and cutlasses hewing and hacking, quickly drove their enemies aft. As they reached the main hatchway, many of the latter, unable to resist the impetus of the onslaught, sprang down below, where they were met by the boatswain’s party, who, sweeping along the fore part of the deck, quickly cleared it. Still a determined band resisted. A marine was on the point of running his bayonet into the breast of Lord Reginald, when the captain cut down the man. In vain the Frenchmen attempted to resist. Foot by foot they were driven back, until the cry rose from an officer on the quarter-deck of “We surrender.” At the same time he lifted a lantern above his head, as a signal which all might understand.

“Lay down your arms, then!” cried Captain Moubray, “and no more blows shall be struck.”

The boatswain, with Richard Hargrave and others, were still using their cutlasses with deadly effect, the shouts and cries of the Frenchmen, as they endeavoured to withstand them, preventing all other sounds from being heard.

Before advancing towards the French commanding officer, to receive his sword, Captain Moubray sent Lord Reginald and a party of men below to stop the slaughter. He sprang down in time to see Dick Hargrave and two other men engaged in a fierce combat with three Frenchmen, who, ignorant of what had taken place above, were still holding out.

“You mutinous rascals!” exclaimed Lord Reginald to Dick and his companions; “didn’t you hear the captain’s orders to desist from fighting? The frigate has struck, and is our prize.”

Then shouting to the Frenchmen in their own language, he told them what had occurred, when immediately dropping the points of their weapons, they sprang back, to be out of reach of the British seamen’s cutlasses.

“I am not a mutinous rascal,” exclaimed Dick, turning to Lord Reginald; “I didn’t know that the Frenchmen had given in.”

“How dare you speak to me in that way?” exclaimed the young lord, even at that moment not forgetting his enmity towards Dick. “Look out for the consequences!”

He then shouted to Mr Bitts, and in another minute the fighting, which had gone on for so many hours, altogether ceased. Both decks presented a terrible spectacle. In all directions lay the bodies of dead and dying men. Many had already passed away, others were writhing in agony, while the surgeon’s attendants, regardless of what was going on around, were employed in carrying below those to whom assistance might be of use. One lieutenant alone stood on the quarter-deck. Captain Moubray, advancing among the bodies of his late foes, inquired for the French captain. The lieutenant pointed to a form which lay near the wheel, covered with a flag.

“The captain of the Thesbe—the ship I yield to you—lies there,” he answered, presenting the hilt of his sword. “There lies the first lieutenant, and there the second, and I, the third, am in command.”

“I return your sword to as brave a man as I can ever hope to meet. You have fought your ship with the greatest gallantry. Englishmen cannot desire to encounter more noble foes,” said Captain Moubray, returning the sword, which the lieutenant, taking, sheathed with a deep sigh.

Indeed, out of a crew of between four and five hundred men, upwards of a hundred had been killed, and nearly the same number wounded, while the frigate’s hull was fearfully shattered, her bulwarks were torn away—she was a mere wreck.

Captain Moubray, returning to his ship, sent a prize crew on board under the command of Mr Jager, the second lieutenant, who had with him Lord Reginald, Voules, and Paddy Logan, and forty men, Richard Hargrave being among the number.

It was no easy matter to clear the ships, so firmly had the Wolf’s anchor hooked on through the Thesbe’s port. It was at last, however, freed. Scarcely had the two ships separated, than down came the Thesbe’s foremast, narrowly escaping falling across the bows of the Wolf.

In an action lasting the best part of six hours, the Wolf herself had suffered severe damage. The third lieutenant, the second lieutenant of marines, a midshipman, and ten seamen were killed, and nearly fifty officers and men wounded.

She had lost her mizzenmast, and her other masts and several of her yards were injured. Her sails and rigging were cut to pieces. So numerous were the shot-holes in her hull, that the carpenter and his mates were unable to stop them until she had three and a half feet of water in her hold. A portion of her diminished crew was sent to the pumps, while every officer, man and boy, was employed in fishing the masts and spars, knotting and splicing the rigging, and shifting the sails. The two ships lay close together, drifting with the tide. The prize was won, but it was a question whether she would be kept. They were close in with the French coast; and should any other of the enemy’s ships be in the neighbourhood, it was certain that they would be sent to look after the combatants. Mr Jager and his prize crew had work enough to do to keep the Thesbe afloat, to heave the dead overboard, to attend to the wounded. The surgeons laboured away all night in amputating arms and legs, and binding up the limbs of those most injured. Not only was the cockpit crowded, but every cabin was full of wounded men. The greater part of the prisoners were of course removed on board the Wolf, but a few were retained to assist in working the pumps and attending to the wounded.

While the carpenters were engaged in stopping the shot-holes—through which the water was rushing with a rapidity sufficient in a short time to carry the prize to the bottom—it was impossible to attempt repairing other damages.

When morning broke, a shattered, blood-stained hull lay floating, with her victor watching near her. An anxious look-out was kept for any sail which might appear. Should a single frigate be seen, Captain Moubray and his officers resolved to fight their ship and defend their prize to the last.

No one thought of resting. Mr Bitts piped his call, until, as Paddy Logan observed, “it seemed mighty curious that he had any wind left in his body.”

The frigate’s crew laboured on, until many were ready to drop with fatigue. All knew that not a moment was to be lost. Another contingency might occur, besides the appearance of an enemy of superior force; a northerly gale might spring up, and drive the disabled frigates on the French coast. Happily, the masts of the Wolf were secured, the rigging repaired, and fresh sails bent, and the wind coming from the southward, she took her prize in tow, and shaped a course across the channel for Plymouth.

Chapter Eight.

On board the prize—Ben gives bad advice—A strange line-of-battle ship—Friend or foe?—The Wolf and her prize reach Plymouth—Not allowed to go ashore—Peter Purkiss—Dick deserts—Homeward bound—Visit to the smuggler’s wife—Reception at the farm—Dick recognised by Lord Reginald and Voules—Fear of being retaken—Dick leaves home—Captured and sent on board a cutter.

The Wolf, with a fair breeze, having her prize in tow, shaped a course for Plymouth. The wind though favourable was light, and should it continue so, it would be some time before she could reach her destination. It was fortunate, however, that the sea was smooth, as it enabled the carpenters the more easily to get at the numerous shot-holes in the sides of the prize, and to stop the water coming in, which it had been doing at a rapid rate, making it necessary to keep the pumps constantly going. This was hard work for the prize crew, for the few Frenchmen left on board, though they did not refuse to go to the pumps, worked listlessly, and very soon knocked off, declaring that they could work no more. The British seamen had therefore to work away until they could stand no longer.

Lieutenant Jager, commanding the prize, had sent Lord Reginald and Voules to see that the crew at the pumps were persevering in their labours. Among them his eye fell on Ben Rudall and Richard Hargrave, who had both been working away for some time until their arms ached.

“Spell oh!” cried Ben.

“Spell oh!” echoed Dick, in order that some other men might come and help them.

“Keep at your work, you idle rascals!” cried Lord Reginald.

“I am not an ‘idle rascal,’” answered Ben, leaving the pump and folding his arms; “I have been working for two hours, and can work no longer until I have had some rest.”

Dick, who could really work no longer, and was wellnigh ready to drop to the deck, also knocked off, though he said nothing.

Lord Reginald’s anger was aroused in a moment. Seizing a rope, he struck Dick across the shoulders. “Go back, both of you!” he exclaimed; “we can have no skulking on board here.”

“I am not skulking,” answered Dick, again seizing the pump handle and working away as hard as his strength would allow.

“Do you dare to answer me?” exclaimed the young lord, striking Dick.

Ben stood still, fixing his eye on the midshipman, who, though he flourished the rope, did not strike him, and Ben, with a look which showed the ill feelings aroused in his bosom, returned to the pump.

Lord Reginald stood by, watching them until the whole gang, utterly unable to work longer, were relieved by fresh hands.

“Let me see that you fellows keep at it longer and better than the last have done,” he said.

“That’s what we get for working our lives out,” growled Ben, as he and his shipmates staggered forward and threw themselves down to rest. “It’s just as well he did not strike me, or something might have come of it. If I were you, Dick, I wouldn’t stand it; I’d give him as good in return. He can but hang one, and that would be better than leading a dog’s life on board this ship.”

“He might flog you round the fleet, which would be something worse than hanging,” observed an old man-of-war’s man, who had overheard Ben. “You wouldn’t like that. I’ve a notion, mate, that it’s wiser to grin and bear it, and hope for better times.”

“I do hope for better times,” said Ben, addressing Dick, when no one else was within hearing. “I’ll tell you what, lad; I’d advise you to give them leg-bail, if you have the chance. That’s what I’ve made up my mind to, as soon as we get into port; they’re sure not to keep a strict look-out, and, as usual, crowds of people will be coming on board to visit the ships. Tom Harris was right; keep your temper, as you did just now. To strike an officer, even though he strikes you first, is a serious matter, and I was wrong in advising it. But though, if you desert and are caught, you run the risk of a flogging, the chances are you’ll escape, for they’ll not take the trouble of sending after you if you can once get off into the country.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Dick. “I can’t bear being struck by that young lord, or by any one else; and if he treats me as he has done before, I cannot answer for keeping my temper.”

The conversation was put an end to by the whole gang being ordered back to the pumps. The carpenters were gradually getting the leaks stopped, and before night the crew were able with less difficulty to keep the water under. Fresh hands were sent on board to attempt getting up jurymasts, in case the Wolf should be compelled to cast off the prize. It was still doubtful whether they would reach the port in safety. An enemy might at any moment appear, and not only retake the prize, but themselves. A single frigate would prove a serious antagonist to the Wolf in her present battered and disabled condition.

During the night the breeze increased slightly, and the two frigates made better progress. Lord Reginald had told Voules of Hargrave’s impudence, as he called it, and the midshipman had reported it to Mr Jager.

“If we have mutinous behaviour among our own crew, we shall have the Frenchmen rising upon us,” observed the lieutenant. “You must keep an eye, Voules, on those fellows, and put down that spirit of insubordination.”

“A flogging would do that lad Hargrave good,” observed Voules, “and that old smuggler richly deserves one also.”

Voules, believing that it would please Lord Reginald, kept a watchful eye on both Dick and Ben, hoping that they would give him the opportunity of reporting them.

Twice finding Dick moving slowly, as he considered about his duty, he started him with a rope’s end. Several of the other men, knowing that he was no longer under the protection of the boatswain, took the opportunity of bullying him in a variety of ways. Ben did not interfere, his object being evidently to disgust him with the service. Fortunately for Dick, however, his persecutors had no time to annoy him when below, for, fatigued with their work, the moment they turned in they fell asleep. All hands, indeed, were employed from morning until night in clearing the ship of water, getting up jurymasts and repairing the worst damages, so that there might be a chance of keeping her afloat should bad weather come on. Hitherto but little progress had been made. All the sail which the Wolf could carry was set. The prize was at length able to help herself by hoisting a small amount of canvas. A very sharp watch was kept for the appearance of any strange sail.

At length, early on the second morning, the look-out from the masthead of the Wolf shouted, “A sail in the south-west!”

The first lieutenant went aloft to have a look at her. On his return to the deck, he reported that she was a large ship, standing on a course which would soon bring her up to them. It was difficult, at that distance, to say whether she was a frigate or a line-of-battle ship.

“We must steer as we are,” observed Captain Moubray. “Whatever she is, we must fight her.”

He then hailed the prize, directing Lieutenant Jager to get all the guns he could ready for use, so that he might be able to take a part in the fight, should it be necessary. He was, however, to do his best to escape, while the Wolf engaged the stranger.

The French officers on deck eagerly watched the ship coming up. As her topsails rose above the horizon, various opinions were expressed about her. Some thought that she might be the leading ship of a French squadron; others that she was a British man-of-war. As, however, she drew nearer, no other vessels were seen astern of her. One after the other the officers went aloft, to try and discover her character. She was soon pronounced to be a seventy-four, at least. The Frenchmen became highly elated, having fully persuaded themselves that she was a French line-of-battle ship.

“Never mind, my friend,” said one of them, “you have treated us well; we hope soon to have an opportunity of showing our gratitude.”

“Much obliged to you,” answered the first lieutenant, to whom the observation was made. “It is not settled beyond doubt that yonder ship belongs to your nation. There is something about the cut of her canvas which tells me that she is an English line-of-battle ship. If she’s an enemy, we intend to fight her, and, if we can, enable our prize to escape.”

“Morbleu!” exclaimed the Frenchman. “One might suppose that you rarely capture a prize, you seem so anxious to retain the one you have now got.”

On board the prize, all the preparations which could possibly be made were carried out. Such guns as were uninjured were loaded, fresh tackles rove. Her hard-worked crew recovered their spirits, and even Ben, for a time, ceased to growl. Still, considering the battered state of both ships, there seemed every probability, should the stranger turn out to be an enemy, that they must fall into her hands; and that a French prison would be their destination, instead of the triumphant reception they expected to meet at home, and the prize-money with which they hoped to fill their pockets.

“It would be a great bore if that fellow does turn out to be a Frenchman,” observed Voules to Lord Reginald. “I was in hopes that you would be able to get leave to pay another visit to Elverston Hall. It would be a great pleasure to accompany you.”

“Of course, my dear fellow, I shall be delighted, as my father gives me leave to bring any friends I like; though it appeared to me that you got rather tired at last, or you wouldn’t have taken to dangling after the ladies in the curious fashion you did.”

“Tired! Oh dear no! their delightful society was sufficient attraction. I was never happier in my life.”

“Well, the honest truth is, my brother John told me that he thought you spent too much of your time with them, and he made one or two other remarks which I don’t wish to repeat. You’ll take the hint, should you go there again. However, instead of that, we may possibly have to spend the next few months at Verdun, or some other delectable place in France. I suppose they won’t shut us up in the Bastile, or treat us as Napoleon did Captain Wright?”

“Oh, don’t talk of that!” cried Voules. “We must hope that yonder ship will prove to be a friend; for though the captain may resolve to fight her, should she be an enemy, we must inevitably suffer severely, even if we escape capture.”

As the stranger drew nearer and nearer, the excitement on board increased. The countenances of the Frenchmen at length, however, began to look blank. Then, as the glorious flag of England blew out from the peak of the stranger, a cheer rose from the deck of the Wolf, which was taken up by that of the prize.

Signals were exchanged. The British ship made her number, the Triumph, seventy-four, Captain Sir Thomas Hardy, one of the noblest officers in the British service. Drawing nearer, and directing the frigate to cast off, he took the prize in tow, and all three ships proceeded together, as had previously been intended, to Plymouth. Having arrived at the mouth of the harbour, the Wolf once more took charge of her prize, while the Triumph again stood out to sea on her cruise. Cheers saluted the Wolf as she proceeded through the narrow entrance to Hamoze, and scarcely had she dropped her anchor than numberless boats were alongside, containing people of all ranks, eager to hear an account of her victory. As soon as the prisoners and wounded had been sent on shore, the decks of the prize were crowded with visitors, and the Frenchmen lost no credit when it was seen to what a state she had been reduced before they yielded.

Ben found several old friends, with whom he had many long talks, though what they were about Dick did not hear. The prize agents took charge of the captured frigate, and her crew returned on board their own ship. Battered as was the prize, she sold for a good sum, and was bought in by the Government. Then came pay day, and many a golden guinea jingled in the victors’ pockets, though with most they did not jingle there long. Leave being given to as many as could be spared to go on shore, scarcely had the poor fellows landed than they were set upon by harpies of every description, whose object was to extract the said golden guineas, which Jack—not knowing what to do with—was willing enough to throw away. Some of the brave heroes might have been seen driving about in a coach and four, crowding the vehicle inside and out, with bottles and mugs on the roof, cheering as they went. Others might have been met with parading the streets, bedecked with pinchbeck watches and chains, which they had purchased under the belief that they were pure gold; seldom without a companion of the other sex on their arm, dressed out in the finery their money had bought. The dancing saloons and grog shops were crowded, few troubling themselves as to how the seamen were employed, provided that they returned on board in due time with empty pockets, ready to fight the battles of Old England, and win more prize-money, to be expended in the same senseless fashion.

The crew of the Wolf had been turned over to a hulk, while the dockyard people took possession of her to repair the numerous damages she had received, with orders to proceed with all possible despatch.

General leave had of course not been granted, for many of the crew who had lately joined could not, it was considered, very justly be trusted: the smugglers, the jailbirds, the pressed men, and the boys. A certain number of old hands, together with the ever-faithful marines, were retained on board to watch them. Grumbling was of course the order of the day.

Ben, being among those who could not obtain leave, was loud in his complaints. He vowed that leave he would have, though it might be French leave. “It is hard that a steady man, who never got drunk, and always did his duty from the time he stepped on board, should not be allowed to go on shore to send off his prize-money to his wife!” he exclaimed.

People still came off in considerable numbers every evening, to see the victorious frigate; and although when the workmen were about they could not go on her deck, they could see her from the hulk.

“Now is your time, Dick,” said Ben, one evening when the decks were more than usually crowded. “Here’s an old chum of mine alongside, Peter Purkiss; he’ll take us ashore and will rig us in smock-frocks and gaiters, to look for all the world like countrymen. You slip first into his boat, and as soon as it’s dark I’ll follow; we’ll then start away out of the town, and by the morning we shall be a long stretch off, my boy; no fear of being caught then.”

Dick hesitated; he had often thought that if properly treated he should like the service. The step his evil counsellor advised would be fatal to all his best aspirations.

“Do as you like,” said Ben; “depend upon it that Lord Reginald won’t rest until he has seen you and the cat make acquaintance.”

At that moment Dick caught sight of the young lord talking to Voules. They did not observe him, but he thought that there was something sinister in the expression of their countenances. “They shan’t catch me, as they fancy they will,” he said to himself. He no longer hesitated. Several persons were descending the side; going down to the main-deck, he slipped through a port into the boat Ben had pointed out.

“Where is your shipmate Ben?” asked the old boatman.

“He said that he was coming as soon as it was dark,” answered Dick.

Several other people from the shore got into the boat, and ordered old Peter to land them without delay. Dick every moment expected to be discovered and to hear a hail ordering him back, but no one had observed him, and he was soon landed.

“Now, lad,” said the old man, “I’ll take you to my house, as I promised. Ben will no doubt come next trip. You must be smart, though, lest we should meet any of your officers.”

As it was growing dusk Dick hoped not to be seen, and soon reached a house not far from the water’s edge. The boatman, taking him into a small room, produced a carter’s frock and gaiters, with a billycock hat and a large red handkerchief to tie round his throat.

“Put on these duds, and keep close until I come back, when you and Ben may start together,” said old Purkiss, as he left him to return to his boat.

“Maybe he’ll find it a harder matter to slip away than I did,” said Dick to himself, “and if he doesn’t come, I shall look foolish. Still, I have no fancy to go back and be bullied by that Lord Reginald and his toady Voules.”

Dick waited some hours; at last old Purkiss came back.

“Poor Ben’s in for it,” he said. “He was just slipping down the side when the master-at-arms laid hands on him, and I’m afraid he’s in limbo and very little chance of getting out of it until the ship goes to sea. Whether or not he thought something of the sort might happen, I don’t know, but he gave me these ten guineas which he wants you to take to his wife. It won’t do, however, for you to stay longer here, unless you wish to go back and be flogged to a certainty for attempting to desert. I’d advise you to cut and run this very night. Now, lad, fair play’s a jewel. I am helping you off, and I expect to be paid for what I’m doing, as well as for the clothes I got for you. A five-pound note will satisfy me, though it wouldn’t if you were not a chum of my old shipmate Ben.”

Dick paid the money without hesitation, for he knew that old Purkiss might have fleeced him, had he been so disposed, of every sixpence in his pocket.

“Now we are clear,” said the old man, who prided himself on his honesty, “and I want to give you a piece of advice, which mind you stick to. Don’t show your cash to any one, or you’ll be robbed and murdered maybe. I’ll give you change for a guinea in sixpences and coppers; don’t show too many of them either; better by far pay in coppers for the food you want, and sleep under haystacks or in barns until you reach home. You may get a lift in a cart or waggon, but don’t let anybody know you’ve been on board a man-of-war. Just say you’ve been down to see an old friend, Peter Purkiss, and that’s true for the most part, and that you are going home again to your father and mother. Now, lad, it’s time to be off. I’ll put you in the way out of the town, and when once you are in the country strike away north-east. You’ve got Dartmoor to cross, and as it’s a wildish tract, I’d advise you to get a lift if you can until you are over it. If you can’t get a lift, don’t attempt to cross it at night, or you may lose yourself.”

Peter, who was a good-natured old fellow, though his morality was not of the strictest order, gave Dick a hearty supper, then, taking a thick stick in hand, started off with him, walking at a rapid pace until they reached the confines of Plymouth—a much smaller town in those days than it is at present. Dick then, having received directions from the old man as to the road he was to take, commenced what he had made up his mind would be a long tramp homewards.

He was strong and active, and had not been long enough at sea to lose his shore legs. The night being clear, he was able to see the road, and he knew by the position of the Great Bear, which he always kept on his left hand, that he was going in the right direction. The dread he felt of being overtaken by a pressgang, or by the seamen of his own ship, whom he thought might be sent in pursuit, made him walk all the faster. It was with difficulty indeed at first that he restrained himself from breaking into a run; but he guessed rightly that he would thus be more likely to be stopped by any one who might meet him, and he restrained himself, continuing on only at a rapid walk. Every now and then, however, he turned his head over his shoulder, fancying that he heard footsteps, expecting to find himself seized and carried back to be ignominiously flogged—a fate he well knew would be in store for him, should he be caught. He was not, however, very well contented with himself. He was perfectly aware of the light in which the crime of desertion was regarded; and that he was abandoning all hopes of rising in the service, for which he had always had a liking, notwithstanding the way Ben had abused it. He had sufficient discernment to distinguish the good, true-hearted seamen from the bad, and he had observed that the former were well treated and looked on with respect by their officers. Then the recollection of the way Lord Reginald and Toady Voules had behaved to him would occur. “If it hadn’t been for them, and others like them, I should have been happy enough on board, and willing to do my duty,” he exclaimed. “I should have got on very well with Mr Bitts, for he was always kind in his way, and wanted to make a seaman of me; and I should have been one, for he was ready to show me how to do everything I wanted to learn. However, it’s all past now, and I must go back to the plough. I must take care, though, that Mr Gooch doesn’t hear of my being at home again, or he will be down upon me. I suspect that father will be afraid of that, and will be sending me off to a farm away from home, so that, after all, I shall not be with him and mother and Janet. I’ve half a mind even now to go back again—but then there’s this flogging, and Lord Reginald would be down upon me more than ever; and what would Ben say? and old Purkiss would get it for helping me off.”

Such were some of Dick’s meditations as he trudged on during the night, making good about four miles an hour, so that he was nearly thirty miles away from Plymouth when morning broke. He still walked on until he came to a roadside inn, where, feeling very hungry, he stopped for breakfast. While the landlady was cooking some eggs and bacon, he fell asleep, with his head on the table.

“What ails you, lad?” said the woman, as she placed the smoking hot dish near him, and shook him by the shoulder. “It’s not the time o’ day people who have had a night’s rest take to sleeping.”

“But I haven’t had a night’s rest,” answered Dick, rousing himself. “I have been walking on all the morning; but I am more hungry than sleepy, so I thank you for the eggs and bacon, and would be glad of a jug of ale to wash them down.”

The landlady, still looking at him somewhat suspiciously—detecting, perhaps, the seaman’s shirt below his frock—placed the ale before him. From the questions she put to him, Dick thought that she guessed who he was, and deemed it prudent to again set off. Recollecting Peter’s advice, he produced sixpence to pay for his breakfast, and then at once took his leave. For another hour or more he trudged on, until he became so weary that he could scarcely move. He saw a haystack a short distance from the road, inviting him to rest beneath it. Hardly had he thrown himself down on the lee side, away from the public path, than he was fast asleep.

It was late in the afternoon before he awoke, when he continued his journey, stopping only at the first inn he came to that he might obtain some food. He at length reached Exeter, but as he saw seamen moving about and ships in the distance, he was afraid of stopping there, and, passing through it, he again found himself in the country.

Many a weary mile he trudged on. What might be in store for him he could not tell, but anything would be better than going back. Puzzling questions were often asked him, and he ran, on several occasions, great risk of being detected. His sun-burnt countenance and seaman’s roll, which he had already acquired, often nearly betrayed him.

As he approached his home, the anxiety to get safely to his journey’s end increased. At length, passing through Christchurch, he recognised the familiar scenery of his native district. The high white cliffs of the Isle of Wight, the Needle rocks below them, and the tall lighthouse of Hurst, with its cheese-like castle, bathed in a rich glow from the rays of the setting sun. He sat down on the top of the cliff, and considered—while he ate some bread and cheese he had obtained at his last stopping-place—in which direction he should bend his steps. Longing as he did to go home, he was anxious to fulfil Ben’s commission by delivering the money entrusted to him for Susan. He decided to do this first.

“She’ll be longing, poor woman! to hear of her husband; and it won’t make much difference to father and mother whether I get home an hour or two later.”

Having come to this resolution, he hurried on, wishing to reach Keyhaven soon after dark, as he had no desire to be seen by any one. He reached Susan’s cottage.

“Who’s there?” asked a voice from within, in reply to his knock.

“Open the door, and I’ll tell you,” he answered.

Susan herself admitted him, though he would scarcely have known her, so pale and wan did she look. She did not know him, and he had to tell her who he was. She then began to make inquiries about “her good man.”

Dick had no very satisfactory account to give. All he could say was that Ben had intended to desert and come home, but that in all probability he had been caught and kept on board. “He did not forget you, however,” said Dick, presenting ten guineas to the poor woman.

At the sight of the money Susan’s countenance brightened. “Bless him! he was always kind and ready to give when he had it; but it is the last, I much fear, I shall ever get from him!” she exclaimed, and then burst into tears.

“I hope not,” said Dick. “The ship will be paid off some day, and then he will be able to come home, with plenty more in his pocket. I have sometimes wished that I had stopped, but he advised me to run with him; and it might have been better if I had been caught, and he got away.”

“It cannot be helped, Dick,” said Susan, inclined to take the matter very philosophically; “though when the ten guineas are gone—and they can’t last for ever—I don’t know what I shall do. If it hadn’t been for them, I should have been in the workhouse next week.”

“I must tell my mother about you,” said Dick; “maybe she’ll send some food for you and the children.”

“Your mother will be a long way off, Dick. You haven’t heard, maybe, that they are going to leave the farm next week, and have taken one the other side of Christchurch. Your father, after all, accepted Lord Elverston’s offer, though it was what my good man always said he would not do if he was in his place, and the farm is to be taken into the park. It was a sore trial to your father and mother, but after you went they seemed not to care what became of them.”

“And Janet! Have you heard how she is?” asked Dick, eagerly.

“She’s better than she was, and it is said she’s at the bottom of the matter.”

“How’s that?” asked Dick, somewhat astonished.

“Why, Lady Elverston, who is a very kind lady—and even those who don’t like my lord confess that—was very often at your cottage, and one day she told your mother that she thought Janet’s sight might be restored. She promised to take her up to London to a doctor of some sort, who makes blind people see, they say. So it is all arranged, and after that your father gave in. As soon as they move to their new home, Janet is to go up with my lady.”

Dick could scarcely believe what he heard, and was now, naturally enough, in a greater hurry than ever to get home. He promised, if he could manage it, to come back and see Mrs Rudall again.

In better spirits than he had been for some time, he set off on his walk home. He had not much fear of being recognised, since Susan had failed to know him. He therefore took the shortest road. Seeing a light beaming through the window, he guessed that his father and mother were still up. The door, however, was bolted. He knocked loudly, crying out, “Let me in! let me in!”

“Oh, that’s Dick!” he heard Janet exclaim.

The door was hastily opened, and in another minute he was in his mother’s arms.

“Where do you come from?” asked his father, somewhat sternly. “You have given us all a great fright about you since we found that letter which you left in your room; and the rumours we heard did little to allay it.”

Dick expressed his contrition, declaring that he had acted for the best, and then gave, as briefly as he could, an account of himself up to the present time.

“No man must do evil that good may come of it, and in this case I don’t see that any good has come of it,” said his father. “You leagued yourself with smugglers and got pressed in consequence, and now you have run from your ship, perhaps to be seized and carried back as a deserter.”

“But I must take care not to be seized, and am ready to stop and work with you, father. I deserted because I was forced to serve against my will, though I found the life on board not so bad as I expected, and if it hadn’t been for the bullying I got from Lord Reginald and that other midshipman, I would have remained where I was.”

Mrs Hargrave and Janet now took Dick’s part, and his father was ultimately pacified, though, as he said, it went against the grain to have a son of his called a deserter, however ill he might have been treated. Dick found that the account Susan had given him about Janet was correct; that she was shortly to accompany Lady Elverston to London, to be put under a celebrated oculist, and to undergo the operation of couching.

“Bless her ladyship’s heart for her kindness!” said Mrs Hargrave.

“We have not many days to remain here, and I must have you stay in-doors, lest you should be seen by any who have an ill will against you, Dick,” observed his father.

“I don’t think they would know me any more than Susan Rudall did when I paid her a visit,” answered Dick. “I’d rather not be boxed up in the house, if I can help it. I should soon fall sick after being accustomed to the sea air so long.”

“Better remain in-doors at home than be locked up in a prison,” observed his father. “It is a sad thing for me to have to say it, but remember, Dick, you have made yourself liable to that, and it will be wiser for you to remain in hiding until we go to our new farm and people have forgotten all about you.”

Dick did not longer argue the point, but he made no promises. His mother, observing how weary he was, and that he could scarcely keep his eyes open, suggested that he should go to bed, and gladly acting on the advice he staggered off to his room, which remained exactly as he had left it.

Dick took a day to recover from his fatigue and, after that, shut up in his room, be began to find the time pass heavily away. His mother was engaged in household affairs, and in preparing for the removal, while his father was absent from home until late in the evening, having to make more than one trip to the new farm. Janet came and sat with him frequently. She was in good spirits at the anticipation of recovering her sight, about which she was very sanguine. Still Dick pined for fresh air. “You ought to get out,” he said to Janet, “instead of sitting all day shut up here. I’ll chance it; put on your shawl and bonnet; we are not likely to meet any one, and if we do they’ll not interfere with us.”

Janet, without further consideration, forgetting her father’s warning, agreed, and she leaning on Dick’s arm, they took their way down a green lane in which she especially delighted, and which turned off near the house. She knew that scarcely any one passed that way, as she had frequently gone along it alone, with her dog to guide her. Tempted by the pleasantness of the evening, they went on for some distance, through a forest glade.

“We ought to be going back,” said Janet at length, “for I feel the air damp, though you don’t find it out, Dick, and I know that the sun must have set.”

“There will be plenty of light for me to see my way home,” answered Dick; “but we will turn, as you wish it.”

They had not got far on their way back, when Janet felt Dick give a start, and she heard the sound of horses’ approaching at a quick pace.

“What do you see?” she asked.

Dick did not answer; he was looking about to find some place of concealment. Had he been alone he could easily have hid himself, but he could not leave Janet. The horsemen approached rapidly. Dick tried to walk on in an unconcerned manner. In another minute they were up to him, and he saw Lord Reginald and Mr Voules. He felt sure that they recognised him, for he saw the latter turn to the young lord and make some remark, though, possibly on Janet’s account, he did not speak sufficiently loud to allow what he said to be heard. They both, however, stared very hard, and then passed on, allowing Dick and his sister to proceed on their way.

“Who are those persons?” asked Janet.

Dick told her, but, not wishing to alarm her, observed, “If they knew me, they didn’t think it worth while to interfere. I don’t suppose any harm will come of it.”

Janet, however, became very anxious. “As they are officers of the ship you ran away from, they’ll think it right to take you. Oh, Dick! you must try and hide where they can’t find you. It would be dreadful to have you carried off again!”

“Don’t tell father and mother, then; it will frighten them, and I’ll see what’s best to be done. Both these fellows hate me, and I don’t suppose they will let me remain in quiet. They were afraid of attempting to seize me, for they knew well that they would have found it a tough job.”

It did not occur to Dick that he enjoyed his safety at the moment from being in company with his blind sister, as Lord Reginald, at all events, was unwilling to interfere with him.

Janet, in her eagerness to get home, almost dragged Dick along, and he felt her arm tremble as she thought of the danger to which he was exposed. According to his wish, she said nothing to her mother of the encounter. Mr Hargrave was not expected home until late. Dick had been thinking of what he should do. As soon as he had had supper, Janet having gone to her room, he jumped up, saying—

“Mother! that young lord and his friend are at the hall, and they have seen me. They may not trouble themselves about me, but I’d rather not trust them. I’ll go off and hide somewhere; and if they send here, you can say that you don’t know where I am. Tell father that I am sorry, very sorry, that he should be troubled so much about me; but it cannot be helped now. Those two midshipmen will be joining their ship soon. It won’t be long before she’s ready for sea again, and then I may go back to the new farm without fear. No one in that neighbourhood will know me, and I’ll promise to work hard and make amends to you and father, and keep clear of smugglers in future.”

Mrs Hargrave was naturally much grieved, but she had no other proposal to offer. She knew the angry feelings which existed between her son, and the young lord, and thought it best that they should not again run the risk of meeting.

“But where do you intend going?” she asked.

“That’s the very thing I don’t want you to know, mother,” he answered. “You can now say honestly that I left home, and that you have no idea where I went to. Good-bye, give my love and duty to father.”

Mrs Hargrave embraced Dick with tears in her eyes. He ran in to wish Janet good-bye.

“I have told mother all about it,” he said. “Keep up your spirits! no harm will come to me. I need only keep away for a week or two, and as soon as the ship sails, I shall be all safe.”

Janet was not so satisfied as her brother appeared to be on that point. She threw her arms round his neck, and burst into tears.

“Cheer up, cheer up!” said Dick, “I know I am a brute to have made you all so unhappy, but when I come home again I intend to turn over a new leaf.”

Janet held his hand. An indefinite fear of what might happen seized her. He tore himself away, half inclined to be angry with her and his mother, for making so much fuss about the matter, and rushed outside the house. He soon turned off the high road and hurried on along a path in the direction of Keyhaven.

“I’ll get Susan Rudall to stow me away. She’ll be grateful to me for bringing her the money, and, as I’ve got a few guineas in my pocket, I can pay her well for keeping me, and it will be an advantage to her,” he said to himself. “I must take care that no one sees me going into her cottage, and I don’t suppose the young lord or that fellow Voules will think of looking for me there.”

The night was dark, but Dick, who knew the way, ran on, stopping every now and then to listen if any one was approaching. He had got close to Keyhaven, when it became necessary to use more caution, as people who knew him might probably be about, and should an inquiry be set on foot they might state that they had met him. He had almost reached Susan’s cottage when, turning up an angle of the road, he found himself close to several men who were coming up it. He stopped, he could not go on without passing between them. Acting on the impulse of the moment, he turned and ran back, hoping to find some place where he might conceal himself until they had passed.

“Stop that fellow, whoever he is!” shouted a voice, in an authoritative tone.

A couple of men darted forward, and before Dick had got many paces away he found himself seized by the shoulder.

“Halloa, my fine fellow! who are you? and what are you about?” asked one of the men.

“I am going to visit a neighbour,” answered Dick, trying to free himself.

“You must come back to our officer first, and give an account of yourself,” said the first speaker, whom Dick recognised as a man-of-war’s man.

Resistance was useless, and he made no further attempt to escape. The officer and the rest of the men soon came up, and Dick repeated the account he had given of himself.

“Very fine!” was the answer; “but you must come up to the station, and if Lieutenant Hilton knows you he will be able to state how far what you tell us is true.”

Dick, making no answer, walked on between his two captors. From what he could make out, the men belonged to a revenue cutter, which had dropped anchor off Hurst that evening, in consequence of information received of some smuggling work likely to take place in the neighbourhood.

“My ill luck!” thought Dick. “If it hadn’t been for that I should have got down to Susan’s without difficulty, and now, because I am known to have been on board the Nancy, they’ll accuse me of being concerned in this matter, of which I never so much as heard, until this moment.”

Dick was perfectly right in his conjectures. Lieutenant Hilton, who had just returned from visiting the neighbouring posts, no sooner set eyes on Dick, than he exclaimed, “Why, that’s young Hargrave, the very fellow Lord Reginald Oswald was speaking to me about, not an hour ago, a deserter from the Wolf, a desperate young ruffian, by all accounts. I’ll hand him over to you Mason, to carry on board your cutter, but you must take good care that he doesn’t escape.”

The commander of the cutter laughed. “I’ll clap him in irons, and he’ll be clever if he gets his wrists out of them,” he answered.

Dick was led down to the beach by the cutter’s crew, who at once pulled on board. Being hauled up the side without ceremony, he was handed down below, and a pair of handcuffs were placed on his wrists.

“You’ve had a long run on shore, my lad, and it is to be hoped you enjoyed yourself,” said the seaman who was fastening them on. “I wouldn’t stand in your shoes for something, let me tell you. You’ve heard tell of Tim Macarthy, who three times ran from his ship, and got hanged. You must look out that the same doesn’t happen to you if you play that trick again.”

Dick made no reply; his spirit was so utterly broken that he could have burst into tears, had he not made a strong effort to restrain himself.

“They shan’t see me play the woman, if I can help it,” he said to himself; “but if ever I have the chance I’ll make that Lord Reginald pay for it. If he hadn’t informed against me, the chances are I should have got off. He and his messmate hadn’t the courage to stop me by themselves, and so they must needs gallop off and tell that lieutenant that they had seen me. What a fool I was to go down to Keyhaven, instead of striking away inland, where I should have been safe from them. Now, I suppose I shall be flogged and branded as a deserter, and perhaps be hung, as that fellow says. I shouldn’t care if I had changed my name, I should not like to bring disgrace on my father and mother. It would break their hearts to know such had been my fate.”

These, and if possible, still more gloomy thoughts passed through Dick’s mind, until, leaning his head against the side of the vessel, near which he had been placed, he fell off into a troubled slumber.

Chapter Nine.

Treatment of the prisoners—Chased by a privateer—The pressed men armed—The fight—Dick’s gallantry—Capture of the lugger—Prize crew sent on board—Attempt of the Frenchmen to take the cutter—Dick Hargrave’s presence of mind—Reception on board the frigate—Nearly flogged—Ben Rudall’s statement—The captain’s dilemma—Dick’s gratitude.

Dick was not the only occupant of the cutter’s hold. There were several other men—some pressed, others released from prison on condition of serving on board the fleet; and these for security were kept down below, until they were placed on board the ships for which they were destined. Besides them there were a few volunteers, mostly young men, who had joined at the places at which the cutter had touched.

Daylight was streaming down the hatchway when Dick awoke. The cutter was still at anchor. He knew that although he was so near home there was no chance of his friends learning where he was, and of their trying to obtain his release. His father he would rather not see. He made out, from the conversation going on around him, that the cutter was bound down to Plymouth, with men for the Wolf, to replace those who had been killed and wounded. If he had any wish, it was that the vessel would get under way. He was eager to face the worst, and get it over as soon as possible. A dull stupor at length came over him, and for long he sat neither asleep nor awake, without thinking. He could hear the tramp of feet overhead; still the vessel remained stationary. He was aroused when the breakfast was served out to him and the other prisoners. He ate mechanically, exchanging only a few words with those near him, and then went off into the same state as before. At length he heard feet descending the companion ladder, and looking up, he saw the officer who had captured him holding a lantern in his hand, accompanied by two persons, whom he recognised as Lord Reginald and Mr Voules.

“Is that the young fellow, my lord, who deserted from the Wolf,” asked the officer.

“No doubt about it,” answered Lord Reginald. “I’m glad you have caught him.”

“I should have known him from among a hundred,” said Voules, “though he has got out of his sea rig. Take care that he doesn’t get away from you. I should be sorry if he escapes the flogging he’ll get on board!”

“You see I have him fast enough at present,” answered the officer, pointing to the handcuffs on Dick’s wrists, “He may be very clever, but he’ll not get out of those in a hurry.”

The midshipmen looked round, but could identify no other prisoners as deserters from their ship.

“I shall not sail until the tide makes to the westward; so if your lordship intends to honour me by returning in the cutter to Plymouth, you will have time to go back to Elverston and get your traps,” Dick heard the lieutenant observe as they ascended the companion ladder; but the reply did not reach his ears. As the cutter remained stationary, he had good reason to fear that the two midshipmen would take a passage in her, and that he should be subjected to their taunts and ill-treatment, and have no chance of being set at liberty, which he might otherwise have had when they once got to sea. Whether or not he was right in his conjectures he could not tell. He heard several persons come on board; then the anchor was hove up, and the cutter got under way. He would have given much to have sent a message on shore, but he had no opportunity.

A fresh breeze carried the cutter along at a good rate. Before nightfall she was off Portland. Hitherto neither Lord Reginald nor Voules had come below.

“I only hope they’ll not show themselves, for it will be a hard matter to keep a quiet tongue in my head if they speak to me,” thought Dick. “It will be all the same, though, for I shall be flogged to a certainty when I am on board again, and I should like to give them my mind first.”

Though below, Dick could judge pretty accurately what the cutter was about. She was evidently making little or no way, for he could hear not the slightest sound of a ripple against her side. She lay, indeed, becalmed, in West Bay, between Portland and The Start. It was night, and the men round him were asleep, as their loud snores in various tones told him. He would have had no inclination to talk, however, had they been awake. The only other sounds which reached him were the occasional footsteps of the watch on deck, as they paced over his head, or the creaking of the jaws of the mainboom and gaff, and, now and then, the flap of the mainsail. In vain he tried to get one subject out of his head—the thought of the flogging. Not that he dreaded the pain he should suffer one-tenth part so much as he did the disgrace. His father’s heart would well-nigh break should he hear of it. The stout English yeoman was as proud in his way as was the Marquis of Elverston.

“It is he—he, that Lord Reginald, who has brought me to this!” he muttered, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth. “If ever I have the chance I will be revenged on him! I must, I could not help it.” Dick conjured up a fearful picture—the young lord in his power, his hand upon his throat. He forgot that it was through his own folly that he had enabled Lord Reginald to treat him in the way he had done. Had he kept free of the smugglers, had he not been tempted to desert, Lord Reginald, when exhibiting his ill feeling, would have been seen by all to be in the wrong.

The cutter made no way during the night, and though she drifted to the westward with one tide, the flood carried her as far back again; so that when morning broke The Start and Portland Bill were almost at equal distances from her. Dick dozed off while the crew were washing decks. He was only fully aroused when, as before, breakfast was brought down for the prisoners. After some time, sounds of laughter and frequent footsteps reached his ears, and he guessed that the commander with his young passengers were walking the deck after their breakfast. Presently he heard the former order the steward to hand him his spyglass.

“What is she, Mr Mason?” asked Lord Reginald.

“A large lugger, at all events. She may be a Jersey privateer, or she may be French. As she is bringing up a fresh breeze from the eastward, we shall know more about her soon.”

“Suppose she is French, shall you attack her?” asked Voules, in a tone which showed no great satisfaction at the thoughts of such an event taking place.

“She is more likely to attack us, as she probably carries six or eight guns and one long nine-pounder. Such is the armament of most of those craft, and twice as many hands as we can muster, while we have only got our four small carronades, which are of very little use except at close quarters.”

“Then I suppose we shall have to run for it,” said Voules; “there’ll be no honour or glory in fighting her.”

“I shouldn’t like to have to run from an enemy unless she was very much larger than yonder craft appears to be,” exclaimed Lord Reginald.

“As to that, my lord, we must do our best not to be taken, and shall have to fight for it. We have hands enough to work our guns, but if she runs us aboard, her numerous crew will tell fearfully in her favour.”

“But you have a good many prisoners below; I suppose they could be trusted to help us?” said Lord Reginald.

“I shouldn’t like to put cutlasses into their hands; they might turn against us,” observed Voules.

“No fear of that,” answered the lieutenant; “they are Englishmen, and if they see an enemy will fight fast enough. I shall trust them, at all events, and as soon as I can make out whether yonder lugger hails from Jersey or not, I will have them on deck and arm them.”

Dick, as he heard this, heartily hoped that the stranger might prove an enemy. The rest of the prisoners, he judged, from the remarks they made, were much of his way of thinking.

“The mounseers won’t make any difference between us and the crew, if we’re taken,” observed one of the men.

“Right there, mate; better have a jolly stand-up fight than be sitting down here all day, doing nothing,” remarked another.

The officers had gone aft, and Dick could not hear what was said. In a short time, however, he knew that the cutter was moving by the rippling against her side.

Presently she heeled over slightly, showing that the breeze was freshening, and he heard the order to set the squaresail and square-topsail. There was little doubt, then, that the commander was following the advice given by Mr Voules, making the best of his way to the westward. He would do that under ordinary circumstances. It was still uncertain whether the lugger which had brought up the breeze was a friend or an enemy.

He had heard the order to hoist the ensign, and some time afterwards a voice called out, “That’s a French craft, I’ll take my davy, though we can’t see her colours.”

Again some time elapsed, when a gun was heard, but the sound was so faint that Dick thought the vessel which fired it must be at a great distance. Presently Mr Mason came down into the hold.

“Lads,” he said, looking round, “you are all Englishmen, though you are pressed against your will to serve his Majesty. I put it to you, whether—as I think it likely we are somewhat over-matched—you’ll fight to preserve this vessel and to save yourself being carried to a French prison. I have come down to give you your liberty, as I am sure that you will all make the same answer, and if cutlasses are put into your hands, that you’ll fight as bravely as any men on board. We shall then, I have no fear, lick the lugger, and carry her as a prize into Plymouth harbour.”

A hearty cheer was given. “We’ll thrash the mounseers; no fear about that,” answered the men; Dick joining as warmly as any one.

The men’s handcuffs were soon taken off. Dick, on finding himself free, sprang to his feet and grasped the cutlass which was put into his hands. On reaching the deck he found the cutter was prepared for action. Two of the guns were trained aft, boarding-pikes were placed along the bulwarks. An arm-chest stood open, containing pistols, hand-grenades, swords, and cutlasses, while a number of muskets lay on the companion hatch.

The two midshipmen, with pistols in their belts and cutlasses at their sides, stood watching the lugger, which under press of sail was coming up astern. She was evidently a much faster craft than the cutter, though the latter was a stout vessel of her class. The lugger now began to fire her long gun; the shot, though failing to strike, pitched sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other side of the cutter.

“Why don’t we try and knock away some of her spars?” observed Lord Reginald.

“Little use firing our pop-guns,” answered the commander; “our shot won’t reach her as yet.”

Presently the long gun sent its missile through the cutter’s squaresail. Another shortly afterwards made a second hole, but did no other damage.

“Those fellows know how to handle their gun. We shall see how they behave when we get them within range of ours. Stand by, Beal, to give it them,” he said to the gunner, who had brought a match from the galley fire.

The guns were fired almost simultaneously. What effect their shot produced could not be seen, though Beal declared that one, if not both, struck the lugger. They did not, however, stop her way. She fired her long gun in return. It was well aimed, for down came the squaresail, the halliards shot away. The lugger’s crew were heard cheering.

“Shout away, my fine fellows!” cried Beal; “we’ll make you sing a different note if you come alongside.”

Hands were instantly ordered to repair the damage. It took some time, however, to bend fresh halliards and hoist up the yard. During the interval, the lugger had gained considerably on the cutter, but this enabled the latter to fire her stern chasers with more effect. The men worked vigorously, loading and firing almost as fast as the lugger’s crew did their long gun. Still, with short guns the aim was uncertain, and of the many shots fired, comparatively few did any damage to the enemy. Mr Mason’s object was to get to the other side of The Start, when probably the firing might attract the attention of some man-of-war near the mouth of Plymouth harbour, which might come out to the rescue. He was determined, however, to fight to the last, rather than yield his vessel. The Frenchman’s object was evidently to knock away some of the cutter’s spars, to get alongside as soon as possible, trusting to obtain the victory by boarding her, well aware of the small crew she was likely to carry; probably, also, supposing that she conveying specie or valuable stores to Plymouth, as was frequently done, instead of sending them by land. Most of the damage inflicted on the cutter was therefore aloft. Her sails already showed many holes. Her starboard backstay had been shot away, her topmast was wounded, though it still stood. Mr Mason now made preparations for what he saw was inevitable.

“When the cutter boards, my lads, remember we must not only drive back the boarders, but follow them into their own vessel and take her. Even if we wished it, should we lose any of our spars, we could not get away from her. It is pretty certain that her guns are heavier than ours. Lord Reginald, I’ll get you to stand by the helm with half a dozen hands to manage the cutter in case we are separated, and all the rest of you will board with me. Lads, I’ll depend upon you to carry that craft. I know what privateersmen are like, when they see cold steel in their faces. They’ll come on boldly enough at first, but when once beaten back, they’ll turn tail like hounds, and skulk for shelter below.”

The cheers which rose from the throats of the crew, joined in heartily by Dick and the rest of the pressed men, gave promise of victory, in spite of the odds which might be against them. The firing was continued by both vessels as fast as the guns could be loaded, the lugger gradually gaining on the chase.

The lieutenant ordered as many hands as were required, to drag over the two stern guns to the side on which the lugger might come up; while the other two were loaded with musket-balls ready to fire into her.

At length, a shot aimed high by the lugger struck the cutter’s topmast. The spar held on for a minute, but a stronger puff of wind filling the sail, with a loud crash it gave way, and down came the gaff-topsail and square-topsail. The mainsail and squaresail still, however, stood. The lugger now came up hand over hand. The two stern chasers were once more fired. The lugger was steering for the cutter’s starboard quarter. In a few minutes the guns were dragged over to the starboard side and run through the two after ports, while the other remaining gun was hauled up with equal rapidity to the same side.

“Lower away the squaresail; down with the helm. Now fire, lads!”

Four guns were simultaneously discharged, raking the lugger fore and aft. The next instant the helm was again put up, or the lugger would have run into her stem on. Instead of this, striking on the counter, she ranged up alongside. A large body of men were seen grouped on the forecastle armed with pikes and cutlasses. The moment the sides of the two vessels touched, with loud shouts, led by one of their officers, they leaped on board, many to meet their doom, for before they reached the deck they were cut down by the stalwart arms of the British seamen. Others followed, but, met with a bristling array of pikes and cutlasses in their faces, they dared not spring from their own bulwarks. The men aft, under the command of Lord Reginald, had been keeping up a warm fire of musketry, when the lieutenant, turning his head, saw a party of the enemy kept in reserve, about to board the cutter aft. He instantly sprang towards the threatened point, followed by several who had gallantly been keeping the first party of boarders in check. Among them was Dick Hargrave and several of his companions. Leading the French boarders was a big fellow with huge bushy whiskers, and a red handkerchief tied round his head. With a sword of a size which few men could have wielded, he made a desperate slash at the lieutenant, which would have brought him to the deck, had not Dick sprang forward and, interposing his cutlass, dealt the next instant such a blow on the sword arm of the giant, that the fellow’s weapon dropped from his hand.

“Thank you, my good fellow, I saw what you did,” said the lieutenant. “Now lads, we will drive these Frenchmen below, as we promised them. All of you follow me!” and, led by the lieutenant and Dick, the English crew threw themselves on the lugger’s deck, trusting rather to their cutlasses and stout arms than to any other weapons.

Voules, with those who had remained on the cutter’s forecastle, now gained a footing on the fore part of the lugger’s deck. Her crew fought bravely, but besides their big officer, many of them were cut down. Inch by inch the lieutenant and his men made their way forward, until the quarter-deck was cleared, the Frenchmen being either killed or wounded, or driven down the main-hatchway or overboard. One of their officers alone remained alive, and, seeing that all hope of gaining the victory was lost, he shouted out “We surrender!” Dick, who knew the meaning of the cry, repeated it in English, and running aft to the peak halliards, quickly hauled down the Frenchman’s ensign.

“Well done, my lad!” cried Lieutenant Mason. “I’ll not forget you.”

The Frenchmen, who had hitherto kept their cutlasses in their hands, threw them on the deck, asking for quarter for themselves and their companions below. Their officer, coming aft, surrendered his sword. Those below now being called up one by one, were transferred to the cutter’s hold, and Mr Voules, with eight men, including Dick Hargrave, was sent on board the lugger to navigate her into Plymouth.

“You will keep close to me, Mr Voules,” said Lieutenant Mason, “for I have as many prisoners on board as I can well manage, and should they be disposed to rise upon us they might succeed if we don’t keep a bright look-out.”

The French privateersmen were indeed a very rough-looking set of fellows. By the way they had fought they showed that they were capable of daring and doing any act of violence. Although nearly twenty had been killed or wounded, they still far outnumbered the cutter’s crew, now reduced by three killed and five wounded, as well as by those sent on board the lugger.

The two vessels were soon separated, though they kept as close as they could together. Voules and his men had enough to do, heaving the dead overboard and attending to the wounded, while they had to wash down the bloodstained decks. Some of the rigging, too, required knotting and splicing, and several shot-holes had to be plugged in the vessel’s side. It was the first command Voules had ever enjoyed, and he walked the deck with his spyglass under his arm, issuing his orders in an authoritative tone. At last his eye fell upon Dick, who was engaged in some work which it appeared he was not doing according to the midshipman’s notion of the way it ought to be done.

“What are you about there, you lubberly hound?” he shouted out, springing up to him with a rope’s end. Dick leaped out of his way, and the uplifted rope fell on the back of another man, who turned round with a look of no little astonishment.

“I beg pardon, sir, but you hit somewhat hard,” said the man. “I’ll splice this here rope for the lad, for if he’s not quite up to it, he knows how to use his cutlass, at any rate. If it hadn’t been for him, our commander would be among those poor fellows who have lost the number of their mess in this here fight.”

“Belay the slack of your jaw, fellow!” exclaimed Voules, turning away.

The man thrust his tongue into his cheek as he caught the eye of another seaman standing near him.

Dick kept out of the midshipman’s way as much as he could, though he continued actively engaged as before. His spirits rose with the feeling that he was at liberty, and that he had gained Lieutenant Mason’s good opinion. “I wish that I had been allowed to remain on board the cutter. I could serve under her commander, and do my duty. But when I get on board the frigate, all will be changed, I fear,” he said to himself; “however, I must not think about that. I must do my duty as well as I can now, and maybe he’ll speak a word for me, though I have little to expect from such fellows as Mr Voules and his friend.”

The breeze continued, The Start was passed, the Eddystone light came in sight. No one on board the vessels turned in. The whole crew on board the lugger could only just manage her sails, while that of the cutter were required to keep a watch on the prisoners. The two vessels kept close together, Voules every now and then hailing the cutter, to learn if all was right on board her. The lugger had twice to shorten sail, or she would have run ahead. Dick, as he walked forward, kept his eye on the cutter. The idea had come into his head that the Frenchmen might rise on their captors. He had formed a higher estimate of their courage than had most of his shipmates. The lugger was now about twenty fathoms off on the cutter’s quarter. Voules, who had become very hungry, telling the man at the helm to keep the vessel as she was going, dived below, in the hopes of finding something to eat. Two or three of the men, following his example, had gone below, with the same object in view. Dick, who was standing on the lugger’s forecastle, with his eye turned towards the cutter, suddenly saw a flash, though there was no report. This was immediately followed by shouts and oaths.

“Starboard!” he cried out to the man at the helm; “there’s something going wrong on board the cutter.”

The lugger was just then feeling the breeze, and forging ahead. This brought her bows close to the cutter’s side. Dick could see that a struggle was going on around the main hatchway, up which a number of figures were forcing themselves. His cries brought the lugger’s men forward. To lash the two vessels together was the work of a moment, and then he, with five of his shipmates, leaped down on the cutter’s deck. Their arrival turned the scales in favour of the crew, who, surprised by a sudden uprising of the French prisoners, were struggling hard to keep them down, several having incautiously unbuckled their cutlasses while engaged in repairing the rigging. Lieutenant Mason and Lord Reginald were aft, at supper. So sudden and silent had been the rising, that they had only just before reached the scene of action when the lugger ran alongside. “Thank you, Voules; you came in the nick of time,” cried Lieutenant Mason, when the Frenchmen were forced below.

Voules made no reply. He had been busily engaged in the lugger’s cabin, and was not aware of what had taken place until all was over.

“It was this here lad, sir, who did it,” exclaimed the seaman who had received the blow aimed at Dick’s shoulders; “he see’d what was happening. If it hadn’t been for him, no one else would have found it out.”

“Thank you, Richard Hargrave; that is the second time to-day you have rendered me good service,” said Lieutenant Mason.

“Richard Hargrave!” said Lord Reginald; “he is the last person I should have thought likely to do anything worthy of praise.”

“Depend upon it, your lordship will find there is something in that lad, if he has the opportunity of proving it,” observed Lieutenant Mason.

No lives had been lost in the outbreak. Order was quickly restored, the lashings cast off, and the lugger’s crew returning to her, the two vessels pursued their course as before. The Frenchmen now saw that all hope of escape was gone, and quietly submitted to their fate.

The night was sufficiently light to enable the cutter and her prize to make their way up Plymouth harbour. Before the day broke they were both safe at anchor in Hamoze, close to where the Wolf lay.

Soon after sunrise Lieutenant Mason, with the two midshipmen he had brought for the frigate, went alongside her. Captain Moubray, who was on board, at once desired to see him. Having given an account of the capture of the lugger and described the good conduct of the pressed men, and especially mentioned Richard Hargrave, he added, “He saved my life, sir, in boarding the lugger, and afterwards, when the Frenchmen were on the point of breaking out of the hold, he brought the lugger alongside just in time to enable us to drive them below without bloodshed. He had, I understand, deserted from the frigate, but as he was in the first instance pressed, I trust that you will pardon him, and judge rather by the way he has lately behaved than his past conduct.”

“I’ll take the account you give into consideration, Mr Mason,” answered the captain. “To prevent desertion, it is absolutely necessary to punish those who are retaken; but I should be very unwilling to do so in this instance. I will see this Richard Hargrave, and if I can overlook his offence without injury to the discipline of the ship, I will gladly do so.”

With this promise, Lieutenant Mason was obliged to remain satisfied. It was all he could do to show his gratitude to Dick for saving his life. He had, however, several duties to perform—to get rid of his prisoners, and to hand the lugger over to the prize agents. On paying his respects to the admiral, he received many compliments on his gallantry, and a promise that his conduct would be duly reported. He then mentioned Dick Hargrave’s conduct. “Very praiseworthy,” observed the admiral. “I am glad you have spoken of him to Captain Moubray, who will doubtless see that he is rewarded, and keep an eye on him in future.”

Dick, soon after he got on board, fell in with Ben Rudall. Ben looked very downcast.

“Sorry to see you back, Dick,” he said. “What has happened? Did you manage to get home and see my old woman, and give her the money? or did they catch you afore, and take it from you?”

Dick briefly explained all that had happened, and gave an account of the action with the lugger, and how the lieutenant had spoken of him.

“That’s good luck for you. It may save you from what I got. I thought I was safe off, but I was brought back, and had a taste of the cat in consequence.”

Dick received a very different greeting from what he had expected. The news of his behaviour had spread from mouth to mouth, and he was looked upon by his messmates in a far better light than formerly. Seamen are always ready to acknowledge merit, and his attempt to desert was overlooked, especially when it was known among the men that he had been put up to it by Ben Rudall. He was naturally somewhat nervous as to how he might be treated by the captain, not being aware that Lieutenant Mason had spoken in his favour, for he had no hope that Lord Reginald or Voules would have mentioned his conduct on board the cutter.

At length his name was called along the decks. He hurried aft. The master-at-arms, who had been looking for him, told him that he was wanted on the quarterdeck. He screwed up his courage to brave the worst. He found the captain and first lieutenant standing aft, as he approached, hat in hand.

“Richard Hargrave, you entered some time back on board this ship, and deserted. You made no attempt to return of your own accord, and were retaken. You know the punishment, and discipline requires that it should be inflicted,” said the captain in a stern voice.

“I was pressed against my will, sir; and I did my duty in the action with the French frigate which we took. But I wanted to see my mother and blind sister, and I ran, and can’t deny it. Now I’ve been brought back, I’ll try to do my duty. That’s what I’ve got to say, sir.”

“Have you nothing more to say?” asked the captain.

“Yes. When I was set free, I did duty on board the cutter, and helped to take the French lugger. The commander says I saved his life; and afterwards, when I was on board the prize, it was through me that the lugger was brought alongside the cutter, and the Frenchmen, who were rising on her crew, were overpowered.”

“You acted well, then, on both occasions?” said the captain.

“Yes; I did what I thought was my duty,” answered Dick.

“Still, you do not deny that you deserted, and had no intention of returning?” observed Captain Moubray.

“I cannot deny it, sir,” said Dick.

“You know that desertion is always punished by flogging?” said the captain.

“Yes,” answered Dick; “if it were not for the disgrace I shouldn’t mind it.”

“It is a greater disgrace to desert your ship,” said the captain; “but discipline must be maintained, although, considering your gallant conduct on board the cutter, I would gladly overlook your crime.”

Just as Dick was expecting to hear his sentence pronounced, he was conscious that some one, who had come up, was standing by his side, and glancing round, he saw Ben Rudall.

“Beg pardon, Captain Moubray, for speaking, but I makes bold in this here case to come for’ard, as I knows more about the desertion of this lad than any one else,” said Ben, giving a pull at his hair. “I put him up to it, as I had been the cause of his being taken, and as I knowed that he is the only son of his father and mother, they would be main glad to have him back again; and I had made up my mind to go too, as I have a wife and children at home waiting for me, but I was taken and brought back.”

“Then you merit the punishment more than he does,” said the captain.

“That’s just it, sir; and I axes the favour of being flogged instead of him. My hide is tough, and can bear it; but his is young and tender, and ain’t been accustomed to hard blows.”

The captain looked greatly puzzled. He was struck by Ben’s magnanimity, if so it could be called, in being ready to sacrifice himself, and was therefore unwilling to punish him; yet the crime of inciting another to desert was greater even than the act of desertion, and he felt, as the man had acknowledged it, that he ought to be punished as a warning to others.

The first lieutenant relieved him of his dilemma by observing that, “That man has already been flogged for attempting to desert, and I may venture to think that it would not do to punish him again for the same crime.”

“You are right, Mr Curling. The discipline of the ship will not suffer, should I overlook this lad’s offence in consideration of the gallantry he has displayed.”

“I feel sure of it, sir. It would do more harm to punish than to pardon him.”

“Go forward, my man,” said the captain, addressing Rudall. “I have heard what you say about this lad, and let it be known among the men, that although he is let off this time, I will not again pardon any attempt at desertion, whatever may be the excuse offered.”

Ben, pulling a lock of his hair, obeyed the captain’s orders, and went forward, exhibiting very little trace of the lawless, vaunting smuggler he had appeared to Dick on board the Nancy.

“And now, Richard Hargrave,” said the captain, addressing Dick, “you made a bad commencement by committing a grave crime, but you have shown that you are capable of performing your duty well and gallantly. Your late conduct atones in a great measure for your previous behaviour; and as you know what your duty is, I would urge you to perform it, in spite of the bad example or advice of such associates as may try to lead you into evil. Remember that the eyes of the officers will be upon you, and I shall be glad to hear a favourable report of your conduct.”

Dick, grateful to the captain for pardoning him, and especially for the last encouraging words which he had spoken, could with difficulty refrain from bursting into tears. His breast heaved, a choking sensation came into his throat, and he was unable to utter a word beyond “Thank you, sir; thank you, sir;” and making the usual salute, he turned round and hurried below.

Chapter Ten.

An East Indian convoy—Toady Voules turns nurse—Fair run to the Cape—Fear of privateers—Carelessness—A strange signal—Midnight attack—Timely assistance—Treachery—Lord Reginald in command of the prize—Treatment of the Maria’s crew—Discontent—A stern chase is a long chase—Obstinacy of the young lord—Voules’s advice neglected—A calm—Bursting of the hurricane—Wreck of the privateer—Washed ashore.

A few days after Lord Reginald Oswald and Richard Hargrave returned on board the Wolf, she went out of harbour and came to an anchor in Cawsand Bay, where she, with another frigate, surrounded by a fleet of merchantmen which they were to convoy to the East Indies, lay waiting for a fair wind.

Dick had never seen so many ships together. To his eyes they presented a grand sight, as with colours flying and sails loosened from the yards, they were prepared to obey the signal for getting under way. He felt proud of belonging to one of the ships which had charge of so many fine vessels, many of them capable, it seemed to him, of coping with even the enemy’s men-of-war. The wind suddenly came round to the northward. The Wolf fired the signal gun, the anchor was hove up, her canvas was let fall and sheeted home, and she glided out of the Sound, followed in rapid succession by the merchant vessels; the Ione, the other frigate, bringing up the rear and acting as whipper-in to the fleet, which, as they spread out on their course down the British Channel, with their snowy canvas extended below and aloft, seemed increased in number. The signal midshipmen had work enough to do in watching the merchant vessels, and in hoisting and hauling down the bunting as the requisite signals were made, while both frigates were continually firing their guns to hasten on the laggards, or to make the faster sailing ships shorten sail.

Rapid voyages were not expected to be made in those days, for the more nimble-heeled had to wait for the slower-sailing craft, while the men-of-war had to keep the whole of the vessels under their charge in sight, and as close together as circumstances would allow.

The midshipmen had assembled for dinner in their berth on the day the fleet sailed, with the exception of those on duty.

“Faith, Ludlam! I thought you’d have been our new third, rather than Oswald, who hasn’t been in the service half as long as you have, and isn’t as good a seaman by a long score,” said Paddy Logan.

“It’s my ill luck; I’ve not got a marquis for a father, and must submit,” answered Ludlam, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s a crying shame, I say. Oh! you should have seen him come on board last night, with his new-fledged honours thick upon him, in the shape of an epaulet on his left shoulder. How he strutted about the deck, with a shaggy Newfoundland pup running after him! and how he shook hands with Curling and Jager, giving a nod to the master and old ‘cheese-parings,’ as if he considered them scarcely worth his notice, though he did condescend to offer the tips of his fingers to Renton, our new lieutenant of marines, and to Dr O’Brien! I say, old Voules, I thought he was going to cut you altogether; but perhaps he’ll honour you by giving that yelping pup of his into your charge to dry nurse. You’ll not have many opportunities of paying court to him if he treats you in the fashion he does others.”

“I pay court to Lord Reginald Oswald! never did such a thing in my life,” answered Voules, blushing to the forehead. “But you are mistaken, Paddy, as to the way he treated me. If you had seen him afterwards, you would have said that he was as friendly as ever, only now, as he has become a gun-room officer, he is of course obliged to keep up a certain amount of reserve.”

“Reserve! do you call it?” cried Tommy Shackel. “He glanced at me as if he had never seen me before, and when I went up to him, and put out my hand, he drew back with a look of astonishment at my audaciousness, I suppose, as he thought it.”

“You fellows shouldn’t speak of Lord Reginald in the way you are doing,” exclaimed Voules. “I consider he was an ornament to our mess while he remained in it, and it is but natural that his father the marquis should get him promoted as soon as he was eligible. As a friend of mine, I cannot allow him to be spoken of disrespectfully.”

There was a general laugh at this remark.

“Faith! an’ who’s speakin’ disrespectfully of him?” asked Paddy Logan. “Sure, we’re only saying that he’s inclined to give the cold shoulder to those he looks upon as his inferiors in rank. And the belief is, Voules, that he’s going to throw you overboard, notwithstanding all the court you paid him.”

“I say I never did pay him court,” said Voules, emphatically. “He did me the honour to select me as his friend, and I fully believe that he intends to treat me as a friend in future.”

“‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating!’” answered Paddy. “As I said, Voules, to show his affection, I have no doubt he’ll make you dry nurse to that pup of his. Faith! what an honour it will be!”

At this last remark, Voules was nearly boiling over with rage, but just then, as the whole mess was against him, he saw that it would not do to give away to his feelings, and Paddy Logan continued—

“When you last accompanied Oswald—I mane his lordship—to Elverston Hall, you thought instead of joining us again, you would have got your promotion, as you always boasted that the marquis had promised to obtain it for you.”

“I boasted of no such thing!” cried Voules, scarcely able longer to restrain himself. “I merely said that the marquis had promised to give me his interest as soon as his son had been promoted. Before many months are over, I expect to get my step and be appointed to some ship on the East Indian station.”

As may be supposed, his messmates watched him whenever he was speaking to Lord Reginald, to observe the terms he was on. Voules was evidently himself not very confident about the matter. Instead of taking his arm and walking up and down the quarter-deck, on the larboard or lee side, as he had been accustomed to do, he approached the lieutenant with the usual mark of respect shown by an inferior to a superior officer, always addressing him as “My lord,” and looking highly pleased on all occasions when spoken to. It was asserted in the berth that there must have been some difference between them, or that Voules had offended the young lord, but what it was no one could exactly tell. However, by his humble conduct, Voules won his way back into the good graces of Lord Reginald, who did not find either of his brother officers or the lieutenant of marines or purser very genial companions. The two lieutenants were middle-aged men, who had gained their present position by long service and hard work, and they looked with a jealous eye on one who had been placed on the next ratline below them, over the heads of many older men than himself. The marine officer was a married man, rather grave and saturnine, and the purser had Republican tendencies, though he did not exhibit them except in the expression of his feelings towards lords and big-wigs in general.

Thus Lord Reginald was induced to seek the society of Voules and his former messmates more than he otherwise might have done. As Paddy had surmised, Lord Reginald did actually tell Voules that he should be much obliged if he would look after his pup Neptune, and the toady was frequently seen carrying its food to the dog, washing and brushing it, and attempting to teach it various tricks. Before long a drawing appeared, with Voules dressed as a nurse, a mob cap on his head, a bowl of pap by his side, from which, spoon in hand, he was feeding the puppy on his knees, while a figure, which could not fail to be recognised as that of Lord Reginald, was standing by, saying, “You make a capital nurse, and I shall be happy to recommend you to a similar situation.”

It was handed about among the members of the mess, until somehow or other it reached the gun-room. When Lord Reginald saw it, he laughed heartily, and declared that he must show it to poor old Toady.

He occasionally dined in due course with the captain. On such occasions his rank enabled him to speak more familiarly than any of the other officers would have done, with the exception perhaps of the first lieutenant. Captain Moubray was not the man to have allowed him to take the slightest liberty on duty. Lord Reginald had seen Dick Hargrave, with the other men from the cutter, come on board, and as he eyed the young sailor the ill feelings with which he had before regarded him regained their ascendancy in his bosom. Dick would willingly have kept out of his way, but in the course of duty they were constantly brought together, when he saw by the glances the third lieutenant cast at him, and the tone of his voice, that he was as much disliked as ever. His own proud spirit was aroused. He could not help often returning glance for glance, though he kept his lips closed to prevent himself saying anything which could be taken hold of. Lord Reginald never addressed him by name, but frequently shouted at him, and bestowed epithets of which—“You lazy hound!”

“You skulking rascal!” were among the least offensive.

Dick bore this as other men had to bear it from their officers in those days, and although from any one else he would have been very indifferent to such treatment, he felt little inclination to brook it from one whom he considered had so wronged him.

It must not be supposed that Lord Reginald fancied that he was acting in a revengeful spirit towards Richard Hargrave. He considered that he had formed a correct opinion of Dick, whom he looked upon as a daring young ruffian, and that Captain Moubray had acted unwisely in not punishing him for deserting the ship. He ventured, even, after introducing the subject of desertion, to express his opinion of Richard Hargrave, Ben Rudall, and other men of extremely doubtful characters whom he classed together. “They come from my part of the country,” he observed, “and are all smugglers to the backbone, ready for any sort of outrage. At one time my father lived in dread of having his house burnt down by them, so fearful were the threats of vengeance they uttered in consequence of his determination of putting a stop to their illegal practices. That young Hargrave was a poacher as well as a smuggler, and nothing but strict discipline can keep him in order.”

The captain bit his lip, for he could not fail to see at what the third lieutenant was driving. “They cannot poach or smuggle here, and the daring and hardihood they have exhibited in their illegal calling may be turned to good account,” he answered. “They are the fellows to send on any dangerous or difficult undertaking, and we may feel very sure that they will not show the white feather.”

“Young Hargrave is a desperate ruffian, notwithstanding, and I wouldn’t trust him,” muttered Lord Reginald.

“He has shown his ruffianism by acting very gallantly on two occasions, I understand,” observed the captain. “I wish we had a couple of hundred young fellows on board of the same description. After a few months’ training they become prime seamen, and will fight their guns to the last.”

Under ordinary circumstances, during a long voyage, time would have hung heavily on the hands of the officers, but with a large convoy to look to, there was plenty to do at all hours of the day and night. Not only had the merchantmen to be watched, but a bright look-out had to be kept for strange sails, especially for any daring privateers, who, tempted with the prospect of obtaining a rich booty, might pounce down on some unfortunate trader during a dark night and carry her off. This had actually been done on several occasions, and Captain Moubray endeavoured to impress upon the masters of the vessels under his charge the importance of sailing in due order together, and keeping a strict watch at night. The convoy hove to off Saint Helena, to obtain fresh provisions and water. The line was passed without any enemy having been encountered, when, falling in with the south-east trade wind, they got well to the southward, after which with a fair breeze they stood to the eastward on their passage round the Cape of Good Hope. It was considered advisable not to put into Table Bay, to avoid the risk of information being given to the enemy of their whereabouts. Unusually fine weather had hitherto been enjoyed, and the ships keeping well together at length entered the Indian Ocean.

Although the masters of the merchantmen generally strictly obeyed orders, there were one or two who caused more trouble than all the others put together, by sometimes carrying too much sail and getting ahead of the convoy, sometimes too little and lagging astern, knowing that they could always regain their position. This occurred especially at night, when the skippers, wishing to save their crews the trouble of making sail, would wait until daylight to do so.

One evening a strange sail had been seen to the northward, and Captain Moubray had ordered the Ione to go in chase and ascertain her character, while he shortened sail so as to bring the Wolf on the weather quarter of most of the ships. At dark the Ione had not returned, though Captain Moubray ordered a look-out to be kept for her, expecting every moment to see her signal. At the same time, of course, a constant watch was kept on the various vessels of the convoy, which could be seen like so many dark shadows gliding over the ocean to leeward, each carrying a light to show its position.

It was blowing a fresh breeze from the north-west, but there was not much sea on. The captain frequently came on deck, inquiring whether the Ione had yet shown her number. The same answer had been returned that no light had been seen to windward. He was pacing the quarter-deck with his night-glass in his hand, when the sound of a gun, which seemed to come up far away from the southward, reached his ears.

“What can that be?” he asked of the first lieutenant, who just then joined him.

“That’s more than I can positively say,” answered Mr Curling. “It must be a signal from one of the convoy, something must have happened to her, and she wishes to draw our attention.”

While he was speaking the sound of another gun came up from the same direction.

“We will run down and see what’s the matter,” said the captain; “but you need not turn the hands up at present.”

The helm was put up, the yards squared away, and the frigate, allowing the sternmost of the merchantmen to pass her, ran down in the direction whence the sound of the firing had come, and where, a long way off, a light could be seen, showing the whereabouts of the vessel supposed to be in distress. Several times the sound of a gun was heard, and the frigate, as she drew nearer, returned the signal. All eyes were directed towards the light, when flashes were seen, the rattle of small arms was heard over the clashing of cutlasses, and some declared that they could distinguish the shouts and cries of men engaged in mortal combat.

“There can be no doubt as to what is passing. Turn up the hands, Curling. There seems to be either mutiny on board the ship, or some other vessel has run her aboard. If we attempt to go alongside with this sea on, we shall too probably sink both together, while if we fire into one, we may injure our friends. We must board her in the boats. We will stand on, shorten sail, heave the ship to, then lower them and let them drop alongside.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the first lieutenant, and immediately issued the necessary orders.

So fiercely engaged all the time were the two vessels, that no signal was made by the English merchantman to show that she was aware help was at hand. The captain’s orders were quickly executed, and the frigate now being on the weather bows of the two ships, the boats were lowered and placed under the command of the second and third lieutenants, Mr Bitts, Voules, Paddy Logan, and another midshipman, with a party of marines, going in them. They had not far to pull, for the vessels going ahead, the boats dropped alongside the English merchantman, which was to windward.

Led by Mr Jager, Lord Reginald and Mr Bitts quickly clambered up her side, and reached her deck, where a fierce struggle was taking place, the enemy having boarded and almost overcome her crew, who, however, though many of their number had fallen, were still struggling manfully. They cheered as they discovered the timely assistance which had arrived.

Mr Jager and his party furiously attacking the enemy, soon turned the tide of war and drove them back to the starboard bulwarks, where the bravest in vain attempted to defend themselves. Those who could manage it leapt back on board their own vessel, others making the attempt were cut down, and not a man of the remainder escaped, all being killed or desperately wounded by the onslaught of the Wolf’s crew.

The Frenchmen were in the mean time attempting to cast off the grappling irons, but in the darkness and confusion they were unable to succeed.

“Follow me, my lads! We must board the enemy. It will not do to let her get away,” cried the lieutenant.

Dick, who was near him, with Ben Rudall and several other men, sprang into the main rigging of the privateer, for such she appeared to be, and clearing a space before them with their whirling cutlasses, leapt down on her deck. Others came after them. One party following Mr Jager, drove the enemy forward, where the larger part of them were assembled; while Lord Reginald and the boatswain attacked those on the quarter-deck, compelling them inch by inch to give way, until the poop was gained.

The struggle did not last long. Cries for quarter were heard from the people forward as well as from the after part of the ship, but the crew of the English merchant vessel seemed little disposed to grant it, and continued hacking away at every Frenchman they could come up with. Again and again Mr Jager had to order the combatants to desist, and shouted to the Frenchmen to throw down their weapons.

“Hold, my men! Don’t you see the enemy have given in?” he exclaimed. “We are bound to show them mercy, as they ask for it.”

“It’s mighty little we can see how to know friend from enemy,” cried a voice from among the seamen.

“Bring a lantern or two along here,” cried the lieutenant, and he called out to the Frenchmen to throw down their weapons, while he peremptorily ordered his own men to desist from striking.

Lord Reginald and the boatswain had in the mean time driven their opponents, the larger number of whom were officers of the ship, right aft to the starboard quarter, where they stood grouped together, defending themselves bravely until, seeing that all hope was gone, they too cried out for quarter.

“Quarter! Yes, we’ll quarter you!” cried Mr Bitts the boatswain. “Come on, lads! We shouldn’t let such ruffians as these live.”

Lord Reginald, however, interposed, and speaking French well, directed his hard-pressed foes to throw down their swords and they should be safe. It was not without difficulty, however, that he restrained the merchant seamen from rushing in and cutting them down. Unfortunately, some Frenchmen who had leapt below, maddened by their defeat, fired up the hatchway, when the victors, springing down after them, followed them round the deck, killing all they met with.

On the lanterns being brought, the deck presented a fearful scene, for more than half of the crew lay dead or desperately wounded. The survivors, with their officers, three of whom only had escaped, were mustered, and being deprived of the pistols and long knives generally worn in their belts, were conveyed across the deck of the trader into the boats. A savage, sunburnt crew they appeared as the light of the lantern fell on their countenances, and doubts were entertained whether they could claim to be even privateersmen, so greatly did they resemble the most desperate of pirates.

The deck of the merchantman had even a more fearful aspect than that of her foe. Besides the Frenchmen who had been killed, and whose bodies lay thick under the starboard bulwarks, nearly a fourth of her people had been shot or cut down, while bravely defending their ship. Among them was the master, who had been nearly the last to fall, just before the man-of-war’s men leaped on board.

His body presented several wounds; one through his breast had evidently been fatal. He was a strongly built man, with a sunburnt visage. Probably he had been endeavouring, by his courageous resistance, to redeem his fault in not more carefully attending to his sailing directions.

The first officer presented himself with his arm hanging loosely by his side, from a severe cut in the shoulder and another wound in his leg, while the second and third were both more or less hurt.

The first officer informed Mr Jager that they had taken the privateer for one of the convoy. That when hailed a reply was given in English, and that the same voice inquired whether they had a surgeon on board, as their own had gone mad, and they had three sick people who required immediate attendance. While the surgeon was preparing to go, and they were thus thrown off their guard, the stranger was seen to be sheering alongside. The master, suspecting treachery, called up the watch below, and ordered all on deck to seize such weapons as were at hand to resist the boarders, while he directed the rest of the people to arm themselves.

Scarcely were the crew thus partially prepared for an attack, than the stranger, running alongside, threw grappling irons aboard them. On this the master had the gun fired, which was first heard on board the frigate. His promptness had saved the ship. The crew well knew that they were fighting for their lives.

As soon as one party had armed themselves completely they took the places of those who had received the first attack and had driven the enemy back. In vain, however, they attempted to cast off the grappling irons. The ships’ yards had become locked, and no effort they could make could separate them. Thus, had not the frigate come to their assistance, they must have been taken. Whether or not the privateer would have succeeded in getting off with them was doubtful. As soon as the prisoners had been secured, Mr Jager ordered Lord Reginald and the boatswain to return on board the frigate and bring back the captain’s orders. In the meat time he and the men remaining with him, aided by the crew of the merchant vessel, got the two ships free from each other, and, making sail, stood for the frigate, which, as soon as the boats got alongside, had kept away. Neither ship was injured, except where their sides had ground together, and the yards when interlocked had torn the canvas and carried away some blocks and ropes.

Some time elapsed, during which the Wolf had been making signals to the rest of the convoy, to put them on their guard, lest other ships of the enemy should be in the neighbourhood. Dick and Ben had remained on board the prize.

“I say, I wonder who’ll have charge of this craft,” observed the latter to Dick. “I hope it will be Mr Jager. She’s a fine little ship, carries twenty-four guns, and would make a capital cruiser. If the captain commissions her, and sends her away to play the same game on the enemy that she’s been playing on our ships, we may chance to fill our pockets with prize-money. I think it’s very likely, too, and if Mr Jager gets command we shall have an officer who’ll keep his eye open, and not let the grass grow under his feet.”

“I should like it well enough, especially as we shall be free of that Lord Reginald and Toady Voules,” said Dick. “They have been as bad as ever lately; one sets on the other. Voules knows that the third lieutenant hates me, and so, to curry favour with him, he loses no chance of bullying me. I have kept out of trouble as yet, but I don’t know how long I shall be able to do so.”

“But what if the toady be sent with us? He is on board now, and may be appointed to do duty as first lieutenant,” remarked Ben.

“I shouldn’t mind him alone,” answered Dick. “When he hasn’t his master to hound him on, he’ll let me alone. He does it to please the other, and when Lord Reginald’s eye is off him, he won’t bother himself about me.”

As may be supposed, Ben and Dick had very little time for conversation. They were speedily called to trim sails, and the scanty crew of the prize, beginning to get weary from their constant exertions, were looking out for the frigate to heave to, a sign that the boats were about to return. She waited, however, until daylight broke, when once more, having gathered the convoy together, she hove to, and the prize coming up, doing the same, the boats were soon alongside.

“I say, Ben,” said Dick, as they approached, “it is my belief that Lord Reginald is to have command, for there he sits, with his dog by his side, and a big portmanteau between his knees. I’d sooner be out of this craft than in her. I hope we shall be sent on board the frigate again.”

Dick was right. Lord Reginald, his dog and portmanteau, were soon on board. He presented some papers to Mr Jager, who replied—

“Very well, I congratulate you on having so fine a command, and I confess that I wish I had been able to take charge of the prize, but as the doctor considers me unfit to be away from him, I must submit. Who are to form the prize crew?”

“Voules and Lucas, the men on board, as well as the men I brought with me,” answered Lord Reginald. “They’ll do very well, and, as we are rather short-handed, no more could be spared from the frigate.”

“Then all I have to do is to wish you good-bye and a pleasant cruise. It’s fortunate we had not to fire into her, or the vessel must have gone into harbour to refit. Now she’s as well able to keep the sea as she ever was.”

“I hope her late master was a man of taste, and has some good curry and plenty of cuddy stores,” said the young lord, laughing; “and I say, Jager, I wish you’d ask the captain to send me back the French cook. He’ll know best how to dress his own provisions, and I should like to keep a good table while I am on board.”

“I’ll do your bidding,” answered Mr Jager, and shaking hands with Lord Reginald and his two subordinates, he returned in the boat to the frigate.

The Marie proved herself to be a capital sailer, a quality her crew had counted on when they ventured to attack the Dunmore Castle, expecting to be able to pillage her and get away before daylight.

Lord Reginald walked the deck with a self-satisfied air, which was well imitated by Voules and Lucas. The young lord invited them into the cabin to mess with him, an honour they gladly accepted. “We shall have a jolly time of it,” he said, “and I hope old Moubray will send us on an independent cruise when we get to Java.”

“He’ll have to send us more men, then, for we are too short-handed to meet an enemy,” said Voules; “otherwise, I’d rather not go at all.”

“No fear on that score,” observed Lord Reginald. “We shall get as many as we want out of the merchant vessels. They must spare us their men, whether they like it or not. By-the-by, that young Hargrave is on board; I would have dispensed with his services. The very sight of him is annoying. He eyes me with the same daring, impudent look he always did, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he and the other smuggler were to try and get up a mutiny on board, if they have the opportunity.”

“I’ll see that he plays no trick of that sort,” answered Voules. “I’ll take the spirit out of him, depend upon it, and make him wish that he had remained on board the frigate.”

“I don’t want him treated unjustly, or punished unless he gives occasion by his conduct,” remarked Lord Reginald.

“Oh, no, no,” answered Voules, with a significant smile; “of course not. The truth is, I have a grudge against him myself. The other night I heard him, when he didn’t know I was near, speaking of me as ‘Toady Voules.’”

“Did he, indeed?” said Lord Reginald, leaning back and laughing. “Why, that’s the name you’ve got in the mess. Ah, ah, ah! However, for one of the men to make use of it is next door to mutiny. They must not be allowed to speak so disrespectfully of their officers.”

Voules, who was considerably irritated by his superior’s remark, did not fail to exercise his ill feelings on Dick, and not a day passed that he did not find some excuse for ill treating him and making him perform the most unpleasant duties. Voules, like other men of mean spirit, delighted in acting the tyrant; indeed, had he wished to create a mutiny, he took the most effectual means of causing one. He had now numberless opportunities which he could not have obtained on board the frigate. He was constantly abusing the men during every operation they were ordered to perform, though his chief displeasure fell on the heads of Ben and Dick, who were instantly placed on the black list, when their grog was stopped and they were compelled to walk the deck with a shot in each hand during their watch below, or other punishments were inflicted. Dick, as he had resolved, kept his temper and submitted without complaint to this injustice; but Ben nourished a spirit of revenge, and secretly formed a plan for wreaking his vengeance on the heads of his persecutors. With this object in view, he found out who among the crew were most dissatisfied and were likely to join him in his project. He did not, however, venture to speak to Dick. He fully believed that he should in time win him over. “He’ll do something or other before long, which will rouse even his spirit,” he said to himself, and “then he’ll be more ready than any of us to do what I want.”

Although the provisions in the cuddy were of good quality, and there was a sufficient supply for ten times the number of the commander’s limited mess, those of the crew were scanty and of bad quality, and it seemed surprising that Frenchmen should have consented to live upon such fare.

The steward told the men of the abundance which existed aft, but when they complained through Mr Voules to Lord Reginald, they were told that the provisions intended for the cabin could not be spared, and that they must be content with what they had got. Neither did Dick nor any of his officers dream of what was going forward.

The convoy was approaching its destination. The Ione had rejoined the day after the capture of the Marie, but no other event of general importance had occurred. The fleet was now within two hundred miles of the Straits of Sunda, when from the masthead of the Marie, which was to leeward, a sail was seen to the southward.

She immediately communicated this by signal to the Wolf, and received in return an order to chase the stranger and ascertain her character. The other part of the signal was either not seen, or misunderstood by Lucas. “Up with the helm!” cried Lord Reginald; “square away the yards! If the fellow doesn’t appear to be too tough a customer, we will bring him to action and sail back in triumph.”

The young lord did not observe the expression which passed over Voules’s countenance, but fully believed that they had been ordered to chase, and, if to chase, to fight the vessel in sight, should she not prove to be an enemy of overwhelming force. Though Voules had never shown the white feather, he was decidedly prudent, and he remembered the Maria’s limited crew, which, though sufficient to navigate her, was not strong enough to man the guns.

The Marie looked more formidable than she really was, and as she approached the stranger made all sail to escape. The latter soon showed that her sailing powers were not much inferior to those of the Marie, by keeping almost the same distance ahead as she had been when she first discovered that she was pursued.

The Marie soon lost sight of the fleet. Voules suggested that as there was no probability of coming up with the chase for many hours, that they should haul their wind and stand back.

“Certainly I will not do that,” answered Lord Reginald. “Captain Moubray must have known that we could not come up with her in a hurry, and intended that we should overhaul her. We are gaining on her, and if we continue the chase and do not lose sight of her during the night, we shall probably, some time to-morrow, get alongside.”

“If we get so far away we shall find it no easy matter to regain the fleet,” observed Voules. “The chase may not prove to be worth the trouble we are taking to capture her.”

“That remains to be proved,” answered Lord Reginald. “If you feel uncomfortable, turn in and go to sleep, perhaps when you awake you will find that we have fought an action, and taken the enemy.”

Voules reddened at the taunt. It was a cruel return, he thought, for all the flattery he had bestowed on the young lord. “I have no wish to avoid a fight, but I say again, there is no chance of its taking place for many hours to come, at least at the slow rate at which we are now overhauling the chase, and if we take her—which is problematical—we shall find it a difficult matter to rejoin the convoy.”

Lord Reginald was in one of his obstinate moods. The more Voules urged him to abandon the chase, the more determined he was to continue it.

The wind remained fresh, and he asserted that they were gaining on the chase.

Dick and Ben were stationed forward.

“How soon do you think we shall come up with that craft?” asked Dick.

“Maybe to-morrow and maybe the next day, if we follow her long enough and the wind doesn’t shift. But if it does, and she slips away to windward, the chances are we shan’t see her again. The weather doesn’t look very settled to my eye, though I am not accustomed to these seas, but I have heard tell that it blows pretty strong hereabouts at times.”

The day wore on; still the chase kept well ahead. She was probably bound to one of the Dutch settlements in the Moluccas, and intended to pass through the Straits of Lombok or some other passage into those seas to the east of Java.

Night came on. It was bright, and the stranger could still be distinguished as she glided over the moonlit sea.

“Everything is in our favour,” observed Lord Reginald to Voules; “but we must take care not to lose sight of her for a moment. Take care that sharp-eyed fellows are stationed on the forecastle. I must turn in for a spell, though do not fail to call me should anything occur.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Voules, though he grumbled not a little, as he went forward to see that his lordship’s orders were carried out. He found Ben and Dick on the forecastle. “Can you see the chase?” he asked, pretending not to notice who they were.

“Ay, ay, sir. It must be a pretty deal darker than it now is, not to see her,” answered Ben.

“Well, well, take care that you keep her in sight, and sing out if she changes her course.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Ben, and Voules went aft again earnestly hoping that thick weather would come on, and that the chase would be lost sight of. He could then throw the blame on the two look-out men, who would not be likely to escape punishment. They, however, during their watch, had no difficulty in keeping the chase in sight; when they turned in she appeared right ahead as clear as ever, with the moonbeams shining on her white canvas.

When Lord Reginald came on deck at the commencement of the morning watch, the chase could still be seen, and he felt convinced that the Marie had gained upon her. This made him determined to hold on. The sky, however, gave indications of a change of weather. Dark clouds were gathering in the horizon astern, while the wind came in fitful gusts, sometimes falling so much that the sails flapped against the masts. As the sun rose, the whole sky was suffused with a fiery glow, which, reflected on the ocean, made it appear like a sea of burnished copper. As the sun rose higher the heat became almost unbearable, growing more and more oppressive.

“Does your lordship recollect that we are in the region of hurricanes?” asked Voules. “It would be prudent to shorten sail.”

“Not until the chase does, though. I wouldn’t for much lose the chance of coming up with her. If we hold on for another two or three hours, we can get her within range of our guns. We have been gaining on her faster than ever lately.”

“If the wind catches us and whips the masts out of the ship, the ‘holding on’ will do us little good,” replied Voules.

“Well, we will see about it by-and-by,” said Lord Reginald, who was on the point of going down below to breakfast, the steward having just announced that the meal was ready.

The midshipman Lucas was left in charge of the deck. Soon afterwards an old seaman, who acted as quartermaster, came up to him. Touching his hat, he said—

“Won’t you order the hands to shorten sail, sir? We can’t tell when we shall have the wind down upon us, and we shall be losing some of our spars, if no worse happens.”

“His lordship wants to come up with the chase first, though I should be glad to have some canvas taken in.”

Just then the look-out forward shouted, “The chase is shortening sail, and is hauling up to the northward!”

Lucas ran aft and shouted down through the skylight, announcing what had occurred. “Shall we shorten sail, too, sir?” he asked.

Voules sprang on deck, and looking round him, without waiting for Lord Reginald’s orders cried out, “All hands shorten sail!”

The royals were quickly handed, but there was brief time to stow the canvas before the wind filled the sails, and away flew the ship before it. The fore top-gallant sail, imperfectly secured, blew out, and in an instant was torn into shreds, which fluttered wildly for a few seconds, and became wrapped in inextricable coils round the yard. The courses were next brailed up, but it was hard work to stow them. Lord Reginald saw, when too late, that it would have been wiser to shorten sail before the wind struck the ship. All hands were now employed in reefing the topsails, for the masts bent like willow wands. Though the ship was kept before the wind, there was great risk of their being carried away. Two hands were sent to the helm, but even they had the greatest difficulty to steer the ship. The only hope of saving the masts was in keeping directly before the wind until the canvas could be taken off her. The mizzen-topsail had been furled. The main-topsail was already on the cap, when a loud report was heard as it was split, and fluttering violently threatened to carry away the men off the yard.

The crew with their knives endeavoured to cut it adrift, when they were called down to assist in securing the foresail. It was of the greatest importance to keep head sail on the ship, lest she should broach to. The sea was rising, sending the spray in thick masses over the ship, obscuring all objects round her.

Dick and Ben had been actively engaged aloft.

“I say, Ben, what’s become of the chase?” asked Dick, shading his eyes and looking out ahead through the driving sheets of spray.

“That’s more than you or I or any one else can tell. She may be where she was, or she mayn’t. Mortal eyes can’t see through that thick mist ahead, and we are not likely to set ours on her again even if she keeps afloat, and that’s more than I can say any ship will do if it comes on to blow much harder than it does now. I thought I knew what a gale of wind was, but this beats all I have ever seen. Old Harry Cane rampaging about on board with a vengeance!”

The hurricane had in truth burst on the Marie, and the utmost skill of the best seamen was required to preserve her from destruction. All that day she ran on before the wind. Spilling-lines had been got over the closely reefed fore-topsail, but even then it seemed that the sail would break away. With a report like a clap of thunder the mizzen-topsail was blown clean away from the bolt ropes. The royal masts were seen bending about like fishing-rods, first one way then the other. The lee clue of the fore top-gallant sail was blown adrift. Two hands went aloft to endeavour to stow it. One of the poor fellows, in making the attempt, was torn from his hold. A wild shriek was heard as he sank into the seething foam, without hope of being rescued. The other, pale and trembling, came down, leaving the sails fluttering wildly. Scarcely had he reached the deck than away went the fore top-gallant mast over the side.

Lord Reginald bravely maintained his presence of mind, endeavouring to act for the best, as he stood holding on to the mizzen rigging while he issued his orders. Voules looked pale and anxious; he comprehended fully the dangerous position of the ship. Unknown islands were ahead, against one of which she might strike with but little warning. Again he urged the men to keep a lookout, not for the chase but for land, now so much dreaded.

Lord Reginald came aft, and stood by his friend, “Well, Voules; things don’t look promising,” he said, in as cheerful a voice as he could command.

“No, and they may look worse, if we find ourselves running down on one of the many islands which dot these seas.”

“We must keep a bright look-out, and haul up in time,” replied the young commander of the Marie.

“But if we do haul up with this hurricane raging and this sea running, we may drift on shore notwithstanding,” answered Voules. “Our only chance will be to endeavour to get round the island, if we see it in time, and to anchor under its lee, if holding ground can be found, and wait there until the storm is over.”

“We will have a look at the chart, and ascertain how far off the land is,” said Lord Reginald.

Going below, he and Voules eagerly examined the chart. No islands appeared for some distance ahead. To the northward, was the east end of Java, with Bali, Sumbawa, and Floris, extending in a long line beyond it. Should the wind shift to the southward, they might run through one of the passages existing between those islands; but still, the ship was a considerable distance to the southward of them, and they hoped that the hurricane would cease before they were driven thus far. On returning on deck, the wind appeared to have increased rather than decreased. As they were standing together, looking anxiously at the bending masts, the remaining top-gallant sails were torn from their lashings, and before any hands could be sent aloft to secure them, the masts themselves were carried away and the lately trim ship looked now almost a wreck. To cut them clear was a work of no little danger. The men saw what was required. Several volunteered, notwithstanding the risk they ran, to go aloft. Among them was Dick. With knives and axes they cut desperately at the rigging, until, as the ship heeled over, they fell clear of her into the water. Relieved of so much top hamper, she appeared to be greatly eased. Another night was approaching, but the storm raged as furiously as before. All night long the ship ran on, the seas increasing in height, and threatening every instant to poop her. Although for a short time Lord Reginald turned in, yet neither he nor any one on board could obtain much sleep. Several times he came on deck, only to see the ship labouring on amid the foaming billows.

Another morning dawned, the weather looking as wild as on the previous day. Few on board failed to ask themselves, “Shall we see another sunset?” Again and again Lord Reginald and Voules examined the chart, with anxious forebodings of evil. They saw that numerous islands and reefs lay ahead of them. Lord Reginald proposed hauling the ship up before dark, to escape the risk of running on one of them during the night. Voules feared that if it was done the canvas would not stand, and that she would then be drifted helplessly on any reef or island in her way. No sun was to be seen; the whole sky wore one uniformly leaden hue, while the dark seas of the same tint rose and fell, their tops covered with masses of foam which, blown off by the wind, filled the atmosphere. “Should there come a lull, we will haul up,” exclaimed Lord Reginald. “We shall do it at our peril,” observed Voules. “It must be done,” was the answer. “Stand by to haul out the spanker! Starboard the helm!”

The ship as she came to heeled over almost on her beam ends, while the seas broke over her, driving the masses of spray into the eyes of the crew, so that they could scarcely see a few yards before them, while the lee side of the deck was almost under water. Although no signs of a leak had hitherto been discovered, the acting carpenter, who had been ordered to sound the well, came aft with a pale face, announcing that a large quantity of water had found its way below.

“Man the pumps!” was the answer, and the already hard-worked crew were soon labouring away to clear the ship. So often, however, were the nozzles of the pumps under water, that the men could not tell whether they were drawing or not, and the cry, “Hold on for your lives!” compelled them frequently to let go and clamber into the rigging, or hold on by the stanchions, while a furious sea swept over the deck, threatening to carry them away. Again darkness had come on. Except a closely reefed fore-topsail and mizzen-trysail, not a sail remained. She was furiously plunging into the seas, when once more a report was heard, and the fore-topsail was seen blowing away in shreds. Directly afterwards the spanker gaff came down, and now not a shred of canvas remained, the ship in consequence drifting bodily to leeward. Most of the crew were forward, the officers and some of the men remaining on the poop. Among the former were Dick and Ben.

“I thought things were getting very bad,” said Ben. “They could not be worse.”

“What, then, do you think will happen?” asked Dick. “Why, we shall either go down or be driven ashore. It matters little which, for if the ship strikes there’s little chance of any of us reaching the land, with these seas breaking over her, and then sweeping everything before them. I know what it is on our own coast. With such a hurricane as we have got blowing, it will be ten times worse.”

“Then is there no chance of saving our lives if we strike?” asked Dick.

“Our best chance is to get hold of a piece of wreck and hold fast to it. You may be washed on shore, or you may be carried out to sea—it is six of one and half a dozen of the other. You may depend upon it, there’s a watery grave for some of us before the night is over.”

Dick felt his heart sink, but he remembered the prayers his mother had taught him. He tried to pray for himself; he knew, too, that she would be praying for him. His courage rose, he determined to struggle bravely for life.

Ben advised that they should go forward and stick to the forecastle. “That generally holds together the longest, and will give us a better chance of life,” he observed. “Don’t let go until the ship breaks up, and then you will have no choice, and must do as I before told you.”

Dick replied that he would follow his advice, and they made their way to the forecastle.

As may be supposed, it was only by speaking at the tops of their voices that they could make each other heard. Their sentences, therefore, were brief and to the point. In the mean time, Lord Reginald, with Voules and Lucas, clung on to the mizzen rigging; near them were gathered the few men who had come aft. Anxiously they looked to leeward, hoping against hope that they might still be at a distance from land. The stout ship was drifted on, the hapless people on board frequently being covered by the seas which broke over her. At last Voules uttered an exclamation of dismay.

“I caught sight of land close under our lee; before ten minutes are over we shall be upon it,” he cried out; “and Heaven have mercy on our souls!”

“We must look out for a spot on which to run her, and if we lose her, we may save our lives,” said Lord Reginald.

But although the attempt was made, the ship would not answer her helm. An anxious gaze was cast at the dark shore, on which the roar of the breakers could be distinctly heard. All they could now do was to cling to the bulwarks until the fatal crash came, and after that, how long the stout ship would hold together it was impossible to say. Much would depend upon the ground on which she was thrown. If on rocks projecting from the shore, she would in all probability be soon dashed to pieces. Even the stoutest seamen held their breath as they waited for the inevitable catastrophe.

Lord Reginald, as he stood on the deck, could feel the ship now as she rose, now as she fell in the trough of the sea, surging on closer and closer to the dreaded coast. Those agonising moments were not to last long. At length came a fearful crash. The mainmast, as if torn up by some invisible hand, fell over the side, the foremast and mizzenmast following in quick succession.

“She’s struck, she’s struck! All’s lost, all’s lost!” cried several of the crew; while many who had hitherto shown ample courage in battle, shrieked out in their agony of fear.

“Hold on, until the ship breaks up!” cried Lord Reginald. “We may have a chance of getting on shore in the morning.”

Though he gave this advice, he had little hope of its being followed. Sea after sea continued to dash against the ship, and he feared, from the cries which reached him, that many of his men were being torn from their hold and carried away. He could just distinguish Voules and Lucas clinging to the bulwarks a short distance from him. Now he cast his eyes on the dark shore with a line of foaming breakers between him and it. Then he looked seawards, and as he looked he saw an enormous black wave advancing, higher, it seemed to him, than any of its predecessors. On it came, and struck the ship, with a blow resounding louder than the loudest thunder. The centre of the ship seemed to melt away with part of the poop, carrying off several who had been clinging to it. No one could render help to another. It was each man for himself. He saw a figure, which he knew to be young Lucas, caught by the sea and whirled round and round. Voules still remained, holding on to the bulwarks. Then another sea came; he felt the poop breaking up beneath his feet. In another instant he found himself among the foaming breakers, surrounded by masses of wreck. He sank, but again coming to the surface, clutched a piece of timber. It was of too small a size to float him. He was rolled over and over, until compelled to let go. As he did so he saw close to him a large beam, with a bolt projecting from one end. Grasping the bolt, he got astride of the beam, being thus enabled to keep his body above the water, though he ran a risk of having his legs injured by the heavy pieces of wood dashing about on all sides. In vain he shouted, to ascertain if Voules or Lucas were near him. The only objects he could distinguish were the masses of dark timber amid the white, foaming breakers, and the outline of the rocky shore. It seemed even then doubtful whether he should ever reach that shore. Once, indeed, he fancied that he saw a human form clinging to a spar at no great distance from him, but unable to direct the movements of the piece of timber on which he floated, he could render no assistance to the hapless person, who returned no answer to his shouts. His own fate seemed uncertain. Should the timber be dashed against the rocks, he would in all probability be ground to pieces before he could escape, but on looking towards the land, he fancied that he could make out a sandy beach. He prayed that the timber to which he clung might be directed to it. Still, as he heard the fearful roar of the breakers, and watched the masses of foam which swept towards the shore, he felt the uncertainty that he should ever reach it. Several times he was nearly torn from his hold by the masses of wreck driven against him. His strength was decreasing. Another sea came rolling on, it might wash him from his hold. He clung to the bolt with all his might, and almost the next moment he felt his feet touch the ground. At first he was afraid of letting go. The second time he put down his feet he trod on the sand. Fearful that the beam which had carried him in safety might roll over and crush him, he let go, and making a last effort, struggled upwards. The foaming seas washed round his legs, and threatened to carry him back, but on he struggled, gasping for breath until the dry ground was reached, and then, by one strenuous effort, getting out of the reach of the water, his strength giving way, he sank to the ground, utterly exhausted.

Chapter Eleven.

Death of Voules—All lost—Despair of Lord Reginald—Neptune—Water found—A mournful duty—Burying the drowned—Remorse—The rival Crusoes—The last of poor Ben—Stone throwing—Nothing but clams—Neptune and the pigeon—The body of Lucas discovered—Good intentions—An angry meeting—Neptune’s dislike to shell-fish—A perilous swim—Looking over the island—Another stormy encounter—Labour in vain—Pride against reason—Bow-making—Nep finds a treasure.

Lord Reginald lay for some minutes on the beach utterly exhausted, but not senseless. He recollected vividly all that had occurred. So battered and bruised did he feel, it seemed to him that he had only escaped from drowning to die a more lingering death on the barren shore, or to be massacred by the savage inhabitants of the island on which he had been cast.

“Is it my fate alone to have escaped among all the stout fellows who manned the ship?” he at length asked himself. “Perhaps even now some are struggling in the waves, and as I have been carried in safety to the shore, I ought to try and help them.”

This thought made him attempt to rise, and he found that he could do so with less difficulty than he had supposed possible. The wind had begun to fall almost directly after the ship had struck, but still the seas rolled in as heavily as before. He knew, weak as he was, should he venture into their power, that he might be lifted off his feet and carried away in their cruel embrace. On looking around he saw a mass of broken spars, torn canvas, and running rigging thrown up within his reach. On examining it he found that he could unreeve some of the rope. He set energetically to work.

By using a knife which he fortunately had in his pocket, he was able to cut off several lengths, which, knotting together, formed a long rope. Taking three spars he forced them with all his might, in the form of a triangle, into the sand, and secured one end of the rope to the spar nearest the sea, while the other end he fastened round his waist. This done he was able to advance further into the water than he would otherwise have ventured to do.

He stood listening and straining his eyes over the foaming masses which continued to roll up unceasingly before him. He could distinguish the black ledge upon which the Marie had struck on one side, and on the other a lofty point which ran out to an equal distance forming the bay on the shore of which he had been thrown. The waters of the bay appeared still covered with floating masses of wreck tumbling and tossing about. While he was looking a crescent moon broke through the clouds, revealing to him for an instant what he supposed was the bows of the ship still holding together. The next instant the moon was obscured, and the object shut out from sight. Some of the crew might still be clinging to it, and if so he might not be left entirely alone. He shouted again and again, but no answer came; indeed, the roar of the breakers prevented his voice being heard at that distance. Some one might be clinging to any of the pieces of wreck floating about before him.

He listened, and at length fancied that he heard a faint cry. He gazed anxiously in the direction from whence he believed it came. He had picked up a long stick, so that he might the better be able to resist the force of the breakers should they surround him, or prevent him being carried off as they receded from the beach. Again he shouted, and once more fancied he heard a faint cry.

Yes, it was a human voice borne to him by the wind across the seething waters. He waited anxiously for the re-appearance of the moon, hoping that her light would enable him to discover the whereabouts of his shipmate, whoever he might be. He wished to save life, but he wished also to have a companion to share his misfortune.

At length, the moon appearing, he saw a piece of wreck, to which a human being was clinging, being carried by every succeeding sea closer and closer to the beach. The man was evidently lashed to it, or he could not have clung on. Lord Reginald at once saw the difficulty there would be in extricating him before the beam was rolled over and over. He again got out his knife that he might cut the lashings. The beam was almost within his reach, he could clearly see that it bore a man who, however, neither cried out nor made a sign that he was alive. “Still, the poor fellow may recover,” thought Lord Reginald, and rushing forward as the next sea threw the piece of timber on the beach, he at once seized the inanimate form, cut the rope, and with a strength he scarcely believed himself to possess, dragged it up out of the reach of the water. As he did so he saw by the uniform that it was his own messmate Voules.

He laid him on the dry beach, and having loosened the handkerchief round his neck, knelt down by his side, and endeavoured to restore him to animation by chafing his hands and chest. After he had been thus engaged for some time, he heard Voules emit a low sigh.

“He is not dead, at all events, and may, I trust, be restored!” he exclaimed, resuming his efforts.

Voules sighed again, but still lay without making any effort to move. Lord Reginald looked round to try and ascertain if any place which would afford him and his shipmate shelter from the night air, was near. He could only see black rocks rising up above the beach, though in one place there appeared to be an opening, but it was too dark to distinguish whether there were trees beyond.

“It will never do to remain here all night,” he said to himself; “it is still some hours off morning, and we both of us may perish.”

The effort he had to make to take care of his friend was of the greatest benefit to himself. It prevented his thoughts dwelling on his own sufferings. He tried to lift up his companion, to carry him in his arms, but his strength was insufficient, and after going a few paces he was obliged to let him sink again on the ground.

“Voules, Voules, my dear fellow, do speak!” he exclaimed; “tell me where you are hurt. What can I do for you? You are safe on shore. If you could but arouse yourself, we might get under shelter.”

But Voules only gave an occasional sigh. He seemed too weak almost to groan. Again Lord Reginald attempted to carry him towards an overhanging rock which rose at some distance beyond the beach. In this he succeeded better than at first, and after stopping two or three times he reached it. To his satisfaction, he discovered that there was a small cave, the bottom covered with dry sand. This would, at all events, afford a more comfortable resting-place than the open beach, as well as shelter from the rain, which now came on in dense showers. It was so dark, however, that he could not see his companion’s features. Seating himself by his side, he once more began to chafe his hands and breast, he then turned him on one side, when his patient threw up some of the water which he had swallowed. Thus relieved, Voules appeared to recover slightly.

“You’ll do well, I hope, my poor fellow, if you would but pluck up courage,” said Lord Reginald. “When daylight returns we shall find some food and water.”

“I fear not,” answered Voules, in a faint voice. “I am bruised all over, and I feel as if my right leg was broken.”

“I hope not,” said Lord Reginald, examining the limb. To his dismay he found that Voules was right. “We must try and set it,” he observed; “though it will prevent you being of much use for some time to come, you must not despair on that account. I earnestly hope that some of the men may have escaped to help us, though I could discover no one on the part of the beach where we were thrown.”

Voules groaned deeply. “I am much obliged to you, Oswald, for what you have done for me, but it is of no use. I almost wish that you had left me to perish in the sea, for I feel that I am dying. It is very terrible; I have all sorts of sins on my conscience. Then I think of how I encouraged you to get that young Hargrave and the older man Rudall carried off from their homes, and how they have both now probably been lost. It seems to me as if their deaths were at my door.”

“If they are at yours, they are at mine also,” said Lord Reginald. “I dislike the fellows, and though I should be thankful if any of the crew escaped, I should not like to see their faces. The chances are they would wreak their vengeance on our heads, helpless as we are, without the slightest means of defence.”

“I should be thankful to think that we had not been the cause of their deaths,” said Voules.

“Well, well, don’t talk about them, but try and get some sleep, old fellow; it will restore your strength more than anything else.”

Voules groaned. “I shall never sleep again, until the last sleep of all,” he muttered.

“Try, try,” said Lord Reginald; “I’ll sit up and keep watch.”

“Thank you,” murmured Voules.

Lord Reginald was silent, but Voules’s heavy breathing and the low moans to which he gave vent, showed that his slumbers were troubled, if he slept at all. The young lord could understand how much his companion suffered from the pains which racked his own body, and yet, with the exception of the few bruises he had received, he was unhurt. For a long time he sat and watched, earnestly wishing for day, and at length he himself sank down on the sand and fell asleep. His dreams, too, were troubled. All the horrors of the shipwreck were ever present to his thoughts. Now he fancied himself struggling in the waves, now reaching the beach, but in vain attempting to climb up it, the seas carrying him back every time his feet touched the firm ground. He awoke with a start, fancying that Voules was calling him. The sun had risen, and the rays were streaming across the white sand in front of the cave. The storm had ceased, though the seas still came rolling sluggishly on, dashing into foam as they reached the beach.

“Did you call, Voules?” he asked, raising himself on his elbow to look at his companion, who however made no answer. “I must not awaken him,” he said; “sleep will do him more good than anything else. I must go out and try and find some fresh water and food of some sort.”

He got up on his feet; though he felt weak, he was able to walk. He was about to go out, when he cast a glance at Voules. He started back with horror, as he saw the pallid countenance before him, the glazed eyes staring wildly, the fallen jaw.

“Can he be dead?” he exclaimed, stooping down. He could not discover the faintest breathing. He lifted an arm, it fell lifeless on the sand. “Voules, Voules!” he almost shrieked out; “speak but one word to me.”

No answer came from those open lips, and he saw too evidently that his companion was dead. The horrors of his situation burst upon him with more force than ever. He was alone in that apparently desert island; no one to consult with, no one even to speak to. He threw himself on the sand, and for some time lay almost as motionless as the inanimate form near him, believing that he himself would die. Then the desire to prolong his life returned. A burning thirst oppressed him; though he had eaten nothing since the previous day at noon, he felt but little hunger. He was about to leave the cavern in the hopes of discovering a spring, when he saw in the distance an object moving towards him.

At first he thought it must be some wild beast, but presently his favourite dog, Neptune, hove in sight, and came rushing on, leaping up, uttering loud barks of joy, placing his paws on his shoulders, and trying to lick his face.

“Where have you come from, Nep?” he asked. “Your coat is perfectly dry, you must have been on shore some hours.” But Nep only wagged his tail, and bounded round and round him. Lord Reginald fondly patted the dog’s head. “Thank Heaven, you have been saved, Nep. I have one trusty companion left, and I must not lose heart.”

The dog seemed to understand him, and redoubled his signs of satisfaction. Suddenly he stopped, and looked towards the body of Voules, then he approached it cautiously, and after examining it for a moment he set up a loud howl, and turning round, ran crouching back to his master, as if fully conscious of the fate of the unhappy young man.

“Yes, he’s gone, in truth!” said Lord Reginald. “You and I are now alone. We must set out to try and find a spring and some food, if they exist on this dreadful spot; but you don’t look either hungry or thirsty. Perhaps you have found a spring. Come along, Nep; come along!” So saying, Lord Reginald, accompanied by the dog, directed his steps towards an opening in the line of cliffs which circled round the bay. As he advanced, the opening widened out, and to his joy he saw numerous cocoanut and other trees. At first he could discover no sign of a spring.

“That verdure cannot exist without water,” he said to himself; “there must be some near at hand. Surely, if it exists Nep will find it.” As he advanced further he found himself in a small valley running directly up from the sea, and shortly afterwards his eye fell on the sheen of water. It appeared to be a stream running down the centre and losing itself in the porous sand before it reached the ocean. He uttered a cry of joy, and pushed forward. He was soon stooping down, lapping the water up eagerly with his hand. He then began to feel the pangs of hunger. The only fruit he could discover were cocoanuts, but they hung so high above his head that he had no hope of obtaining any. He was too weak to attempt climbing even the smallest of the trees on which they grew. He thought of various devices for bringing them down. He might manage to get some could he find a long thin line which, by means of a stone, he might throw over the boughs. Then he searched about for other food. He looked also anxiously for human habitations. The sun beat down with intense heat into the valley, and the tall trees afforded but little shade. He was compelled at length to retreat towards the cavern. That, at all events, would be cool, he thought. A few more cocoanut trees only had to be passed, when, just as he was going under the boughs of one, he saw a large brown mass covered with fibre lying before him. Though he had never before seen a cocoanut when growing in a wild state, he knew what it was. He seized it eagerly, and began tearing off the outer cover. Conveying it to the cave, with a piece of stone he broke off the top, and having swallowed the refreshing juice in the interior, he soon broke it to pieces so as to get at the flesh. With this he somewhat satisfied the gnawings of hunger.

“Such food won’t suit you, my poor dog!” he said, looking at Nep. However, the dog wagged his tail, and very readily swallowed a few of the pieces cut out of the shell, which his master threw him. He had now to consider what was next to be done. His eye fell on the body of poor Voules.

“He was a miserable counsellor, and did me harm by attempting to flatter me; though I confess that I had but little real regard for him, I certainly wish that he was still alive; but as he has gone, I must endeavour to pay him the respect I would to any fellow-creature, and give him decent burial.” Saying this, he got up and looked about to settle by what means he could accomplish his object. The shore was strewn with timber and pieces of plank of all shapes. Hunting about he soon found a piece which would answer his purpose, though had he possessed an axe he might have chopped it into a more suitable shape; as it was, however, it would have to serve his purpose. His next care was to select some fitting spot for the grave. He pitched on one under the cliff, where the sand appeared sufficiently soft, while the shape of the rocks around would make it easily recognised.

He began to dig away, but the sand fell in almost as quickly as he shovelled it out of the pit, and he had greatly to increase its size before he could reach any depth. He felt sick at heart as he performed his unaccustomed task.

Neptune stood by watching him, apparently understanding his object, although he could render no assistance. At last the grave was dug. His courage almost gave way as he prepared to place the body of his late companion—one whom he had known for so many years—in his last resting-place. While chafing Voules’s chest he had observed a locket hanging to a riband. He undid it, that he might deliver it to his friends. On opening it he saw that it contained the miniature of a young and pretty girl.

“Poor thing!” he said. “She thought him probably all that is brave and good. Now she’ll value him the more because he has gone! I wouldn’t undeceive her for worlds, though I have but little chance of ever being able to deliver this to his friends.” He took his watch, and a few other articles. There was a pocket-book, but he had neither time nor inclination to look into it. Indeed, in all probability, whatever writing there was had been obliterated by salt water. Among other things was a small pocket spyglass, which was likely to prove useful. He found, on trying to lift the body, that his strength was insufficient for the task, so that he had to drag it by the collar of the coat to the edge of the grave, into which he managed to lower it.

“Rest there, my poor shipmate,” he said. “I little thought when we were last on shore, amusing ourselves to our hearts’ content, that such would so soon be your end. Yet, what may be mine?”

He rested for some moments, gazing with a sort of fascination on the dead body, unwilling to cover it up for ever from view. “It must be done!” he said at length, and he began to shovel in the sand, a task which was very quickly accomplished.

“Now I am all alone, the sole inhabitant of this island. That, however, would be better than finding it peopled by a savage tribe, who would either kill me or make me work for them as a slave. Had I the strength, I would build a tomb of rock over him, but he’ll rest well enough without it. I suppose there are no creatures which will come and dig him up.”

He would gladly after this have rested in his cave, for the rays of the sun, now high in the heavens, beat down with intense force on his unprotected head. At the same time, the pangs of hunger reminded him that he must go in search of more substantial food than cocoanuts would afford. He had heard that turtles laid their eggs on the sandy beaches of these islands, but whether he should find them at this time of the year, or whether the young turtles had been hatched and crawled away, he was utterly ignorant. As he walked along the shore, he carefully examined the sand, in the hopes of finding some mounds or the marks of turtles’ feet to show where their eggs had been deposited, but not an indication of any sort could he discover.

“I shall have to depend upon shell-fish,” he said to himself; “there must be numbers sticking to the rocks, and I must try and get them off with my knife. I wish that I had some fishing-hooks and lines. By scrambling out to the end of a reef I might very likely catch as many fish as I require, but as I have not the hooks and lines, I must manage with what I can get.” He sighed as he felt his helplessness. On looking along the beach he saw it covered with pieces of wreck as far as the eye could reach. He might at all events find something useful among the articles thrown up. He had not got far when he caught sight of a human form surging up and down, close to the beach. It might be some person who, having clung on to a piece of the wreck during the night, was attempting to reach the shore. He rushed forward to assist the man to land, but scarcely had he seized an arm than he saw that it was that of a dead body. He did not, however, let go his hold, but dragged it up on the beach.

“I must bury the poor fellow, at all events,” he observed, looking at the countenance of the man, who was one of the ordinary seamen. The discovery of the body made him look more narrowly along the beach, and he saw several others either thrown up, or floating close to the shore. The sight brought Richard Hargrave to his recollection. “He is probably among them,” he thought, “and I was the cause of dragging him away from his home, prompted by my revengeful spirit and bad feelings. I am as guilty as if I were his murderer. I wish that he had made good his escape and remained at home, and I would give much now to know that he had reached the shore in safety, but that is not likely.” He dragged up body after body, scanning their countenances anxiously, fearing that he should recognise that of Richard Hargrave. At last he came to one with grizzled hair and beard, which he recognised as that of the smuggler Ben Rudall, who had by his means been torn from his home.

“Unhappy wretch! By the way Voules and I treated him he must have had a miserable life of it on board. I suspect that he and Hargrave, if they had had the opportunity, would have treated me as I deserve. Would that I could forget the past! However, I cannot let them lie here to rot.” On counting the number of bodies he had hauled out of the water, he found that there were no less than five. The task was abhorrent to his nature. “I little thought that I should ever become a grave-digger!” he exclaimed, bitterly. “However, it must be done; I couldn’t rest at night if I knew they were there. I only hope that the sea has washed away the remainder, that I shall not have to bury the whole of my crew; perhaps by that time I shall become accustomed to it, only every day will render the business more horrible.”

The young lord, however, managed to muster up resolution to commence the task. He went back for the piece of board which had served him to dig the grave of Voules, and commenced shovelling away the sand some distance above high-water mark. It would evidently require a large grave, and the task would occupy him some hours. The sun, which was intensely hot, beat down on his unprotected head, while the perspiration streamed from his forehead. At last he could work no more, and, supporting himself by the spade, followed by Neptune, he staggered to the nearest spot where he observed some shade beneath the cliff. As he threw himself on the ground, the dog lay down by his side with his tongue out, showing that he too felt the heat.

Overcome with fatigue, he dropped into an uneasy doze, painful fancies filling his brain. How long he had thus remained he could not tell, when, on opening his eyes, they fell on a figure standing by the half-finished grave. His disordered imagination made him fancy that it was one of those he was about to bury who, recovering, had regained his feet. Or could it be a spirit?

His eyes dilated as he gazed. The person, after looking into the grave for a few seconds, turned round and went towards where the bodies lay and then knelt down by the side of one of them. Lord Reginald, not seeing him, as he was concealed by the slope of the beach from where he lay, fancied as he gradually recovered his senses that he must have been subjected to some hallucination, and resolved to finish his task.

“Come, Nep,” he said, rising, “we must finish the work, terrible as it is!” What was his surprise to find that his dog had gone? He made his way back to the grave, keeping his head turned in an opposite direction from the bodies, unwilling to look at them from the sickening feeling which came over him when he did so. Descending into the pit he had formed, he began to throw out the sand. While thus employed he heard a voice close to him say—

“Shall I help you?”

His first impulse was to spring out of the grave and express the joy he felt that one of his crew had escaped, but on looking up he saw Richard Hargrave standing near, with a piece of wood similar to the one with which he was employed. At first his feelings softened towards his enemy, for so he regarded the young seaman, but the next instant he fancied that he detected a look of scorn in his countenance. Still, he wanted to get the work done, and alone he could not accomplish it. He therefore answered, “Yes, you may fall to, for it is more than one man alone can do.”

Without exchanging another word, Dick leapt down into the pit and began shovelling out the sand in a far more effectual way than Lord Reginald had done. When the grave was of sufficient size, Dick got out and immediately went towards one of the bodies, beckoning his companion to assist him in carrying it to its last resting-place. Lord Reginald hesitated, but when Dick began to drag the body by the shoulders he took it up by the feet. One by one three of the other bodies were carried to the grave. Lord Reginald was about to lift up the feet of Ben Rudall, when Dick exclaimed—

“No, no; let him alone. We will give him a grave to himself. He was an old friend of mine, though he might have led me astray, and I want to pay him all the respect I can.”

Lord Reginald let the feet drop, and without speaking returned to the grave, where he began to shovel in the sand. Dick joining him, the task was soon accomplished.

“As I undertook to dig this poor fellow’s grave alone, I won’t ask you to help me,” said Dick, turning aside without attempting to exchange any further words with his companion.

Lord Reginald, utterly exhausted, retreated to the shade of the cliff, calling in an angry tone to Neptune, who had followed Dick, to watch his proceedings.

He observed that Hargrave wore a hat roughly made from palm leaves, and was thus able to endure the heat much better than he could. It did not occur to him that he possessed a handkerchief in his pocket which, had he bound round his head, would have afforded him some protection. At length he could endure the thirst from which he was suffering no longer, and getting up, endeavoured to make his way to the spring at which he had before obtained water. He reached it at last, and sank down by the side of the pool, scarcely able to lift the water with his hand to his parched lips. He succeeded, however, and felt somewhat restored. Nep showed how thirsty he was by lapping it up eagerly.

He waited some time, half expecting that Hargrave would join him. He was too proud to call him, and inquire how he had escaped from the wreck, which he wished to know, as well as to ascertain if any one else had been saved. Even Neptune appeared surprised, and showed an inclination to start off every now and then and join Dick, who had become a great friend of his on board.

All this time Lord Reginald had eaten nothing except the remains of the cocoanut. He was sensible that he was becoming fainter and weaker. Whether or not Nep had got any food when he disappeared, he could not tell, but from the way he observed Hargrave work he felt very sure that he, at all events, was not starving.

He saw numerous birds of gay plumage flying among the trees, but he had no means of getting them. He thought that he might possibly knock some of them down. For this purpose he returned to the beach to pick up some pebbles. Having filled his pockets, he went back to the neighbourhood of the stream. Though he got frequently within reach of the birds, he could not manage to hit one of them. At last he had exhausted every one of his pebbles, and, prompted by hunger, was about to go back to obtain more, when he bethought him that by hiding behind a bush an unwary bird might come near enough to enable him to knock it down with a stick which he had picked up. He waited for some time. Though several birds came near—one a fine fat pigeon with beautiful plumage—they kept beyond his reach. At length, losing his patience, he threw his stick at a bird which had perched on a bough about twelve feet off. The bird rose, wagging its tail as if in derision, and flew off unhurt. Nep, who was by this time as famished as his master, showed his eagerness by dashing here and there after the birds, which flew near the ground.

“It’s of no use, Nep,” said Lord Reginald; “we must try what the sea-shore will yield.” They returned together to the beach. The tide was low and shell-fish—some of large size—clung to the rocks or lay on the sand.

Supposing that the latter were dead or not fit to eat; he attempted to cut off with his knife some of those clinging to the rocks, a more difficult task than he had expected, and he blunted it considerably in the attempt. At last he got several off, and with these, as well as a few of the freshest looking which he had picked up on the beach, he returned to the cave.

He nearly cut his finger in attempting to open them, and when he had succeeded in separating the shells of a couple, he recollected that he must cook them before they would be fit to eat. First he had to collect firewood. For this purpose he was compelled to go back to where he could obtain some dry branches, broken off by previous gales. While thus engaged, he saw some smoke in the distance.

“That must be a fire kindled by that fellow Hargrave,” he said to himself; “he probably has found something to eat, but I cannot go and ask him for a light, still less can I bring myself to beg for some of the food. Probably he would refuse me if I did. No, no, I will let him come to me and ask my pardon for his insolent behaviour.”

By exerting himself, the young lord collected a bundle of sticks. On his way he found another cocoanut, which prize he was glad to obtain, for it would serve as bread to help him swallow the shell-fish.

With his bundle on his shoulders he returned to the cave. He unscrewed the object glass from Voules’s telescope, but in vain tried to obtain a light. The sticks might have burned had a flame once been established. He had, therefore, to go back and search for dry leaves or moss, or some more inflammable substance.

He found some fungus, which from its dry nature he thought would quickly ignite. With this and his arms full of leaves, he once more made his way back to his cave. The sun was by this time sinking low, and he was afraid after all that its rays would be too oblique to enable him to obtain a spark. He anxiously held the glass in its right position, and was thankful when he saw a fine line of smoke ascending; by blowing gently and placing some dry leaves above it, he at length obtained a flame, with which he set the pile of leaves he had placed under the sticks on fire.

“I am now as well off as that fellow Hargrave,” he said to himself, as he placed the shell-fish on the embers. He had never before attempted to cook anything, and had very little notion of how it was to be done.

He saw the shells getting hotter and hotter, when on raking them out he found the interior burnt to a cinder. “Rather overdone,” he thought; “I must not let them stay in again so long.” He succeeded rather better with the next, but had to confess that they were very tough.

Though his hunger was not satisfied, he had no inclination to eat more; having broken the shells, he bestowed the remainder on Neptune, who apparently preferred them raw to cooked. He eked out his scanty meal with cocoanut, having drunk the juice, which he found very refreshing after the salt, coarse-tasting clams. He had no longer any fear of starving, though the food he had obtained was neither wholesome nor palatable.

After finishing his meal, he threw himself on the sand within the shadow of the cave, trying to reflect what he should next do, but his mind was in a state of confusion. He could not sufficiently collect his thoughts to arrive at any determination. Neptune lay by his side, occasionally licking his hand, trying to amuse him. He felt the solitude to which he was doomed trying in the extreme. The only human being on the island beside himself, was, as far as he could tell, young Hargrave, whom he had despised and hated, and who seemed in no way disposed to forget the mutual ill-feeling which had so long existed, or to show him any marks of attention. He looked out, half expecting to see his enemy approach, but the latter had evidently taken up his abode in the further part of the island, and kept out of his way.

Another night was approaching; it was necessary to collect some more wood to keep in his fire, for should a cloudy day come on, he would have no means of relighting it. At last, seeing the necessity of exerting himself, he got up, intending to fill two of the largest clam shells he had picked up with water, which might serve to quench his thirst during the night. Directly he rose to his feet, Neptune showed his satisfaction by leaping about him, and barked with joy when he found that he was directing his steps towards the fountain. On arriving at it, both he and the dog drank their fill, then placing the shells by its side, he set to work to collect fire-wood. There was no great amount of fallen sticks, and it took him some time before he could pick up a sufficient quantity.

As formerly, he observed in the distance the smoke of a fire, which he felt sure had been kindled by Hargrave. The dog, by pulling his trousers, attempted to draw him in that direction.

“No, no; we will not go and interfere with the fellow. He’ll fancy that we want his assistance, or are begging for some of the food he may have obtained. We must show him that we can do very well by ourselves,” he said, addressing his dog. Fastening the sticks to his back by a piece of rope he had picked up, and taking the two clam shells in his hand, he set off to return to the cave. He had gone a short distance without thinking of Neptune, when on looking round he found that the dog had disappeared.

“Where can the animal have gone to?” he exclaimed. “Has he deserted me for the sake of that scoundrel? If he has, when he comes back I’ll tie him up and teach him that he must not associate with my enemy.”

On reaching the cave he sat down more oppressed even than before by gloomy thoughts. He believed that the Marie had been cast away on a remote island, near which no English ship was likely to pass, and that he might remain there for months, perhaps for years, without having an opportunity of escaping, even should he live so long; but he felt so sick and weak that he feared his existence would soon be cut short. “Perhaps,” he thought, “that young Hargrave may take it into his head to murder me. What is there, to prevent him? All that he has to do is to bury me in the sand, with the rest of the poor fellows. And if questions are asked, he could say I was cast lifeless on the shore, or died afterwards from sickness, and such, judging from my sensations, is very likely to be the case.”

The pangs of hunger aroused him. As there was sufficient daylight remaining, he went down to the rocks and cut off a few more shell-fish. The task was so hard a one that he did not collect more than he required. He had slightly improved in the art of cooking them, but he much wished that he had some pepper and salt to make them more palatable. They were nearly cooked, when he saw Neptune scampering along the beach towards him, with something in his mouth. The dog approaching laid it down at his feet, and Lord Reginald discovered that it was a beautiful pigeon.

“Is that what you left me for?” he exclaimed, highly delighted, patting the dog. “This will be far better than those dreadful clams which I could hardly swallow, and which when swallowed made me feel as if I had eaten lead.”

Neptune wagged his tail, as much as to say, “I am very glad, master, I have brought you something you like.” The puzzle was now how to cook the bird. At first he thought of putting it in a clam shell to bake. He had actually placed it on the fire, feathers and all, when he remembered that it must be plucked. This he did in a somewhat awkward fashion. Then he recollected seeing pictures of camp fires, with animals spitted on sticks roasting before them. He selected such from the heap near him as would serve his purpose. Peeling one with his knife, he ran it through the bird, then placed it on two forked sticks, which he stuck in the ground. This done he raked the ashes of the fire beneath the bird close round it, and began turning his spit with his hand. It was hot work, and exercised all his patience. At last he saw that the bird was becoming browner and browner. He was satisfied that he was cooking it in the right fashion. Neptune lay down with his paws out, watching the process. Lord Reginald was too hungry to wait, and taking it off the spit he put it into a clam shell to serve as a dish, and began eagerly eating it. Though, from being just killed, and underdone, it was somewhat tough, it afforded him a far more satisfactory meal than any he had tasted since he had reached the island. He would have been wise had he reserved a portion for next morning’s breakfast, but without consideration, after he had satisfied his hunger, he threw the remainder to Neptune, who gobbled it up in a few seconds.

Being now perfectly dark, having made up his fire he retired to his cave, where, with a piece of wood which he had brought up from the shore for his pillow, he lay down to sleep with Neptune by his side. He knew that his faithful dog would keep watch, and that he need have no fear of being attacked by any wild beasts which might exist in the island. It was some time before he could go to sleep, but at length, overcome by fatigue and mental anxiety, he dropped into an unquiet slumber.

It appeared to him that he was dreaming or thinking the whole night through. Great was his surprise to find it broad daylight when he awoke. Instead of the hurricane which had lately blown, there was a perfect calm, though the smooth undulations broke in a line of foam along the beach where it was not protected by rocks. His fire had gone out, but he had no difficulty in lighting it by means of his burning glass. His first care was to make it up. He then set off to collect some more shellfish.

He had got down to the shores of the little bay which has been before described, and was scrambling along the reef, when his eye fell on a figure apparently clinging to a cleft of the rock on the opposite side, just above high-water mark. The figure seemed to move. Taking out his small telescope he watched it eagerly, trying also to discover some means of getting to the spot. He at once saw by the dress that the figure was that of young Lucas. Was it possible that he was still alive? He feared not. He lost no time in returning to the beach, and then made his way along the rocks until he descended to the point where he had seen his shipmate. A glance at the features told him that the midshipman was dead, and had probably been washed up by the sea into the cleft of the rock. How to remove the body was now the question. He could not let it remain there festering in the hot sun, and it seemed impossible for him to carry it over the rough rocks on his shoulders. At last he thought he might tow it to the shore. There were plenty of materials for forming a raft. He soon lashed a few pieces of wreck together, when, having launched them, he took off his clothes and towed them out. Had it not been for the uniform he could not have distinguished his young shipmate. Extricating the body, not without difficulty, from the cleft of the rock in which it had been fixed, he lowered it down to the raft. Then taking the end of the tow-rope in hand, he began to swim towards the beach. The raft was heavy, and so weak did he feel that he was afraid he should be unable to reach the shore with his melancholy freight.

He was puffing and blowing away, and making but slow progress, when he saw Neptune—who had disappeared in the same mysterious way as he had done on the previous day—coming scampering along the beach. He called the dog, who with a bound plunged in and swam towards him. He placed the tow-rope in the mouth of the animal, who, seeming to know perfectly well what to do, swam with it towards the shore, allowing his master to rest his hand on his back. He thus, in a much shorter time than would otherwise have been possible, reached the beach. He felt so fatigued that he had to rest while the hot sun dried his body, before he could again put on his clothes.

Neptune, who was now aware of the freight he had brought ashore, waited as if to see what more was required of him. Suddenly he seemed to recollect that he had another duty to perform, and running back to the spot from which he had leapt into the water, he took up a pigeon, which he brought to his master.

“You are a wonderful dog,” said Lord Reginald, patting his head. “How have you managed to catch this bird?”

He would gladly have got through the painful task he had set himself, but the pangs of hunger made him determine to cook the bird first. Following the plan he had adopted on the previous evening, he soon had it plucked and spitted. As he opened the crop he was surprised to see three large nuts drop to the ground, which split as they fell; it seemed wonderful that the pigeon could have swallowed them, large as they were. The kernels, which he put into the fire and roasted, were especially nice and served instead of bread. Neptune, as before, came in for the remainder of the bird. He ate it up, but not greedily, as if he was in want of food. “The rogue has been catering for himself, I suspect I hope that he may bring me something for dinner, for though a pigeon a day is something, sufficient to keep body and soul together, I shall require more to retain my strength.” As he again rose a sensation of lassitude oppressed him. He felt very much disinclined for the painful task he had undertaken. It must be done, however, and rousing himself he seized the wooden spade he had before used, and set to work to dig a grave near that of Voules. He had not long been engaged in his task, when looking up he saw Richard Hargrave approaching. This at once made him suspect that he had been watched by his rival, although he had not discovered him.

“I don’t like to see you engaged in that sort of work; it is as much my duty as yours,” said Dick. “So I have come to help you.”

“I shan’t require your aid,” answered Lord Reginald, haughtily; “you can bury any of the men you may find, but I choose to bury this young officer myself.”

“Very well, do as you like,” said Dick, indignant at having his well-meant offer refused. “I thought as we had both suffered a common misfortune, you would have been glad of the society and assistance of a fellow-creature.”

“You don’t suppose that any common misfortune would bring me down to your level?” exclaimed Lord Reginald. “I don’t require either your sympathy or your assistance; all I desire is that you should keep out of my way, and remember that I am still your officer.”

“I remember that you were once my officer, and that as such you took every opportunity to show your ill-feelings towards me, or allowed others to do so. One of them lies there, and unless you exercise such sense as you have got, you’ll soon take your place by his side. I speak plainly, but I speak the truth. Except the few shell-fish, and the couple of cocoanuts you have picked up, you have been unable to procure any food for yourself.”

“You are wrong there,” said Lord Reginald; “my faithful dog has catered for me, and I have no doubt he will continue to do so; but I do not choose to waste words on you. Be off, and look after your own affairs.”

Dick laughed scornfully. “Do you suppose that the dog would have got those birds by himself?” he asked. “You give him credit for more cleverness than he possesses.”

“I have told you I do not desire to hold any conversation with you,” said Lord Reginald, not inquiring for an explanation of the last remark Dick had made, though it somewhat puzzled him.

“You must take the consequences of your obstinacy, then!” exclaimed Dick, walking away with as haughty an air as Lord Reginald himself could have assumed.

The poor young lord resumed his uncongenial occupation, which Dick’s appearance had interrupted. The grave was dug, and the body of the midshipman dragged into it. He lost no time in covering it up, as it was painful to look upon those features, once so full of life and animation. “Are we two, then, the only survivors from the Marie?” exclaimed Lord Reginald. “I wish that some one else had been saved, though I now know for certain that the only ones with whom I could have associated are dead!”

Instead of setting to work to try and improve his condition, oppressed with lassitude, he lay for the remainder of the day in front of his cave, doing nothing.

Neptune remained by him for some time, then apparently getting weary of inaction, after playing about on the sand, scampered off into the interior.

“I hope that he has gone to get me another pigeon, or something else,” said Lord Reginald, when he found that the dog had disappeared. “Sagacious brute, he knows my wants, and is sure to bring me something.”

Hour after hour, however, passed by, and he began to get very hungry. The dog did not return, and evening was approaching. He at last got up, and set off for the spring, to obtain a draught of water, and hoping to find at all events another cocoanut in the palm grove, where he had procured the others. Having drunk as much water as he required, he searched about. Though numbers of cocoanuts grew on the trees above his head, he could not find one fallen to the ground. There were a few husks, which had been broken open and their contents abstracted. He looked about, expecting to see his dog. Neptune did not make his appearance. All he could do therefore, was to collect some more sticks to keep up his fire, after which he obtained some clams from the seashore, off which, though imperfectly cooked, he was fain to make his supper. He had just finished when he saw Neptune coming towards him, not scampering along as usual, but advancing slowly, with his tail between his legs. Lord Reginald looked out eagerly for the pigeon, but Neptune’s mouth had nothing in it. “What, my good dog, have you been unsuccessful in your hunting?” he said. “It is a bad look-out for me, as I shall have nothing but these clams. However, you shall share them with me.”

When, however, he offered the shell-fish to the dog, he refused to eat them, and, looking ashamed of himself, crouched down by his side.

Another night passed away. When the young lord tried to get up in the morning, his limbs ached, and he found himself much weaker than before. He became somewhat alarmed. “If this goes on I don’t know how it will end,” he said to himself. “It is evident that the clams do not agree with me; however, as I have nothing else, I must eat some for breakfast.”

In spite of the pain he was suffering, he crawled down to the beach, and collected as many as he thought he and his dog would require. Bringing them back, and making up his fire, he tried to cook them with more care than before. But they tasted like so many pieces of salted leather, and he could with difficulty swallow them. Neptune ate a few; they were evidently not much to his taste. He soon showed signs of a wish to get away from his master. Twice he started off, but Lord Reginald called him back.

“Come, old dog, we will go and hunt together, and I hope that we shall be more successful than before,” he said, at length getting up, and taking a stick to support himself. Sick as he was, he thought a bath would refresh him. He accordingly went down to the bay, and taking off his clothes waded in. The cool water had the effect he expected. He thought he might venture to swim out to a little distance. The dog followed him, keeping close to his side. He had not got far when Neptune uttered a bark, very different in tone to that which he usually emitted. It appeared to be indicative of alarm, and Lord Reginald, looking ahead, saw a black fin rising above the water. He immediately turned, and swam with all his might back to the beach, expecting every instant to feel his leg seized by a shark, for he knew too well that the black fin belonged to one of the monsters of the deep. Nep continued close to him, though he might have got ahead, but the moment he touched the beach he scampered up it, and then turned round and barked furiously, leaping and splashing about in the shallow water. Lord Reginald also, as soon as his feet touched the sand, waded out as fast as his strength would allow, and did not stop until he reached dry ground. Scarcely had he landed, than a pair of huge jaws appeared above the surface, making directly for the dog. But Neptune was too active to be caught, though he had a narrow escape. Lord Reginald, exhausted by the exertions he had made, sank on the sand. Some minutes passed before he could manage to put on his clothes. It was a warning to him not to bathe in future in the bay.

As soon as he had somewhat recovered, again taking his stick in hand he set off, as he had before intended, for the fountain. He felt much refreshed, after taking a draught of pure water and washing his face and head in it, and was sufficiently strong, he thought, to make an exploring expedition through the island, to ascertain its size, and whether he could obtain more food than the sea-shore afforded. Finding an accessible hill he toiled up it. From the summit, he obtained a view over the larger portion of the island. It was generally volcanic and barren. The hill on which he stood formed the side of a volcano, but whether active or not, he could not determine. It was destitute of vegetation, and was covered with black lava, which, from being hard and smooth, he supposed had long been exposed to the atmosphere. There were, however, level spots, in which grew a number of tropical trees, and he could see far off, a broad valley, through which a stream meandered. He looked round for signs of inhabitants, but could discover no huts or buildings of any sort, or traces of cultivation. In the far distance, round a point which ran out to the southward, beyond the spot where the Marie had been wrecked, he saw a wreath of smoke ascending through the pure air. This, he had no doubt, rose from Richard Hargrave’s fire. Descending the hill, he made his way along a valley, which was of far greater extent than the one he had just discovered near his cave. He was struck with the number of birds—some of beautiful plumage, and others resembling barn door fowls, which were running about among the trees, picking up seeds and fruits fallen from the lofty boughs. He caught sight of some small deer, but the moment they saw him, they scampered off as fleet as the wind. Further off he came upon a small herd of queer-looking pigs. They took to flight, and although Neptune made chase, they quickly distanced him. Presently he heard a chattering above his head, and looking up he saw a number of very small monkeys, grinning out at him from among the boughs. Impulsively he threw his stick at one of the nearest, but the monkey saw it coming, and quickly getting out of the way, clambered with its companions to the higher boughs, where a bullet alone could have reached it.

“There’s game enough here to support a ship’s company,” he thought; “but they only appear to tantalise me, and I may be doomed to starve in the midst of abundance.” Among the birds were numerous white cockatoos which flew over his head, but as he approached took good care to keep out of his way, while green pigeons, similar to those Neptune had brought him, were in great numbers, and evidently less timid. Some flew close to him, or remained perched on the boughs, but though he threw his stick at several, he failed to bring one down.

“I wonder that this island, like others in the neighbourhood, is not inhabited.” The thought then occurred to him that the volcano had either driven the natives away, or prevented them from occupying it, although the fertility of the valley through which he was walking showed that it was capable of supporting a tolerably numerous population.

He went on and on, interested in the objects he saw, and almost forgetting his fatigue, being able occasionally to quench his thirst at the stream along the banks of which he made his way. He cast a longing eye at several fruits hanging from the boughs of trees of the palm species, but they were all beyond his reach, and no way occurred to him of getting at them. The chief inconvenience he suffered was from the want of a hat, as the sun beat down with intense force on his head, but although he had seen Richard Hargrave wearing one, it did not occur to him that he might manufacture a similar protection. He at length remembered his white handkerchief, which he tied round his head, placing several layers of leaves beneath it, to add to its thickness. This somewhat relieved him, but did not shelter his eyes and face. At last he reached a hill of slight elevation, to the top of which he climbed. It overlooked a small picturesque bay. On the nearest point was a large mass of wreck, apparently the bows of the ship, which, when she parted, had been driven there by the current and the fury of the hurricane.

On one side, though at no great distance from the shore, was a neat hut, at which a person was working, whom he felt sure was Richard Hargrave. Neptune, on seeing him, bounded off without asking his master’s leave, and Lord Reginald, to his intense disgust, saw the dog rush up and lick the hand of his rival, who patted him, then going into the hut, quickly came out with some pieces of meat, which he gave to the dog.

The sight exasperated the young lord, so that, not considering the folly of what he was about, hurrying down the hill, he made his way towards Dick.

The latter, who had mounted a ladder to continue his work, turning his head, saw him coming, and descended to meet him.

“You scoundrel!” exclaimed the young lord, his features distorted with anger. “You are trying to entice my dog from me by giving him food, which you might at all events have had the grace to offer to me, your officer.”

“I have no wish to entice your dog from you!” answered Dick; “and I would advise you to calm your anger, and listen to reason. I sent you two pigeons I trapped, by your dog, first giving him a hearty meal, that he might not eat them on the way, and from your own lips I know that you received them, though you had not the grace to thank me, and declared that you could do very well without my assistance; so I left you to look after yourself, though I hadn’t the heart to refuse to feed your dog, when I knew you would have nothing to give him.”

“That’s false!” exclaimed Lord Reginald. “I know full well that your object was to deprive me of my dog, for the faithful animal—though his instinct induces him to take the food—managed to break away from you, and to return to me, and had you really wished to assist me you might have sent some more of those pigeons, or any other provisions you have obtained.”

“It’s of no use arguing with an angry man,” retorted Dick. “You accuse me of uttering falsehoods. Again I assure you that I have spoken but the simple truth, and say that, as you have obstinately refused my assistance, you must take the consequences.”

“Impertinent scoundrel!” cried Lord Reginald. “You dare to speak to me thus! I desire you not again to feed my dog, or to let him remain if he comes to you. He and I must forage for ourselves, and there’s game enough in the island, so I shall be able to catch as much as I require for myself and him.”

“As you please,” said Dick, turning aside, and whistling as he went on with his work, which the arrival of Lord Reginald had interrupted.

The young lord, calling Neptune, who seemed very unwilling to leave, walked off, foaming with anger, and muttering, “I must put a stop to this, or it is impossible to say what he will next do!” As he reached the top of the hill, he could not refrain from turning round, to watch the proceedings of his rival.

Dick had built a good-sized hut under the shade of a grove of trees, and had dug up the ground in an open space near it, to form a garden, which he had begun to rail in. “The fellow seems determined to make himself at home, as if he expected to live here for years to come. A low-born fellow has mechanical talents such as I don’t possess; they certainly give him an advantage over me, under the circumstances in which we are placed, but I must see what I can do for myself. My cave has only hitherto afforded me shelter, but should the wind blow strong and directly into it, I should not find it a comfortable abode. I must try and build a hut for myself. I don’t see why I shouldn’t, though it might not be so well finished as his. But there’s wreck enough on the shore for the purpose, though I shall be puzzled how to get it up. Then about providing myself with food, I’ll make a bow and arrows; I shall then be able to shoot some birds, or perhaps a deer, and occasionally a pig. Anything would be better than being beholden to that fellow. It is important that I should show how independent I am of him.”

Such thoughts occupied the young lord’s mind as he continued his walk along the valley, Neptune every now and then giving chase to a deer or a hog, but the animals scampered off, soon leaving him far behind, and on each occasion he came slinking back to his master, greatly disconcerted at his want of success.

“I see, poor fellow, you are not more likely to catch one of those creatures than I am,” he said. “We must try what we can do in some other way. We need not starve in the midst of abundance, that’s very certain.” He looked about carefully on every side for a young sapling or a tree of some flexible character of which he might form a bow, but he was too ignorant of their nature to know which to select.

“I must try them first, perhaps I shall hit upon one which will answer my purpose.”

At last he came to a small straight stem. “This will do, at all events,” he thought, and he set to work with his knife to cut it down. As the knife was blunt, he made but slow progress. Even when it was down, he would have to pare off the lower part, so as to make it of the same size as the upper. At length by cutting round and round, he made a notch of sufficient depth to enable him to break off the stem. Shouldering his prize, he walked on to the cave, which he thought would be cooler than any other spot.

Poor Nep followed him, wondering what was going to happen. On measuring the sapling he found that he might have cut it much higher up and saved himself a great deal of trouble. The bow, were he to use it of its present length, would be much too long. He had therefore to remedy this by cutting off two feet at the bottom end. He then peeled it and began shaping the stick by paring off the thicker end. He had shaped it very much to his satisfaction, before it occurred to him to try and bend the bow. What was his annoyance to find, on making the attempt, that bend it would not. It would have formed a very good lance, had he retained the full length, but it was useless for a bow. Again and again he tried to bend it. Using all his force, he felt it yield in his hand, and presently it snapped across. He threw it to the ground with an exclamation of disgust, and for a few minutes felt utterly dispirited.

“I ought to have tried it first to ascertain whether it was of the nature of the yew. Surely savages in this region use bows. There must be wood suited for the purpose, so that if I can find it, I ought to be able to make as good a bow as they can.”

While occupied he had not felt hungry, but as he began to move about, he was reminded by his sensations that he must find something to eat. He felt a dislike to making another meal off the shell-fish, but he knew that unless he should be successful in catching some bird or animal he would be compelled to do so. Neptune also showed that he was conscious of the necessity of providing for the inner man. The moment he saw his master get up, he bounded forward, leaping and frisking about to encourage him to proceed.

Poor Lord Reginald, as he walked on after the dog, felt downcast and faint. By going to Richard Hargrave and apologising for his conduct, he might have obtained all he required, but he would rather starve than do that.

As he reached the valley he saw a large number of white cockatoos and green pigeons flying about, and preparing to roost for the night.

“If I can manage to steal on some of those fellows at night, I might catch a few; that, perhaps, is the way Hargrave gets them.”

But that was a long time to wait with the possibility of not succeeding, and so Neptune thought, for he went ranging far and wide, evidently looking for food.

Going to the fountain, Lord Reginald took a draught of cold water, hoping that it might stay his hunger. Though it somewhat refreshed him, he soon became more eager than ever for food, and sat down on the bank to consider how he could possibly obtain it. In vain he had thrown sticks and stones at birds. Perhaps he might form some traps, as he knew that such means were used for catching birds, but how to construct them was the puzzle. He turned the matter over and over again in his mind, and discovered that he had no inventive genius. “I shall have to go back to the shellfish, after all,” he said, with a sigh; “but I must get a stick for a bow. I will try two or three, out of which one surely will answer the purpose.”

Weak as he was, he again got up, and searching about for the sort of wood he wanted, he fixed on a couple of saplings and the branch of a tree. He intended to make the string by untwisting some of the rope from the wreck, while there were plenty of reeds by the side of the stream which he thought would serve as arrows, though how to form heads he had not yet decided. He hoped that by working away by the light of his fire, he might get a bow finished before the morning.

He intended to test the sticks before bestowing labour on any of them, but in the mean time it was absolutely necessary to get some food, for he felt so weak that he could scarcely drag himself back to his cave. Nep was certainly of the same opinion in regard to the necessity of finding provisions, as he continued hunting round and round in all directions, occasionally stopping and barking eagerly at a monkey, which looked down at him from a high branch, or at an opossum, to one of which he gave chase, but the creature got up a tree before he could reach it, and from its hollow kept looking at the strange animal which had invaded its native domains. At last Lord Reginald saw Nep run to the top of a mound, which he observed in an open space in the wood. It appeared to be composed of sticks, dead leaves, stones, rotten wood, earth, and rubbish of all sorts. The mound was between five and six feet high, and fully twelve feet across. He thought it must be the grave of some of the aborigines who had once inhabited the island, but the dog was evidently of opinion that it contained something worth looking after, as he began scratching away with might and main, in so eager a manner, that Lord Reginald was induced to go up and ascertain what he was about.

Nep had already dug a deep hole, and on looking into it, his master saw, to his surprise and satisfaction, a number of eggs as large as those of a swan, of a red brick colour. Stooping down, he eagerly picked up one of them, which he broke and found that it was perfectly sweet. Here was a storehouse, which would supply him with an abundance of excellent food.

Having collected as many eggs as he could carry in his handkerchief, calling Nep, who seemed in no way disposed to leave the treasure, he set off for his cave. Making up his fire, he put three of his eggs under the ashes to cook, the only way he could think of to dress them, while he ate a portion of the one he had broken, which, though raw, was palatable, and contributed to allay the pangs of hunger. The remainder he gave to Nep, who eagerly gobbled it up, showing how hungry he had become.

That the eggs were laid by birds, he had no doubt, though of what species they were he was unable to determine. He resolved, however, to return next morning, and to wait near the spot, supposing that they must be large birds, and that he should be able to kill one, which would afford him ample food for a day or two. “I shall then be as well off as that fellow Hargrave,” he thought to himself, “and I at all events shall be independent of him.”

Having finished his supper, he commenced making a bow. One only of the sticks appeared suitable for the purpose. On bending it, back it sprang with considerable force. While still working away by the light of his waning fire, sleep so completely overpowered him, that he let fall his knife, and the stick of his bow by his side, while his head bent down over his breast. When he awoke, his fire was almost out, and as he could see to work no more, he crept back into his cave, where he lay down to sleep, with Nep, as usual, by his side.

Chapter Twelve.

A trying time—The fatal crash—Ben Rudall’s last effort—Among the breakers—Thrown on shore—The first shelter—The carpenter’s chest—Setting traps—A very satisfactory meal—Visit of Nep—A present for Lord Reginald—Dick building his hut—Meeting of the rival Crusoes—Supplies stopped—Collecting stores—Boat-building—Useful employment of time—Constructing a cot—The megapodes—A crossbow.

We must now go back to the night of the shipwreck. Dick, with Ben Rudall and several other men, had been stationed forward, and remained at their posts when land was first seen under the lee.

“There’ll be a watery grave for most of us,” said Ben when the cry arose of “Land, land!” often so cheering to seamen, but on the present occasion of such dreadful import.

“We must have a struggle for our lives, at all events,” said Dick. “Better than going down in mid-ocean, without a plank to cling to.”

“You don’t know what a surf like that breaking on a lee-shore under your lee can do!” observed an old salt, who stood holding on to the bulwarks with one hand, while he searched for a quid of tobacco with the other.

“They would grind up a stout ship like this in a few minutes if she strikes. It can’t be helped; I’ll take one chaw, though it may be my last, and I only wish that I could get a glass or two of grog. It would make one feel more comfortable like.”

“We can do without grog, surely,” said Dick. “It strikes me that we ought to try and keep our senses wide awake, so that we can judge of what’s best to be done. I for one shall struggle to the last, and hope to reach the beach in spite of the surf, either on a spar or a piece of wreck.”

“We arn’t wrecked yet; maybe we shall be able to run into some cove or other where we can bring up.”

“Not unless we had a pilot on board who knows the coast. From what I hear, none of the officers have ever been in these seas before, and we have little chance of dropping anchor in a safe harbour.”

The gale came down with increased fury. “Hold on, lads, for your lives!” cried Ben, who had cast one anxious look to leeward. “Keep clear of the falling masts, for before a minute is over we shall be on shore!”

Scarcely had he spoken than there came a fearful crash. The masts went by the board. The sea, with thundering roars, broke over the doomed ship. Crash succeeded crash. The shrieks of those carried away could be heard every moment. Dick kept to his resolution of clinging tightly to a stanchion. Presently came the final crash, when the Marie parted amidships, and those forward found themselves separated from their companions. The sea twisted the bow round and floated it away, but it still held together. “We shall be carried off from the land!” cried Ben Rudall. “We had better try to get hold of some spars and float ashore.”

“I thought you advised us to cling to the ship as long as she held together,” observed Dick.

“But she’s not holding together,” answered Ben. “To my mind, she’ll either go down in deep water, or go to pieces when we are too far off to reach the shore.”

Still Dick had made up his mind to stick to the ship.

“Well, mates, who’s for the shore?” cried Ben.

“Only those who are tired of life!” said the old seaman; “the wise ones will stick to the wreck. The chances are that will be cast on the beach, where we shall have a better chance of landing.”

Ben, however, still adhered to the belief that they would have a better prospect of saving their lives by clinging to some of the floating mass than by holding on to the forecastle, over which the sea was continually washing.

Several, while doubting what to do, were swept from their hold, and had no choice given them. Ben, with three others, got hold of some pieces of timber.

“If you escape and I get drowned, give my love to poor Susan and the children. Say that my last thoughts were about them,” cried Ben, as he threw himself after his companions.

Dick and the old seaman alone remained. The mass of wreck was tossed wildly about for some minutes, being swept by a current parallel to the shore, until at length, lifted by a sea, it drove on a reef, when the next sea rolling up, carried its two occupants overboard, together with several fragments of the bulwarks which it had torn off.

Striking out for his life, Dick succeeded in getting hold of a piece of timber. As he did so he heard a cry, and glancing in the direction from whence it came, he dimly saw his late companion through the gloom, lift up his arms and sink amidst the foaming waters. Dick held fast to the timber. Although not a bad swimmer, he knew that he should have but little chance of keeping afloat in that boiling cauldron. The seas washed him on nearer and nearer the shore, when just as he felt his strength failing him, he found that the timber had grounded; so letting it go he scrambled up before the next wave overtook him, and reached the dry sand, on which he threw himself, well-nigh exhausted by his exertions. Soon recovering, he looked out, in the hopes that some of his shipmates might be thrown up on the same beach, but though he for long watched anxiously, running up and down along the whole circuit of the bay, he saw no one, and came to the melancholy conclusion that all on board excepting himself had been lost.

Numerous articles, besides masses of wreck, were, however, cast on shore, and those which appeared the most valuable he made every exertion to secure. Among them was a large chest, which he hoped by its weight to have belonged to the carpenter. Though unable to haul it up beyond where the water had floated it, having found a rope he made it fast to the handle, and carried the other end to the trunk of a tree. In vain he looked out during the time, in the hope of seeing any of his shipmates coming on shore; he feared all had been drowned or washed away. At length he made out amid the foam two bodies floating at no great distance from the shore. They both appeared lashed to pieces of timber. They might still be alive.

He dashed into the water, just as the sea sent one of the pieces of wreck close to him, when seizing it he dragged it up, and instantly casting off the lashings, carried the man up to the dry beach. He then dashed forward again, and succeeded in getting hold of the spar to which the second man was lashed. It cost him much labour, and he was very nearly carried out himself, but by exerting all his strength he succeeded at length in getting the spar also up to the beach.

Cutting the man loose, he carried the body up and placed it beside that of his companion. He then set to work to try and restore the men to life, rubbing their hands and chests, but all his efforts were in vain. As far as he could tell, they were the only people who had reached the beach. He thought of poor Ben. He still had some hopes that he might have been washed on shore, but although he called his name several times, no answer was returned.

Finding that all his efforts were vain, he then got up, wishing to procure some shelter for himself during the inclement night. Observing the mizzen rigging with a piece of sail entangled among it, he cut the canvas loose, and contrived with a couple of bales and some pieces of board, to rig up a rough hut.

The storm abated and the moon shone out for a short time, enabling him to complete his work. Scarcely was it finished than down came the rain, and he was glad to crawl in and obtain rest. He slept on until morning. Immediately on getting up he went down to the beach on the chance of finding any of his companions, but no one was visible, either alive or dead. There were, however, a number of articles and masses of wreck floating or cast on shore, while the bows of the ship still hung together at the end of the reef. Hunger reminded him that he must look out for food. The trees and shrubs he saw growing inland gave him hopes of finding provision for his wants.

His first care was to form a covering for his head, as he had already found the heat of the sun excessive, and he had lost his hat during his swim ashore. He had often seen the seamen on board form straw hats. He at once looked out for such leaves as would serve the purpose of straw, and soon finding some, he sat down under a tree and diligently set to work. The fibre of the leaf served as thread, the thick stem as a needle. Certainly the hat was not over well shaped, but it answered the purpose of protecting his head and neck from the burning rays of the sun.

His next idea was to obtain such food as the sea would afford. Without difficulty he collected as many shell-fish as he required from the reef, and was returning with them when he saw a cask, which from its appearance he hoped contained biscuits. He at once rolled it up to his hut, then set about collecting wood for a fire.

He easily found a supply of dry sticks which, with some pieces of wreck, were amply sufficient for his wants. As he was collecting the sticks he was delighted to see the number of birds as well as animals inhabiting the island.

“If I can catch you fellows, I shall have no want of food,” he observed. “I must set my wits to work, and make some traps.”

A couple of large clam shells which he had found on the beach, served to carry water. He had in his pocket a flint and steel, with which he soon managed to produce a blaze. While the shell-fish were cooking, he opened the cask, which he found contained flour. Though the outside was wet, by digging down to a little depth, he found the interior perfectly dry. A clam shell served him as a kneading-dish, and he quickly made some dough cakes, which he baked in the embers. He was thus able to enjoy a very satisfactory breakfast, although he had cold water alone as a beverage. There were a number of other casks and cases, and he hoped to find among them some more flour, and perhaps some tea or coffee, and salt beef or pork.

The first thing to be done was to secure all the articles which came on the beach, before another tide should float them off. He at once set about this. It was somewhat hard work, for many of the cases were heavy, and he could with difficulty drag them over the soft sand. Having drawn up all he could see floating on the shores of the bay, he bethought him that by going further to the south, he might find others in the bay off which the ship struck.

He accordingly set out, and climbing over the intervening rocks, what was his surprise on looking down to see a person at work, whom he recognised as Lord Reginald. He at once guessed how he was employed.

“It isn’t fair to let him do that work all alone, though I’d rather have kept clear of him, and very likely he’ll not take in good part whatever offer I make,” he said to himself.

He approached, and was received as he expected. The interview has already been described. Dick felt a sincere grief when he found Ben Rudall’s body among the drowned; it was not likely that any others had escaped. The headland which extended away to the westward, would prevent any persons landing on that side, and he felt sure that Lord Reginald and he were the only people who had escaped from the wreck.

The treatment he received made him resolve not to trouble Lord Reginald in future with his company. “He’ll come to his senses by-and-by, and find out that he and I are pretty much on an equality, or rather that I have the advantage of him, as I shall be able to get on much better than he does,” thought Dick.

From the first, he saw the necessity of providing for his daily wants. He must look out for food, and erect some shelter for himself. The hut in which he had spent the first night was hot and close, and though it might serve him until he could get a better habitation erected, he was anxious to build a more substantial place to live in. He was desirous, also, without delay, to examine the large chest. It would have been a difficult task to get it beyond the reach of the sea, even should Lord Reginald have condescended to help him. He considered, therefore, how he could best do it alone. There were several broken spars about. These he collected, and managed, by digging away the sand, to place them so as to serve as rollers beneath the chest. He then picked up several blocks, with which he formed a tackle, and secured it to the stump of a tree. By hauling away with all his might, he found that he could move the chest, and by shifting the rollers by degrees he hauled it up beyond high-water mark. The next difficulty to be overcome was to get it open. He had no tools to work with, and without tools it would baffle the strength of fifty men. Looking about, however, he discovered a large flat stone which might, he hoped, serve as a wedge; after a further search he picked up another heavy round stone, and armed with these he began to work away at the lock. It resisted for some time, but by hammering away with might and main the lock yielded, and the interior, full of carpenter’s tools and numerous other articles, was revealed to his sight. He had now the means of building a comfortable house. He had been taught to handle tools by a carpenter in his younger days, and he had also—which was of great importance—often formed traps for the purpose of catching birds and animals, so that he might thus supply himself with food. He saw a number of green pigeons, which appeared very tame, and lots of cockatoos, though they looked too wise to be trapped.

Selecting such of the tools as he thought he should require, he collected a quantity of wood, and took them up to the shade of the nearest tree, where he could work in tolerable comfort. In a short time he had formed three traps, similar to those made by boys in England to catch sparrows, but of much larger dimensions.

Having picked up a quantity of seed fallen from the trees, for bait, he set them in different places apart, where from a distance he could command a sight of them. He watched eagerly, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing one go down, and directly afterwards the other two. He ran up to secure his prizes. Each had caught a pigeon, and wringing their necks he reset the traps, and returned to his tree. Some dry fungus served him for tinder. Having his flint and steel, he struck a spark and soon had a fire blazing. He plucked one of the pigeons and set it on to roast, considering that it would be sufficient for one meal, and intending to keep the other two. He then made some dough cakes, which he cooked as before, on a large stone surrounded by ashes. He had begun his meal when he saw Nep ranging in the distance. He called the dog to him, and observing his hungry look, gave him the remainder of the pigeon and some dough cake. The dog, having eaten what was bestowed upon him, looked still anxious.

“I see what it is; you are thinking of your master, old fellow. Now you take back that bird. He is probably very hungry, and you may tell him I sent it, if you like. I don’t suppose he will refuse to eat it, even if he knows where it comes from. Now mind, Nep, don’t you stop on the way and bolt it down, or I shall be obliged to give you a thrashing when you come back.”

Nep seemed fully to understand what he was to do. Taking the bird up with as much care as if it were alive, he set off in the direction of the cave.

“He’ll do it,” said Dick, well satisfied with himself. “I couldn’t bear to have him starve, while I am enjoying an ample meal. The chances are that he hasn’t got the sense to obtain anything for himself. Nep might be able to catch some animals for him, but he won’t succeed in getting hold of a bird.”

Dick felt much more satisfied with himself after this. He now began to consider how he could make himself comfortable. While setting his traps he had observed several trees which bore fruit, and he therefore felt convinced he should be able to obtain as much food as he required, besides any fish he might catch. On searching the carpenter’s chest, he found a number of hooks of all sizes, together with some fine line, so that he might go out fishing as soon as he had time. Several of the bales consisted of cotton or linen cloth, and another prize was a box belonging to one of the officers, which contained clothes, shoes, some nautical instruments, a spyglass, and several books, which, although they were in French, were better than none at all, as he might by their means teach himself that language.

Having collected all the wood which had drifted ashore from the wreck, he dragged it up by means of his tackle, and he had soon enough to build a small hut. He lost no time in making a commencement. The tropical rains, he thought, might soon begin, and it was important to get under shelter before then. He settled to build his hut in such a way that he might increase its size as he could procure more materials. At present his plan was to build the frame of drift wood, and then to cover it over with planks, for which he might cut down trees and saw them up into boards.

For some time, however, his progress was slow, as he was compelled to look out for provisions. For this purpose he had to form several more traps, as sometimes whole days passed without those he had at first set catching a bird. Neptune paid him another visit, and he sent a second pigeon by the dog to Lord Reginald. Remembering that several articles had been thrown up on the beach of the smaller bay on which Lord Reginald had been cast, he thought that he would ascertain if there were any things worth having among them. He set off, therefore, armed with a stick for this purpose. He was going along the beach, eagerly looking out for whatever he could draw on shore, when he saw Lord Reginald engaged in burying the midshipman.

The coldness with which his overtures were received made him determine to leave Lord Reginald to his own devices.

“He’ll soon find out how well he can get on alone,” he said to himself, and turning on his heel he went back to his hut. “If the foolish fellow chooses to starve, there’s no reason why the poor dog should. If he comes, I’ll do my best to feed him, at all events.”

Dick had now plenty of work before him. His spirits rose as he laboured away, and he made good progress with his hut. It was almost fit for occupation. As long as he could procure nourishing food without difficulty, he devoted himself without interruption to the work. Neptune paid his visits as before, and Dick fed him well, but would give him no food to carry to his master.

“No, no,” he said; “he boasts that he can feed himself, let him do so. If he starve, that’s not my look-out, but you, poor brute, deserve being cared for.” At length, to Dick’s surprise, Lord Reginald made his appearance. At first Dick hoped he had come with overtures of peace, but the young lord’s haughty bearing and outrageous remarks convinced him that there was little hope of their living on amicable terms together.

“Let him go and live by himself as best he can,” said Dick. “I should have liked to have had a companion, but I would rather be without one than be compelled to associate with so ill-tempered a fellow as he is.” And he went on boring holes and hammering on the planks of his house. Next day Nep made his appearance, begging for food, which Dick gave him, but though he had several pigeons, he would not send one by him.

Nep stayed on, hoping to get it, but Dick was determined that the young lord should be made to feel his own helplessness. “If he want food for himself, he must come and ask for it,” he said; “he chose to despise my former presents, and I intend to teach him which is the best man of the two.”

Dick soon got his hut roofed in, so that should rain come on, he would be under shelter. He had still to make furniture for it, and to build a storehouse and other conveniences.

Before commencing these operations, he bethought him of the best means of securing a supply of provisions, so that he need not be interrupted in his work.

During two or three excursions he had made through the valley, he had seen the number of birds and animals inhabiting it. The pigs, he thought, he could catch in pitfalls, though it might be a task of some difficulty without an iron spade to dig them in hard ground, but he was not to be daunted, and he determined to form some instrument with which to accomplish his purpose.

Then he thought, “I ought to have a canoe to go out fishing, while the fine weather lasts.” As he wandered about, he looked out for a tree to suit his purpose. He found one of sufficient girth and length, with a perfectly straight trunk, though whether the nature of the wood was suitable for a canoe, he could not ascertain, except by cutting it down. He had often felled trees at home, but without an axe he could do nothing. He went back to the carpenter’s chest, in the hopes of finding one. Searching among the tools, at the bottom he discovered three spare heads. He had, however, to fix a handle to one of them. The first thing to be done was to find a piece of wood suited for the purpose. After hunting for some time, he discovered a piece of oak, washed ashore from the wreck. On measuring it, he ascertained that it was large enough to form three handles. Before, however, he could use a saw to his satisfaction, he considered that it would be necessary to form a stool, which he did from a piece of plank, with four stout legs fixed in the ground, close to his hut. He could now shape the handles without difficulty. Having sawn out one, he set to work with chisel and plane, and quickly formed a long handle which pleased him well. Fixing it securely in the axe-head, he poised it, and found that it was all he could desire.

Throwing off his jacket and waistcoat, rolling up his shirt sleeves, and fastening a handkerchief round his waist, he set to work, and began chopping away at the trunk of the tree, on the lee side, so that, the last stroke being given on the weather side, it might fall without fear of crushing him. He laboured away without cessation until he had cut through nearly half the tree, when his arms began to ache. He stopped, retiring to a little distance to contemplate his work. “Another two hours will do it, and I should like to get it down before dark,” he exclaimed.

The wood was tolerably soft. This gave him hopes that he should be able to shape it without difficulty. His first idea had been to form only a fishing punt, which would enable him to go off a short distance from the land, or to visit the various bays in the island, where fish might abound. But as he considered the size of the tree, he thought it might be as well to construct one large enough to cross to any of the islands to the northward, which he knew to exist in that direction. For some thirty feet the trunk was almost of the same circumference. By adding weather boards, and decking over a portion of the stern and head, he might form a boat of a size sufficient to venture on a long voyage.

After resting himself, he again set to work, until he had cut into the heart of the tree. Having penetrated deeply into the tree on the lee side, he now stood on the weather side, and prepared to give the finishing strokes. After every stroke, he watched to see in which direction the tree was bending, that he might spring out of the way, in an opposite one to which it tended. At length, the wood began to crack, and the tall tree hung over on the side he expected. He plied his axe with redoubled vigour, when, tottering for a moment, down it came with a crash, making the earth around tremble, and throwing up a cloud of dust and leaves. He uttered a shout of satisfaction as he saw the first part of his work accomplished. In his eagerness, he would have begun shaping it out immediately, but darkness had come on, and prevented him from working. He had been so engaged, that he had forgotten all about his food. Hurrying to his traps, he found a couple of pigeons, which he hastily plucked, and, having made up his fire, put on to roast. While they were cooking, he kneaded some small dough cakes.

“I wish that foolish fellow had more sense; I would gladly have given him some of these,” he thought. “The chances are he hasn’t been able to kill anything. Hunger, however, will perhaps bring him to his senses, and I shall have him here begging. I can’t have the heart to refuse him, though he ought to be made to feel his own helplessness.” Having finished his supper, Dick hung up the other bird, and put away his cakes for breakfast, that he might set to work as soon as it was daylight.

He had not hitherto formed a bed-place for himself, being content to sleep on the ground, with some canvas and cloth from one of the bales, which he had first well dried in the sun, for a covering. Being very tired, he lay down, but fancied that he felt creatures crawling over him, so he resolved to make a cot before the next night, that he might sleep more comfortably. He had noticed some palm needles and a quantity of twine in the carpenter’s chest, which would be of great service. He awoke before daylight, but afraid of losing time, he remained awake, thinking over his plans, until he saw the first gleams of dawn breaking in the eastern sky. He then at once rose and went down to the beach to take a bath, splashing about all the time he was in the water, and looking out seawards, in case of sharks or other dangerous creatures being near. Thoroughly refreshed, he returned on shore. Having dressed, he went back to his hut to commence his work for the day. He was so eager to get his boat finished that he would at once have begun on that, but there were other things of more immediate importance. The first was to see that his traps were properly set, as he knew that he was more likely to catch birds in the morning when they came down to feed, than at other times in the day. It took him, however, some time to collect the nuts and other fallen fruits on which the birds fed. As he was thus employed, he counted several different species, mostly of beautiful plumage, while a number of monkeys played on the boughs above his head, chattering furiously, as if to ask him where he came from.

“If the birds fly away, I shall be able to catch some of you fellows, at all events,” he said, looking up at them. “I have heard say that some people do eat monkeys, though I would rather have any other meat. I’d sooner have one of those deer or hogs I see scampering away there; though, as I have not much chance of finding a gun and powder, I must make a crossbow and arrows. I used to shoot pretty well with one; if I can get the right sort of wood I have no doubt I could make one that would carry fifty yards or so, and I dare say that I should be able to kill some of those fellows, by lying in ambush, or creeping up to them. I’m sure, at all events, that I can knock over as many monkeys as I require.” Having set his traps, he ate the remainder of his pigeon and some of the dough cakes, which he washed down with a draught of pure water.

He then began on his cot. He might have made a hammock with far less difficulty, but it would require more space to hang than his hut afforded, and would not be altogether so comfortable as a cot.

With two long poles and two short ones for the head and foot, he formed a framework, to which he secured canvas. Then fastening on the knittles, he secured a couple of blocks to the rafters of the hut, and thus formed a satisfactory sleeping-place.

With some of the cloth he made a pillow and mattress, which he stuffed with dried leaves, while another piece of cloth served as a coverlid of sufficient thickness for that climate. “I shall want a table and stool, and I must see if I can find any plates and dishes, mugs, or a saucepan.” He very soon had fallen into the habit of talking to himself.

The day was wearing on. He had seen nothing of Lord Reginald nor of Neptune. He was surprised that the dog had not paid him a visit, but concluded that he had found sufficient food for himself and his master, or that he would certainly have done so. Dick accordingly began to plan his canoe. He had found pencils and paper in the well-stored carpenter’s chest. He drew the proposed shape of the stem and stern. His chief doubt was about the length. He finally settled to make the canoe thirty feet long. The tree was upwards of four feet in diameter. He proposed to make the gunwale two feet above this by raising it all round, and he thus hoped to get a craft of sufficient beam to carry cargo and go through a considerable amount of sea. He had the whole plan more clearly defined in his own mind than he could have designed it on paper. His first business was to chop off the bark and to saw the two ends even; then to level one side of the tree, cutting off rather more than one-third. On the level thus formed, he drew a line from one end to the other, carefully measuring it so that both sides might be equal. He next marked off from his drawing the shape of the bow and stern. By the time these operations were completed it was again night. He determined that nothing except what was absolutely necessary should stop him until he could finish it. He intended to fix on a keel and stern, so that the boat might carry sail. While on board the Wolf, he had often heard the warrant officers discuss the best form of boat. The carpenter described the canoes in those seas with outriggers, which would prevent them upsetting. Dick had comprehended the object of these; indeed, the carpenter had shown him some prints in Captain Cook’s voyages, which enabled him still better to understand the use of such contrivances. Though Dick was highly proud of his proposed craft, he was fully sensible of the importance of procuring food.

Next morning when he went to his traps, he found that no birds had been taken. He concluded that, seeing so many of their companions caught, the rest had become wary, but he saw many others of different species, which he hoped either to trap or shoot. To do this he must manufacture his proposed crossbow. Without loss of time, taking an axe and saw with him, he set out in search of the necessary wood, for none of that from the wreck was likely to answer the purpose. He went on through the broad valley, until he arrived at the smaller one, in which was the spring whence Lord Reginald procured his supply of water. He looked out, but could see nothing of either the young lord or his dog. As he passed through the wood, he observed several birds; they had large feet and long curved claws, and were about the size of a small barn-door fowl. Their plumage was mostly of a dark olive colour, with tints of brown on the other parts. They were busily employed in eating fallen fruits, and picking up worms and insects, running about here and there at a great rate. Curious to observe them, he hid himself behind a tree, when he saw some, evidently hens, hopping to the top of a large mound, where having scraped away the earth to a considerable depth, they each deposited an egg, covering it up again with the greatest care.

“Oh, oh!” thought Dick, “if your eggs are fit to eat, I shall have a good store of provision,” and going to the mound he soon shovelled away the earth, beneath which he found a good number of eggs. These he deposited carefully in a handkerchief, wrapping them up with leaves, to prevent them breaking.

The birds were a species of megapode, which are found chiefly in Australia and Borneo and the intermediate islands. They are allied to the gallinaceous birds but differ from them in never sitting upon their eggs, which, thus buried in vegetable rubbish, are left to be hatched by heat and fermentation. It is said that a number of birds unite in forming these mounds, and lay their eggs together, but take no further care of their offspring. As soon as the little birds are hatched, they run away from the mound, and at once begin picking up food suitable to them, trusting to their speed to escape from their foes. Dick, of course, knew nothing of this, but was well satisfied at finding so large a supply of fresh-laid eggs. He was also not aware that it was the very mound from which Lord Reginald had obtained the only food, besides shell-fish, he had been able to procure since his arrival in the island. Dick would certainly not otherwise have carried them off. Reaching the sea-shore, he turned back, for fear of encountering Lord Reginald, as he had no wish to have another interview with one who received his advances so ill.

“I suppose that he will manage to kill or trap some of those birds for himself,” he thought, “or, if he is hard up, that he’ll come back and ask my assistance. Meantime I must see what I can do for myself.” After hunting about and trying a number of trees, he selected four branches of wood, on which he meant to try experiments to ascertain which was most suited for a crossbow. The stock and string he would have no difficulty in forming. He had the whole plan clearly in his head, and now he had got the eggs, which would last him for two or three days, he was in no hurry to finish it. He found a piece of deal, which could be easily worked, and he immediately commenced cutting it into shape, using his saw, plane, and chisel. The first piece of wood he tried for the bow broke. He had to take another, which bent easily enough, but had not sufficient spring. With the third he was more successful, and was fully satisfied that it would answer his purpose. He formed a string by twisting several lengths of twine tightly together, and he found that he could send a bolt of wood between thirty and forty yards. By the light of his fire he worked away until late in the night, when he was compelled from sleepiness to turn into his cot, with which he was well pleased. It formed a comfortable couch, and neither crabs, nor beetles, nor centipedes, nor other creeping things came near him. Still, he could not go to sleep. His thoughts constantly reverted to the poor young lord, who was resting in his cavern with dry sand, or a bed of leaves, at best, for his couch.

“Though he treats me with disdain, I ought not in consequence to allow him to perish. He is proud and obstinate, but, of course, he hasn’t liked the way I have spoken to him. I hope to-morrow morning he’ll think better of it, and will come to me for assistance, or will send Neptune. It is hard that the poor dog should starve because his master and I have fallen out.”

Notwithstanding these thoughts which passed through Dick’s mind, he did not feel inclined just then to set out in search of Lord Reginald. After thinking over what he would say to him if they met, satisfied with his good intentions, he fell asleep.

Chapter Thirteen.

Seeking food—Disappointed—Shaping a bow—Reduced to extremity—Poor Nep in disgrace—Fever—How Dick fared—The crossbow bolt—A curing-house—Neptune’s appeal for help—Dick turns nurse—All but lost—A change of quarters—Lord Reginald’s delirium—Finding juicy fruit—The recognition.

Lord Reginald awoke with aching head and confused brain. For some time he lay unable to collect his scattered thoughts. At length he remembered how he had been engaged on the previous evening. He saw the bow he was trying to form, by his side, and Neptune lying down at his feet, keeping watch. As soon as the dog observed that his master was awake, he got up and licked his hands and face, trying to arouse him.

“I see you want food; so do I,” said Lord Reginald, sitting up. “When I have finished the bow we shall have plenty. In the mean time, we must get a supply of those eggs we found the other day.” He tried, as he spoke, to rise. With some exertion he got on his feet, but felt scarcely able to walk. Taking his stick, however, he managed to totter out of the cave. The fresh air of the early morning somewhat revived him, and, followed by Neptune, he made his way towards the curious mound in which he had found the eggs. He felt very giddy, and could scarcely drag his legs along. The necessity of obtaining food, however, compelled him to proceed. Nep kept by his side, looking up into his face, and wondering why he didn’t move faster. He had great difficulty in climbing to the top of the mound, and nearly sank down in the attempt. At length he succeeded, when Nep ran forward and began scratching away as he had done before. Lord Reginald, sinking to the ground, watched him. “It appears to me as if some one has visited the place since I was last here,” he thought.

Nep continued scratching away, but no eggs appeared. As Nep at length enlarged the hole, three eggs were disclosed to sight. Lord Reginald broke one of them, and cast it from him with disgust, for it contained a nearly formed bird. Nep, not being so particular as his master, supposing it was intended for him, without ceremony at once gobbled it up. The second and the third egg were in the same condition. Nep took them also as his share, and afterwards went on scratching away, apparently hoping to find more. Lord Reginald was too weak to help him.

“That fellow Hargrave has been here, and carried off all the sound eggs, leaving only these few for the sake of tantalising me,” he exclaimed in a bitter tone.

After Neptune had scratched over the whole top of the mound, Lord Reginald, finding that he had no chance of obtaining any eggs from it, made his way with tottering steps towards the fountain, at which he and Neptune, as usual, quenched their thirst. It seemed to him, that he could never drink enough to allay the burning fever which raged within him. Neptune ranged about, and showed a great inclination to set off in the direction of Richard Hargrave’s hut, but Lord Reginald called him back, jealous of the regard he paid to his rival.

“If you play me that trick, master Nep, I shall tie you up. Remember, I will have no paying court to that fellow,” he cried out.

The dog came back with his tail between his legs, looking as if he would answer, “It will be your loss, master, but I obey you.”

Greatly refreshed by the water, Lord Reginald found that he had sufficient strength to get to the beach. He managed, not without difficulty, to cut off from the rocks a further supply of clams, with which he returned to his cave. He made up his fire, and dressed some of them. Nep watched him, showing that the eggs had not sufficiently satisfied his hunger. It was with difficulty, however, when cooked, that, hungry as he was, Lord Reginald could eat any of the shell-fish. Even had he been in full health and strength, such food was not sufficient, without vegetables, either to satisfy his hunger or keep him in health.

“There, Nep,” he said, throwing the remainder to his dog, “they’ll suit you better than they do me.”

Nep ate them up, and then came and lay down by his master’s side.

“I must try and get this bow finished, old dog. We will then try and procure some venison, or one of those hogs, if I cannot manage to shoot a bird,” he said.

He took up the stick he had been forming into a bow, and worked away as he had done on the previous night, but he had blunted his knife in cutting off the clams from the rocks, and had no means of sharpening it effectually. He tried to do so on a flat piece of rock, and then on the sole of his shoe, but after an attempt he found that it was very little sharper than before. He discovered, indeed, that he was ignorant of the way to sharpen a knife, as he was of most other arts.

At length, however, the bow was finished in a rough fashion, with a notch at each end to hold the string, which had now to be formed. He had first to untwist a piece of rope, then to divide it into small strands, and to twist them up again by means of a winch, which he manufactured like those he had seen on board. The string was much thicker than he wished to make it, but he could not otherwise give it sufficient strength. At last that was finished, and fitted to the bow. He had still the arrows to make. He remembered the reeds he had seen growing by the side of the stream, and rising with difficulty, he dragged himself along, supported by his stick, until he reached the spot. He selected a few of the requisite size and length, but with his blunt knife it took him a long time even to cut one, and his strength was almost exhausted before he had collected half a dozen. With these he returned to the cave.

The wings of the pigeons which Nep had left supplied him with feathers, which he bound on to one end. His difficulty was to form points. At first he thought that he could grind down some stones into the required shape, but after labouring away for some time, he had to give up the attempt. He then tried some hard pieces of wood, which he cut into shape and then hardened in the fire. Though not so heavy as he wished, he hoped that they might answer his purpose, and enable him to shoot straight for some distance. He had been all day without food except such shell-fish as he had taken in the morning, and he felt little able to draw his bow with any effect. As soon as he had finished his first arrow he got up, and placing it in the string, shot it along the shore. The arrow took a wavering flight, and flew some fifty yards or so, burying itself in the sand. Nep got up to it, barking with delight, while Lord Reginald crawled after it. On pulling it out, he found to his excessive vexation that the head had come off, and some time was expended in digging it out. Observing that he had not formed a sufficiently deep notch to bind it on tightly, he remedied the error, and was tolerably well satisfied with the result. Having finished the other five arrows, he set out, hoping to return with an ample supply of food. If he could but kill one deer, or a pig, or two or three birds, he would have sufficient to feed both himself and Neptune. The sun was still hot, but in his eagerness he thought little about it, and dragged himself along, hoping soon to see something at which to aim.

He would not have disdained even a monkey, if he could kill nothing else. He first made his way to the spring, where he had to quench his burning thirst. He then crawled on until he reached a tree, behind which he stood, hoping that some animal might come by at which he might take a steady aim. He waited and waited, however, in vain. He saw several deer in the distance, but they bounded along far out of range of his bow. At last he saw two hogs come grunting up, turning up the ground with their snouts in search of roots. They approached slowly. Trembling with eagerness, hoping that he might be able to kill one of them, he kept the arrow in the string, ready to shoot. The hogs came on moving from one side to the other, till they had got to within about thirty yards of it, when, fearing that they might suddenly turn off away from the tree, and sure that he could send his arrow to that distance, steadying himself as well as he could, he bent his bow. The arrow flew from the string, but though it struck the hog with a force which made the creature squeak, it glanced off from its thick hide, and both the animals, looking round, scampered away at a rate which made it hopeless to attempt overtaking them. Lord Reginald, however, getting ready another arrow, shot it, but it missed both hogs, who escaped, whisking their tails. He followed to pick up the arrows. Neither of them was broken. He next tried his skill at a cockatoo, but the arrow glanced against a bough, and the bird flew away with a scream of derision,—so poor Lord Reginald thought it. He was equally unsuccessful when aiming at some green pigeons. He had lost five of the arrows, and was almost in despair, when he caught sight of a monkey. He fixed the last arrow to the string and took as he thought a steady aim, but the monkey gave a nimble skip, and went chattering away to a distance, as if fully aware of the evil intended him, while the bow, as it sprang back again, gave a crack, and to Lord Reginald’s dismay he found that it was broken. He dashed it down to the ground.

“Unfortunate being that I am!” he exclaimed. “Surrounded by plenty, I am doomed to starve.” The agitation of his feelings almost overcame him. “I must depend in future for subsistence on the shell-fish, the very taste of which I abhor.”

With difficulty he staggered towards the cave; that would at all events afford him shelter at night. On the way he stopped to drink at the spring, and fill a large clam-shell which he had previously carried there with water. He could scarcely, however, carry it along without spilling the contents. He at last reached his cave. On looking around he discovered that Neptune was not with him. “The dog has gone off to that fellow Hargrave, for food. I’ll take care that he doesn’t go again. He ought to be satisfied with what I can get,” he exclaimed.

Putting down his shell he crawled towards the rocks, and cut off a few clam-shells, sufficient for his supper. He guessed that Nep would not require any. He then made up his fire with the few sticks he had remaining. He was about to throw his bow, which had caused him so much labour, on the top of it, when it occurred to him that by binding it tightly round with string, he might make it stronger than before.

He wisely determined to do this. He had just finished eating his supper when Nep appeared.

“You ungrateful dog!” exclaimed Lord Reginald. “You have been tempted off by my enemy. I’ll take care that you don’t go again,” and fastening a piece of rope to the animal’s collar, he secured it to a portion of the wreck, which had been thrown up not far from the mouth of the cave.

Poor Nep looked very much surprised at the way he was treated, but accustomed to obey, he lay down with his face between his paws, while Lord Reginald retired into the cave and threw himself on the ground. While actively engaged, he had for a time thrown off the painful sensation caused by fever, but the terrible disease had now a firm grip on him. His head and limbs ached, his throat burned. Though he drank and drank again from the water which he had brought in the clam-shell, no quantity seemed to assuage his thirst. He was unable to sleep for a moment, tossing about, now rolling on one side, now on the other, and often crying out in the intensity of his sufferings that death might relieve him.

Thus the night passed by. Day came, but brought no cessation of the fever, which rather increased than diminished. All day long he lay racked by pain on the cold sand. A mournful howl reached his ears, and he saw Neptune straggling to release himself from the rope which held him. He attempted to rise and set his dog free, but his strength was gone, and he sank back again, unable to crawl from the spot.

He thought of home, of his mother and sisters, and of his father, always kind and indulgent to him, whom he would never see again. The recollection of his numberless sinful acts came with fearful force into his mind. “No hope, no hope!” he muttered, as he clenched his hands. “What would I now give for a few weeks, or even days, to redeem the past? That lad Hargrave, whom I tore from his home and ill treated, whose life I took a pleasure in making miserable; he would not forgive me, even if I asked him; and should he discover me he would exult over my sufferings.”

Such were the thoughts which passed through his brain. Often he groaned with pain, and when at length he had exhausted every drop of water, the fever seemed to increase, and he felt himself growing weaker and weaker. He almost wished that he had shared the fate of Voules and the rest of his companions, and had been drowned before he reached the shore. He had had a few days of grace granted him, but he had made no use of them. Instead of trying to be reconciled to his enemy, he had treated him with haughtiness and contempt. In vain he endeavoured to pray,—confusion of mind, brought on by fever, prevented him from collecting his thoughts, and all sorts of fearful phantoms passed before him. Again he was on the deck of the Marie, surrounded by the dead and dying, when he saw as clearly as if they had been present, the distorted features of the privateersmen struck down by the cutlasses of his crew, and the reports of pistols and clash of steel sounded in his ears. Then once more the tempest was raging, and the sounds of the seas dashing over the ship, the wind howling amid the rigging, the sails flapping wildly from the yards, the creaking timbers, the cries of the crew, were again heard. He attempted to shout to issue his orders, but his voice failed him; not a word could he utter. Sometimes he fancied that he could hear his own voice, at others that it was Nep’s loud howls which broke the silence. Another night passed away, and a second morning came. Only a person who had played no tricks with his constitution could have endured what the young lord passed through.

He was fully aware at times that he was dying, that unless assistance came he could not survive many hours. He stretched out his hand towards the clam-shell which had contained his stock of water, but it was empty. His tongue felt like a hot burning coal in his mouth. He closed his eyes from very weakness. How long he had thus remained he could not tell, when he was aware that Neptune was licking his hands and face. He had just sense enough left to know that it was his dog, though by what means the animal had got free he could not divine. He heard the faithful creature moan and whine round him and lie down by his side. The little strength he had was rapidly decreasing, and he soon lost all consciousness.

In a very different position was Richard Hargrave. With wholesome food and abundance of employment, he retained his health and strength, and his mind had no time to dwell on his forlorn condition. At break of day he rose from his comfortable bed, and kneeling down, said his prayers as he had been wont to do at his mother’s knees when a child. He then got up, and considered to what he had best first turn his hand.

Not far off from the hut was the log which he was anxious to shape into a canoe, and on his bench in the verandah lay his crossbow, nearly finished, only requiring a few touches to make it perfect, the most important being the arrangement of the lock, that he might let the bolt fly immediately he touched the spring. This done he set to work to form some bolts. The shafts were easily manufactured, but the bolt heads required more time. Hunting in the carpenter’s chest he discovered a ladle and a quantity of lead. He then searched about for some clay for forming moulds. He remembered the white appearance of the bank of the stream at a certain spot, and hastening to it, he found, greatly to his satisfaction, that it was composed of exactly the clay suited for his purpose. He soon returned with a sufficient supply to form a mould, hoping to be able to make it of a proper shape with a stem to fit into the shaft. By boring a hole into the stem he was able to secure it with wire firmly to the wood. To give the bolt a sharp point he fixed a large nail ground fine, in the centre of the lead, thus obtaining sufficient weight and sharpness for his object. Although this bolt might be blunted should it strike a bone, yet it was well calculated to pierce the thin skin of a deer, which, from the size of the island, should it only be wounded, he would be certain to find again by tracing the blood stains on the grass.

Having formed half a dozen bolts in the way which has been described, he set off on his first hunting expedition. He had not gone far, when a herd of small deer—the only species which existed in the island—came in sight. He had observed on former occasions that when he got to the windward of them they invariably scampered off to a distance, and although no hunter, suspecting the cause, he determined to try and get near them by creeping up from an opposite direction. Hiding himself as much as possible behind the trees and bushes, he made his way towards the herd, making a long circuit until he got well to leeward. Then stooping down he crawled gradually forward, stopping every now and then when he saw their heads turned towards him, but they still continued cropping the grass and the leaves of the bushes and lower branches of the trees. At last he got to within thirty yards of one of the herd, which had separated from its companions. He stood almost breathless, eager to shoot, and yet afraid of missing. He let fly his bolt, which entered the breast of the animal. It staggered for a moment, then turning round, set off with the rest of the herd along the valley. He was provoked at not having killed it at once, for he knew that if often hunted the creatures would grow wild, and he would have great difficulty in getting up to them. He, however, eager to secure the deer, set off running, keeping it in sight. At first the wounded deer went almost as fast as its companions, until it gradually slackened its speed, leaving a long red trail, which grew thicker and thicker, to mark its course. It was soon left behind by the rest of the herd; still it struggled on, until at length Dick saw it stagger, then turn round and finally sink to the ground. He hurried forward, and with a seaman’s sheath-knife, which he had found among the things in the carpenter’s chest, he quickly put an end to its sufferings.

The deer was so small that Dick, whose shoulders were pretty broad, was able to carry home his prize. His wish was to preserve as much of it as possible. He reflected that, as there were only a certain number of deer on the island, were he and Lord Reginald to remain there any length of time, the whole might be destroyed. Had he possessed salt, he would have been able to pickle the venison, for there were plenty of tubs for the purpose. Though he knew very well that he could obtain salt, yet the flesh of the deer would have become uneatable long before he could get a sufficient quantity. He had read somewhere of a mode of preserving the flesh of animals by drying it in the sun, and he had also seen his mother smoke bacon, so he determined to try both these ways. The preserved meat might also be of the greatest use, should he determine to sail away from the island in the canoe he was about to build.

On reaching home, for such his hut was to him, he set to work to skin and cut up the deer. He then lighted a fire, and put a shoulder and leg on to roast, that he might at all events preserve this much, should his experiments fail. A portion of the remainder he cut into thin strips, which he hung up to a cross-pole, supported on two forked sticks. He had great faith, however, in his plan for smoking venison. As there was clay near at hand, he mixed a quantity with grass, and quickly built up a square tower, with an entrance below and rafters across it, and a wooden roof. As he knew that it would be necessary to have a draught to keep up the fire, he formed tunnels under the tower.

He had now his curing-house complete. He worked very hard, as he was aware that the flesh would very rapidly become uneatable. Having hung up the remainder, he placed a fire inside, piled up with green wood, which burnt slowly, producing a large amount of smoke. Not until he had done this did he—hungry as he was—fall to on the venison. Scarcely had he put a morsel in his mouth than he thought of Lord Reginald.

“I wonder whether he has been able to procure any food like this,” he said to himself. “If not it will go hard with him, for although shell-fish may do very well for a short time, with nothing else to live on they would prove very unwholesome. However, I suppose he will come to his senses by-and-by. If he makes his appearance, I shall be glad to offer some to him. Fancy the proud young gentleman coming, hat in hand, and asking for a slice of venison! I wonder poor Nep doesn’t show himself, as before, to get a meal. I should have thought his instinct would have induced him to come. Surely his master cannot be so cruel as to keep him back, unless he has found plenty of food for him.”

Such thoughts occupied Dick’s mind while he ate a hearty meal, the most abundant he had enjoyed since the shipwreck. He had just finished, and having hung up the remainder of the roast meat, was about to add more fuel to the fire in his curing-house, when by chance looking up the valley, he saw Neptune scampering rapidly along towards him.

“Oh, oh! knowing old fellow! He’s found out there’s something to eat in this direction,” said Dick. “He shall have it, too, and willingly would I give it to his master.”

As Neptune drew near, Dick was surprised to observe a piece of rope round his neck, and a part trailing on the ground two or three feet in length. In a minute Nep was up to him, licking his hand. Dick was at once struck with his woebegone, starved appearance; the very countenance of the dog seemed changed; there was even an expression of melancholy in his eye, which spoke as much as words could have done. Dick examined the rope, which was a pretty thick one, such as Neptune, strong as he might be, could not have broken. The end, he was convinced, had been gnawed through.

“Now, if that young lord hasn’t had the barbarity to tie up the dog, to prevent its coming to me,” he exclaimed. “He deserves to starve, and I suspect he and the dog have been doing that for some days, or Nep would not look so thin and miserable,” and he returned to his larder, followed by Nep, who ravenously bolted the pieces of meat which he gave him.

The dog, though he had had a good meal, did not seem content, but evidently wished to convey some intelligence to his entertainer. He first ran off in the direction of the cave, and then seeing that Dick did not follow, came back and uttered a low bark; then away again he went, almost immediately to return, when he seized Dick by the trousers, evidently wishing him to accompany him, and then looked up at him in an imploring manner, which could not be misunderstood.

“I suppose Lord Reginald is ill, or has met with some accident, and the dog wants me to go and help him. Well, I ought to do it, there’s no doubt about that,” said Dick, moving a few paces in the direction the dog had taken. On this Nep uttered a bark indicative of his satisfaction, coming back and licking Dick’s hand, then running on again. Dick had no longer any doubt that Nep was anxious to take him to his master, and he set off at a rapid rate, while Nep bounded away before him, uttering the same sort of bark as before, to hurry him on.

“The poor fellow may be dying,” thought Dick, his kindly feelings overcoming all sense of the injuries he had received. “The sooner I get to him the better, or I may be too late to render him any help.”

On this, greatly to Nep’s delight, he began to run as fast as he could, leaping over the fallen trees, allowing no impediment to stop him. He stopped for a moment to pick some juicy fruit resembling limes, which grew on a tree in his path, on which Nep came back and gave another pull at his trousers, as if fearing that he was going to stop. On passing the fountain he found a large clam-shell, which had evidently been left there by some one. He expected every moment to find Lord Reginald stretched on the ground, dead or dying, but Nep still kept on until he reached the sea-shore. He then saw the dog enter the cavern. At first he felt unwilling to follow, but Nep quickly rushed out again, and once more seizing his trousers, pulled away until Dick showed that he understood him. On going in he perceived in the dim light the unfortunate young nobleman extended on the sand, in a stupor so nearly resembling death that he started back in horror, fully believing that his spirit had already fled.

Fearful, indeed, had been the effect of the fever. The expression of his handsome features was changed, his countenance had assumed the hue of death. His eyes, half closed and fixed, had lost all signs of intelligence. His lips were parched and burning. His hair, tangled and disordered, hung in masses over his fine brow.

Dick, on kneeling down, felt greatly relieved on discovering that he still breathed, though unconscious of his approach. He lifted the young nobleman’s hand. The palm was dry and burning. In an instant, forgetful of the enmity which existed between himself and the unhappy sufferer, he bitterly regretted that he had not, when he came to his hut, attempted to gain his good will. He remembered that once when a child he himself had been attacked by a fever, which had brought him to the brink of the grave; he had then received the greatest kindness from the marchioness, who had brought delicious grapes from the hot-house, and ices, which had, his mother always told him, done much to preserve his life.

“If he had treated me ten times worse than he has done, I ought to endeavour to do my best to attend to his wants,” said Dick.

As he thought of this, he endeavoured to raise the head of the sufferer, who uttered a sound in so mournful and low a tone that Dick could not at first understand him, but on bending over him, he caught the single word “water.” Dick looked eagerly round, the shell was empty. He then bethought him of the fruit he had picked, and cutting one of them in two, he allowed a few drops of juice to trickle into Lord Reginald’s mouth. This had an almost instantaneous effect. He squeezed out a larger quantity; some minutes more elapsed, when at length Lord Reginald became conscious of the relief, and eagerly swallowed the refreshing juice. Still Dick saw that his chance of recovery, while he remained in the cave, was very small, and after reflecting awhile he came to the conclusion that he ought, if possible, to remove him to his own hut. This would be no easy task, but Dick’s arms were strong, and once having made up his mind, he lost no time in carrying out his intention.

Nep stood by, anxiously watching him, apparently perfectly satisfied with what he was doing. Lifting the young nobleman up as if he were a child, he carried him out of the cave, and made his way towards the fountain, every moment expecting to see his hapless burden breathe his last. The fountain, however, was reached; then, placing him on the grass, he poured some of the refreshing fluid down his throat. This seemed greatly to revive him, and he thanked Dick, sometimes addressing him as his brother, and sometimes as “Voules.”

“You are a better fellow than I took you for,” he murmured. “Poor old Toady! I thought you would have left me to shift for myself; but we have gone through strange scenes. Didn’t you die, and didn’t I bury you? but I’m glad you’ve come to life again, and I won’t have you laughed at behind your back.”

Thus he rambled on, but soon again relapsed into unconsciousness. Dick had to stop several times to rest himself, but as he was anxious to get the sufferer within the shelter of his hut, he went on again the moment he felt able to proceed. Great was his relief when at length he placed the young lord in his cot. He was aware that he must not venture to give him meat; indeed, the poor young man could not have swallowed it had he made the attempt, but he at once mixed him some of the juice of the fruit with water.

Lord Reginald had swooned from weakness, and from being carried along so far in the open air. For many hours he lay in a state of stupor. Dick sat by his side, continually moistening his lips with the juice of the fruit and water, and bathing the sufferer’s hands and temples, while he anxiously watched for returning life. All night long he sat up, fanning his brow with the feathers of some of the birds he had killed, and keeping away the stinging insects which flew into the hut.

The next morning Lord Reginald opened his eyes and exclaimed in a dreamy tone, “Where am I? What has happened?”

“You are well cared for, my lord,” answered Dick; “but don’t talk; you’ll get round the sooner if you keep quiet.”

Lord Reginald’s answer showed that he was still in a state of delirium. “Thanks, Julia; thanks, mother; you have nursed me very tenderly. I’ll do as you wish, only don’t let that young ruffian Hargrave come near me. He has been the bane of my life. I wish that we had got him out of the Wolf before we sailed from home, or that a chance shot had taken his head off. You don’t know what I went through when I was wrecked on that horrible island. He came and taunted me, and would have left me to die in a wretched cave by myself, while he was living luxuriously on birds, deer, and pigs that he killed.”

Having thus rambled on for some time, Lord Reginald began to blame himself, and to confess that he had allowed Dick to be unjustly treated, and had instigated Toady Voules and others to behave ill to him.

These latter expressions greatly relieved Dick’s mind, although the abuse which Lord Reginald had showered on his head would not have made him less attentive to his patient’s wants. For hours together the latter rambled on; sometimes he fancied himself at home, and asked for ices and peaches and grapes from the hot-houses, turning his eyes to Dick, and ordering him to bring them immediately.

The word “grapes” reminded Dick that he had seen a juicy fruit somewhat resembling the grape of temperate climes, of which several of the birds of the island appeared to be very fond. He hurried out to search for them, leaving Nep to watch by his master’s side. He was fortunate in discovering some bunches which appeared ripe, and instantly returned with them. Dick ate several himself, to ascertain their character, and was satisfied that they were wholesome and at the same time nutritious, though far less juicy than real grapes. On his return, Lord Reginald abused him, supposing him to be one of the servants, for having been so long away; then eagerly seizing the fruit with an expression of joy, he endeavoured to convey it to his mouth, but such was his weakness that, letting it drop, he asked Dick to feed him.

Dick bore all the abuse he got with the greatest patience. At length, exhausted by the violence of the fever, Lord Reginald sank again into a death-like stupor, in which he lay without moving the whole night and until the next day was far advanced. Dick, as before, continued to bathe his hands and face at intervals, and when perceiving by the painful motion of his lips that he wanted something to drink, he raised his head and placed to his lips a shell full of the juice of several fruits which he had collected. Lord Reginald eagerly drank this delicious beverage, then, opening his eyes, which Dick thought would never again have unclosed, the young lord looked up in his face, as if to thank him for the relief. Dick saw by the expression of wonder and astonishment in those eyes, so lately fixed and rayless, that he knew him, and that the delirium had passed away. Lord Reginald tried to speak, the colour for a moment mounted to his pallid cheek as he said, “Hargrave, I don’t deserve this kindness at your hands.” Then with a deep sigh he once more relapsed into insensibility.

Chapter Fourteen.

Self-reproach—The crisis over—A storm—Returning to life—Gratitude to Dick—A right understanding—Turtle-catching—Gaining strength—Dick’s care rewarded—An agreeable surprise—Something to read—A refreshing change—Hat-making—Hardly strong enough—Going on with the canoe—A design on the porkers—Pig-driving—Coffee berries and sugar-canes discovered—An earthquake—Grave apprehensions—The burning mountain.

Richard Hargrave sat by Lord Reginald’s cot, watching his sufferings, with the anxiety and sorrow he would have felt for a brother and dear friend. Not a spark of animosity remained. In his heart he fully believed that the young lord would die, and was ready to accuse himself of being his murderer. Only a short time during each day did he venture to leave him, to set his traps, or shoot birds, or collect fruits, which latter were more especially required by the sufferer. On each occasion when he hurried back, he dreaded to find that his patient had expired during his absence. Neptune was always left in charge, as Dick hoped that the instinct of the dog would induce him to summon him should he be required. He was well aware that it would be dangerous to give any heavy food to the sufferer, and yet he dreaded, lest by taking too little, he might die of starvation. There was, however, he hoped, sufficient nutriment in the fruit to keep up his strength without increasing the fever. Day after day went by, and the violence of the complaint in no way appeared to abate, nor did the young lord recover his reason except at long intervals, when the words he uttered showed that he was fully aware of his own condition. His thoughts were evidently of a gloomy character, as he was constantly uttering expressions of self-reproach. No longer petulant or impatient, he appeared sunk in the deepest despondency.

This change of ideas was more alarming even than his wild fits of raving to Dick, who began to accuse himself of being the cause of much of the young lord’s conduct. He considered their difference of rank; he recollected his own defiant looks and expressions, which had so often aroused his rival’s anger. “Had I treated him with respect, which of course he thought his due, and avoided him as much as possible, he would soon have forgotten a person so much beneath him in rank,” exclaimed Dick. “True, he abused his power on board the Marie; but how have I behaved since we were thrown together on this island?”

At last one morning, Lord Reginald appeared to drop off into a more quiet slumber than usual, and Dick was induced to go out in search of game with his crossbow in his hand. Scarcely had he left his hut than several deer, without discovering him, came bounding by. He shot a bolt, one of the animals was struck, and immediately fell dead to the ground. Thankful for his success, he quickly returned with it, and having skinned it he cut up a portion into small bits, which he put into a pot, with the intention of making some broth. Several times while thus engaged, he returned to the side of Lord Reginald, who still slept on. He had obtained from the rocks a small quantity of salt, sufficient to flavour the broth. While it was boiling he roasted another piece of meat, and hung up the remainder in his smoking-house, which had answered beyond his expectations. Though the meat dried in the sun might keep, yet it was hard and dry, and presented a far from satisfactory appearance.

He had observed signs of a change of weather. Clouds had been collecting for some time in the sky. Scarcely had he completed his culinary operations, than the rain began to pour in torrents, while the thunder rolled, and flashes of vivid lightning darted from the clouds. The fire was put out, but Dick managed to keep the broth warm. He anxiously watched Lord Reginald, expecting that the roar of the thunder would awaken him, but he slept quietly through the storm, and appeared to be breathing more easily than before. At length the thunder-clouds rolled off, the wind ceased, and the air appeared far purer than it had hitherto been. Dick, who had opened the shutter, which he had kept shut during the rain, went to the door to open that also and enjoy the fresh air. He was standing inhaling it with much satisfaction, when he heard Lord Reginald’s voice exclaiming—

“What has happened? Is that you, Hargrave?” Dick hurried to the side of the cot, and was thankful to observe a marked change for the better, in Lord Reginald’s countenance, which, though thin and pale, had a composed appearance. “Do not be agitated, my lord,” said Dick; “you have been very ill, but I trust you may now recover, as the worst is past I would advise you not to talk, but let me give you some broth, which I have fortunately just prepared. It will assist to restore your strength quicker than the fruits on which you have so long lived.” Saying this, without waiting for a reply, Dick poured some of the soup into a shell, which he presented to the invalid.

“Hargrave, I can scarcely believe my senses!” said Lord Reginald. “I don’t deserve this kind treatment at your hands. Have you really been watching over me all this time?”

“Do not talk about it, my lord,” said Dick. “Here, take this; it may not be first-rate soup, but I think it will do you good.”

As he spoke he placed the shell to the lips of his patient, who taking it in both his hands, drank off the contents.

“First-rate stuff, whatever it is,” murmured Lord Reginald. “Pray give me some more, I feel it putting new life into me. I have had a narrow escape, I suspect. If it hadn’t been for you, Hargrave, I should have died; I am fully aware of that.”

“I only did my duty, and I am thankful to see your lordship so much better,” said Dick.

“You are a generous, noble fellow, Hargrave, that I know, for, after the way I treated you, I had no right to expect that you would trouble yourself about me.”

“I should never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t done my best to look after your lordship,” answered Dick, turning away to make some of the cooling drink, which had hitherto proved so beneficial to his patient.

“Hargrave, my dear fellow,” said Lord Reginald, in a comparatively strong tone of voice, “can you really forgive me?”

“My lord, I am sure I need your forgiveness, so pray don’t ask me to forgive you, though I do so most heartily. Let bygones be bygones. It will be the happiest day of my life when I see you restored to perfect health.”

“Hargrave, I wonder I could have been guilty of persecuting a man capable of such generous conduct,” exclaimed Lord Reginald.

“Again I say, my lord, don’t talk about it,” answered Dick, observing that Lord Reginald was becoming too much agitated. “I trust in a short time that you will be well enough to say what you think fit; but I want you to understand that not a particle of ill feeling, to the best of my belief, remains in my heart.”

“I must say what I have got to say, or I may never have an opportunity,” replied Lord Reginald; “for what I can tell I may not have another interval of reason. I wish to assure you that I die at peace with you, and pray for forgiveness from all I have ever ill treated. When I am gone, cut off a lock of my hair, and if you ever reach home give it to my mother, and tell her that one of my greatest regrets was not being able to see her and my brothers and sisters again, and confessing to my father that I had attempted to misrepresent you to him. Again, I ask, can you forgive me?” and Lord Reginald stretched out his emaciated hands towards Dick, who gave his in return, as he answered—

“Yes, yes, indeed I do, most heartily.” As Lord Reginald grasped his hand, he pressed it to his lips, and burst into tears.

Dick felt a choking sensation, such as he had never before experienced, and turned away from a delicacy of feeling, lest Lord Reginald should be ashamed of the agitation he was exhibiting. He felt also very anxious to calm the mind of his patient, who in his weak state was ill able to undergo any excitement.

For a long time after this the poor young lord was unable to rise from his cot, but every day Dick observed a change for the better, it being a good sign that he evidently enjoyed the food provided for him.

Dick had now to leave him for a much longer time than before to the care of Neptune, who never quitted his master’s side during his absence.

One night, after his day’s work was over, Dick had wandered down to the sea-shore, with a thick stick in his hand, which he usually carried to defend himself, should he encounter any savage beasts, as he thought that such might possibly exist, though he had not hitherto seen them.

As he approached the beach, he caught sight on the white sand of some dark objects, which were crawling up slowly from the sea. Though he had never before seen any, he at once guessed that they were turtles. He remained concealed, so as to allow them, without being frightened, to reach the upper part of the beach, where they began scratching away and depositing their eggs.

“We shall have food enough now, without diminishing the stock of wild animals on shore,” thought Dick. “Those are just the things to do Lord Reginald good. If we have to make a voyage, we can lay in a good store of them.”

He wisely waited until a number of turtles had deposited their eggs in the sand, then rushing from his place of concealment, he turned over half a dozen on their backs, thus effectually preventing them from making their escape. Then, seizing one by the hind legs, he dragged it up towards his hut, when he killed it. Lord Reginald was still awake. He ran in and told him the good news.

“I wish that I could get up and help you, Hargrave,” was the answer.

“Do not think of it, my lord,” said Dick. “I can manage them by myself,” and away he again started, and dragged up in succession the remainder of his captives. These, however, he did not kill. He determined, if possible, to keep them alive until the flesh of the first was consumed. They might exist on their backs, he knew, for a considerable time, but he rightly feared that the heat would kill them, unless he could bring up a sufficient quantity of water to pour over them. This would be a severe task, and it appeared to him that the best thing he could do would be to build a pen, and enclose these and any others he might catch on subsequent nights. He accordingly at once, as the moon was bright, set about carrying out his intention. By actively plying his axe, he cut down a number of thick stakes, which he drove into the sand just above high-water mark, so that by digging a channel he might let the sea in at every high tide. As he had abundance of rope, he lashed some cross bars along the sides, so as to keep the stakes firm. He saw there was no necessity for putting the perpendicular stakes close together, as the turtles were upwards of two feet across, and could not manage to get through a less space. In a couple of hours he had finished his task, and dragging back the turtles he allowed them to crawl about in their natural position. He waited until the next morning to roof in his pen, which was necessary, he saw, for the sake of keeping the turtles cool.

“You have worked hard, my dear Hargrave,” said Lord Reginald, when he returned. “I should not have thought of attempting the task until to-morrow morning. It would have taken me the whole day, or probably longer. As soon as I am well, you must teach me how to use your tools, and let me help you, for I have no desire to eat the bread of idleness.”

“I have been accustomed to carpentering since I was a boy, so that what your lordship would find difficult would prove easy to me,” answered Dick; “but I should be very thankful if your lordship will think fit to work at the canoe which I thought of building before you were taken ill. I haven’t seen a single vessel pass since we have been here, and perhaps none will come near us for many months to come. We might find it necessary to quit the island to rejoin our ship or to get on board some other vessel. In the mean time we may use our boat to go out fishing, and thus obtain a change of diet.”

“A boat! Do you really mean to say that you could build a boat?” asked Lord Reginald in a tone of surprise.

“I intend to try and do so, for though I have never actually built one, I have assisted in repairing several, and know how they are put together,” answered Dick, and he then explained the character of the craft he proposed to build. “My idea is, that when your lordship can take a part in the work, we may build one large enough to carry us to Batavia, or to one of the other places of which the English have of late taken possession.”

“I really don’t know that you ought to count much on my help, though I’ll do my best,” said Lord Reginald; “but the idea is a capital one, and I long to get well to be able to help you. But you must be pretty tired by this time, and you ought to lie down and get some sleep. I feel ashamed of keeping you so long out of your cot.”

“Thank you, my lord. If I thought it worth while I would soon make another for myself; but my bed is as comfortable as I want, and I beg you will not think I miss the cot,” was the answer.

Dick awoke early, and found Lord Reginald sleeping soundly and calmly. As he watched him he began to hope that he might recover, and he knelt down and prayed that he might be made the instrument of restoring him to health.

His patient gave no sign of waking. Dick, having first made up his fire ready for cooking breakfast, went down to the shore, to see how the turtles had behaved in their pen. He found to his satisfaction that although they had turned up the sand, they had not escaped. He at once cut a number of boughs to place over the top and the upper part of the eastern side, so as to shade them from the heat of the sun, which rose before he had completed his task. He then returned, and looking into his hut, found that his companion was still sleeping.

He now set to work to cut up the turtle, and to cook some of it for breakfast. He felt very doubtful as to how this should be done, but thought he should be safe in putting some on to stew, and in carving some cutlets, which he placed before the fire to cook, as he had done the venison. He also kneaded some cakes as thin and delicate-looking as he could make them. This done, he entered the hut, when he found Lord Reginald sitting up in his cot.

“I should much wish, Hargrave, to get up and wash my hands and face, but I feel so weak that I am afraid I could not accomplish it alone. May I venture to ask you to assist me?” he said, in a hesitating tone.

“My lord, I should be delighted to help you; but I am sure you had better not make the attempt. I’ll get some water. I have a piece of cloth which will serve as a towel, and as I have a comb which I found in the carpenter’s chest, I will, if you will let me, comb out your hair, and try and make you comfortable.”

“Thank you, thank you,” answered Lord Reginald; “but I feel ashamed of giving you trouble.”

Dick smiled, and, going out, returned with a large clam-shell, which made an excellent basin, filled with water. Lord Reginald in vain made the attempt to wash his face. Dick, placing the shell before him, performed the office, and having washed his hands and combed his hair, with as much care as his mother might have done, the young lord repeated his thanks, and assured Dick he felt quite another being.

“I hope you will feel still better,” said Dick, producing several clam-shells, one containing several nicely cooked cakes, another some turtle cutlets, a third some stewed turtle, while a fourth was full of the several fruits he had gathered. “I have cooked a variety of dishes; but after your illness your lordship may fancy one more than another. Just tell me what you like best, and I will try and prepare it for you.”

“Thank you, Hargrave; I feel as if I could eat a whole turtle, or a deer for that matter,” answered Lord Reginald, laughing in a way which greatly cheered Dick’s spirits. However, on making the attempt, Lord Reginald found that a very small quantity satisfied him, and Dick did not press him to eat more.

Every day after this he made rapid progress, though Dick would not allow him for some time to get up or do anything for himself. In the mean time, Dick dug out of the sand a number of turtles’ eggs, which he hung up in bags in a cool place in the shade, hoping thus to preserve them. He also caught several more turtles, which he turned into his pen. He was never idle, sometimes working in his garden, in which he had planted a number of seeds, some evidently of melons and pumpkins, from which he hoped in a short time to obtain fruit. Of the nature of others he was not acquainted, but he had little doubt that they would prove useful in some way or other. Outside the hut he had built a storehouse, in which he placed all the articles which had been cast on shore.

He had one morning taken his crossbow and gone out before sunrise in the hopes of killing a deer or some birds, that he might afford a variety of diet to Lord Reginald, knowing that such would contribute greatly to restore his strength. The deer, however, were too wild, and he was led further from home than he intended. At last, in despair of killing one, he looked out for some of the feathered tribe, and succeeded in knocking over a couple of white cockatoos and a green pigeon, with which he hurried back to the hut. On his return, he was greatly surprised to see Lord Reginald not only dressed, but employing himself in preparing breakfast.

“I am sorry, my lord, that I was not back earlier,” exclaimed Dick, “that I might have helped you to dress.”

“I regret that you should have had so long to undertake a task which I ought to have performed myself, had I been able. Do not speak about it, my kind Hargrave,” answered Lord Reginald, smiling. “I feel myself bound to take an equal share in all the work we have got to do. You have hitherto toiled for me, and it is now my business to work for you. Just tell me what you want done, and I will do it to the best of my power.”

“Pray don’t talk in that way, my lord,” said Dick. “I wish that you knew how much pleasure I feel in serving you.”

“I am sure of that; but once for all, Hargrave, I want you to understand that while we remain on this island I am ‘Reginald’ or ‘Oswald,’ and you are ‘Hargrave,’ the better man of the two. Don’t ‘My lord’ me any more. I am not worthy of it. That sort of style may do very well in Old England, or on board a man-of-war, though my messmates there treated me as an equal, and took good care to make me feel that I was one, too. Will you accept my services, and let me work under your orders?”

“I cannot refuse you anything,” answered Dick; “but until you are as strong and hearty as I am, you must let me work for you, and not knock yourself up by attempting tasks for which you have not the strength.”

“Well, well, my dear Hargrave, we understand each other, and while we are talking the turtle and cakes are getting cold.”

Dick at last, getting Lord Reginald to sit down on one of the three-legged stools he had made, placed the breakfast on the table.

“There is one thing you are not provided with, Hargrave, that is tea and sugar,” observed Lord Reginald; “but perhaps we may find some substitute. Coffee grows in these latitudes, and very likely we may find sugar-cane in some part of the island.”

“I saw some pods full of seeds, looking in shape very much like coffee berries, only they were white,” said Dick.

“That was because they were unroasted,” answered Lord Reginald. “I should not be surprised if those seeds were really coffee berries, and if so we shall soon have something to drink instead of this nectar, of which I confess I am beginning to get very tired, delicious as it tasted while I was suffering from fever.”

Dick sighed as he thought, “Perhaps the young lord will get tired of other things, as also of my society, when he regains his strength.”

His companion looked at him, but made no remark. “What about the boat you propose building?” asked Lord Reginald, when breakfast was over. “Could not we begin on that? And if you will show me how I can best help you, we will lose no time.”

“I am very sure your lordship—I beg your pardon—you are not strong enough to do any heavy work,” answered Dick, “especially in the sun. I must first make you a hat such as I wear, which will help to guard your head, and we will then, in the cool of the evening, begin work. We must first strip off the bark from the outside, then cut away the angles at the bows and stern. By-the-by, I have just remembered finding some books in an officer’s chest, and though I cannot read them, as they are in French, they may amuse you while I am at work.”

“That is fortunate,” exclaimed Lord Reginald. “Pray get the books, and let me have a look at them. I shall be very glad to read while you are at work, if you still insist on my not helping you.”

Dick hurried out to his store-room, and soon returned with several volumes. Two were on navigation, another on astronomy, and a fourth on natural history; but Lord Reginald found that the others were not such as were likely to prove edifying either to himself or Dick. He first took up one, and glancing over its pages, said, “Throw that into the fire.” A second and a third were treated in the same way. He looked at the last more carefully, but finished by saying, “Let that go, too. I am very sure that it will be better not to read at all than to fill our minds with the evil thoughts such works as these are likely to create. I should at one time have been amused, and considered that there was no harm in perusing such tales. After being so mercifully preserved, I look at matters in a very different light. I am sure that allowing our minds to dwell on any such subjects as those books contained, is offensive to a pure and holy God. What would I not give for some really well-written books, and more than anything for a Bible, which, after all, as I have often heard my mother say, is the Book of books.”

“I have heard my mother say the same,” observed Dick. “I am very thankful that you have put the temptation out of our way.”

“What else did you find in the chest?” asked Lord Reginald.

“Some nautical instruments, which, although they are French, I dare say you know how to use,” said Dick. “And,—how stupid I was not to think of it before!—some shirts and waistcoats and other articles of dress. I must get you to put them on at once, while I wash out your own linen: they will add much to your comfort, and though they may be damp, the sun will soon dry them.” Dick immediately hung out the French officers’ clothing, and then brought a clam-shell, larger than an ordinary foot-tub, full of water, that Lord Reginald might enjoy a bath, which he had hitherto been afraid of taking.

“I feel quite like a new man!” exclaimed the young lord, after he had dressed himself. “If you will not let me work to-day, I hope by to-morrow to show that I can do something. It won’t be for the want of will if I don’t succeed.”

Dick, who had before this gone out, had returned with a supply of palm leaves, and sat down to make a hat, while Lord Reginald opened one of the books, and with considerable fluency translated a portion of its contents. Dick listened attentively while he plaited away at the hat, stopping every now and then to ask for an explanation.

“I am glad to see you take interest in the subject,” said Lord Reginald, “and if we continue it, I shall not only improve myself, but be able to give you a good notion of navigation. The instruments, which are the same as we use, will help us, and in a short time you will become as good a navigator as I am, as this book is evidently a capital one.”

Dick looked up and smiled. “You see, you can instruct me in some things, as well as I can teach you how to handle a saw or a plane.”

“All right!” said Lord Reginald, laughing; “so much the better; we are quits, as I said.”

Dick was longer than he otherwise might have been in making the hat. When it was finished, his companion declared that it was capital, and that it would thoroughly defend his head from the rays of the sun. Dick had made the top very thick, while the sides were strong and light, with openings all round, which allowed of ample ventilation. He then insisted on Lord Reginald lying down while he went out to attend to his turtle-pens and garden, and to prepare a large saw to use on the boat.

In the evening Lord Reginald declared that he felt quite able to commence work.

“I don’t want to hinder you,” said Dick; “but I am afraid that you will find your strength not equal to the task.”

Lord Reginald, however, insisted on trying, and Dick, notching the wood, fixed the saw ready for work, he taking one end and Lord Reginald the other, but before the latter had pulled it backwards and forwards a dozen times he had to confess that he could not go on, and sat down completely exhausted. Dick instantly ran and got some broth he had prepared for supper. Though the young lord revived after he had swallowed some of it, Dick insisted that he should not again make the attempt, and persuaded him to sit down in the shade, while he, with his axe, began stripping off the bark.

Dick pursued the plan followed by boys when cutting out a model boat. He first carefully planed the upper surface, using a level, until he was satisfied that it was perfectly even. He then began pencilling out the form of the upper works, so that both sides might be exactly even, avoiding the risk of making the boat lop-sided.

“You seem to me, Hargrave, to bestow a great deal of pains on the work you are about,” observed Lord Reginald. “You will have to scoop out the whole centre part; what can be the use of polishing it down in that fashion?”

“If I don’t do that I may run the chance of not having the sides even,” answered Dick. “Now, all we have got to do, when we have formed the upper part, will be to turn it over, so that the log may lay quite flat, and, with the aid of some forms which I propose making, shape out the two sides. Though by using the forms we shall take longer than if we did without them, it will be better than trusting only to the eye.”

Before dark Dick had made some progress, but as he could not expect much help from Lord Reginald for some days, he determined in the mean time to prepare the wood which he would require for the gunwale, and also the forms. For the latter purpose he used some flat boards, which, as the canoe was four feet wide, required only to be a little more than two feet broad. This latter work he was able to carry on indoors during the evening, while Lord Reginald assisted him in drawing out the plan. They agreed that it was important to give the boat a flat floor, though she might be made more seaworthy by having a deep keel, which could be easily bolted on.

Before they lay down to rest that night, they had in their minds’ eye completed the craft. Dick saw Lord Reginald busily drawing on a blank page in one of the books.

“There, Hargrave; that’s what our craft will be like,” he said, when he had finished, handing him the paper. “You see, I give her three lugs, with a flying main-topsail, so that we can carry plenty of sail, if required, or get her quickly under snug canvas. By raising the gunwale two feet all round, and decking over the fore and after ends, we shall have plenty of room to stow away our provisions, and be able to go through a pretty heavy sea. She’ll be a fine craft, depend upon that, and I shall feel quite proud when we run alongside the old Wolf and hail her, to ask ‘What ship is that?’ as if we didn’t know her.”

“I am afraid it will be many a long day before we get the boat to look like that,” observed Dick. “Digging her out will be a tedious business, I suspect, and it will take a considerable time, after the lower part of the hull is finished, to raise the gunwale and put on the deck. Then, remember, we have to fit her with outriggers, which we must make as strong as possible, or they may chance to be carried away.”

“Oh, you don’t know how hard I shall work when I once begin,” answered Lord Reginald. “I can fancy myself already chopping and sawing and chiselling away under your directions, for I shall leave all the more delicate work to you, though, as I improve, I may be able to help you in that also.”

Notwithstanding Lord Reginald’s eagerness to begin, Dick saw the next day that he was far too weak to do any work out of doors. He could sit only in the shade, with a book in his hand, or watching him as he laboured at the bench.

“Why, Hargrave, you ought to have been rated as one of the carpenter’s crew, for you work as well as the best of them could do. However, I hope, when we return on board the frigate, that you may have a far higher rating than that. You will have learned navigation by that time.”

“I’m afraid that will not be of much use to a man before the mast,” observed Dick.

“But, my dear Hargrave, I hope you won’t always remain before the mast,” answered Lord Reginald.

“I don’t see any chance of my ever being anywhere else; and pray do not raise my expectations, as I should never have thought myself of being promoted, except some day, perhaps, after I have more experience, I may become a warrant officer,” said Dick.

“Well, well, perhaps I ought not to have spoken of my own hopes and wishes,” replied Lord Reginald. “I let out a thought which has been in my head for some days, and I would on no account try to raise hopes which may never be realised.”

Eager as Dick was to work at the boat, he was compelled to make excursions in search of game, and he seldom returned without two or three birds or a small deer. Besides opossums, he had occasionally caught sight of a tiger-cat, which, however, was not of a size to make him fear that it would venture to attack him, savage as it appeared while climbing a tree or leaping from bough to bough. Though he had no wish to interfere with the tiger-cat, he had a great fancy for catching some of the pigs which scampered about beneath the trees, picking up fruits and nuts, and digging for roots. His bolts, though capable of penetrating the more delicate skin of the deer, glanced off the thick hide of the pigs. He bethought him, therefore, after watching their runs, that he would make a pitfall in which some might be caught without difficulty. Finding the ground tolerably soft, he set to work immediately with a wooden spade, and dug a hole four feet square and the same in depth, which he covered over carefully with bushes and earth. His success was greater than he expected, for the very next day, on visiting the pit, he found two fat porkers grunting away at the bottom, and tumbling over each other, in vain endeavouring to extricate themselves from their prison. Running back to the hut for a rope, he managed to get it with a slip-knot over the hinder leg of one of the pigs, which he quickly hauled out. He took the precaution of having a thick pointed stick in readiness, should the pig attempt to charge him. At first the animal lay on the ground, astonished at the unusual treatment it was receiving. Dick then getting his stick ready in one hand and the rope in the other, gave a pull away from the hut. The pig instantly jumped up and dashed off at full speed, in the direction Dick wanted it to go. He followed, laughing, every now and then giving a pull at the rope, which he kept as tight as he could, at the same time holding his stick ready for his defence. With loud squeaks and angry grunts, on it rushed towards Lord Reginald, who was quietly reading, seated on the ground in the shade, while Dick shouted and laughed in addition. The noise aroused the young lord, who started up with looks of astonishment in his countenance. He was just in time to leap out of the way, when the pig charged full at the spot where he had been sitting, Dick being only just able to check the brute’s progress, but he managed to bring it up by making the rope fast round small tree which came in his way. No sooner was the pig thus brought to a stand, than, looking round, it espied its captor, who, however, springing back, avoided the onslaught. The pig, after making several strenuous efforts to escape, grunting and squeaking terrifically all the time, exhausted by its exertions, lay down, with its keen eyes watching for an opportunity of revenging itself.

“I say, Hargrave, I might try my hand at building a pig-sty,” said Lord Reginald. “I doubt that I am capable of any higher style of architecture, but I think I can accomplish that.”

“At first it occurred to me that we might build one,” answered Dick; “but I now think that it would occupy too much of our time, as it must be a very different style of structure to our turtle-pen. This fellow would soon knock down any building, unless very strongly put up. I should be sorry to see your lordship engaged in such work.”

“‘Your lordship,’ you should say, ‘is not capable of so stupendous an undertaking,’” remarked Lord Reginald, laughing. “But I say, Hargrave, you are forgetting our compact. Call me ‘Reginald’ or ‘Oswald,’ which you please.”

“I beg pardon,” said Dick; “but if this fellow cannot be taught to behave himself, the sooner we turn him into bacon the better, and we can keep his companion in the pit until we want him to undergo the same process.”

As the boat was now really begun, their work could be carried on without interruption. Dick, the next day, took another excursion in search of the coffee berries he had seen, as well as of any other vegetable productions of the island. After searching for some time at the further end of the island, he discovered the pods he had before seen, which were now completely ripe. Examining them carefully, he was convinced that they were coffee berries. He accordingly collected as many as he could put in the sack he had brought, thankful that they would afford a useful and agreeable beverage to his companion. A short time afterwards, he came upon a wilderness of canes, which he had before mistaken for bamboo, and on tasting them, he was convinced that they were sugarcanes, probably the remains of a plantation, long ago deserted. He cut a bundle, hoping that he and Lord Reginald might design some plan for extracting the juice and turning it into sugar. He was about to set off with his burden—a pretty heavy one—when to his astonishment, and no small dismay, he felt the ground shake beneath his feet. This unusual circumstance was followed almost immediately afterwards by a deep hollow sound, and on looking up, he saw, in the direction of the cave dense masses of smoke issuing forth, followed by lurid flames, while several streams of lava began to flow down the hill. As the lava, however, took a course towards the sea, in an opposite direction to where he was standing, he watched for some moments the eruption, instead, as some people might have done, throwing down his load and running away from the neighbourhood. Satisfied, at length, that it was not increasing, he turned his steps homewards. He found Lord Reginald, who had felt the earthquake, and had been watching the volcano in activity, very anxious about him.

“I am thankful to see you back, Hargrave,” he said. “Though no harm has happened, one thing is certain, that it will be wise in us to try and get our boat finished as soon as possible, so that, should the hill have another blow up, we may make our escape.”

“I hope that matters will not come to such a pitch as to drive us off the island,” answered Dick; “but if you are well enough to-morrow, we will begin work in earnest.”

“I am well enough to begin it at once,” was the answer. “What have you got there?”

Dick showed the contents of his sack.

“Coffee berries, to a certainty,” said Lord Reginald, tasting one of them. “All we have now to do is to roast and grind them. I am capable of doing that, at all events, and now let me taste one of those canes? Sugar, no doubt of it. Why, if that burning mountain doesn’t drive us away, we may live on here in luxury for months to come.”

“I shall be glad enough to remain, and never was so happy in my life,” answered Dick, who spoke from his heart. “I am very glad to hear it, Hargrave. I may say the same for myself, and I really think that I shall be sorry when the life we are now leading comes to an end.”

Chapter Fifteen.

Progress in boat-building—Hot pokers—System in working—Fixing on the keel—Dick and his pigs—Finishing the boat—The only regret—Preparing for the trial trip—The launch—Once more afloat—Aspect of the island—The volcano—Cleaning decks—A strange sail—Running for the bay—“What’s to be done?”—The boat recalled—A storm—A fearful night.

The two Crusoes, now no longer rivals, worked vigorously away at their boat. Every day Lord Reginald gained strength, and was able the more effectually to help Dick, who, however, never spared himself. With the young lord’s assistance, he sawed off the large pieces at the end intended for the bows, which he afterwards shaped with his axe and plane. From the stern, much less had to be taken off. Here the axe did nearly all the work. Having then planed all round the sides and bows, the log presented the appearance on the upper part of a well-formed canoe. The workmen had now to turn her over, and to commence shaping the lower part. Having stripped off the bark, which he could not before get at, Dick, again using his level, planed it evenly, and then carefully marked out the part to which the keel was to be fixed. With his adze he shaped both sides, using the forms he had previously prepared. In some parts there was very little wood to take off, though he had to cut away considerable at the bows and stern. Lord Reginald found that as yet there was comparatively little for him to do, as, from want of experience, he could not for some time use either the adze or the axe.

At length, the whole of the outside of the canoe was shaped, and Dick and his companion surveyed it with no little satisfaction.

“We must now turn her on her keel again, and begin digging her out,” observed Dick. “It will cost us no little trouble, I suspect. We may begin with the axe, but it won’t do to use that as we get on, for fear of making a hole through the side or bottom. We must then employ the gouge, and I have sharpened up all the large ones I found in the carpenter’s chest.”

“I have heard of a mode of digging out canoes by means of hot stones or hot irons. We have irons enough for the purpose, and by lighting a fire near at hand, might keep them constantly hot,” said Lord Reginald.

“I should be afraid of burning through the wood, or causing it to split, unless we use the irons only in the centre. We might try that, and see how it answers,” replied Dick.

Several stanchions and other bars of iron, which had been extracted from the wreck, were accordingly fitted with handles, and they soon had half a dozen “hot pokers,” as Lord Reginald called them, heating in a fire close to the canoe. Dick, however, was of opinion that they made far more progress with the adze, but as Lord Reginald could not use it in an efficient way, Dick proposed that his companion should work away at one end with the hot pokers, while he plied his adze at the other. He chose the stern, and using the adze vigorously, chopped away the wood under his feet, sending out large chips at every stroke, while Lord Reginald ran backwards and forwards with his hot pokers; but though he made a great deal of smoke, he found that he burnt away only a small quantity of wood with each instrument. Though there was no doubt that he would succeed in the end, he had to confess that Dick’s method was the most rapid.

“Still,” he observed, “every little helps, and I’ll go on burning away at my end, while you continue chopping at yours.”

This plan was agreed to, and they were both well satisfied with the progress made during a single day. It took them, however, not one day, but several, before the canoe was cleanly dug out. The last part of the process was much slower than the first, from the necessity there was to be careful lest they should dig their gouges through the sides. As these became thinner and thinner, Dick would frequently stop and run his brad-awl through to ascertain their thickness more exactly, taking care to stop the hole afterwards.

As may be supposed, they constantly kept an eye on the volcano, which occasionally threw up flames and smoke, but gave no indications of preparing for a more serious eruption. Still, the two Crusoes agreed that it would be wise in them to get their craft ready for sea, in case of being compelled to put off from the island.

It was a day of rejoicing when they had at length completed the hull, and as they looked all round her they felt satisfied that she was of equal thickness at the sides, except the bow and stern, which were of course thicker. They had now again to turn her over to fix the keel, which was already prepared.

While Dick had been engaged in finishing off the inside with his gouge, Lord Reginald had searched all the timber thrown on shore, for bolts and nuts. About a dozen were found, with which the keel was fixed on, and bolted inside in a way which gave it great strength, so that it could not be torn off, even should a rock be struck. Having sheered up the canoe, she now stood on an even keel, and Dick and his companion walked to a little distance to admire their handiwork, and both agreed that she was as perfect as could be.

“Yes, and we owe her perfection to your judgment, Hargrave. For by myself, I should never have thought of building such a craft,” said Lord Reginald. “She will be more perfect, however, when we get the bulwarks and deck on her, the thwarts fitted, and the masts stepped and the sails set, and we stand away from the island.”

“I am in no hurry to go,” said Dick. “If I had not felt it was my duty to work and get her done, in case an outbreak of the volcano should place your life in danger, I don’t think I should have worked so hard.”

“But yours is of equal value,” said Lord Reginald.

“Pray don’t say that; except my father and mother and my blind sister—who have probably long since thought me dead—I have no one to care for me, and you have numerous relations and friends; besides which, I hope you will some day have the opportunity of serving our king and country, and becoming one of England’s admirals.”

“Come, come, Hargrave, you are breaking through our agreement, and professing to be of less value than I am. Your friends care for you, as much as mine do for me, and more so probably, if the truth was known, and as to my becoming an admiral, you have as great a chance as I have.”

“I am sorry to have to differ from you,” said Dick, laughing in spite of himself. “However, we will get the craft ready and make a trial trip in her, and then it may be wiser to stay here until we are driven off the island, or some friendly ship comes in sight. Some day or other an English vessel must pass this way, or the Wolf herself may come to look for us.”

“Very little chance of that, or she would have come long ago,” answered Lord Reginald. “However, I agree with you that it will be better to live on here as long as we have plenty of provisions, and trust to be taken off by friends, than have to cruise about in an unknown sea without a chart, with the chance of being picked up by Frenchmen, or of running into an enemy’s port.”

Lord Reginald had now almost completely recovered his strength, and was able to help Dick in a variety of ways. They were both up at daylight every morning, their first visits being to their turtle-pen, and pig-sty as they called the pit where the porker was confined. The first pig caught, Dick had been compelled to kill, from its savage disposition, while the one in the pit had become perfectly tame and grunted with pleasure, whenever he approached with food. Had it not been for his wish to finish the boat, he would at once have built a sty for it, but he waited until the craft was completed.

Neptune would lie in the shade, an attentive observer of all their operations, and at times would come and look up in his master’s face, as if asking whether he could not be of some assistance. Lord Reginald at last taught him to carry about the tools, and when Dick wanted one, he had only to point to it, and the dog would bring it up to him immediately. It took some time to put on the bulwarks, as ribs had to be fitted to give them sufficient strength. Perseverance conquered all difficulties, and at last the hull was raised two feet all round, somewhat higher at the bows, over which a deck was fitted nearly six feet in length. Over the after part, a deck four feet long was formed, with water-ways six inches wide down the sides. The three masts were quickly made. There were plenty of spars for the purpose, as well as for the yards; three oars, and a pair of paddles, which might be useful to pull the boat round when going about. In the evening they worked away, making the three lugsails, the topsail, and a small fore-staysail. On the top of the gunwale, four spars were fixed to serve as outriggers, supporting at either end two long flat boards, which they hoped would effectually prevent their boat from capsizing. An English flag had been washed ashore, which, although somewhat torn, after its dimensions had been reduced, would serve very well for the purpose required.

Dick had a surprise for Lord Reginald. He had been anxious about the possibility of their boat leaking, through cracks which might open as the wood dried. Among the stores he had collected was a cask of pitch, which he now rolled out. He had to exert his ingenuity in forming a tar brush for putting it on. This he manufactured out of cocoanut fibre. An iron kettle, which had been too large for ordinary use, served for heating it. They found that they had more than sufficient to pay over the whole outside, as well as the inner part of the bows and stern and the parts where the bolts fixing on the keel came through. The decks, which were covered over with canvas, were also thickly pitched so as to prevent any leaks. The craft was now completed. Having set all their sails to see how she looked, the flag was hoisted with three cheers, and they were now ready for whatever might occur. The same rollers which had served to bring the log to the neighbourhood of the hut, now enabled them by dint of hard labour and the due application of handspikes, to move their craft down to the beach just above high water. It was close to the spot where Dick had drawn the carpenter’s chest on shore, and the same tackle he had then rigged would serve to haul her up again after they had made their experimental trip. This they resolved to do the next morning. Dick proposed that they should lay down moorings, where she could remain afloat. The bay was sheltered except from a southerly wind, and should it come on to blow from that quarter they must either run round to the other side of the island or haul her up again.

It was nearly dark by the time they had got their craft down to the beach, and with hearts grateful to Heaven that they had thus far been able to carry out their design, they returned to their hut. As may be supposed, they spent their evening in discussing their arrangements. They had still no small amount of work to accomplish, provisions to prepare for their voyage, and the means of carrying water, which was not the least of the difficulties they had to overcome.

Neither, however, was anxious to leave the island. Dick was perfectly happy in the life he was leading, and dreaded, should he ever go on board a man-of-war again, notwithstanding the hints thrown out by Lord Reginald, that he should be separated from one for whom he had acquired so deep an affection, and should be exposed to the same rough treatment he had before had to endure. Lord Reginald was unwilling, in so frail a bark, to run the risk of navigating those dangerous seas without a chart for his guidance, and was fully impressed with the belief that ere long some British man-of-war would be sent to search for them, or that they might get on board some English merchantman. Notwithstanding this, he was prepared, should it become necessary, to undertake the voyage, and either to steer to the south of Java, or to run through one of the numerous passages between the islands to the east of that island, and so to reach Batavia. His belief was that the Marie had been wrecked on an island to the south of Floris or Sumbawa, at no great distance probably from Timor.

So interested had they been in discussing these subjects, that it was later than usual before they turned in. Dick, who from having been the chief architect, was far more anxious than his companion to try their new craft, was the first to awake. Quickly dressing, he ran down to the beach to have a look at the craft, and see that she was all right.

In a short time the tide would be high, and as the beach was steep, she might, resting on the rollers, be quickly launched, having the tackle ready to check her if necessary.

The wind was along shore, so that they might at once make sail, and either stand out to sea or run round the coast, and get a better view of it than they had hitherto done. The weather, too, was as fine as it had been for some time past. As far as Dick could judge, there was every prospect of its continuing favourable. He hurried back to light a fire, and prepare breakfast.

Neptune, who had followed him, when he saw the cooking operations had made some progress, gave several loud barks, which awoke Lord Reginald.

“You should have called me, Hargrave!” he said. “I should have liked to have assisted in making preparations for our trip.”

“As we may be kept out some hours, I was anxious that you should have as long a sleep as possible,” answered Dick.

“Thank you; but I am as strong as ever now, and feel ready for any amount of fatigue,” said the young lord. “By-the-by, as you talk of the possibility of our being out several hours, it will be prudent to take some provender on board. Even if we are so much employed as not to care for eating, Nep, at all events, will have nothing to do, and will be glad of some food.”

“I thought of that,” answered Dick, “and I have filled half a dozen cocoanut shells with water, and proposed taking some smoked venison and pork, with some flour cakes and a basketful of fruit. If you think we may require more provisions, we may tumble one of the turtles into the bottom of the boat; it will serve as ballast, and not be the worse for the trip.”

“Why, we shall have sufficient provisions to last until we reach Batavia,” said Lord Reginald, laughing. “However, it’s as well to be prepared. By-the-by, you were speaking of ballast, the craft will require more than the turtle, and our provisions, even for a short trip.”

“I thought of that, too,” said Dick, “and I have made a number of canvas bags, which we can fill with sand and take on board the boat after she is afloat.”

As soon as they had finished a hearty breakfast, carrying down their stores, they put them on board, and at once set to work to launch the boat. It was an anxious time, as it is to every ship-builder when he sees a vessel on a new construction, about to float on the element which is to be her future home. The tackle was hooked on, and the end secured on board. Several pieces of rock, of a size which they could lift on board, had been got ready, afterwards to be bound together, so as to form moorings of a sufficient weight to hold the boat. These had been left down on the beach close to the water, so that it would not take long to lift them in. Lord Reginald went on board to ease off the tackle, while Dick, with a handspike, gave the necessary impetus to the craft. She glided down the beach, gaining speed as she advanced, until with a splash her bows entered the water. Dick gave a few more heaves to encourage her, and in another minute she was almost afloat. He shoved at her stern with all his might. Then leaping on board he got out an oar and urged her on until she was in deep water. He had fastened a rope to a stone, which on being thrown overboard kept her head seaward, when she was hauled back again sufficiently near the beach to enable them to lift their ballast-bags and mooring-stones on board. The former having been properly stowed, the latter, according to their arrangement, were bound tightly together, and the tackle being cast off, they paddled her into the bay, far enough from the shore to enable her to ride in safety. The moorings were then let drop, and the tackle so arranged that the boat could be hauled towards the beach without the necessity of their first going on board.

With justifiable pride they surveyed their handiwork. “Now let’s get under way!” cried Lord Reginald. “She floats well on the water, and is higher out of it than I expected.”

As the wind was light, all the canvas was hoisted. The sails filled, and being sheeted home, the little craft stood away from the land.

“She behaves beautifully! You ought to have been a ship-builder, and you would soon have become famous. Indeed, I am sure that you would succeed in whatever you undertook,” exclaimed Lord Reginald.

“You flatter me too much,” answered Dick. “I picked up a knowledge of carpentering when I was a boy, and necessity is said to be the mother of invention, so, soon after we were wrecked, I began to consider how a craft could be built. I have had her planned out in my head for many a day. In what direction shall we sail?”

“We will beat up to the westward, as the island extends furthest in that direction,” answered Lord Reginald. “We will then run round it, and by making a long tack out to sea, we shall weather the eastern point and stand back again into this bay. Should the wind not drop, we shall do it in four or five hours, though of course it is impossible to say how long we shall be detained. However, we will trust to having a good breeze, and at all events getting back before night. If we are kept out, the worst that can happen will be to lose our sleep. We must keep a vigilant watch, and on no account lose sight of the island.”

To this Dick, of course, agreed; indeed, he would not have dreamed, now that he was once afloat, of disputing any suggestion of one whom he looked upon as his commanding officer.

“There is one thing you have forgotten, Hargrave.”

“What is it, my lord?” asked Dick.

“You forget our compact, Hargrave. It must last until I dissolve it, and that will not be while you and I are together,” answered Lord Reginald. “However, as I was going to observe, we have forgotten to give this craft a name. She deserves a pretty one. Have you thought about the matter?”

“No,” replied Dick.

“Well, then, I confess that I have; but I want you to name her,” said Lord Reginald.

“If I may be pardoned for proposing such a name, I should say call her the Lady Julia,” answered Dick, after a few moments’ consideration.

“Lady Julia, I have no doubt, would be flattered,” said Lord Reginald, with perfect gravity, “and I should be very happy to call our craft after her; but I think, as you are the architect, and not only the architect but chief constructor, that she should be called after your sister. In my opinion the Janet is a very pretty name.”

“I would rather that you settled the point,” answered Dick, “and if you think fit to call her the Janet, I shall be perfectly pleased.”

“The Janet she shall be, then,” answered Lord Reginald; and from thenceforth their craft was called the Janet by the two Crusoes.

After standing on for some distance, Lord Reginald proposed that they should go about. This required no little skill and activity. It was necessary to haul down a foresail and mainsail. This they did, Dick leaping from one to the other, and shifting the yards over, ready to hoist again, the staysail bringing her round, but as, from her length, she was a long time about it, Dick found it necessary to get out one of the paddles, a few strokes with which were of great service.

Lord Reginald managed the mizzen, while Dick rehoisted the foresail and mainsail. The rudder, it should have been said, was fitted with long yoke-lines, which, being led well forward, made the operation of steering more easy than it would otherwise have been.

“I suspect that in a heavy sea we shall find that the Janet doesn’t come about as well as we should wish,” observed Lord Reginald.

“We shall improve by practice,” said Dick, “and you forget that in a heavy sea we shall not be carrying our mainsail, and may be even without the foresail, so that we shall only have the fore-staysail and mizzen to manage, and we may expect to be favoured with calm weather. She goes to windward, at all events.”

Still, Lord Reginald, like many other naval officers, was not much accustomed to sailing boats, and was less satisfied with the sea qualities of their craft than he could have wished.

Dick’s trips on board the Nancy had taught him how a lugger should be managed, but she had, he confessed, a more numerous crew than that of the Janet. However, he hoped by activity to make up for that deficiency.

As the Janet glided rapidly over the smooth surface of the ocean, he naturally felt proud of her. On hearing the eastern end they came in view of the side of the volcano sloping up almost from the water. Here and there, just above the beach, a few scathed trees were seen, but the rest of it was covered with lava which had rolled down from the summit, filling up all the hollows, and extending some distance, layer above layer, into the water.

It was satisfactory to see that this was the direction which the lava had hitherto taken, but they also perceived that it might at any time rush down the opposite side of the hill, and destroy the animals and rich vegetation existing in the two remaining fertile valleys. Dick was employed in looking out ahead for any reefs or other dangers which might exist off the island, when Lord Reginald exclaimed—

“Look there, Hargrave! Look there! You see the volcano is in an angry mood.”

As he spoke, a low dull sound was heard coming from the shore, and from the top of the volcano rose a dense black mass, which extended itself like an umbrella. Directly afterwards down came a shower of ashes, covering every part of the boat, while the coast itself was completely shut out from view, except where a lurid glare could be seen on the summit of the hill, and from the streams of lava descending the sides. Masses of rock and other dense substances were also thrown up, and their splashes could be heard as they fell into the water, though they themselves were invisible.

Lord Reginald steered to the northward, in order that they might as soon as possible get away from the dangerous neighbourhood, but it was some time before they were free of the ashes and once more had the bright sun shining down upon them.

They looked anxiously towards the island, and were thankful to observe that a large portion to the eastward was bright and fair, showing that it had not suffered materially from the eruption. It might, however, only be the commencement of a still more serious outbreak, and they were thankful that they had their vessel ready, in case it should become necessary to escape for their lives. As they opened up the eastern side of the hill, they saw the trees which had hitherto escaped, burning furiously, surrounded by the hot lava. They had too much reason to fear that the conflagration might extend still further, and destroy the whole of the remaining vegetation, though it was possible that the stream would stop its progress, and that the part of the island on which they had been living might be spared. Dick now set to work to get rid of the ashes which covered the boat. It was no easy task. He had only a piece of board to serve as a shovel, and a handful of oakum. He cleared the decks and water-ways and thwarts, but he found it impossible to get them out of the bottom of the boat.

“Never mind,” said Lord Reginald, “it will serve instead of a coat of paint.”

“She will look very like a coal barge,” answered Dick, who was vain of the hitherto clean appearance of their craft.

The wind continued very light, and it was some time before they reached the eastern end of the island, which they calculated was at the utmost ten miles long and five or six broad. They looked out narrowly for any small harbour into which they might run, should the wind come from the southward, and blow into their bay.

With the risk of another eruption of the volcano, it was important to be able to start at a moment’s notice. Should the wind blow into the bay, it might be impossible to launch the Janet. At the very eastern end they came off an opening with a reef running out to a considerable distance on the southern side. It had the appearance of just the sort of harbour they required, but as Dick had not visited it, he could not tell whether there would be space sufficient for the Janet to swing clear of the rocks. They had been examining it narrowly, and Lord Reginald proposed that they should row in the boat, to ascertain its capabilities, when Dick turning round for an instant to the south-east, exclaimed—

“A sail, a sail!”

Lord Reginald sprang to his feet, and looking in the same direction, observed, “She’s a large ship, too, and standing this way. What if she should prove to be the Wolf?”

Dick made no answer. He almost hoped that she would not prove to be their ship. The time he had enjoyed so much would come to an end, and he must henceforth associate with those in whose society he could no longer take pleasure.

Lord Reginald, not for a moment doubting that Dick was as pleased as he was, altered the Janet’s course in the direction of the stranger. They had brought a telescope, a remarkably good one for its size. He turned it towards the approaching ship.

“From the cut of her sails, I doubt whether she’s the Wolf, after all,” observed Lord Reginald, “even if she’s English,” he added. “No, that she’s not. She’s hoisted her colours. If my eyes don’t deceive me, that’s the French flag. Here, Hargrave, see what you can make out.”

Dick took a steady look. “That’s the French flag, no doubt about the matter,” he answered; “if you look again you will be certain of the fact.”

“I was nearly certain of it before,” answered Lord Reginald, “and as I have no fancy to be taken on board a Frenchman, we will haul our wind, and get back to our bay. We should fetch it with one tack, and by unstepping our masts very probably the boat will not be seen, or our hut either, unless the Frenchmen narrowly examine the island.”

“With all my heart,” said Dick, greatly relieved, as he hoped to get into the bay before the Frenchmen had discovered the Janet.

She, it will be remembered, was low down in the water, so that the look-out aloft on board the stranger might not have seen her from the distance they were off. The wind freshened, and the little craft made good way.

“The sooner we are on shore the better. I don’t like the look of the weather to the westward,” observed Lord Reginald.

The sky in that direction had a lurid appearance, betokening a strong wind, produced possibly by the eruption. Dick was of the same opinion, and felt more than ever anxious to get on shore.

“We shall fetch into the bay now,” observed Lord Reginald.

The little craft behaved admirably, and by careful management was put about without the aid of an oar. She now hauled up for the bay.

“We shall fetch the moorings, if the wind holds as it now does; but we must lower the mainsail if it increases much,” said Lord Reginald.

Dick kept the halliards in his hands. For some time she stood up to her canvas, when a strong blast striking her, she heeled over until her lee outrigger was under water.

“Lower away!” cried Lord Reginald, and in an instant the mainsail was taken off her. “We shall probably have to take in the foresail, too,” he observed.

Dick stood by, ready to lower it. Before many minutes were over it had also to be taken in, and the fore-staysail and mizzen were as much canvas as she could carry.

The ship had by this time come almost off the island; the whole hull down to the water could be seen. Lord Reginald had, however, too much to do in attending to the Janet, to look after her; he had now to pick up his moorings. Dick had manufactured a strong boat-hook, and was standing at the bows, ready to get hold of the buoy.

“There it is, sir,” he exclaimed; “if you luff up now, we shall get hold of it.”

Lord Reginald put down the helm, and Dick at the same moment hauling down the fore-staysail, and the lugger shooting up, he got hold of the buoy, and soon had the cable secured. The question was now, whether they should haul the boat up on the beach or leave her afloat. She was less likely to be seen hauled up, and a few branches would completely conceal her. They decided to haul her up, and by bringing the cable aft, with a warp attached to it, her bows approached sufficiently near to enable Dick to leap out and get hold of the tackle. This being secured to her bows, the stern warp was slackened off, and rollers being placed under her keel, both exerting all their strength, they hauled her up the beach. The masts were unstepped, and a few boughs, which were quickly cut, were stuck into the sand on either side of her, to hide her from view.

Lord Reginald had now time more narrowly to watch the proceedings of the ship. Having come directly off the bay she hove to. “She has lowered a boat,” he exclaimed. “The Frenchmen must have seen the lugger after all, and are coming in to ascertain what has become of her. We must decide how to act. If we hide our selves, they may in wantonness destroy our hut and our boat. What do you propose we should do, Hargrave?”

“I should rather hear what you think best. I’m sure I shall be ready to agree with you,” answered Dick.

“No, no; I would rather hear what you think best,” said Lord Reginald.

“Then I would stay where we are, and explain that we have been shipwrecked, and would prefer remaining on the island to leaving it.”

“To tell you the truth, I am afraid, Hargrave, that they’ll not give us the choice; but still, I agree with you that is the best plan to try them. They may possibly allow us to remain, and not injure our property; but I own I very much fear that they will carry us off, for the sake of exchanging us for any of their countrymen who may have fallen into the hands of the English.”

During this conversation they remained concealed in the bushes, watching the progress of the boat. The anticipation of being detained on board a French ship of war, and afterwards, perhaps, shut up in prison, was not a pleasant thought. That such would be their fate, neither Dick nor Lord Reginald had any doubt. They saw that the boat was a large one, and the gleam of musket barrels showed that she carried armed men.

All this time the wind had been increasing, and the weather looked worse and worse. Presently a flash issued from the side of the ship, and a loud report reached their ears.

“That’s a signal for the recall of the boat,” observed Lord Reginald.

The officer in command, now that he was so close in, appeared unwilling to obey it, but another gun was fired to show that the captain was in earnest in the matter, and the boat being put round, the crew, bending their backs to the oars, pulled away towards their ship.

They had no time to lose, for the threatened gale was fast approaching. A third gun was fired to hasten them; the wind, however, came from the north-west, which was in their favour, while Lord Reginald and Dick were thankful that there was little risk of the Janet’s suffering. They, however, as a precautionary measure, by rigging an additional tackle, got her higher up the beach. They also secured her by stays at either side, fixed to pegs run deeply into the sand, for they well knew the effects of a hurricane in those seas.

They had good reason to be thankful that they had got on shore before it came on. Dick looked towards the volcano. The eruption had, however, subsided, and the rain, which now came down in torrents, had apparently extinguished the fire which they had so much dreaded. What had become of the ship they could not tell, as she had completely disappeared in the watery veil which intervened between her and the land. They could only hope that the boat had got alongside, and that her crew had been taken on board. Dick had built his hut so strongly that it withstood the furious blast raging round, which shook it every now and then, threatening to tear it up from the foundation, while the roof creaked and clattered as if about to be carried off. The night was a more fearful one than any they had passed since that of their shipwreck; but how different were their feelings! The two inhabitants were then at deadly enmity; now they were bound together by the nearest ties of friendship, and each was anxious to serve the other. The thunder roared, the lightning flashed, and the rain continued to come down in liquid sheets.

“We have reason to be thankful for this,” said Lord Reginald, “for had not the rain come on, the whole island might possibly, by this time, have been covered with flame, and we should not have had a spot on which to rest our feet with safety.”

Their chief anxiety was about their boat. Though the ocean might not reach her, she might be blown away, or the tree to which she was secured might be torn up by its roots, and crush her; if so, should another eruption of the volcano occur, their condition would be truly dreadful.

Chapter Sixteen.

Continuation of the gale—A shipwreck—To the rescue—Dick saves Lord Reginald’s life—Nearly drowned—In the cave—Increased numbers—Cause for alarm—The return to the hut—Things thrown on shore—Preparations for quitting the island—Increased stores necessary—Commotion of the island—A hasty embarkation—Voyage of the Janet—The pirate fleet—A chase—Alongside the Wolf—Going on board—Dick made an officer—Mr Bitts gives good advice—The return to England—An unlooked-for meeting at Elverston Hall—Home—Ben Rudall’s wife—Conclusion.

The gale raged through the livelong night. The roaring of the breakers on the shore, the howling of the wind amidst the rocks and trees, kept the two Crusoes awake for many hours. They heartily hoped that the wind might not change and drive the ship they had seen in the evening on the island, to share the fate of the Marie.

Sleep at last overtook them. They were awakened at length by a tremendous crash. They both leapt out of bed, and hurried on their clothes. The hut, shaken violently by the force of the wind, seemed every moment as if about to be carried away. It was with difficulty that they could force open the door to ascertain what had occurred. It was already broad daylight. Several tall trees near them had fallen. They looked anxiously in the direction of the boat. The tree to which she was secured stood firm, and the additional ropes, which they had wisely used, had kept her in her position. The wind had shifted, and the sea was rolling into the bay, and dashing up almost close to her stern. Their next glance was at the volcano—that was still in a state of eruption, sending up smoke and flame, but if any ashes or stones were cast forth they were forced by the wind to the other side of the island. The young men earnestly prayed that they might not be sent in the direction of the hut, for while the storm raged their boat would be useless, as they could not venture off in her. Their next look was seaward in search of the ship. She was nowhere visible; indeed, the thick masses of spray thrown up high into the air shrouded all objects at a distance.

“Can she have gone on shore at the other end of the island?” exclaimed Lord Reginald. “If so we may still be in time to save some of her people.”

Dick agreed with him, though fearing that, should the ship have struck on the rocky coast, all hands must have perished.

“If we save any of them, they may be glad of food,” said Lord Reginald, and putting up such provisions as they had cooked, they hurried off, each armed with a long stick, followed by Neptune, who, although he seemed to have an instinctive dread of approaching the burning mountain, was yet willing to follow his master. Instead, however, of bounding on before, as was his usual custom, he kept close at Lord Reginald’s heels. They took the most direct route along the broad valley, intending then to turn to the left down the narrow valley which led to the bay near which the Marie had been lost.

For some time they were protected by the high ground on the southern side of the broad valley, but on opening the smaller one they met the full force of the gale, and it was with difficulty that they could make progress against it. The tall trees twisted and bent, and quantities of nuts came tumbling down, which they often had difficulty in avoiding. To the right was the burning mountain, towards which they cast many an anxious glance, for at any moment it might send forth a shower of stones and ashes, which might overwhelm them. As they reached the sea-shore, near the cave, they saw that their worst anticipations had been fulfilled. At the further end of the reef lay the wreck of a fine ship. The larger portion had been torn away by the fury of the seas. The masts, bowsprit, and upper works had all gone. Not a human being could be discovered on board, while the foam-covered masses of water which raged around her must have carried off any who might have attempted to reach the shore. The waves, surging through the bay, rolled high up on the beach, rendering it dangerous even to approach them. Masses of timber and plank, of casks and cases, everywhere covered the space between the wreck and the beach.

“There’s not a living man to be seen. I fear all must have perished!” exclaimed Lord Reginald.

“I am afraid that you are right,” answered Dick. “No, no. I see two clinging to a spar in the middle of the bay. One, at all events, is alive. He must have caught sight of us, for he waved his hand. If the spar is driven in here we may save him.”

Together they hastened down to the edge of the water. Lord Reginald, in his eagerness, dashed forward, when a sea, rolling in, took him off his legs. In another instant he would have been carried away, had not Dick, at the risk of his own life, dashed forward and grasped him, struggling back with the greatest difficulty. Scarcely had they regained their feet, when the spar came so close that Neptune, making a spring, caught a rope which was hanging to it, and dragged it up towards them. Lord Reginald seized it and held on, while Dick prevented the spar from being rolled over on the two men clinging to it, for their strength was almost too far gone to enable them to help themselves. Dick, getting out his knife, first liberated one of the men, and assisted him up the beach out of the reach of the water. He then hurried down to render the same service to the other.

“Thank you, my friends!” said the man first rescued. “You have saved my life when I had well-nigh given up all hope.”

The other was too far gone to utter a word.

“What! are you an Englishman?” inquired Lord Reginald, on hearing the first speak.

“Yes, but my companion is a Frenchman, and yonder wreck is that of a French ship, on board which I was a prisoner.”

“Whether French or English, this poor fellow wants looking after,” observed Lord Reginald. “Come, lend a hand, Hargrave, and we will carry him into the cave; it is the most sheltered spot hereabouts. Can you walk, my friend?” he asked of the Englishman.

“I’ll try, sir,” was the answer.

While Lord Reginald and Dick carried up the Frenchman to the cave, the other man crawled, rather than walked after them, unwilling longer than possible to remain exposed to the force of the fierce wind. On reaching the cave they found a pile of sticks which Lord Reginald had formerly collected. Dick having a flint and steel with him, they soon made up a blazing fire.

Their first care was then to strip the Frenchman and chafe his limbs and chest. Under such treatment he soon revived. Though both the shipwrecked men were severely bruised, none of their limbs were broken.

The Englishman, whose appearance was that of a mate of a merchantman, said that his name was Robson, that he had been captured three weeks before by the French ship—a large privateer—and that his companion was one of her crew. He had been somewhat roughly dealt with on board, but that the man saved with him was the only one who had treated him kindly. As neither had eaten anything since the previous day, they were very thankful for the provisions their rescuers had brought, and leaving the two men to finish their meal and recover their strength, Lord Reginald and Dick again set out to search for any other persons who might be thrown on shore.

On leaving the cave they found that the gale had already begun to abate. They thus made their way with greater ease than they had expected along the beach, which was strewn with pieces of wreck. They met with several dead bodies, but not a single living being could they discover, either on shore or floating on the pieces of limber still tossing about.

They were returning along the beach to the cave, when they saw the two men they had left there running towards them, their countenances, as they approached, exhibiting the greatest alarm.

“There’s something dreadful going to occur, sir,” exclaimed Robson. “We were just about to lie down, when we heard the most fearful rumbling noise, and the rocks about us trembled as if they would come down on our heads. Let us get away from this place as fast as we can, or we shall have been only saved from drowning to suffer a worse death.”

The dashing of the seas on the beach had prevented Lord Reginald and Dick from feeling the commotion which had so frightened the strangers, but Neptune showed that he was as anxious as they were to escape.

“You are right, my friend,” said Lord Reginald, looking up at the mountain. “We have a disagreeable neighbour up there, and it will be wise to get as far away from him as we can. Whatever happens, we may hope to be safe at the other end of the island.”

As no time was to be lost, they returned along the valley by the way they had come, glancing back every now and then to ascertain the state of the volcano. It was still throwing up volumes of smoke and flame, but no stones or ashes fell where they were. At any moment, however, should the wind change, they might be carried in their direction. The two strangers were much alarmed, and had their strength been greater would have hurried on faster. Lord Reginald kindly took Robson’s arm to help him along, while Dick supported the Frenchman. Robson was much relieved on hearing that his preservers had a boat to carry them away from the island.

“I only hope, sir, that the mountain won’t get worse until the weather moderates, and we are able to put to sea,” he observed.

“We are pretty well accustomed to it now,” said Lord Reginald, “and I hope that we shall run into no real danger. We shall be glad, I own, to get off, if we can find our way to Batavia or any other place in the hands of the British.”

“I have been cruising in these seas for some years, and though the Frenchmen didn’t let us know whereabouts we were, if I could once get sight of Bali or Lombok, or for that matter any of the islands to the eastward of Java, I should soon find my way,” answered Robson.

“One thing is certain, that we must steer to the northward to get into the Java sea, and as we have a compass we shall have no difficulty in doing that,” said Lord Reginald.

“Then, sir, I hope you’ll put off without delay. I don’t like the looks of that mountain blazing away there,” exclaimed Robson, casting an alarmed glance over his shoulder.

“We will not stay longer than is necessary,” said Lord Reginald. “We are thankful that we did not sail yesterday, or our craft would have been lost to a certainty.”

The mate, before entering the hut, was anxious to see the boat, and Lord Reginald and Dick, with some little pride, led the strangers up to her. The mate opened his eyes.

“You are right, sir, in being thankful that you were not at sea last night,” he observed. “She may do very well in smooth water, but in a sea way she would prove a curious craft to manage.”

Dick felt somewhat indignant at this remark, though Lord Reginald only laughed.

“I agree with you, my friend; but we have to choose between being smothered or burned by the volcano, or making a voyage in her, and I prefer the latter alternative.” On entering the hut, the mate, having complimented Dick on its comfortable appearance, assured him that he considered the boat a wonderful structure, and such as he himself would never have thought of building.

Pierre Didot, the Frenchman, was equally complimentary.

The two shipwrecked men were thankful to lie down and go to sleep, while Lord Reginald and Dick went along the shore to try and pick up anything of value which might be cast on the beach. They were rewarded by discovering another cask of flour and an officer’s chest, which among other things contained a chart of those seas. Had they known their true position, this would have been of great value, but as they were unable to ascertain this, the chart would be of little service, till they reached some land which the mate might recognise.

They possessed, it is true, some nautical instruments, but as they had no chronometer and no almanac, Lord Reginald had been unable to work out his observations correctly, though he had instructed Dick in their use.

The chest also contained a flask of gunpowder and a pistol. Some way further along the beach they picked up three muskets, which had been jammed into the rack in which they had been fixed, and the whole together had been washed ashore.

“They are too much injured to be of use, I fear,” observed Lord Reginald.

“Perhaps we can manage to put them straight; at all events we will try,” answered Dick.

Several other articles, however, were found, two of them being empty water-casks, which were likely to be of more use than anything else. They returned to the hut, well laden with their treasures. They found the two new-comers sitting up, having just awakened, much refreshed by their sleep.

As soon as Pierre heard of the muskets, he said that he had belonged to the armourer’s crew, and was certain that he could repair them.

Dick having prepared dinner, as soon as it was discussed the whole party set off to bring in the stores.

“I say, that mate of yours works like a good one,” observed Robson to Dick. “If I ever get the command of a craft, I should like to have you and him with me.”

“Thank you,” said Dick, laughing. “I’ll tell him what you say; I am sure that he’ll be pleased to hear it.”

As they had a long way to go, it was late before they had brought in all the articles collected. There were more than sufficient completely to fill Dick’s store.

The next morning, Pierre set to work on the firearms, and was busily employed the whole day, singing merrily while at work, as if he had entirely forgotten the loss of his companions. The rest of the party were engaged in filling the water-casks, as well as a large number of cocoanut shells. They also collected a quantity of fresh nuts, and all the fruit and vegetables likely to keep during the voyage. Robson, however, was in no hurry to put off; the sea, indeed, continued too heavy to enable them to launch the boat. He examined her over and over again, evidently unwilling, except compelled to do so, to make a voyage in her. He suggested strengthening the outriggers, by carrying ropes from the two ends under her bottom. He also advised that she should be covered in more completely with canvas, which being laced down the centre, spaces only being left here and there for her crew, would prevent her filling should a sea break on board.

The first use Lord Reginald made of one of the muskets, when completed, was to kill four deer and a couple of hogs. These Dick dried and salted, that they might have sufficient provisions for their increased numbers. He formed also two additional oars, that, should they meet with calms, they might be able to pull, or enter an unknown harbour, with less risk of running on a rock or reef.

Many months had passed away. To Dick they had been the happiest in his life. Though ready enough to trust the Janet, he was in no hurry to leave the island. Lord Reginald, perhaps, was the most anxious to leave; still he did not shut his eyes to the danger of a voyage in so frail a craft. Everything had been got ready for a start, when one morning the party in the hut were awakened by a more violent upheaving of the earth beneath them than they had yet experienced. On rushing out of doors, they saw the whole island moved in a fearful manner, tall trees waving to and fro, and masses of rock falling into the valleys below.

“To the boat, to the boat!” cried Lord Reginald. “My friends, there is not a moment to be lost. Should the volcano not burst forth, the sea may recede and leave our craft far inland. The first thing we have to do is to get her afloat.”

They hurried to the boat, and the tackles being got ready and the rollers placed under her keel, they commenced launching her. With four hands this was a more easy operation than when undertaken only by two.

Scarcely had the after part reached the water than the fearful rumbling noises increased, and the volcano begun to spout forth its contents, in a far more terrific manner than had hitherto been witnessed, while the atmosphere grew lurid with flame. Streams of lava were also seen descending on every side of the hill.

The crew of the Janet worked with redoubled vigour, and by hauling on the rope attached to the moorings, she was quickly got afloat. While her stern still touched the beach, all hands were engaged in lifting on board the cargo, which, owing to Lord Reginald’s forethought, had previously been arranged, water, fuel, and provisions, and besides other stores, several of the most useful of the carpenter’s tools. Pierre had ingeniously contrived a cooking stove, which was placed just abaft the foremast. As the boat was loaded, she was hauled off from the beach. All the party were on board, with the exception of Lord Reginald, who, followed by Neptune, ran back to the hut, to ascertain that nothing of consequence was left behind. He discovered that the compass had been forgotten. He was just taking it up, and was looking round to see if there was anything else, when Nep, giving a peculiar bark, pulled his trousers, and he heard Dick’s voice frantically calling upon him to return. He hurried out, and made towards the boat. As he did so, he saw that the volcano was in a state of violent eruption. He did not stop to take a second look, but climbing up over the quarter, and hauling up Neptune after him, he shouted to Dick to haul off. The Janet was quickly run out to her moorings. The wind was from the westward. The warp being hauled in, sail was made, and Robson and Pierre, getting out the oars, pulled with all their might. They had good cause for doing so. A vast umbrella-shaped cloud hung over the mountain, extending on every side, and already ashes had begun to fall into the water close astern, while as they got further off, they could see huge stones, sufficient to have sunk the boat, falling into the bay where they had lately floated. The breeze freshened; still that threatening cloud grew larger and larger, the sun, which had risen, appearing like a huge globe of fire through it. They would have been thankful for a gale of wind to carry them to a safe distance. Lord Reginald got out another oar aft, and Dick one forward.

The young lord considered that it would be safer to keep the boat’s head to the eastward, and then haul up to the northward, the course they intended to steer. As they watched the island through the dense cloud by which it was surrounded, it appeared one mass of flame; while the volcano itself, with the hills beneath it, appeared melting away.

“It’s only to be hoped that they may sink to the bottom, and not break up any more stout ships!” cried Robson. “However, as I have gained my liberty, I have no cause to complain.”

The wind freshened, and the Janet under all sail making good way, by nightfall the burning island appeared like a bonfire, far over the larboard quarter. As it was necessary to keep a bright look-out, Lord Reginald and Pierre took one watch, Robson and Dick the other.

“Well, I never did think she would go along in this style,” observed Robson, looking over the side, and noting the way the Janet moved through the water.

Among the articles picked up had been a half-minute glass, and a long line having been fitted, her speed could be ascertained. With the wind on her quarter she was found to be making seven knots an hour, which was considered by all to be wonderfully good going.

For two days the Janet stood on without any land appearing in sight. At length, on the evening of the third day, an indistinct outline was discovered right ahead. A calm came on, and all night she lay without advancing on her course. Although Dick and the other men offered to get out the oars, Lord Reginald would not permit them to exert themselves, knowing that they might require their strength for an emergency.

As the sun rose a breeze sprang up, and again they were skimming along over the smooth sea, at the rate of five knots an hour. At length, the land became more and more distinct. It was of considerable height, but the mate acknowledged that he could not tell what it was. At last he declared it to be the island of Sumbawa, and by steering to the west an opening was discovered. As no one knew the character of the inhabitants, it was agreed that it would be wiser not to land, and the little craft keeping in mid-channel, was not likely to be observed from either shore.

For some hours they were becalmed, and it was not until nearly daylight that they approached the entrance of the straits. Running on all day with a fair breeze, before nightfall they had entered the Java sea. Here, however, the chart showed islands innumerable, and dangers of all sorts. During the night, to avoid the risk of running on them, the Janet was kept under easy sail. For several days they sailed on, steering to the north-west, Lord Reginald determining not to touch at any place until Batavia was reached, unless compelled to do so from want of water or fresh provisions. They were in the longitude of Madura, a large island lying off the north coast of Java, when a numerous fleet of small vessels was seen in the north-east, standing towards them. Robson having taken a look at the strangers through his glass, cried out that they were piratical craft, which infested Borneo and the neighbouring coasts, and were wont to show no mercy to any falling into their hands.

“We must try and keep ahead of them, then,” answered Lord Reginald, “and if they come up with us, fight to the last. With these three muskets and a pistol, we can do a little, and must make the best use we can of our boat-hook and oars.”

“The best thing we can do with our oars is to keep ahead of them,” answered the mate. “They are big craft, and would run this lugger down without ceremony.”

“And we will keep ahead of them,” was the answer. “We will get out the oars, and try and make the Janet walk along.”

In spite, however, of the strenuous efforts made by the Janet’s crew, it was too evident that the pirates, if such they were, were overhauling her, having a stronger breeze than she had got to send them through the water. A small island appeared on the starboard bow. The mate suggested that by landing there, they might escape into the interior, and save their lives.

“Or be murdered by its inhabitants,” said Lord Reginald, laughing. “We will trust to our own little craft. We shall get the breeze before long, and we will then see if we cannot distance our pursuers.”

There appeared, however, too much probability that his hopes would prove vain. The pirate fleet, of thirty vessels or more, each manned by some fifty or sixty cut-throats, was approaching nearer and nearer. Lord Reginald having had the muskets handed to him, loaded them carefully, and placed them by his side.

“We will keep pulling to the last, and when they come within musket-shot, I’ll pick off some of the fellows in the leading vessel. That will make them fancy we are better armed than we are, and they may not think it worth while to attempt capturing us.”

They were at this time passing to the southward of the island before mentioned. The breeze freshened, and the Janet made better way than she had hitherto been doing. However, the pirates had already got almost within musket-shot, but Lord Reginald was unwilling to throw a charge away. At length, turning round and seeing that the leading pirate was within range, he fired. He quickly took up the next musket, and as he did so, he called to Dick to come aft and reload them. By the time the third musket was fired, Dick had loaded the first. A dozen shots had been fired, though it was difficult to ascertain the effect produced. By this time the Janet had opened out the west end of the island, when Dick, looking up, just as he was handing a musket to Lord Reginald, exclaimed—

“A sail, a sail! and a man-of-war, too, standing down towards us, under every stitch of canvas she can carry.”

“She’ll be up to us in twenty minutes more, and all we need do is to keep ahead of our pursuers,” answered Lord Reginald, taking a glance at her, before firing the musket he had received from Dick. That glance, however, was sufficient to convince him that she was the Wolf.

He was again about to fire, when the pirate craft were seen in a state of confusion, putting about. As fast as they could, lowering their sails and getting out their oars, they pulled away for their lives in the wind’s eye. They had an advantage by keeping closer in shore than the frigate could venture; besides which, the wind was light, and thus gave them a better chance of escape. They had, however, been seen from the frigate, which stood on after them, and at first appeared as if about to pass the Janet. In a few minutes, however, the British ensign was seen flying from the lugger’s mainyard; at the same time it was perceived that the frigate would have little chance of overtaking the pirate proas.

Lord Reginald stood up and waved his hat, while all hands shouted at the top of their voices.

“They’ve made us out. She’s about to heave to, sir. Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Dick.

The frigate, coming up with the wind, hove her maintop-sail aback. The lugger stood on for a short time, then hauling her wind, ran up under the Wolf’s lee.

“What craft is that?” asked a voice from the frigate’s gangway.

“The private yacht Janet, bound from we don’t know exactly where, for Batavia, or for any British man-of-war we can fall in with, especially the Wolf,” answered Lord Reginald.

“You’ve fallen in with the very frigate you’re in search of,” answered Mr Curling, the first lieutenant, who had before spoken. “Come alongside, and let’s hear more about you.”

“That’s more than we can do with these outriggers,” said Lord Reginald. “Lower a boat, and we will step into her.”

This was speedily done, and Lord Reginald, in another minute, was ascending the sides of the frigate.

Dick hesitated about going on board. The moment he had been dreading had arrived; he must now be separated by an immeasurable distance from the man he had learned to love and respect.

Lord Reginald received a warm welcome from Captain Moubray and his brother officers. Great, indeed, was their astonishment at seeing him. It was fully believed that either the Marie had been captured, or that she had been lost in the hurricane which came on soon after the convoy reached Batavia.

“And now we must either drop your craft astern or hoist her up, for we must continue the chase of yonder piratical fleet,” said the captain.

“I doubt very much whether we shall be able to tow her without the risk of tearing out her bows,” said Lord Reginald, “it will be safer to hoist her up, though to do so we must first unship her outriggers. Her builder is on board, and as soon as he has completed his task I should wish to introduce him to you, as he is a young man of talent to whom I am most deeply indebted.”

“I shall be happy to make his acquaintance,” answered the captain, not dreaming of whom Lord Reginald spoke.

The carpenter, with three or four hands, under Dick’s superintendence, quickly unshipped the outriggers, and all wondered, when they saw how narrow and frail she looked, that she should have come without accident so great a distance.

As she touched the deck out jumped Neptune, leaping and barking with delight at seeing his old shipmates, who patted his head and stroked him as he rushed in and out among them. The boat being hoisted in, and the mainyard being braced round, the frigate was steered as close as the wind would allow in the direction taken by the pirate fleet.

Dick, who had not as yet been recognised by any of his old shipmates, busied himself in stowing away the Janet’s masts and sails, until Lord Reginald, coming along the deck, took him by the arm and led him aft to the captain.

“Now let me introduce my friend, Mr Richard Hargrave. I can especially recommend him to you, sir, as a young man of sterling worth, possessed of talents of no ordinary kind, and he has twice saved my life.”

The captain, to Dick’s great surprise, shook him cordially by the hand. “I shall be happy, Lord Reginald, to do my best to serve him,” he said, not recognising Dick as one of his crew.

“The greatest favour you can do me would be to place him on the quarter-deck, and I can answer for it that he will prove an ornament to the service,” answered Lord Reginald.

Perhaps no one was more astonished than was Mr Curling, who remembered Dick, though the others did not, and also the ill feeling shown towards him by Lord Reginald, but he kept his counsel, waiting to hear the captain’s reply.

“He is rather old to enter the service, but as I am glad to do anything you wish, and to reward him for saving your life, I cannot refuse your request,” answered the captain; “and as we have several vacancies which I can fill up, I will appoint Mr Hargrave as one of the midshipmen of this ship.”

Lord Reginald expressed his gratitude to the captain, and, shaking Dick by the hand, heartily congratulated him on his promotion. “I ought to have said, sir, that he has served on board this ship, and I think the officers who observed him will acknowledge that he always did his duty.”

“I can answer for that,” said the first lieutenant. “I am truly glad to find that I was not mistaken in the opinion I long ago formed of him.”

“Now, my dear Hargrave,” said Lord Reginald, “I must introduce you to the other midshipmen. They will all be eager to hear an account of our adventures on the island, and I am sure you need have no fear as to the way they will receive you.”

Before, however, Lord Reginald took him into the berth he got him rigged out in a uniform supplied by the purser, which, with other articles of clothing belonging to Voules, made up his outfit.

The midshipmen received Dick in a friendly manner, no allusion being made to his former rating. He took the first opportunity of paying a visit to the cabin of Mr Bitts the boatswain.

“I thought I knew you when you came on board, but was not certain enough to go up and speak to you,” said Mr Bitts. “And now, Mr Hargrave, pray understand that though I did use my rattan now and then pretty sharply, I did it for your good, but as I had then a sincere wish to make a first-rate sailor of you, so I shall consider it a favour, if you ever want instruction in seamanship, if you’ll come and ask me, and I shall be proud of affording it. There’s many a wrinkle I can give you which the quarterdeck officers might not think of. Some day, and I hope it will not be long hence, you’ll be my superior in the service, and it will be my boast to be able to say, ‘I taught him; I knew he’d turn out an honour to the navy.’”

Dick thanked Mr Bitts, and promised faithfully to take advantage of his offer.

In the mean time, the frigate under all sail had been chasing the pirates. Though she went much faster through the water than they did, she had to make frequent tacks to keep them in sight. They were still a long way ahead of her when darkness came on, and in the morning no sign of them could be seen.

After spending some time fruitlessly looking about for them, and after visiting several of the Dutch settlements lately taken possession of by England, the Wolf returned to Batavia, where the Janet was landed, and Dick, had he been so disposed, might have exhibited her as a curiosity in naval architecture. Here also Robson and Pierre went on shore, the former to obtain a berth as mate of an English merchantman, the latter to return at liberty to his native country on the first opportunity. From Batavia the Wolf sailed for Madras, then, after cruising for some time in the Indian seas, and capturing several prizes, she was at length ordered home. She had made during the time she was on the East Indian station a considerable amount of prize-money, and though a midshipman’s share is not very large compared to that of the captain, Dick’s was not only sufficient to obtain a good outfit, but he had besides a well-filled purse in his pocket.

“I want you to make me your banker,” said Lord Reginald, as they were one day walking the deck together, and talking of home, “and that you may make such presents to your father and mother and blind sister as you choose, you must draw on me for your future requirements. I will ask my father to get you on board the next ship to which I am appointed, and I hope that by the time I am made a commander you will have become a lieutenant, and that we shall still serve together.”

Lord Reginald was somewhat surprised, though Dick thanked him heartily, when he declined the first part of his offer.

“My wants are not likely to be great, and I hope that the cash I now have and such prize-money as we may gain in future, will be ample to supply them,” he added.

“Well, well,” said Lord Reginald, fully appreciating Dick’s feelings on the subject, “you are very unlike poor Voules, who did not scruple to borrow what he had no intention to repay; but we will not talk of his faults, poor fellow! I understand him now better than I did, but I have more reason to blame myself for having been toadied by such a man, than to find fault with him for paying court to me.”

The Wolf reached Portsmouth after a somewhat long voyage, and going into harbour, was at once paid off.

Lord Reginald invited Dick to accompany him to Elverston. “Don’t say who you are, and they’ll suppose that I have got another Voules in tow,” he said, laughing.

Dick thought it would appear ungrateful not to accept the invitation.

Lord Reginald was received as one from the dead, as the news of his disappearance had reached home, and nothing had been heard of him since. After his mother and sisters had somewhat recovered from the agitation into which they had been thrown by his reappearance, and he had received the congratulations of his father and his elder brothers, Viscount Elverston and Lord John, he took Dick by the arm and introduced him as his friend and late shipmate, without mentioning his name. The whole party then entered the drawing-room. There were several persons, including three young ladies, engaged in various feminine occupations. One of them, a bright-eyed blooming girl, Dick thought resembled greatly in features his sister Janet. He was describing to Lady Julia, who, now married, was staying with her husband in the house, their adventures on the island, when, turning round, he saw the last-mentioned young lady trembling violently, and gazing earnestly at him.

“Oh, my brother, my dear brother!” she exclaimed, suddenly rising and throwing herself into his arms, quite forgetting the company present. “Have you really come back? I know you, Dick, though I never saw your face before. I know you by your voice and your likeness to our father.”

Dick, giving vent to his feelings in a way midshipmen are not wont to do, pressed her to his heart.

“You are quite right, Miss Hargrave, it is your brother Richard, and my dearest and best friend,” said Lord Reginald, coming forward.

Matters were soon explained, and Dick received the heartfelt thanks of the marquis and Lady Elverston as the preserver of their son, and compliments innumerable flowed in upon him from all the company present.

As soon as he could he seated himself near Janet, who told him of the welfare of their father and mother, and how she had been restored to sight by the removal of the cataract from her eyes by a skilful oculist to whom Lady Elverston had taken her.

Dick and Janet set off the next day for their father’s farm. Dick’s stay on shore, however, consisted but of a few weeks, some of which were spent at Elverston in company with Lord Reginald. He paid poor Susan Rudall and her children a visit, when he performed the painful duty of giving them an account of Ben’s death. Lord Reginald, however, cheered her up somewhat, by assuring her that she should not come to want, a promise which he faithfully fulfilled, the marquis making her an allowance, while Lady Elverston obtained employment for her in the neighbourhood.

At length, Lord Reginald and Dick joined a fine frigate, to which the former had been appointed as second lieutenant.

The marquis as speedily as possible obtained Dick’s promotion. Both he and Lord Reginald rose to the top of their profession, and few more gallant officers have served their country than Admirals Lord Reginald Oswald and Richard Hargrave.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Rob Nixon"

"The Old White Trader - A Tale of Central British North Ame"

Chapter One.

Picture a wide, gently undulating expanse of land covered with tall grass, over which, as it bends to the breeze, a gleam of light ever and anon flashes brightly. It is a rolling prairie in North America, midway between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. On either hand the earth and sky seem to unite, without an object to break the line of the horizon, except in the far distance, where some tall trees, by a river’s side, shoot up out of the plain, but appear no higher than a garden hedge-row. It is truly a wilderness, which no wise man would attempt to traverse without a guide.

That man has wandered there, the remnants of mortality which lie scattered about—a skull and the bare ribs seen as the wind blows the grass aside,—afford melancholy evidence. A nearer inspection shows a rifle, now covered with rust, a powder-flask, a sheath-knife, a flint and steel, and a few other metal articles of hunter’s gear. Those of more destructible materials have disappeared before the ravenous jaws of the hosts of locusts which have swept over the plain. Few portions of the earth’s surface give a more complete idea of boundless extent than the American prairie. Not a sound is heard. The silence itself is awe-inspiring. The snows of winter have lain thickly on that plain, storms have swept over it, the rain has fallen, the lightning flashed, the thunder roared, since it has been trodden by the foot of man. Perhaps the last human being who has attempted to cross it was he whose bones lie blanching in the summer sun—that sun which now, having some time passed its meridian height, is sinking towards the west.

Southward appear, coming as it were from below the horizon, some dark specks, scattered widely from east to west, and moving slowly. On they come, each instant increasing in numbers, till they form one dark line. They are animals with huge heads and dark shaggy manes, browsing as they advance, clearing the herbage before them. They are a herd of bison, known by the wild hunters of the west as buffaloes—countless apparently in numbers—powerful and ferocious in appearance, with their short thick horns and long heads. Now they halt, as the richer pasturage entices; now again advance. A large number lie down to rest, while others, moving out of the midst, seem to be acting as scouts to give notice of the approach of danger. They go on as before, darkening the whole southern horizon. The wind is from the west; the scouts lift up their shaggy heads and sniff the air, but discover no danger. From the east another dark line rises quickly above the horizon: the ground shakes with the tramp of horses. It is a troop of huntsmen—savage warriors of the desert. What clothing they wear is of leather gaily adorned. Some have feathers in their heads, and their dark red skins painted curiously. Some carry bows richly ornamented: a few only are armed with rifles. A few, who, by their dress, the feathers and adornments of the head, appear to be chiefs, ride a-head and keep the line in order. Every man holds his weapon ready for instant use. They advance steadily, keeping an even line. Their leader waves his rifle. Instantly the steeds spring forward. Like a whirlwind they dash on: no want of energy now. The huntsmen are among the bewildered herd before their approach has been perceived. Arrows fly in quick succession from every bow—bullets from the rifles. The huntsmen have filled their mouths with the leaden messengers of death, and drop them into their rifles as they gallop on, firing right and left—singling out the fattest beasts at a glance—and never erring in their aim. In a few minutes the plain is thickly strewn with the huge carcasses of the shaggy buffaloes, each huntsman, as he passes on, dropping some article of his property by which he may know the beast he has killed. Now the herd begin to seek for safety in flight, still keeping in the direction they had before been taking, some scattering, however, on each side. The eager hunters pursue till the whole prairie, from right to left, is covered with flying buffaloes and wild horsemen; the crack of the rifles sounding distinctly through the calm summer air, in which the tiny wreath of smoke ascends unbroken and marks the hunter’s progress.

Among the huntsmen rides one distinguished from the rest by his more complete, yet less ornamented clothing; by a leather cap without feathers, and by the perfect order of his rifle and hunting accoutrements.

On a nearer inspection his skin—though tanned, and wrinkled, and furrowed, by long exposure to the weather, and by age and toil—might be discovered to have been of a much lighter hue originally than that of his companions. Old as he was, no one was more eager in the chase, and no one’s rifle brought down so great a number of buffaloes as did his. To all appearance he was as active and strong as the youngest huntsman of the band. In the course of the hunt he had reached the extreme left of the line. A superb bull appeared before him. “I’ll have you for your robe, if not for your meat, old fellow,” exclaimed the hunter, galloping on towards the animal’s right flank, so as to turn him yet further from the herd, and to obtain a more direct shot at his head or at his shoulders. There are occasions when the most practised of shots will find himself at fault—the firmest nerves will fail. The old hunter had reached a satisfactory position—he raised his rifle, and fired. At that instant, while still at full speed, his horse’s front feet sunk into a hole made by a badger, or some other of the smaller creatures inhabiting the prairie; and the animal, unable to recover itself, threw the hunter violently forward over its head, where he lay without moving, and apparently dead. The horse struggled to free itself; and then, as it fell forward, gave utterance to one of those piercing cries of agony not often heard, and, when heard, not to be forgotten. Both fore legs were broken. Its fate was certain. It must become the prey of the ravenous wolves, who speedily scent out the spots where the hunters have overtaken a herd of buffaloes. Meantime the buffalo, who had been struck by the hunter’s bullet, but not so wounded as to bring him instantly to the ground, galloped on for some distance in the direction he was before going, when, feeling the pain of his wound, or hearing the cry of the horse, he turned round to face his enemies. Seeing both steed and rider prostrate, he tossed his head, and then, lowering his horns close to the ground, prepared to charge. The last moments of the old hunter seemed approaching. The cry of agony uttered by his favourite steed roused him. He looked up and saw the buffalo about to make its charge. His hand had never relaxed its grasp of his rifle. To feel for his powder-flask and to load was the work of an instant; and, without an attempt to rise, he brought the muzzle of his piece to bear on the furious animal as it was within a few paces of him. “Rob Nixon never feared man nor beast, and will not this time; let an old bull bellow as loud as he may,” he muttered, as he raised his rifle and fired. The bullet took effect, but did not stop the headlong career of the enraged monster, which came on, ploughing up the ground, towards him. The hunter saw his danger and tried to rise, but in vain. He then made a desperate endeavour to drag himself out of the way of the creature. He but partially succeeded, when the buffalo, sinking down, rolled over and over, crushing, with his huge carcase, the already injured legs and lower extremities of the unfortunate hunter. In spite of the pain he was enduring, the old man, raising himself on his elbow, grimly, surveyed his conquered foe—“You’ve the worst of it, though you nearly did for me, I own,” he exclaimed, nodding his head; “but a miss is as good as a mile, and when I’m free of you, maybe I’ll sup off your hump.”

To liberate himself from the monster’s carcase was, however, no easy task, injured as he was already by his fall, and by the weight of the buffalo pressing on him. He made several attempts, but the pain was very great, and he found that his strength was failing him. While resting, before making another attempt to move, he perceived his poor horse, whose convulsive struggles showed how much he had been injured. On looking round, also, he discovered that the accident had taken place in a slight hollow, which, shallow as it was, shut him out from the view of his companions, who were now pursuing the remainder of the herd at a considerable distance from where he lay. Again and again he tried to drag his injured limbs from beneath the buffalo. He had never given in while consciousness remained, and many were the accidents which had happened to him during his long hunter’s life. Would he give in now? “No, not I,” he muttered; “Rob Nixon is not the boy for that.” At length, however, his spirit succumbed to bodily suffering, and he sank back exhausted and fainting, scarcely conscious of what had happened, or where he was. Had he retained sufficient strength to fire his rifle he might have done so, and summoned some of the hunters to his assistance; but he was unable even to load it, so it lay useless by his side. Thus he remained; time passed by—no one approached him—the sun sank in the horizon—darkness came on. It appeared too probable that the fate of many a hunter in that vast prairie would be his. How long he had remained in a state of stupor he could not tell; consciousness returned at length, and, revived by the cool air of night, he sat up and gazed about him. The stars had come out and were shining brilliantly overhead, enabling him to see to the extent of his limited horizon. The dead buffalo still pressed on his legs—a hideous nightmare; his horse lay near giving vent to his agony in piteous groans, and every now and then making an attempt to rise to his feet. “My poor mustang, you are in a bad way I fear,” said the hunter, in a tone of commiseration, forgetting his own sufferings; “I would put an end to thy misery, and so render thee the only service in my power, but that I cannot turn myself to load my rifle. Alack! alack! we shall both of us ere long be food for the wolves; but, though I must meet my fate as becomes a man, I would save you—poor, dumb brute that you are—from being torn by their ravenous fangs while life remains in you.” Such were the thoughts which passed through the hunter’s mind, for it can scarcely be said that he spoke them aloud.

He would probably again have relapsed into a state of stupor, but that a hideous howl, borne by the night breeze, reached his ears. “Wolves!” he exclaimed; “ah! I know you, you brutes.” The howl was repeated again and again, its increased loudness showing that the creatures were approaching. The well-known terrible sounds roused up the old hunter to make renewed exertions to extricate himself. This time, by dint of dragging himself out with his arms, he succeeded in getting his feet from under the buffalo; but he then discovered, to his dismay, that his thigh had either been broken, or so severely sprained by his fall, that to walk would be impossible. He managed, however, to load his rifle. Scarcely had he done so when the struggles of his horse reminded him of the pain the poor animal was suffering. Although he knew that every charge of powder in his flask would be required for his own defence, he did not hesitate in performing the act of mercy which the case required. He uttered no sentimental speech, though a pang of grief passed through his heart as he pointed the weapon at the horse’s head. His aim was true, and the noble animal fell dead. “He’s gone; not long before me, I guess,” he muttered, as he reloaded his piece. “Those brutes will find me out, there is no doubt about that; but I’ll have a fight first—Rob Nixon will die game.” The old hunter drew a long knife from a sheath at his side, and, deliberately examining its point, placed it on the ground near him while he reloaded his rifle. Thus did the old man prepare for an inevitable and dreadful death, as he believed; yet not a prayer did he offer up, not a thought did he cast at the future. Eternity, heaven, and hell, were matters unknown; or, if once known, long since forgotten. Yet forgetfulness of a fact will not do away with it. They are awful realities, and will assuredly be found such, however much men may strive to banish them from their thoughts. The young especially are surprised to hear that old men have forgotten what they learned in their youth, that they neglect to pray, to read the Bible, to think about God and their own souls; but let them be assured that if once they give up the habit of praying, of studying God’s holy Word, of obeying His commands, there is one ever ready to persuade them that there is no harm in this neglect; that it will save them much trouble; and that it is far more manly to neglect prayers, to be irreligious and profane, than to love, serve, and obey their Maker. A downward course is sadly easy; let them beware of taking the first step. Each step they take in the wrong direction they will find it more and more difficult to recover, till, like the old huntsman, they will cease to care about the matter, and God will no longer be in their thoughts. There lay that old man on the wild prairie, a melancholy spectacle,—not so much that he was surrounded by dangers—that he was wounded and crippled—that wild beasts were near him—that, if he escaped their fangs, starvation threatened him,—but that he had no hope for the future—that he had no trust in God—that he had not laid hold of the means of salvation.

As Rob Nixon lay on the ground supporting his head on his arm, he turned his gaze round and round, peering into the darkness to watch for any thing moving near him. He knew that before the sun set his Indian comrades would have carried off the flesh from the buffaloes they had killed, and that after that they, would move their camp to a distance, no one being likely to return. He probably would not be missed for some time, and when missed, it would be supposed that he had fallen into the hands of the Salteux, or Ojibways, the hereditary enemies of their nation, and that already his scalp had been carried off as a trophy by those hated foes. “They’ll revenge me; that’s one comfort, and the Ojibways will get paid for what the wolves have done.” These were nearly the last thoughts which passed through the brain of the old hunter, as the howls and yelps of the wolves, which had formed a dreadful concert at a distance around him, approached still nearer. “I guessed the vermin wouldn’t be long in finding me out,” he muttered; and, on looking up, he saw through the darkness, glaring fiercely down on him from the edge of the hollow in which he lay, the eyes of a pack of wolves. “I’ll stop the howling of some of you,” he exclaimed, lifting his rifle. There was no cry; but a gap in the circle of eyes showed that a wolf had fallen, and instantly afterwards the loud barking and yelping proved that the savage creatures were tearing their companion to pieces. This gave time to the old man to re-load and to pick off another wolf. In this manner he killed several, and though he did not drive them away, they were prevented from approaching nearer. On finding that such was the case, his hopes of escaping their fangs rose slightly, at the same time that the lightness of his powder-flask and bullet bag, told him that his ammunition would soon fail, and that then he would have his hunting knife alone on which to depend. He accordingly waited, without again firing, watching his foes, who continued howling and wrangling over the bodies of their fellows. Now and then one would descend a short way into the hollow, attracted by the scent of the dead horse and buffalo, but a sudden shout from the old hunter kept the intruders at a respectful distance. He was well aware, however, that should exhausted nature for one instant compel him to drop asleep, the brutes would be upon him, and tear him limb from limb. Thus the hours of the night passed slowly along. Many men would have succumbed; but, hardened by a long life of danger and activity, Robert Nixon held out bravely, in spite of the pain, and thirst, and hunger, from which he was suffering. Never for one moment was his eye off his enemies, while his fingers were on the trigger ready to shoot the first which might venture to approach. More than once he muttered to himself, “It must be near morning, and then these vermin will take themselves off, and let me have some rest. Ah, rest! that’s the very thing I have been wanting,” he continued; “it’s little enough I’ve ever had of it. I’ve been working away all my life, and where’s the good I’ve got out of it? There’s been something wrong, I suppose; but I can’t make it out. Best! Yes, that’s it. I should just like to find myself sitting in my lodge among a people who don’t care, like these Dakotahs, to be always fighting or hunting: but they are not a bad people, and they’ve been good friends to me, and I’ve no fault to find with their ways, though I’ll own they’re more suited to young men than to an old one like me. But there’s little use my thinking this. Maybe, I shall never see them or any other of my fellow-creatures again.” It was only now and then that his mind framed any thoughts as coherent as these; generally he remained in a dreamy condition, only awake to the external objects immediately surrounding him. Gradually, too, his strength began to fail, though he was not aware of the fact. The howls, and barks, and snarling, and other hideous sounds made by the wolves, increased. He could see them moving about in numbers, around the edge of the basin, their red fiery eyes ever and anon glaring down on him. At last they seemed to be holding a consultation, and to have settled their disputes, probably from not having longer a bone of contention unpicked among them. They were evidently, once more, about to make an attack on him. A large brute, who had long been prowling round, first crept on, gnashing his teeth. The old man lifted his rifle and the creature, with a loud cry, fell dead. Another and another came on, and before he could load, the foremost had got close up to him. He fired at the animal’s head. It rolled over, and, the flash of his rifle scaring the rest, with hideous yelps, they took to flight, the old man firing after them directly he could re-load. He could scarcely believe that he was to remain unmolested, and once more loading his rifle, he rested as before on his arm, watching for their re-appearance. Gradually, however, exhausted nature gave way, and he sank down unconscious on the ground, to sleep, it might be, the sleep of death.

Chapter Two.

The sun rose and shone forth brightly on the earth. There was the sound of winged creatures in Robert Nixon’s ears as he once more awoke and gazed languidly around. His first impulse was to attempt to rise, but the anguish he suffered the instant he moved reminded him of the injuries he had received. Vain were his efforts; to stand up was impossible. Although the wolves for the time were gone, they, to a certainty, would return at night, and thus, without ammunition, how could he defend himself against them? He might subsist on the meat of the buffalo for a day or two, but that would soon become uneatable, and as he could scarcely hope to recover from his hurt for many days, even if he escaped the wolves, he must die of starvation. Again he sank into a state of mental stupor, though his eye still remained cognisant of external objects. As the old hunter thus lay on the ground his eye fell on a horseman riding rapidly by. He was a Salteux, or Ojibway Indian, a people having a deadly feud with his friends, the Sioux. The sight roused him. To kill the man and capture his horse was the idea which at once occurred to him. Rousing himself by a violent exertion he levelled his rifle and fired. Not for an instant did he hesitate about taking the life of a fellow-creature. That fellow-creature was a foe of his friends, whose badge he wore, and would, he believed, kill him if he was discovered. He had miscalculated his powers—his eye had grown dim, his arm had lost its nerve; the bullet which once would have proved a sure messenger of death flew wide of its mark, and the Indian sat his horse unharmed. He turned, however, immediately, and galloped towards the spot whence the shot came. The old hunter had expended his last bullet. With grim satisfaction he awaited the Indian’s approach, and the expected flourish of the scalping-knife, or the kinder blow of the tomahawk, which would deprive him at once of life. “Better so than be torn by the fangs of those vermin the wolves,” he muttered, for though he clutched his knife to strike back, he well knew that he was at the mercy of his adversary. The Indian, though a rifle hung at his back, rode steadily up without unslinging it. “A friend!” he shouted in the Salteux, or Ojibway dialect,—“A friend! fire not again.”

“A friend! How so?” exclaimed the old hunter. “Your people and mine are mortal foes.”

“I would be a friend to all the suffering and distressed,” was the unexpected answer. “I see what has happened—you have fought bravely for your life; the remains of the wolves tell me that, but before another sun has risen you would have been torn limb from limb by their fellows. Truly I am thankful that I was sent to save you from death.”

“Sent! Who sent you?” cried the old hunter, gazing up at the strange Indian. The other having just dismounted from his horse stood looking compassionately down on him. “He who watches over the fatherless and widows, and all who are distressed,” answered the Indian. “A generous kind person I doubt not, but I know of none such in this land; he must live far away from here,” said the old hunter. “He lives in Heaven, and His eye is everywhere,” said the Indian solemnly. “He loves all mankind; without His will not a sparrow falls to the ground; and I am sure, therefore, that it was His will that I should come to you.”

“Truly you speak strange words for a redskin!” exclaimed the hunter. “I have heard long ago white men talk as you, but never an Indian. You are one I see; there is no deceiving me. I cannot understand the matter.”

“I will tell you as we go along,” said the Indian; “but we must no longer delay, father; we have many miles to travel before we can reach my people, and I know not how I can restore you to your friends. It would be dangerous for me to approach them, for they could not understand how I can only wish them good.”

“I will go with you, friend,” said the old man. “I would gladly dwell with your people, and hear more of those strange matters of which you have been speaking.”

Without further exchange of words the Indian, having examined the old man’s hurts, gave him some dried meat and a draught from his water-flask, and lifted him with the utmost care on his horse; he then took the hunter’s rifle and horse’s trappings before moving off. He also secured the tongue and hump, and some slices from the buffalo’s back, which he hung to his saddle-bow. “We may require more provision than our own rifles can supply before we reach our journey’s end,” he observed; as he did so, pointing to the north-east. Robert Nixon without hesitation yielded to all his suggestions.

The day was already considerably advanced, and the Indian seemed anxious to push on. Keeping up a rapid pace, he walked by the side of his companion, who, overcome by weakness and want of sleep would have fallen off, had not his strong arm held him on. Thus they journeyed hour after hour across the prairie. The Indian from the first employed various devices for rendering his trail invisible. On starting he moved for some distance westward, till he reached the bed of a small stream, on which even the sharp eye of a native could scarcely perceive a trace; then circling round, he commenced his intended course. Many miles were passed over; and the bank of a rapid river was reached, when the setting sun warned him that it was time to encamp. Instead, however, of doing so, he at once led his horse into the stream, and keeping close to the shore waded against the current, often having the water up to his waist, for a considerable distance, then coming to a ford he crossed over and continued along in the same direction till he once more returned to dry ground. The bank was fringed on each side by a belt of trees, which in the warm weather of summer afforded ample shelter from the dew, and concealment from any passing enemy. The chief trees were poplar, willow, and alder; but there were also spruce and birch. Bound the latter lay large sheets of the bark. A quantity of these the Indian at once collected, and with some thin poles which he cut with his hatchet he rapidly constructed a small hut or wigwam, strewing the floor with the young shoots of the spruce-fir. On this couch he placed his injured companion, putting his saddle under his head as a pillow. He then brought the old man some food and water, and next proceeded to examine his hurts with more attention than he had before been able to bestow. Bringing water from the river he fomented his bruises for a long time, and then searching for some leaves of a plant possessed of healing qualities, he bound them with strips of soft leather round his swollen limbs. More than once the old hunter expressed his surprise that a stranger should care so much for him, and should actually feed and tend him before he had himself partaken of food and rested. “I serve a loving Master, and I am but obeying His wishes,” was the laconic answer. “Very strange! very strange!” again and again muttered the old man; “you must tell me something about that Master of yours. I cannot understand who he can be.”

“I will not disappoint you, father, for I love to speak of Him,” said the Indian; “I will come anon and sit by your side and tell you what I know. It will interest you, I doubt not, and maybe you will wish to know more about Him.” Some time passed, however, before the Indian was able to fulfil his promise. He had to tend his horse and to set some traps to catch any small game which might pass, and to search for certain roots and berries for food. He showed, too, by all his movements that he considered himself in an enemy’s country, or in the neighbourhood of an enemy from whom it was necessary to keep concealed. When he came back the old man had fallen asleep. “Let him sleep on,” said the Indian to himself: “our Father in Heaven will watch over and protect us both. I would that I could watch, but my body requires rest.” Having tethered his horse close at hand, strewed the ground with a few spruce-fir tops, and placed his rifle by his side, he knelt down and prayed, not as once to Manitou, to the Great Spirit, the unknown God, but to the true God,—a God no longer feared as a worker of evil, but beloved as the source of all good, of all blessings, spiritual and temporal. His prayer finished, he stretched himself on his couch, and was in an instant asleep.

The silvery streaks of early dawn were just appearing in the eastern sky—seen amid the foliage of the wood, when the Indian, impulsively grasping his rifle, started to his feet. His quick ear had caught, even in his sleep, the sound of a distant shot. It might be fired by a friend, but very likely by a foe, and it behoved him to be on the alert. The old hunter heard it also, but it did not awake him. “Ah! they are on us. No matter, we’ll fight for our lives,” he muttered in his sleep. “Hurrah, lads! Rob Nixon will not yield—never while he’s an arm to strike.” He spoke in English, which the Indian seemed to understand, though the observation he made was in his own language. “Our own arms will do little for us, father, unless we trust in Him who is all-powerful to save.” His voice awoke the old man, who sat up and looked around from out of his hut. Seeing the Indian in the attitude of listening, he at once comprehended the state of matters. “Few or many I’ll stand by you, friend Redskin,” he exclaimed, apparently forgetting his helpless condition; “load my rifle, and hand it to me. If foes are coming, they shall learn that Rob Nixon has not lost the use of his arms and eyes, whatever he may have of his legs.”

“I doubt not your readiness to fight, father,” said the Indian, addressing the old man thus to show his respect for age; “but we may hope to avoid the necessity of having to defend ourselves. Friends and not foes may be near us, or we may escape discovery; or, what is better still, we may overcome the enmity of those who approach us with bad intent.”

“Your talk is again strange, as it was yesterday,” answered the hunter; “I know not what you mean by overcoming enmity. There is only one way that I have ever found answer both with pale-faces and redskins, and that is by killing your enemy.”

“Try what kindness will do, father. Love is the law of the true God,” said the Indian; “but we will anon talk of these things. I will go forth and learn what the shot we heard just now means.”

“Load my rifle, and give it me first, I pray you,” said the white hunter; “I have great faith in my old way of doing things, and am not likely to change.” The Indian loaded the rifle and handed it to him, and without saying a word more set off through the wood, and was soon out of sight. Rob Nixon lay still, with his rifle resting across his body, ready to fire should an enemy appear. Over and over again he muttered: “Strange! strange! that a redskin should talk so. I cannot make it out.” Several minutes passed by, and the Indian did not return. The old man grew more anxious than he would have acknowledged to himself. He had some natural feeling on his own account should his new friend have been cut off, but he was also anxious for that new friend, to whom he could not but be grateful for the service he had rendered him. At length he saw the bushes move, and the Indian appeared and crept close up to him. “There are foes, and many of them,” he said in a low voice; “they are near at hand, but they are not seeking for us; and thus, if they do not cross our trail, we may yet escape discovery.”

The Indian had already concealed his horse in a thicket, and, by carefully surrounding the spot where they lay with boughs, their little camp was completely hidden from the sight of any casual passer-by. The boughs he had cut from the interior part of a thicket, for, had they been taken from the outer side, the eye of an Indian would at once have observed the white stumps which were left. Again, by crossing the river in the mode they had done, there was no trail to lead to their camp. For these reasons the Indian and the white hunter had good cause to believe that they might escape discovery. As their enemies were as yet at some distance it was not deemed necessary to keep altogether silent. The old hunter was the most loquacious. “I would, friend Redskin,” said he, “that I had the use of my legs and half a dozen of my old companions at my back, and I wouldn’t fear as to holding my own against three-score or more of Crees, or Ojibways; no offence to you, friend; for there are not many like you, I guess.”

“Your people fight bravely but foolishly, according to Indian notions,” answered the Indian; “for, instead of advancing on their foes under shelter and trying to take them unawares, they dress themselves in fine clothes, make a great noise when going forth to battle, and expose their bodies to be shot at. I was once esteemed a mighty warrior, and was a man of blood; I have engaged in much fighting, but would now wish to bury the hatchet of war with all the world. I thank you for what you say of me; but things of which I once boasted, I boast of no longer. I am a chief of many people; but instead, as at one time, of wishing to lead them to war, I now desire to lead them to a knowledge of the Lord and Master whom I serve—the Saviour of the world.”

“Every man to his taste, friend Redskin,” said the old hunter; “when I was a young man like you I could not have fighting or hunting enough. Now, I own, I am growing somewhat weary of the work; and, if we get to the end of this journey with our scalps on, maybe I’ll settle down with your people.”

It may seem strange that the old man could not comprehend what was the meaning of the Indian when he spoke thus. If he had a glimmering of the truth, he turned away from it. Many do the same. Felix has numberless imitators. Both the Indian and Rob Nixon were silent for some minutes, attentively listening for the approach of the strangers. Not a sound, however, being heard, they began to hope that their enemies had gone a different way. “There’ll be no fighting this time, I guess, friend Redskin,” said the old man. “It’s all the better, too, considering that you don’t seem much inclined for it; and I’m not in the best trim for work of that sort, or any work, truth to say.”

Rob Nixon had remarked that the Indian had winced more than once when addressed as Redskin, which was certainly not a respectful or complimentary mode of addressing him. The reason of this became still more evident when he spoke of himself as a chief. Chiefs in general would not for an instant have suffered such familiarity. Rob Nixon saw that it was time to apologise. He did so in his own way. “I say, friend, I’ve just a thing to ask you. You’ve a name, I doubt not, showing forth some of the brave deeds you have done, the enemies you have slain, the miles you have run, the rivers you have swam across, the bears you have captured, or the beavers you have trapped. Tell me, what is it? for I’ve a notion the one I’ve been giving you is not altogether the right or a pleasant one.” The Indian smiled as he answered quietly, “The name I bear, and the only one by which I desire to be called, is Peter. It was given me, not for killing men or slaughtering beasts, but at my baptism, when I was received into the Church of Christ, and undertook to love, honour, serve, and obey Him in all things as my Lord and Master.”

“Peter! Peter! that’s a strange name for an Injun,” said the white hunter half to himself. “Why, that’s such a name as they give in the old country to a Christian.”

“And I, too, am a Christian, though an unworthy one, father,” answered the Indian humbly. “Never heard before of a Christian Injun!” exclaimed the old man bluntly; “but strange things happen I’ll allow. I don’t doubt your word; mind that, friend. It was strange that when you saw I was a friend of the Dakotahs you didn’t scalp me, without asking questions, and leave me to be eaten by wolves. That’s the true Injun way. It was strange that you should take me up, put me on your horse, walk yourself all these miles, with some hundreds more before you, and risk your own life to save mine. All that is strange, I say; and so, friend, I don’t know what other strange things may happen. Well, if so you wish, I’ll call you Peter; but I’d rather by far call you by your Injun name. It was a good one, I’ll warrant. Come, tell it now. You need not be ashamed of it.”

“In the sight of man I am not ashamed of it, for by most of my people I am called by it still; but in the sight of God I am ashamed of it, and still more am I ashamed of the deeds which gained it for me. How, think you, blood-stained and guilty as I was, could I stand in the presence of One pure, holy, loving, and merciful? I tell you, aged friend, neither you nor I, nor any man, could appear before God without fear and trembling, if it were not that He is a God of love, and that through His great love for us, His creatures, whom He has placed on the world, He sent His only Son, that all who believe in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.”

The young Christian Indian warmed as he went on in his discourse, which was intermingled with many beautiful illustrations and figures of speech, which it would be vain to attempt to translate. Gradually he thus unfolded the fundamental truths of the Gospel. The old white hunter listened, and even listened attentively, but, far from warming, seemed scarcely to comprehend what was said. “Strange! very strange!” he muttered frequently; “and that an Injun should talk thus. Forty years have I lived among the redskins, and never believed that they knew more than their fathers.” Peter,—as he desired to be called, though his heathen name was Aronhiakeura, or otherwise the Fiery Arrow, from the rapidity of his onslaught and the devastation he caused,—now stated his belief that they might venture to proceed without the likelihood of being molested. Scarcely, however, had he emerged from their leafy cover when another shot was fired close to them; and, before he could again seek concealment, three fully armed Dakotahs appeared directly in front of him. The Dakotahs instantly rushed behind the trees, to serve as shields should he fire, but he held up his hands to show that he was unarmed, and in a low voice entreated his companion to remain quiet. That resistance would be hopeless was evident by the appearance directly afterwards of a dozen or more Indians, who were seen flitting amidst the wood, each man obtaining the best shelter in his power. Peter stood fully exposed to view, without flinching or even contemplating concealing himself. Fearless behaviour is sure to obtain the admiration of Indians. Naturally suspicious they possibly supposed that he had a strong force concealed somewhere near at hand, and that they had themselves fallen into an ambush. Had they found and followed up his trail they would have discovered exactly the state of the case. That he had a wounded companion would not have escaped their notice, and that he had but one horse, and travelled slowly would also have been known to them. By his having crossed the stream, however, and come along its bed for some distance they were at fault in this respect. Peter kept his post without flinching; he well knew that the Dakotahs were watching him; indeed, here and there he could distinguish the eye of a red-skinned warrior glimmering, or the top of a plume waving among the trunks of the trees or brushwood. All the time Rob Nixon on his part was watching his preserver with intense anxiety. He had conceived a warm regard for him, and, knowing the treachery so often exhibited by the natives, trembled for his safety. Peter at length waved his hand to show that he was about to speak; “What seek you, friends?” he said in a calm tone; “I am a man of peace, I desire to be friends with all men, and to injure no one; moreover, I would that you and all men had the wisdom and enjoyed the happiness which I possess. See, I cannot harm you;” as he spoke he raised up both his hands high in the air. The Dakotahs, totally unaccustomed to an address of this description, were greatly astonished. Their chief, not to be undone in fearlessness, stepped from behind his covert, completely exposing himself to view. “Who are you, friend? and whence do you come?” he asked; “you cannot be what you seem?”

“I am a man like yourself, friend, and I am truly what I seem—a native of this land, and of a tribe unhappily constantly at enmity with yours,” answered Peter firmly; “but know, O chief, that I differ from many of my people; that I love you and your people, and all mankind. Will you listen to the reason of this? Let your people appear, there is no treachery intended them; I am in your power—why doubt my word?” One by one the Dakotahs crept from behind the trees which had concealed them, and a considerable number assembled in front of the Indian, who spoke to them of the Gospel of love, and of the glorious scheme of redemption. They listened attentively; most of them with mute astonishment. Now and then one of the chief men would give way to his feelings by a sound signifying either approbation or dissent, but not a remark was uttered till the speaker ceased. For a time all were silent, then with gravity and deliberation one of the chiefs waved his hand and observed, “These are strange words the man speaks—he must be a great medicine man.”

“Truly he has the wisdom of the white-faces,” said a second; “has he their treachery? Can he be trusted?”

“The things he says may be true, but they concern not us,” remarked a third. “Wisdom is wisdom whoever speaks it,” said a grave old warrior who had shown himself as active in his movements as the youngest of his companions. “What the stranger tells us of must be good for one man, as for another. Rest is good for the weary; who among my brothers, too, would not rather serve a powerful and kind chief than an inferior and merciless one. He tells us of rest for the weary; of a great and good chief, who can give us all things to make us happy,—I like his discourse, my brothers.” The last speaker seemed to be carrying several with him, when another started up exclaiming, “What the stranger says comes from the pale-faces—it may be false; there must be some treacherous design in it. Let us rather dance this night the scalp-dance round his scalp than listen to his crafty tales. See, I fear him not.” The savage as he spoke lifted his rifle and was about to fire it at Peter, when the rest drew him back, crying out, “He is a medicine man—a great medicine man, and may work us ill; interfere not with him; though we do not listen to his counsel, let him go free. Even now, while we are speaking, we know not what injury he may be preparing to do us!” Thus the discussion went on for a considerable time, Peter waiting patiently for its result. Although the speakers had retired rather too far off for him to hear all that was said, he gathered sufficient to know the tenor of the discussion; still, no fear entered his bosom, he knew that his life was in the hand of One mighty to save. While he stood waiting the result he prayed for himself certainly, but yet more earnestly that the truth might be brought home to the dark hearts of his countrymen.

North American Indians are deliberate in their councils. Peter knew that his fate would not be decided quickly; but neither by word, look, nor action, did he show the slightest impatience. The old white hunter, meantime, had made up his mind to risk everything rather than allow any injury, which he could avert, to happen to his new friend. That they would recognise him he had no doubt; and the fact that he was found in company with a member of a hostile tribe would be considered so suspicious, that they would possibly put him to death without stopping to ask questions. However, should Peter be killed or made prisoner by the Dakotahs, he would be left to perish; so that he felt, indeed, that his fate depended on that of his friend. From where he lay he could see amid the branches the Indians holding their council. His trusty rifle was by his side, and noiselessly he brought it to cover their principal chief. His purpose was to fire at the first hostile movement, hoping that on the fall of their leader the Indians, fancying that they had got into a trap, would take to flight. At length the Dakotahs’ leader advanced a few steps. He little thought that the lifting his hand with a menacing gesture might cost him his life. “Stranger, with you we would gladly smoke the pipe of peace,” he began; “but your ways are not our ways, or your notions our notions—we have nothing in common. Go as you came, we wish to have no communication with you. We desire not to desert our fathers’ ways as you have done; yet, undoubtedly, the Spirit you serve will protect you—go—go—go.” In vain Peter entreated the savages to hear him once again, assuring them that he would tell them only what was for their good. One by one they quitted the spot where the council had been held; the first walked off with becoming dignity, but as more departed, the pace of each in succession increased, till the last scampered off almost as fast as his legs would carry him, fearful lest he should be overtaken by the strange medicine man, whose supposed incantations he dreaded. Peter was less astonished than a white man would have been at the behaviour of his countrymen. Still, he had gained an unexpected triumph. The Dakotahs did not stop, even to look behind them, but continued their course towards the west, through the wood and across the prairie, till they were lost to sight in the distance. The old hunter, to his surprise, saw Peter fall on his knees, on the spot where he had been standing, to return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance from a danger, far greater than it might appear to those unacquainted with Indian customs; for seldom or never do two parties of the Dakotahs and Ojibways encounter each other, without the stronger endeavouring to destroy the weaker with the most remorseless cruelty. Mercy is never asked for nor expected. The scalping-knife is employed on the yet living victim, should the tomahawk have left its work unfinished.

Chapter Three.

“Well, you are a wonderful man, friend Peter,” exclaimed Robert Nixon, when the Indian returned to him and narrated what had occurred; “I never yet have seen the like of it.”

“The reason is simply this, father, most men trust to their own strength and wisdom, and fail. I go forth in the strength of One all-powerful, and seek for guidance from One all-wise,” answered the Indian humbly. “It is thus I succeed.”

“That’s curious what you say, friend Redskin,” answered the old man in a puzzled tone; “it’s beyond my understanding, that’s a fact.”

“The time will come shortly, I hope, father, when you will see the truth of what I say. But we must no longer delay here, we should be moving on.” The mustang was caught and saddled, the old hunter placed on it, and once more the two travellers were on their way eastward, or rather to the north-east, for that was the general direction of their course. They were compelled, however, to diverge considerably, in order to keep along the course of streams, where many important advantages could be obtained: water, wood for firing, shelter, and a greater supply of game. On the open prairie there was no want of deer of several descriptions, and of small animals, like rabbits or hares; but, unless by leaving the horse with his burthen, the Indian could seldom get near enough to shoot them. For some distance the open country was of a sterile and arid description, but as they got farther away from the United States border it greatly improved, and a well-watered region, with rich grass and vetches, was entered, which extended north, and east, and west, in every direction, capable of supporting hundreds and thousands of flocks and herds, for the use of man, although now roamed over only by a comparatively few wild buffalo, deer, and wolves, and bears. Although they were in British territory, the arm of British law did not extend over this wild region, and Peter, therefore, kept a constant look-out to ascertain that no lurking enemies were near at hand. When he camped at night, also, he selected the most sheltered spot he could find, and concealed his companion and himself amid some thicket or rock, where any casual passer-by would not be likely to discover them.

“At first, as Peter watched his companion, he thought that he would scarcely reach a place of safety where he might die in peace among civilised men, but gradually the old hunter’s strength returned, and each day, as he travelled on, his health seemed to improve. He also became more inclined to talk; not only to ask questions, but to speak of himself. Religious subjects, however, he avoided as much as possible; indeed, to human judgment, his mind appeared too darkened, and his heart too hardened, to enable him to comprehend even the simplest truths. “You’d like to know something about me, friend Redskin, I’ve no doubt,” said the old man to Peter, when one day he had got into a more than usually loquacious mood. “It’s strange, but it’s a fact, I’ve a desire to talk about my early days, and yet, for forty years or more, maybe, I’ve never thought of them, much less spoken about them. I was raised in the old country—that’s where most of the pale-faces you see hereabouts came from. My father employed a great many men, and so I may say he was a chief; he was a farmer of the old style, and hated anything new. He didn’t hold education in any great esteem, and so he took no pains to give me any, and one thing I may say, I took no pains to obtain it. My mother, of that I am certain, was a kind, good woman, and did her best to instruct me. She taught me to sing little songs, and night and morning made me kneel down, with my hands put together, and say over some words which I then though! very good—and I am sure they were, as she taught me them; but I have long, long ago forgotten what they were. She also used to take me with her to a large, large house, where there were a great number of people singing and often talking together; and then there was one man in a black dress, who got up in a high place in the middle, and had all the talk to himself for a long time, I used to think; but I didn’t mind that, as I used generally to go to sleep when he began, and only woke up when he had done.

“I was very happy whenever I was with my mother, but I didn’t see her for some days, and then they took me into the room where she slept, and there I saw her lying on a bed; but she didn’t speak me, she didn’t even look at me, for her eyes were closed, and her cheek was cold—very cold. I didn’t know then what had happened, though I cried very much. I never saw her again. From that time I began to be very miserable; I don’t know why; I think it was not having my mother to go to and talk to. After that I don’t know exactly what happened to me; for some time I got scolded, and kicked, and beaten, and then I was sent to a place where there were a good many other boys; and, thinks I to myself, I shall be happier here; but instead of that I was much more beaten and scolded, till I got a feeling that I didn’t care what I did, or what became of me. That feeling never left me. I was always ready to do anything proposed by other boys, such as robbing orchards, or playing all sorts of pranks. I now and then went home to see my father; but I remember very little about him, except that he was a stout man, with a ruddy countenance. If he did not scold me and beat me, he certainly did not say much to me; I never felt towards him as I had done towards my mother. I must have been a biggish boy, though I was still nearly at the bottom of the school, when another lad and I got into some scrape, and were to be flogged. He proposed that we should run away, and I at once agreed, without considering where we should run to, or what we should gain by our run. There is a saying among the pale-faces, ‘out of the frying pan into the fire.’ We soon found that we had got into a very hot fire. After many days’ running, sleeping under hedges and in barns, and living on turnips and crusts of bread, which we bought with the few pence we had in our pockets, we reached a sea-port town. Seeing a large ship about to sail, we agreed that we would be sailors, if any one would take us. We were very hungry and hadn’t a coin left to buy food, so aboard we went. The ship was just sailing,—the cook’s boy had run away and the captain’s cabin boy had just died,—and so we were shipped, without a question being asked, to take their places. They didn’t inquire our names, but called us Bill and Tom, which were the names of the other boys. The captain took me into his service, and called me Bill, and my companion, who fell to the cook, was called Tom. I don’t know which was the most miserable. Tom had the dirtiest and hardest work, and was not only the cook’s but everybody else’s servant. I received the most kicks and thrashings, and had the largest amount of oaths and curses showered down on my head. We were both of us very ill, but our masters didn’t care for that, and kicked us up to work whenever they found us lying down. Away we sailed; we thought that we should never come to land again. I didn’t know where we were going, but I found we were steering towards the south and west. Week after week I saw a wild, high headland on our right hand, and then we had mist, and snow, and heavy weather, and were well nigh driven back; but at last we were steering north, and the weather became fine and pleasant. The ship put into many strange ports; some were in this big country of America, and some were in islands, so we heard; but neither Tom nor I was ever for one moment allowed to set foot on shore.

“Often and often did we bitterly repent our folly, and wish ourselves back home; but wishing was of no use. We found that we were slaves without the possibility of escape. Tom, who had more learning by a great deal than I had, said one day that he would go and appeal to the Consul,—I think he was called, a British officer at the port where we lay,—when the mate, who heard him, laughed, and told him, with an oath, that he might go and complain to whomsoever he liked; but that both he and Bill had signed papers, and had no power to get away. By this Tom knew that if we complained the captain would produce the papers signed by the other boys, and that we should be supposed to be them, and have no remedy. Tom then proposed that we should play all sorts of pranks, and behave as badly as we could. We tried the experiment, but we soon found that we had made a mistake; for our masters beat and starved us till we were glad to promise not again to do the same. Our only hope was that we should some day get a chance of running away; and, if it hadn’t been for that, we should, I believe, have jumped overboard and drowned ourselves. Month after month passed by, the ship continued trading from port to port in the Pacific Ocean,—as the big lake you’ve heard speak of, friend Redskin, is called,—over to the west there; but the chance we looked for never came. We then hoped that the ship would be cast away, and that so we might be free of our tyrants. If all had been drowned but ourselves we shouldn’t have cared. At last, after we’d been away three years or more, we heard that the ship was going home. We didn’t conceal our pleasure. It didn’t last long. Another captain came on board one day. I heard our captain observe to him, ‘You shall have them both a bargain. Thrash them well, and I’ll warrant you’ll get work out of them.’ I didn’t know what he meant at the time. In the evening, when the strange captain’s boat was called away, Tom and I were ordered to get up our bags and jump in. We refused, and said we wanted to go home. We had better have kept silence. Down came a shower of blows on our shoulders, and, amid the jeers and laughter of our shipmates, we were forced into the boat. We found ourselves aboard a whaler just come out, with the prospect of remaining in those parts three years at least. You’ve heard speak, Peter, of the mighty fish of the big lake. The largest sturgeon you ever set eyes on is nothing to them—just a chipmunk to a buffalo. We had harder and dirtier work now than before—catching, cutting out, and boiling down the huge whales—and our masters were still more cruel and brutal. We were beaten and knocked about worse than ever, and often well nigh starved by having our rations taken from us. How we managed to live through that time I don’t know. I scarcely like to think of it. The ship sailed about in every direction; sometimes where the sun was so hot that we could scarce bear our clothes on our backs, and sometimes amid floating mountains of ice, with snow and sleet beating down on us. At last, when we had got our ship nearly full of oil, and it was said that we should soon go home, we put into a port, on the west coast of this continent, to obtain fresh provisions. There were a few white people settled there, but most of the inhabitants were redskins. The white men had farms, ranchos they were called, and the natives worked for them.

“Tom and I agreed that, as the ship was soon going home, the captain would probably try to play off the same trick on us that our first captain had done, and so we determined to be beforehand with him. We were now big, strongish fellows; not as strong as we might have been if we had been better fed and less knocked about; but still we thought that we could take good care of ourselves. We hadn’t much sense though, or knowledge of what people on shore do; for how should we, when you see that since the day we left our native country, when we were little ignorant chaps, we hadn’t once set our feet on dry land. Tom swore, and so did I, that if we once did reach the shore, we’d get away as far from the ocean as we could, and never again smell a breath of it as long as we lived. How to get there was the difficulty. We had always before been watched; and so, to throw our shipmates off their guard, we pretended to think of nothing but about going home, and our talk was all of what we would do when we got back to old England. We said that we were very much afraid of the savages on shore, and wondered any one could like to go among them. After a time, we found that we were no longer watched as we used to be. This gave us confidence. The next thing was to arrange how we were to get on shore. We neither of us could swim; and, besides, the distance was considerable, and there were sharks—fish which can bite a man’s leg off as easily as a white fish bites a worm in two. We observed that, in the cool of the evening, some boats and canoes used to pull round the ship, and sometimes came alongside to offer things for sale to the men. Tom and I agreed that if we could jump into one of them while the owner was on board, we might get off without being discovered. Night after night we waited, till our hearts sunk within us, thinking we should never succeed; but, the very night before the ship was to sail, several people came below, and, while they were chaffering with the men, Tom and I slipped up on deck. My heart seemed ready to jump out of my skin with anxiety as I looked over the side. There, under the fore-chains, was a canoe with a few things in her, but no person. I glanced round. The second mate was the only man on deck besides Tom, who had gone over to the other side. I beckoned to Tom. The mate had his back to us, being busily engaged in some work or other, over which he was bending. Tom sprang over to me, and together we slid down into the canoe. The ship swung with her head towards the shore, or the mate would have seen us. We pulled as for our lives; not, however, for the usual landing-place, but for a little bay on one side, where it appeared that we could easily get on shore. Every moment we expected to see a boat put off from the ship to pursue us, or a gun fired; but the sun had set, and it was growing darker and darker, and that gave us some hope. Still we could be seen clearly enough from the ship if anybody was looking for us. The mate had a pair of sharp eyes. ‘He’ll flay us alive if he catches us,’ said I. ‘Never,’ answered Tom, in a low tone; ‘I’ll jump overboard and be drowned whenever I see a boat make chase after us.’ ‘Don’t do that, Tom,’ said I; ‘hold on to the last. They can but kill us in the end, and we don’t know what may happen to give us a chance of escape.’ You see, friend Peter, that has been my maxim ever since, and I’ve learned to know for certain that that is the right thing.

“Well, before long we did see a boat leave the ship. It was too dark to learn who had gone over the side into her. We pulled for dear life for a few seconds, when Tom cried out that he knew we should be taken. I told him to lie down in the bottom of the canoe, and that if the ship’s boat came near us I would strip off my shirt and pretend to be an Injun. At first he wouldn’t consent; but, as the boat came on, some muskets were fired, and suddenly he said he’d do as I proposed, and he lay down, and I stripped off my shirt and smoothed down, my hair, which was as long as an Injun’s. On came the boat; I pulled coolly on as if in no way concerned. The boat came on—she neared us. Now or never, I thought; so I sang out, in a feigned voice, and pointed with my paddle towards the other side of the harbour. I don’t think I ever felt as I did at that moment. Did they know me? or should I deceive them? If the mate was there I knew that we should have no chance. The people in the boat ceased pulling. I didn’t move either, though the canoe, with the last stroke I had given, slid on. Again I pointed with my paddle, gave a flourish with it, and away I went as if I had no business with them. I could not understand how I had so easily deceived my shipmates, and every instant I expected them to be after us. At last we lost sight of them in the gloom; but Tom, even then, was unwilling to get up and take his paddle. I told him that, if he didn’t, we should have a greater chance of being caught. The moment I said that, up he jumped, and paddled away so hard that I could scarcely keep the canoe in the right course for the place where we wanted to land. The stars helped us with their light; and, as we got close in with the shore, we found the mouth of a stream.

“Though we had so longed to get on shore we felt afraid to land, not knowing what we should do with ourselves. The shore looked so strange, and we expected to see all sorts of wild animals and snakes which we had heard talk of. Tom was the most timid, ‘It was bad aboard, Bill,’ said he, ‘but if we was to meet a bear or a buffalo what what should we do?’ I couldn’t just answer him; but when we found the river we agreed that we would pull up it as far as we could go, and it would carry us some way into the country at all events. We little knew the size of this mighty land, or of the big, long, long rivers running for hundreds of miles through it. This America of yours is a wonderful country, friend Redskin, if you did but know it. Well, up the river we pulled for some miles; it was but a mere brook, you’ll understand, but we thought it a great river. It was silent enough, for there were no habitations except a few native wigwams. We had all the night before us, that was one thing in our favour. As on we went we heard a roaring, splashing noise, which increased. ‘Hillo! here’s a heavy sea got up; I see it right-a-head,’ cried Tom. ‘We must go through it, however,’ said I; and so I tried to paddle the canoe through it. We very nearly got swamped; it was, you see, a waterfall and rapid, and higher up even our canoe could not have floated. We now agreed that go on shore we must, like it or not; I stepped out first, and then helped Tom, or in his fright he would have capsized the canoe. There we were both of us on firm ground for the first time since, as little boys, we left old England. I did feel strange, and when I tried to walk, I could scarcely get along.

“Tom rolled about as if he was drunk, hardly able to keep his feet. The rough ground hurt us, and we were every instant knocking our toes and shins against stumps and fallen branches. We both of us sat down ready to cry. ‘How shall we ever get along?’ asked Tom. ‘We shall get accustomed to it,’ I answered; ‘but it does make me feel very queer.’ We found a good supply of provisions in the canoe, and we loaded ourselves with as much as we could carry, and we then had the sense to lift our canoe out of the water, and to carry her some way till we found a thick bush in which we hid her. ‘If they find out we got away in the canoe they’ll think we are drowned, and not take the trouble to look for us,’ observed Tom, as we turned our backs on the spot. We were pretty heavily laden, for we didn’t know where we might next find any food; and as we walked on we hurt our feet more and more, till Tom roared out with pain, and declared he would go no further. ‘Then we shall be caught and flayed alive, that’s all, Tom,’ said I. ‘But let us see if we can’t mend matters; here, let us cut off the sleeves of our jackets and bind them round our feet.’ We did so, and when we again set off we found that we could walk much better than before. We hadn’t been so many years at sea without learning how go steer by the stars. What we wanted was to get to the east; as far from the sea and our hated ship as possible: that one thought urged us on. Through brushwood which tore our scanty clothes to shreds, and over rough rocks which wounded our feet, and across marshes and streams which wetted us well nigh from head to foot, we pushed our way for some hours—it seemed to us the whole night—till we got into an Indian track. We didn’t know what it was at the time, but found it was an easy path, so we followed it up at full speed. On we ran; we found that it led in the right direction, and that’s all we thought of. Unaccustomed to running or walking as we were, it seems surprising how we should have held out; but the truth is it was fear helped us along, and a burning desire to be free.

“Daylight found us struggling up a high hill or ridge, rather running north and south; we reached the top just as the sun rose above a line of lofty and distant mountains. We turned round for a moment to look on the far-off blue waters which lay stretched out below us, and on which we had spent so large a portion of our existence. ‘I’ve had enough of it,’ cried Tom, fiercely shaking his fist; and then we turned along again, and rushed down the ridge towards the east. It was the last glimpse I ever had of the wide ocean. Still we did not consider ourselves safe. We should have liked to have put a dozen such ridges between our tyrants and ourselves. On we went again till at last our exhausted strength failed, and we stopped to take some food. Once having sat down it was no easy matter to get up again, and before we knew what was happening we were both fast asleep. We must have slept a good many hours, and I dreamed during that time that the mate, and cook, and a dozen seamen were following us with flensing-knives, and handspikes, and knotted ropes, shrieking and shouting at our heels. We ran, and ran for our lives, just as we had been running all night, but they were always close behind us. The mate—oh! how I dreaded him—had his hand on my shoulder, and was giving a growl of satisfaction at having caught me, when I awoke; and, looking up, saw not the mate, but the most terrible-looking being I had ever set eyes on, so I thought.

“I had, to be sure, seen plenty of savages who came off to the ship from the islands at which we used to touch, but they were none of them so fierce as he looked. I won’t describe him, because he was simply a redskin warrior in his war paint and feathers. It was his hand that was on my shoulder; his grunt of surprise at finding us awoke me. I cried out, and Tom and I jumped to our feet and tried to run away; a dozen Indians however surrounded us, and escape was impossible. ‘Let us put a bold face on the matter, Tom,’ I sang out; ‘I don’t think they mean to kill us.’ Our captors talked a little together and they seemed pleased with the way we looked at them, for they showed us by signs that they meant us no evil. They were a portion of a war party on their way to destroy the pale-face settlement on the coast. They guessed by our dress and looks, and from our clothes being torn, that we were runaway English seamen; and, knowing that we should not wish to go back to our ship, considered that we should prove of more value to them alive than our scalps would be if they took them. We understood them to say that they wanted us to go with them to attack their enemies, but we showed them by our feet that we could not walk a step, and as they were not ill-tempered people they did not insist on it. After a talk they lifted us up—two taking Tom, and two me between them—and carried us along at a quick rate for some miles to their camp; there we saw a large number of Indians collected, some armed with bows, and some few with fire-arms.

“There were a few women, in whose charge we were placed. We could not make out whether we were considered prisoners or not; at all events, we could not run away. Leaving us, the whole party set forth towards the west on their expedition. Two days passed, and then, with loud shoutings, and shriekings, and firing of muskets, the party appeared, with numerous scalps at the end of their spears, and some wretched captives driven before them, I remember, even now, how I felt that night, when the war-dance was danced, and the prisoners tortured; how fearfully the men, and even the women, shrieked, and how the miserable people who had been taken, as they were bound to stakes, writhed under the tortures inflicted on them. While we looked on, Tom and I wished ourselves back again, even on board the ship, thinking that we ourselves might next be treated in the same manner. At last the savages brought fire, and then, as the flames blazed up, we saw three people whom we knew well,—the captain, and mate, and one of the men, who had been among the worst of our tyrants. Though their faces were distorted with agony and horror, as the light fell on them, there was no doubt about the matter. They might have seen us. If they did, it must have added to their misery. They had come on shore to visit some of the settlers, we concluded, and, at all events, were found fighting with them. We got accustomed, after a time, to such scenes, and learned to think little of them, as you doubtless do, friend Peter; but at that time, I went off in a sort of swoon, as the shrieks and cries for mercy of the burning wretches reached my ears. The Indians had got a great deal of booty, and having taken full revenge for the injury done them, and expecting that they would be hunted out if they remained in the neighbourhood, they judged it wise to remove to another part of the country. Our feet had sufficiently recovered during the rest of two days to enable us to walk, or I am not certain that we should not have been killed, to save our captors the trouble of carrying us. It took us a week to reach the main camp, where most of the women and children were collected. We limped on, with difficulty and pain, thus far concealing our sufferings as much as we could. We could not have gone a mile further, had not the tribe remained here to decide on their future course. The rest, and the care the women took of us, sufficiently restored our strength to enable us to move on with the tribe to the new ground they proposed taking up. Your Indian ways, friend Peter, were very strange to us at first, but by degrees we got into them, and showed that we were every bit as good men as the chief braves themselves. Whatever they did, we tried to do, and succeeded as well as they, except in tracking an enemy, and that we never could come up with. They, at first, treated us as slaves, and made us work for them, as they did their women; but when they saw what sort of lads we were, they began to treat us with respect, and soon learned to look upon us as their equals. We both of us became very different to what we were at sea, Tom especially. There we were cowed by our task-masters, here we felt ourselves free men; and Tom, who was looked upon as an arrant coward on board ship, was now as brave as the bravest warrior of the tribe. We were braver, indeed; for while they fought Indian-fashion, behind trees, we would rush on, and never failed to put our enemies to flight.

“We were of great service to our friends in assisting them to establish themselves in their new territory, and to defend themselves against the numerous foes whom they very soon contrived to make. Still we held our own, and our friends increased in numbers and power. Our chief was ambitious, and used every means to add fresh members to his tribe, by inducing those belonging to other tribes to join us. His object, which was very clear, excited the jealousy of a powerful chief, especially, of the great Dakotah nation, inhabiting the country north-east of our territory. He, however, disguised his intentions, and talked us into security by pretending the greatest friendship. Through his means, our other enemies ceased to attack us, and we began to think that the hatchet of war was buried for ever. Tom and I had been offered wives—daughters of chiefs—and we had agreed to take them to our lodges, when we both of us set out on a hunting expedition, to procure game for our marriage feast, and skins to pay for the articles we required. We had great success, and were returning in high spirits, when night overtook us, within a short distance of the village. We camped where we were, as we would not travel in the dark, hoping to enter it the next morning in triumph. About midnight, both Tom and I started from our sleep, we knew not why. Through the night air there came faint sounds of cries, and shrieks, and shouts, and warlike noises. We thought it must be fancy; but presently, as we stood listening, there burst forth a bright light in the direction of the village, which went on increasing, till it seemed that every lodge must be on fire. What could we do? Should we hasten on to help our friends? It was too late to render them any assistance. We must wait till daylight to learn what way the foe had gone, and how we could best help our friends; so we stood watching the flames with grief and anger, till they sunk down for want of fuel. We had not lived so long with Indians, without having learned some of their caution; and concealing our game and skins, as soon as it was dawn we crept on towards the village. As we drew near, not a sound was heard—not even the bark of a dog. We crept amid the bushes on hands and feet, closer and closer, when from a wooded knoll we could look down on the lately happy village, or, I should say, on the spot where it lately stood.

“By the grey light of the morning a scene of desolation and bloodshed was revealed to us, which, in all my experience of warfare, I have never seen equalled. Every lodge was burnt to the ground; here and there a few blackened posts alone remaining to show where they once stood: but a burnt village I have often seen. It was the sight of the mangled and blackened bodies of our late friends and companions thickly strewed over the ground which froze the blood in our veins. For some moments we could scarcely find breath to whisper to each other. When we did, we reckoned up the members of the tribe, men, women, and children, and then counting the bodies on the ground, we found that our foes had killed every one of them, with the exception of perhaps a dozen, who might have been carried off. This told us, too correctly, how the event had occurred. In the dead of night the village had been surrounded, torches thrown into it, and, as the people rushed out confused, they were murdered indiscriminately—old and young, women and children. Were our intended wives among them? we almost wished they were; but we dared not descend to ascertain. The place was no longer for us. ‘I wish that I was back in England, Tom,’ said I. ‘So do I, Bill, right heartily,’ said he. ‘East or west, Tom?’ said I. ‘Not west! no, no!’ he answered, with a shudder; ‘we might be caught by another whaler.’ ‘East, then,’ said I, pointing to the rising sun; ‘we may get there some day, but it’s a long way, I’ve a notion.’ ‘If we keep moving on, we shall get there though, long as it may be,’ said Tom. So we crept back to where we had left our goods, and having taken food for a couple of days, we went and hid ourselves in some thick bushes, where we hoped our enemies would not find us. For two days and nights we lay hid, and on the third morning we agreed that we might as well chance it as stay where we were, when the sound of voices, and of people moving through the woods reached our ears, and, peeping out, we saw several warriors passing along at no great distance. From the way they moved we knew that they were not looking for any one, nor believing that any enemy was near; but still, should any one of their quick eyes fall on our trail, they would discover us in an instant. I never felt my scalp sit more uneasy on my head. Suddenly they stopped and looked about; I thought that it was all over with us; the keen eyes of one of them, especially, seemed to pierce through the very thicket where we lay. We scarcely dared to breathe, lest we should betray ourselves. Had there been only five or six we might have sprung out and attacked them with some chance of success, but there were a score at least, and more might be following, and so the odds were too great. They were most of them adorned with scalps—those of our slaughtered friends, we did not doubt, and we longed to be avenged on them. On they came, and just as we thought that we had seen the end of them, more appeared, and several of them looked towards us. How we escaped discovery I do not know. Long after the last had passed on into the forest we came out of our hiding-place, and gathering up all our property, prepared to commence our journey. We pushed on as fast as our legs would carry us, every moment expecting to come upon some of our enemies, or to have them pouncing out upon us from among the trees or rocks. All day we pushed on, almost without stopping, and for several days resting only during the hours of darkness, till at last we hoped that we had put a sufficient distance between our enemies and ourselves to escape an attack. We now camped to catch more game, and to make arrangements for our course. We had got some little learning at school, though most of it was forgotten; but we remembered enough to make us know that England was to the north-east of us, and so we determined to travel on in that direction. I won’t tell you now all about our journey. We had not got far before we found the country so barren that we were obliged to keep to the north, which brought us into the territory owned by the Dakotah people. We knew nothing of the way then, except from the accounts picked up over the camp fires of our former friends, and we had managed hitherto to keep out of the way of all strangers. We were ignorant, too, of the great distance we were from England; and of another thing we were not aware, and that was of the cold of winter. We were still travelling on, when the nights became so cold that we could scarcely keep ourselves from freezing, though sleeping close to our camp fires. It got colder and colder, and then down came the snow, and we found that winter had really set in. To travel on was impossible, so we built ourselves a lodge, and tried to trap and kill animals enough to last us for food till the snow should disappear. They became, however, scarcer and scarcer, and we began to fear that the supply of food we had collected would not last us out till summer. We had, however, a good number of skins, and though we had intended to sell them, we made some warm clothing of them instead.

“We had too much to do during the day in hunting and collecting wood for our fire to allow of the time hanging very heavy on our hands. At first we got on very well, but our food decreased faster than we had calculated; and then Tom fell down from a rock, and hurt himself so much that I could scarcely get him home. While he was in this state I fell sick, and there we two were, in the middle of a desert, without any one to help us. Tom grew worse, and I could just crawl out from our bed of skins and leaves to heap up wood on our fire, and to cook our food. That was growing less and less every day, and starvation stared us in the face. Our wood, too could not hold out much longer, and though there was plenty at a little distance, I was too weak to go out and fetch it and cut it up, and poor Tom could not even stand upright. Day by day our stock of food decreased. All was gone! There was wood enough to keep our fire alight another day, and then we knew that in one, or, at most, two days more, we must be starved or frozen to death. Tom groaned out that he wished we had but a bottle of rum to keep us warm, and drive away dreadful thoughts. So did I wish we had. That was a hard time, friend Peter.”

“Fire water! was that all you thought of? Did you never pray? Did you never ask God to deliver you?” inquired the Indian in a tone of astonishment. “No! What had God to do with us poor chaps in that out-of-the-way place? He wouldn’t have heard us if we had prayed; and, besides, we had long ago forgotten to pray,” answered the old man in an unconcerned tone. “Ah! but He would have heard you, depend on that. The poor and destitute are the very people He delights to help,” observed the Indian. “Ah! old friend, you little know what God is when you fancy that He would not have heard you.” As he spoke he produced a Testament in the Ojibway tongue, from which he read the words, “God is love,” and added, “This is part of the Bible, which your countrymen, the missionaries, have translated for us into our tongue.”

“Ay! maybe,” remarked the old man, after considering a time; “I remember about the Bible when I was a boy, and it’s all true; but I don’t fancy God could have cared for us.”

“Why? is that wisdom you speak, old friend?” exclaimed Peter. “See, God did care for you, though you did not even ask Him, or you wouldn’t be alive this day. He has cared for you all your life long. You have already told me many things which showed it, and I doubt not if you were to tell me everything that has happened to you since you can remember up to the present day, many, many more would be found to prove it. Was it God’s love which sent me to you when you were on the point of death, or was it His hatred? Was it God’s love which softened the hearts of the Sioux towards us? Come, go on with your history. I doubt not that the very next thing that you have to tell me will prove what I say.”

“Well, friend Redskin, what you say may be true, and I don’t wish to differ with you,” answered the hunter, still apparently unmoved. “As I was saying, Tom and I expected nothing but starvation. It was coming, too, I have an idea; for my part I had got so bad that I did not know where we were or what had happened. The hut was dark, for I had closed up the hole we came in and out at with snow and bundles of dry grass, or we should very quickly have been frozen to death.

“The last thing I recollect was feeling cold—very cold. Suddenly a stream of light burst in on my eyes, and, that waking me up, I saw several Indians, in full war-dress, standing looking at Tom and me. I felt as if I did not care whether they scalped me or not: I was pretty well past all feeling. One of them, however, poured something down my throat, and then down Tom’s throat: it did not seem stronger than water though it revived me. I then saw that their looks were kind, and that they meant us no harm. The truth was that our forlorn condition touched their hearts: it is my opinion, friend Peter, that nearly all men’s hearts can be moved, if touched at the right time. These men were Sioux—very savage, I’ll allow—but just then they were returning home from a great meeting, where, by means of a white man, certain matters were settled to their satisfaction, and they felt, therefore, well disposed towards us. Who the white man was I don’t know, except that he was not a trader, and was a friend of the Indians. The Sioux gave us food, and lighted our fire, and camped there for two days, till we were able to move on, and then took us along with them. We lived with them all the winter, and soon got into their ways. When we proposed moving on, they would, on no account, hear of it, telling us that the distance was far greater than we supposed, and that there were cruel, treacherous white men between us and the sea, who were always making war on their people to drive them off their lands, and that they would certainly kill us. The long and the short of it is that Tom and I gave up our intention of proceeding, and, having wives offered to us much to our taste, we concluded to stay where we were. Every day we got more accustomed to the habits of our new friends; and we agreed also, that our friends in England would not know us, or own us, if we went back. We were tolerably happy; our wives bore us children; and, to make a long story short, we have lived on with the same tribe ever since. Tom has grown stout and cannot join in the hunt, but his sons do, and supply him with food. If Tom had been with the rest, he would not have left the neighbourhood of the ground where I fell without searching for me. It is through he and I being together that I can still speak English, and recollect things about home and our early days. We have been friends ever since we were boys, and never have we had a dispute. Four of my children died in infancy, and I have a son and a daughter. The only thing that tries me is leaving Tom and them, for their mother is dead; and yet I should like to go and hear more of the strange things you have told me about, and see some of my countrymen again before I die. They won’t mourn long for the old man: it is the lot of many to fall down and die in the wilds, as I should have died if you had not found me. Tom, maybe, will miss me; but of late years, since he gave up hunting, we have often been separate, and he’ll only feel as if I had been on a longer hunt than usual.”

“And your children?” said Peter. “They’ll feel much like Tom, I suppose,” answered the white hunter. “You know, friend Redskin, that Injun children are not apt to care much for their old parents. Maybe I will send for them, or go for them, if I remain with the pale-faces.”

The Indian was silent for some time. He then observed gravely, “Maybe, old friend, that the merciful God, who has protected you throughout your life, may have ordered this event also for your benefit; yet why do I say ‘maybe.’ He orders all things for the best: this much I have learned respecting Him—the wisest man can know no more.”

Were not the Indians of North America indued with a large amount of patience they could not get through the long journeys they often perform, nor live the life of trappers and hunters, nor execute the curious carved work which they produce. Patience is a virtue they possess in a wonderful degree. Day after day Peter travelled on, slowly, yet patiently, with his charge, at length reaching the banks of the Assiniboine River, a large and rapid stream which empties itself into the Red River, at about the centre of the Selkirk settlement. The banks, often picturesque, were, in most places, well clothed with a variety of trees, while the land on either side, although still in a state of nature, showed its fertility by the rich grasses and clover which covered it. The old hunter gazed with surprise. “Why, friend Peter, here thousands and thousands of people might live in plenty, with countless numbers of cattle and sheep!” he exclaimed. “I knew not that such a country existed in tiny part of this region.”

“We are now on the territory of the English, a people who treat the red man as they should—as fellow men, and with justice,” answered the Indian. “It may be God’s will that, ere many years are over, all this vast land, east and west, may be peopled by them, still leaving ample room for the red men, who, no longer heathen hunters, may settle down in Christian communities as cultivators of the soil, or keepers of flocks and herds.”

Still more surprised was the old hunter when, a few days after this, they came upon several well cultivated fields, and saw beyond them a widely-scattered village of neat cottages, and the spire of a church rising amid them towards the blue sky. “What! are those the houses of English settlers?” asked the old man; “it will do my heart good to see some of my own countrymen again.”

“You will see few of your countrymen here, father; the inhabitants are settlers, truly, but nearly all my people. There is, however, here a good minister, and a school-master, white men, who will welcome you gladly. Their hearts are full of Christian love, or they would not come to live out here, far removed from relatives and friends, labouring for the souls’ welfare of my poor countrymen.”

The old man shook his head, “No, no; I have no desire to see a parson. I remember well the long sermons—the last I ever heard was when I was at school—the parson used to give, and I used to declare that when I was a man I would keep clear of them, on this account.”

“You would not speak so of our minister here, were you to hear him,” said the Indian. “I will not ask you to do what you dislike—but here is my house—those within will give you a hearty welcome.” An Indian woman, neatly dressed, with a bright, intelligent countenance, came forth with an infant in her arms, to meet Peter, several children following her, who clung around him with affectionate glee. A few words, which Peter addressed to his wife, made her come forward, and, with gentle kindness, assist the old man into the cottage, where the elder children eagerly brought a chair and placed him on it. One boy ran off with the horse to a stable close at hand, and another assisted his mother to prepare some food, and to place it on a table before his father and their guest.

The old man’s countenance exhibited pleased surprise. “Well! well! I shouldn’t have believed it if I had heard it,” he muttered. “I remember many a cottage in the old country that did not come up to this.” Many and many a cottage very far behind it, the old hunter might have said—and why? Because in them the blessed Gospel was not the rule of life; while in that of the Indian God’s law of love was the governing principle of all. Christ’s promised gift—the gift of gifts—rested on that humble abode of His faithful followers.

Several days passed by, and, to Peter’s regret, the old hunter showed no desire to converse with the devoted missionary minister of the settlement. He came more than once, but the old man, shut up within himself, seemed not to listen to anything he said. At length he recovered sufficiently to go out, and one evening, wandering forth through the village, he passed near the church. The sound of music reached his ears as he approached the sacred edifice; young voices are raised together in singing praises to God for His bounteous gifts bestowed on mankind:—

“Glory to Thee, my God, this night,

For all the blessings of the light;

Keep me, O keep me, King of Kings!

Beneath Thine own Almighty wings.”

The old hunter stopped to listen: slowly, and as if in awe, he draws near the open porch. Again he stops, listening still more earnestly. The young Christians within are singing in the Indian tongue. Closer he draws—his lips open—his voice joins in the melody. Words long, long forgotten, come unconsciously from his lips. They are the English words of that time-honoured hymn, often sung by children in the old country. Scarcely does his voice tremble: it sounds not like that of a man, but low and hushed, as it might have been when he first learned, from his long-lost mother, to lisp those words of praise. The music ceases. The old hunter bursts into tears—tears unchecked. Now he sinks on his knees, with hands uplifted—“Our Father, which art in Heaven,”—he is following the words of the missionary within. Are a mother’s earnest, ceaseless prayers heard—prayers uttered ere she left this world of trial? Yes; undoubtedly. But God’s ways are not man’s ways: though He tarry long, yet surely He will be found—aye, “Found of them who sought Him not.”

The children’s prayer meeting is over. The old man remains on his knees, with head bent down, and hands clasped, till the shades of evening close over him.

Chapter Four.

That was the turning-point; from that day Rob Nixon was an altered man. Of course, I do not mean that he at once found all his difficulties gone, his heart full of love, his prayers full of devotion; but from this time he felt, as he had never felt before, that he was “blind, and poor, and naked,” and far away from his home. His good and faithful friend, Peter, had given him wise and good advice, and had introduced him to the excellent minister of the settlement, Archdeacon Hunter, who soon became a daily visitor at Peter’s cottage.

Skilful in imparting religious knowledge, he was able, by slow degrees, to instruct the old hunter in the leading truths of Christianity. Once comprehended, the old man grasped them joyfully; and though long unaccustomed to the sight of a book, he set to work again to learn to read, that he might himself peruse the sacred volume. He, of course, learned in English, and it was curious to remark, how his countenance beamed with pleasure as he recognised once familiar, but long forgotten, letters and words, and how rapidly he recovered the knowledge he had possessed as a boy. His great delight was to attend the school-children’s service, and to hear them afterwards catechised by the minister; and the greyheaded, gaunt old man, might have been seen constantly sitting among them, truly as a little child, imbibing the truths of the Gospel. But, after a time, a change came over him. He appeared no longer content to remain, as hitherto, quietly in the cottage of his friend Peter, but spoke of wishing, once more, to be in the saddle, following his calling of a hunter. His rifle and accoutrements had carefully been brought home by Peter; but they would be of no use without a horse, powder and shot, and provisions. The autumn hunt, in which a large number of the natives of the Red River settlement engage every year, was about to commence; and, to Peter’s surprise and regret, Rob Nixon expressed his intention of accompanying them, should he be able to obtain the means of so doing. Peter trembled lest his old friend’s conversion should not have been real—lest the seed, which he had hoped would have borne good fruit, had, after all, been sown on stony ground. He delicately expressed his fears, describing the temptations to which a hunter is exposed. A tear appeared in the old man’s eye, as he called Peter’s eldest boy to him. “Friend, you love this boy?” he said. “I do, fondly,” was the natural answer. “And you love his soul?” he asked. “Far more surely. It is the most precious part of him,” said the Christian father. “I, too, have a son, and I love him; but I knew that he could take good care of himself, and so I left him with little regret,” said the hunter. “But now, friend, I know that he has a soul which is in danger of perishing, I long to seek him out, to tell him of his danger, to win him back to that Saviour from whom he has strayed so far. I have a daughter and a friend too, and that friend has children. To all I would show how they may be saved. I loved them once, thinking nothing of their souls. How much more do I love their souls now that I know their value!” Peter warmly grasped the old hunter’s hand, as he exclaimed, “Pardon me, father, that I had hard thoughts of you. I understand your object, and I doubt not that aid will be afforded you to carry it out, for it is surely one well pleasing in God’s sight. ‘He who converteth a sinner from the error of his way, shall save a soul from death, and shall hide a multitude of sins.’”

The whole matter being laid before the missionary minister the next day, he highly approved of the old hunter’s intention, and promised to aid him as far as he had the power. He was on the point of setting out to visit the settlements, as the Red River colony is called, and he invited Robert Nixon to accompany him, that he might there obtain the necessary aid for the accomplishment of his enterprise. It was agreed, in the first place, that the old man should not undertake the journey alone. The difficulty was to find a companion for him. Fortunately, two years before, a young Sioux had been taken prisoner by a party of Crees, a numerous, people, who inhabit the country round Lake Winnepeg, their lodges being found far in other directions. They, like the heathen Ojibways, are always at war with the Sioux, and no opportunity is lost of taking each others’ scalps. This young Sioux, to whom the name of Joseph had been given, was anxious to carry the glad tidings of salvation to his countrymen, and hearing of the old hunter’s wish, gladly volunteered to accompany him. Peter would willingly himself have been his companion, but that he had his duties as a teacher to attend to, and his family to care for; besides which, a Sioux would be able to enter the country of his people with less risk of being killed by them, than would one of the Cree, or Ojibway nation. Peter, however, insisted on Nixon taking his horse. “You can repay me for the hire some day, or your son can repay my children, should you bring him back. If it is not God’s will that you should succeed in your mission, yet I fear not that He will repay me, as the loan is for an object well pleasing in His sight.”

A horse for the young Sioux, as well as provisions and articles as gifts to propitiate any chiefs of tribes who might not know him, were still considered necessary, and these could only be procured at the Red River. The distance between the little colony of Prairie Portage and Red River is about sixty-five miles, but this neither the old hunter nor his companions thought in any way a long journey. The astonishment of Robert Nixon was very great on finding a well-beaten road the whole distance, over which wheeled carriages could pass with perfect ease; still more when he passed several farms, even to the west of Lane’s Post, which formed the termination of their first day’s journey. Their course was in the same direction as that of the Assiniboine, which very winding river they occasionally sighted. The banks were generally well clothed with fine wood, and the soil everywhere appeared to be of the richest quality. Considerably greater than before was the old man’s astonishment when, on the second day about noon, the party arrived at a comfortable farm, where the owner hospitably invited them to rest, and placed before them the usual luxuries to be found in a well-ordered farm-house in the old country, such as good wheat and maize bread, cheese, butter, bacon and eggs, with capital beer, and in addition, preserves and fruit, several vegetables, and fresh maize boiled, answering the purpose of green peas. A joint of mutton was roasting at the fire, and potatoes were boiling. After this repast, the farmer brought out a supply of tobacco which, he told his guests, grew on the farm. “Indeed, gentlemen, I may say we here live in plenty,” he observed; “and all we want are people to settle down about us, and make our lives more sociable than they now are. We have drawbacks, I’ll allow; and what farmer, even in the old country, can say that he has not? Ours are—early and late frosts, though chiefly the latter; grasshoppers, which will clear a field of every green thing in a night; and, occasionally, wolves and bears; but those gentry don’t like the smell of our gunpowder, and have mostly taken their departure. On the Red River farms they seldom or never hear of one, and the injury they can do us is but slight.”

This was the commencement of a long line of farms which extends, with few breaks, the whole distance to the Red River, into which the Assiniboine falls. Often the old hunter was silent, considering the unexpected scenes which met his sight, though he occasionally indulged in quiet remarks on them; but when, at length, the lofty and glittering spire of a large cathedral, (note) appearing, as the rays of the evening sun shone on it, as if formed of burnished silver—numerous edifices, some of considerable dimensions, scattered about—public buildings and dwelling houses—other churches in the distance—several windmills, with their white arms moving in the breeze, high above the richly tinted foliage of the trees, which formed an irregular fringe to the banks of the river flowing beneath them, while near at hand, at the point where the Assiniboine flows into the larger stream, rose the walls and battlements of a strong fort, whose frowning guns commanded the surrounding plains,—when he saw all this, the scene appeared to his bewildered eyes as if it had sprung up by the touch of the enchanter’s wand, in the midst of the desert. “Well! well!” he exclaimed, “and I have been living all this time, but a few weeks’ journey from this place, and never should have thought of it.” The sight of the large sails of the freighters’ boats made him somewhat uncomfortable, lest he should be carried off to sea, and he could scarcely be persuaded that he was still not far short of two thousand miles from the Atlantic ocean, and that there was no chance of his being kidnapped. He was even more frightened than his steed when a steamer came puffing up to a wharf below Fort Garry. “What creature is that they have aboard there?” he exclaimed, “Where does the strange craft come from? What is she going to do?” He sprang from his horse, and stood looking over the cliff at the steamer. He at once recognised her as a vessel, though of a construction wonderfully strange to his eyes, as no steamers had been built when he left England, and he had never heard of their invention. The stream of steam puffed off, and the loud screams accompanying it made him somewhat incredulous as to the nature of the vessel. When, however, all was quiet, and he saw a stream of people issuing from her side, he was satisfied that she was of mortal build, and he was at length persuaded to go down and examine her himself. It almost took away his breath, as he said, to find that vessels of far greater size now ploughed the ocean in every direction, and that continents were traversed by long lines of carriages, dragged by single locomotives, at the rate of forty miles an hour. After hearing of this, he was scarcely surprised at any of the wonders which were told him, and of the numerous discoveries and inventions which have been brought into practical use during half-a-century. At the close of the day the travellers reached a well-built rectory, on the banks of the river, where they were hospitably received and entertained. While seated in the evening before the fire with his host, the old man, as he looked round the room and observed the various comforts which it contained, heaved a deep sigh. “Ah! I feel now how sadly I have thrown my life away,” he exclaimed. “I might, but for my early folly, have enjoyed all the comforts of civilisation, and played my part as a civilised man, instead of living the life of a savage among savages.”

“Friend,” observed the minister, “this is not the only life. There is another and a better—to last for ever.

“Then you have no desire to return to your former friends, the Sioux?” the minister continued, after a pause. “Ah! yes; but not for the pleasure such a life as they lead could give me. There is the friend of my youth, and there are his children, and my children. My great desire is to return to them to tell them that they have souls, and what the Lord, in His loving kindness, has done for their souls.” The object of the old hunter was no sooner known in the settlement than he obtained all the assistance he could require. Few persons who had for so long led a savage life could have appreciated more fully than he now seemed to do the advantages of civilisation, and yet none of them could turn him from his purpose. Within five days he and his young Sioux companion, Joseph, were ready to set out. They had a led-horse to carry their provisions and presents, and they had arms, though rather to enable them to kill game for their support than for the purpose of fighting. “I pray that our hands may be lifted up against no man’s life, even though we may be attacked by those who are what we ourselves were but a short time back, and should still be, but for God’s grace,” said the old man, as he slung his rifle to his saddle-bow. Once more Robert Nixon turned his back on the abodes of civilised men. Had it not been for the object in view it would have been with a heavy heart. “If Tom and I had remained at school, and laboured on steadily, we might have been like one of those ministers of the Gospel, or settlers, and our children the same, instead of the young savages they now are, ignorant of God and His holy laws.” Thus he mused as he rode along. He and his young companion did not neglect the usual precautions, when they camped at night, to avoid discovery by any wandering natives who might be disposed to molest them.

The young Indian, though possessing much less religious knowledge than Peter, yet showed a sincere anxiety to fulfil his religious duties, and, without fail, a hymn was sung and prayer was offered up before starting on their day’s journey, and when they lay down on their beds of spruce, fir-twigs, or leaves, or dry grass, at night.

The travellers rode on day after day without encountering any material impediments to their progress. There were no rugged mountains to ascend, no dense forests to penetrate, or wild defiles amid which they had to find their way. There were rivers and streams; but some were easily forded, across others they swam their horses, and passed their provisions and goods on small rafts, which they towed behind them.

Leaving British territory, and moving west, the country had a barren and arid appearance. In many districts sand predominated, with sand-hills of more or less elevation; in others grass, growing in tufts out of the parched-up, stony ground, was the only herbage. Indeed, from north to south and east to west, for many hundred miles, there exists an extent of country, known as the Dakotah territory, unfitted, from the absence of water, to become the permanent abode of civilised man. Here, however, at certain seasons, herds of buffalo find pasturage on their way to and from the more fertile regions of the north; and thus, with the aid of fish, and other wild animals, and roots and berries, considerable tribes of the Dakotah nation find a precarious existence.

Note. This cathedral belongs to the Roman Catholics, who have also a large convent near at hand. They maintain a considerable number of Missionary Stations in different parts of the country.

Chapter Five.

It was in the western portion of the Dakotah territory, described in the last chapter, that a numerous band of the lords of the soil had pitched their skin tents by the side of a stream, whose grassy banks, fringed with trees, contrasted strongly with the dry and hilly ground before mentioned, which, as far as the eye could reach, extended on either side of them. Yet the scene was animated in the extreme. In the centre of a wide basin, into which a valley opened from the distant prairie, was erected a high, circular enclosure of stakes, and boughs, and skins. There was but one entrance towards the valley, and on either side of this entrance commenced a row of young trees, or branches of trees, the distance between each line becoming greater and greater the further off they were from the enclosure. The figure formed by the lines was exactly that of a straight road drawn in perspective on paper: being very wide at one end, and narrowing gradually till it became only the width of the entrance to the enclosure at the other. Between each of the trees or bushes was stationed an Indian armed with bow or spear, and having a cloak, or a thick mass of branches in his hand. Outside the enclosure were numerous persons, chiefly women and old men and boys, the latter armed with bows and arrows, and the former having cloaks or boughs. They were flitting to and fro, apparently waiting some event of interest. As the travellers reached the top of a hill overlooking the enclosure, a cloud of dust was seen approaching the further end. “There they come, there they come!” exclaimed the old hunter, with difficulty refraining from dashing down the hill, as, at the instant, a herd of some three or four hundred buffaloes burst, at headlong speed, from out of the dust—tossing their heads and tails, tearing up the earth with their horns, trampling, in their terror, over each other—followed closely by a band of red-skinned huntsmen, with bow or spear in hand, most of them free of clothing, and uttering the wildest cries and shouts, now galloping here, now there, as some fierce bull turned and stood at bay, sending an arrow into the front of one, dashing a spear into the side of another, while they hung on the flanks of the herd, keeping the animals, as nearly as possible, in the centre of the road. Whenever any of the herd approached the line of bushes on either side, the Indians stationed there shook the cloaks or the boughs they held in their hands, and shouted and shrieked, thus effectually turning the bewildered animals into the main stream. Sometimes the whole herd attempted to break through, but were turned with equal facility. If they attempted to stop, the hunters behind, closing in on them, urged them on until, still more and more compressed, those in the interior of the herd being utterly unable to see where they were going, they were forced, by redoubled shouts and shrieks in their rear, through the narrow gateway into the enclosure. Through it they dashed, a dark stream of wild, fierce heads and manes surging up and down, till the whole were driven in, and the hunters themselves, leaping the bar across the entrance, followed close in their rear. Now, round and round the confined pound, the affrighted creatures rushed, not discovering a single opening which might afford them a chance of escape, bellowing and roaring, the strong trampling on the young and weak, the calves soon falling and being crushed to death; showers of arrows from the hunters’ bows bringing many low, while others, wounded by the darts and spears of the people outside, or gored by their fellows, sunk down exhausted from loss of blood.

It was truly a spectacle of wanton and barbarous slaughter, which none but those accustomed to it could have watched unmoved. Even Robert Nixon, though he had often joined in similar scenes, regarded it with feelings very different to what he would formerly have done. “Alas! alas! is it thus God’s creatures are destroyed to no purpose by these poor savages?” he exclaimed to his companion. “Not one-twentieth part of the meat can be consumed by them; and the lay will come when they will seek for food and there will be none for them, and they themselves must vanish away out of the land.” The two travellers had been moving along the height above the valley, but so entirely engaged were the Indians in the work of entrapping the buffalo, that they were observed by no one. They now descended towards the tents. In front of one of them sat a somewhat portly man, his countenance, and the hue of his complexion, rather than his costume, showing that he was of the white race. The tents were pitched on a spot sufficiently elevated above the valley to enable him to watch all that was taking place within the pound. His attention also was so completely absorbed by the proceedings of his companions, that he did not perceive, for some time, the approach of the horsemen. When he did, starting to his feet, and upsetting the three-legged stool on which he was sitting, he exclaimed, “What, old chum! is it you—you, indeed? I made sure that what they told me was true, and that you were long, long ago food for the wolves. Let me look at you. I cannot yet believe my senses.” Rob Nixon having dismounted, the two old men stood for some moments grasping each other’s hands.

It was some time before old Tom could persuade himself that his friend was really alive; not, indeed, till the latter had given a brief account of the way he had been found and rescued by the Indian, Peter, and the chief events which had occurred to him. “Well, well! I’m right glad to get you back; and now you must give up hunting, as I have done, and just take your ease for the rest of your days,” said old Tom. “Hunting I have done with; but I have yet much work to do before I die,” answered the old hunter. “You and I are great sinners; we were brought up in a Christian land, and still we have been living the lives of heathens. But, Tom, since I have been away I have read the Bible; I have there learned about Christ; and I see that we have been living lives as different from His as black is from white, as light is from darkness. Tom, would you like to learn about Him?” Tom signified his readiness with a nod. It was all Robert Nixon required, and he at once opened on the subject of God’s love, and man’s sin, and Christ the Saviour from sin. The young Indian stood by holding the horses, and watching the countenances of the speakers. It must have been a great trial for him to remain thus inactive while his countrymen were engaged in their exciting occupation; but a new rule of life had become his, and duty had taken the place of inclination. “There, Tom; I’ve just said a little about the chiefest thing I’ve got to say to you,” were the words with which Rob wound up his address. Tom looked puzzled, but not displeased, as some men might have been.

His friend was prevented from saying more by the loud shouts of the Indians as the last bull of a herd of nearly three hundred animals sunk, overcome by loss of blood from numberless arrows and darts, to the saturated ground. There lay the shaggy monsters in every conceivable attitude into which a violent death could throw them, some on their backs as they had rolled over, others with the young calves, which they had run against in their mad career round the pound, impaled on their horns; many had fallen over each other, and, dying from their wounds, had formed large heaps in every direction. It was truly a sickening spectacle. (Note.) The old hunter after a pause pointed towards it;—“There Tom, that’s just a picture of what has been going on in the world time without mind,” he remarked; “the Indians are doing what the spirits of evil do, and the poor buffaloes are like the people in the world, all driven madly together, destroying one another till none remain alive; but Christ delivers men from the spirits of evil, and leads them into safety and rest.” Hitherto the new comers had escaped observation, but now numerous Indians crowded round, some to welcome the old white hunter, others to inquire the cause which brought the young man with him. The first to approach the old man was a young girl; her complexion was fairer than that of several other girls who accompanied her, and her dress was more ornamented with beads and feathers than theirs. She stopped timidly at a short distance—Indian etiquette would not allow her to approach nearer. She was very beautiful, but her beauty was that of the wild gazelle, it had not yet been destroyed by the hard toil and often cruel usage to which the older women of her people were exposed. “Come daughter, come,” said the old man in the Dakotah tongue, holding out his arms, “I have good tidings for thee.” The young girl bounded forward, and Rob Nixon, taking her in his arms, imprinted a kiss on her brow. “Father, father, that you have come back when we thought you lost, is good news enough; you cannot bring me better,” looking up into the old man’s face, not without some surprise, however, at the affectionate manner in which she was treated, contrasted with the stern way in which the Indians treat the females of their people. “I will tell thee of the good news anon. You might not value it as it deserves,” said Robert Nixon. “Thy brother, where is he?”

“He left the camp with a score more of our young braves nearly ten moons ago, to make war on the Crees of the plain, and he has not yet returned. Scouts have been sent out, but no tidings have been received of the party.” The father did not conceal his disappointment. “I have a rich gift to offer him,” he thought; “would that he had been here to have accepted it. Alas! alas! how great is my sin, who was born a Christian, to have allowed my children to grow up ignorant heathens.” It is sad to think that many white men in many parts of the vast territory known as Rupert’s land, may have cause to feel as did Robert Nixon. Two of old Tom’s sons were also away on the same hazardous expedition, but though anxious about them, for he was a kind-hearted man, he could not enter into Rob Nixon’s feelings in the matter. Now as the evening came on the people crowded into the encampment, all eager to hear how their white friend and one of their chief, as well as the oldest, of their leaders had escaped death. He used no bitter expressions, but he could not help asking, ironically, how it was that—among so many who professed regard for him—no one had thought of turning back to look for him when he was missed? Numerous were the excuses offered, and all were glad when he dropped the subject, and held up a book out of which he proposed to read to them in their own language. Not knowing the nature of a book, they naturally supposed it to be some powerful charm, and declared that he had become a great medicine man. “If it is a charm, and I do not say that it is not, it is one that, if you will listen, may do you good, and will make you wiser than you have ever before been,” he answered. “Do you, or do you not wish to hear me?” There were no dissentient voices, and he then read to them how God, the Great Spirit, so loved the world, that He sent His Son into the world that all who believe in Him should not perish but have eternal life,—“men, women, and children, old and young alike,” he added. “I will tell you more about the matter by-and-by, friends. Talk over now what I have said. This book, though small, contains a great deal; many a day must pass before you know its contents. Those who wish to know more may come to my lodge when they will, and I will read to them.”

Bob Nixon made a very efficient missionary in his humble, unpretending way. He did not attack Manitou or any of the superstitions, but he placed the better way before them, that they might have the opportunity of comparing it with their own foolish customs and notions. With his own daughter and his old friend, whom he knew he could trust, he proceeded in a different method; his friend he reminded of what he had been taught in his youth, how he had spent his life, and again and again inquired what hope he had for the future. To his daughter he pointed out the folly of the religious belief and the customs of the red people, and showed her the advantages of those of true Christians. To an artless, unsophisticated mind, where sin has not ruled triumphantly, the Gospel will always prove attractive, if offered—as its Divine Originator intended it should be offered—as a blessing—as a charter of freedom, not a code of legal restrictions. The young girl received it joyfully, and day by day increased in knowledge and grace. He was, however, often in despair with regard to old Tom. His friend listened to what he read and said, but the truth did not appear to find an entrance into his mind; still he listened and tried to pray, and as he tried he found praying less difficult; and when he listened he comprehended better and better what he heard. Tom’s sons and daughters still remaining with him began also to listen, and came oftener and oftener to the old hunter’s lodge, as their interest increased, till they declared that they were ready to go wherever they could constantly hear the Word of God, and be more fully instructed in its truths. A large part of Robert Nixon’s object was accomplished, but not the whole. A great grief lay at his heart—the loss and probable death of his son. The winter had now set in, snow covered the whole face of nature in every direction for many hundreds of miles. Travelling, though not impracticable, had become more difficult and dangerous; it could, however, be accomplished by means of dog-sleighs or carioles, though all the wealth possessed by Nixon and his friend could scarcely furnish dogs sufficient to transport all the party and provisions to the banks of the Assiniboine. No news had been received of the missing band. Old Tom shared his friend’s grief, and now he began to dread their loss for the most important reason. Nixon’s time was also engaged among the tribe generally; even the chief listened to him attentively, and offered no opposition to his proceedings. For himself he said that he was too old to change, but that his people might follow the new way, if they found it better than the old. Joseph, the young Sioux, was a great assistance to him. Nixon offered to allow him to go back to his own people, but he declined, saying that he was not strong enough to resist temptations, and might be inclined to go back to their evil ways, if he found himself among them; an example which more civilised youths might wisely follow—not to run into temptation.

Note. The chief object of the Indians in thus slaughtering so large a number of buffalo is to lay in a store of their flesh, which they preserve and call pemmican. It is first cut off free of fat and hung up in thin strips to dry in the sun. It is then pounded between stones and put into leathern bags, with the boiled fat of the animal poured in and mixed with it. The white fur traders also purchase this pemmican, as well as the skins known as robes, and also the sinews. Very many more animals are killed than can be used by the thoughtless savages, and thus thousands are left to rot uselessly on the prairie. As the buffaloes decrease in number, so do the red men disappear from the face of the earth. The settlement of civilised men in the territory appears to be the only mode of saving the natives by affording them the means of subsistence.

Chapter Six.

It was during the short spring of the North American continent, which so suddenly breaks into perfect summer, that a camp might have been seen pitched on the side of the bank of a broad and rapid river. The spot selected for the camp formed a bay of the river, or it might be called a nook in the bank. It appeared to have been chosen for the purpose of concealment: for only from one point on the opposite bank could it be seen, while above it was completely sheltered by the thick growth of trees which fringed each side of the river. From the conical shape of the skin-covered tents, the accoutrements of the steeds tethered near, the dog-sleds, for carrying goods and provisions, and the people standing or sitting about, it would have been known at once to be a Sioux encampment. On a nearer inspection, however, several points of difference would have been discovered. In front of one of the tents sat two old men whose complexion showed that they were not Indians, while the dress of one of them was that of a civilised man. Several young women and girls were busily preparing the evening meal, some young men were bringing them a supply of fire-wood and water, while others were engaged in fishing in the river. Several, both of the young men and girls, had complexions much lighter than those of Indians, though others, from their dark colour, were evidently of the native race. They seemed to be fearless of interruption; indeed, they probably relied on due notice of danger being given them by their scouts or sentries, who were watching from some of the more elevated spots in the neighbourhood.

One of the old men had been reading to the other from the Bible. He closed the sacred volume—“Let us thank God, old friend, that within a week we may hope once more to be among our Christian countrymen, and be able to join with them in His worship and praise, and to thank Him for His loving mercy to us,” said Robert Nixon. “For my part I have only one desire: to recover my boys and yours, and to see them be longing to Christ’s flock.”

“Ah, Bill!” Tom always called his friend by that name, “I, too, should like to see the day; but it’s far off, I fear. But I hope they’ll go to Heaven somehow.” This conversation was interrupted by a loud cry of alarm from the young women of the party; and, looking up, they saw a dozen redskin warriors, who had just issued from among the trees on the summit of the bank above them. Several had rifles, others were armed only with bows. They were in the act of taking aim with their weapons when Nixon saw them. Forgetting the native language in his agitation, he shouted out to them, in English, to desist. They hesitated. Some of the girls took the opportunity of rushing off to seek for shelter behind the trees. Tom went into the tent for his gun. Nixon advanced towards the Indians, whom he perceived to be Crees, the mortal enemies of the Dakotahs. His daughter, believing him to be in danger, instead of running for shelter, like her companions, flew after him. Old Tom re-appeared at the moment with his rifle. The Crees, believing that resistance was about to be offered, fired. Their powder or weapons were bad: some did not go off, the bullets, generally, flew wide, but one, alas! took effect. It was in the bosom of Rob Nixon’s daughter. Her cry made him turn round, and, forgetting all else, he caught her in his arms as she was sinking to the ground. Before the savages had time to re-load, and as they were about to rush down the hill, scalping-knife in hand, to complete their cruel work, they were set upon by an equal number of Sioux, who sprang so suddenly on them from behind that not one of them had time to use his weapon in self-defence. A desperate struggle ensued, each man trying to pin his antagonist to the ground. Two Crees, desperately wounded, lay fainting from loss of blood. Tom, climbing up the hill, still further turned the balance in favour of the Sioux. The Sioux were, Tom perceived, of his own party. They had been warned by one of their scouts that an enemy was at hand, and without disturbing the rest of the camp had gone out to intercept them. They had, however, missed them, but again discovering their trail, had followed close in their rear, though not fast enough to prevent the unhappy catastrophe which had occurred.

The struggle was fierce and desperate. Neither party expected any mercy from the victors. Three of the Crees were killed, and this releasing three of the Sioux party, aided by old Tom, the latter were able to assist their companions. Their aim was, however, not to kill. The Crees were quickly disarmed, and being bound, stood expecting the usual fate of the vanquished. At a signal from Nixon they were led down the bank to where he knelt by the side of his daughter, in vain attempting to staunch the life-blood streaming from her wound. “Father!” she whispered; “I am leaving you. I feel death coming, but I am happy, for I know One powerful to save is ready to receive me. I would have lived to have comforted you, but I believe my prayers are heard, and that my brother will yet be restored to you.” She was silent for some time; then her eyes, opening, fell on the prisoners as they stood bound on the top of the bank, and she continued: “I have but one petition to make. It is that those ignorant men may not be punished. They followed but the ways of their people, and thought not of the wicked act they were doing. I would speak to them.” In a faint voice the dying girl addressed the prisoners, and urged them to listen to the words her father would speak to them, adding: “Truly do I forgive you, and may you find forgiveness from the Great Good Spirit whom you know not.” It would be difficult to describe the astonishment of the Crees when they found that not only were they not to undergo torment before being killed, but that they were actually freely pardoned. After consulting for some time, one of them, who appeared to be the leader, stepped forward and said:—“We have heard that there are praying men among the pale-faces, but that their praying made their people different to us we did not know, for most of the things we do they do; they fight with each other and with us, they drive us from our lands, they cheat us when trading, they shoot us without pity whenever they catch us, and they bring disease and death among us, so that, though once we were numerous as the stones which strew the prairie lands of the Dakotahs, now we can count our people while the sun rests at its mid-day height in the sky. Such was our notion of the pale-faces, but you have given us a different notion. Though we have done you a great injury, though our weapons have cruelly cut down one who is surely the most lovely of the flowers of the prairie, instead of slaying us, you forgive us; she too, even, not only forgives us, but prays to the Great Spirit for us. Our minds are astonished; our hearts are softened, melted within us. We would be your friends, and we wish to prove it. We know the pale-faces who dwell towards the rising of the sun, and we will accompany you on your way to them, and guard you from further attacks. You doubt us. You fear treachery. You are wise. We will prove that we are honest. Some moons past, ere the snows of winter had covered the ground, our tribe was assailed by a party of Dakotah braves. We had notice of their coming, and had an ambush prepared for them. Among them we discerned three whom we knew by their colour to be the children of the pale-faces. We judged that they had been carried off when young, and we hoped to obtain a reward by restoring them to their parents or countrymen, our friends. The Dakotahs we slew, but, though they fought desperately and were much wounded, we succeeded in saving the three young men alive. We could not then travel with them, so we kept them in our lodges while the snow remained. We were on our way to the east with them when, in our folly, we resolved to attack your camp. Our prisoners we left with a small number of our band who are but a short way from this.”

“Oh! bring them—haste!—haste!” exclaimed the wounded girl, alone divining who they were of whom the Cree spoke; “I would see my brother ere I die. I have much—much to say to him.”

Anxious to gratify his daughter, and satisfied that the Cree chief spoke the truth, and would not prove treacherous, Robert Nixon allowed two of his followers, known as fleet of foot, to hasten to his camp to bring in the young men spoken of, having no doubt that his own son, and his friend’s two sons, were the prisoners spoken of. Meantime, it appeared doubtful whether the dying girl would survive till their arrival. While the rest of the party stood round grieving, she reclined in her father’s arms, occasionally whispering a few words of comfort in his ear, and assuring him of her happiness. At length she lifted up her head in the attitude of listening. Her quick ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps, even before the rest of the party. It was some time before any one appeared. “I knew it—I knew it—my brother!” she cried out, as several young men, running at full speed, burst from among the trees at the top of the bank. One of them, who was leading, taking a hurried glance around, rushed down, and, with an expression in which surprise and grief were mingled, threw himself by her side. She took his hand, and strange to his ear were the communications she made. Another of the youths approached her. She gave him her other hand, and turned her countenance towards him as she did so. “I was the cause of your going on that expedition. I was ignorant, dark-minded, wicked. I knew well that you loved me. I know it now; but, oh! listen to my father. He will tell you of One who loves you far more than I could do, whose love will make ample amends for the loss of mine; and then we may meet in the realms of happiness, to dwell for ever and ever together.” To the young heathen this language was an enigma. Ere it was solved, the speaker had ceased to breathe. “The Lord’s will be done!” said the old hunter: and those who knew how he loved his child understood what a mighty change religion had wrought in his heart. They buried her in that secluded spot, beneath the green turf, on which she had lately trod so full of life and beauty; and those who had loved her, and their late foes, assisted to raise a monument, of materials furnished by the river bed and the surrounding trees, above her tomb.

Rob Nixon and all the party reached the settlements in safety. He mourned as a father for his daughter, but his mourning was full of hope. Her dying words were not thrown away on her brother, or on his companions. Before long, they were all baptised, and admitted to the privileges and blessings of Christ’s church. When the father knelt at the Lord’s table, for the first time after his daughter’s death, and thought of the dead for whom thanks had been given, because they had died in Christ’s faith and fear, he felt that his beloved daughter had not died in vain. He declared that he had not been preserved from so many and great dangers of body and spirit, to lead a life of idleness, and while life remained, he never wearied in striving to bring others to a knowledge of Him, whom he had found to be so precious to his own soul.

The End.

William H G Kingston

"Roger Willoughby"

Chapter One.

“Hillo, Roger! glad to find you at last. I have been hunting up and down along the cliffs for the last hour or more, till I began to fear that you must have been carried off by a Barbary corsair, or spirited away on the end of Mother Shipton’s broomstick.”

The speaker was a fine-looking lad of sixteen, dressed in the costume worn by Puritans in the time of the second Charles—a long cloth coat of unobtrusive hue, knee-breeches, high-heeled shoes with large buckles, a thick neckcloth tied in a bow, and a high-crowned, broad-brimmed hat; but the brim of the lad’s hat was looped up on one side by a rosette of silver lace, his shoe-buckles were of massive silver, his neckcloth was of silk, and his coat of fine cloth, betokening that he was of the rank of a gentleman, and that, if a Puritan, he had taken no small pains to set his person off to the best advantage.

“Faith! I had no idea that I had been so long hidden away in my cosy nook, and if you had not ferreted me out, Stephen, I should likely enough have lain perdu for another hour or more,” answered Roger, a sturdy blue-eyed boy, apparently a year or two younger than Stephen Battiscombe, and of the same station in life; but his dress, though of gayer colours and less precise cut than that of his friend, was somewhat threadbare, and put on as if he had not troubled himself much about the matter. “See, I have been studying the art of navigation, and begin to hope that I shall be able to sail a ship through distant seas as well as Drake or Cavendish, or Sir Martin Frobisher, or Sir Richard Grenville, or the great Christopher Columbus himself,—ay, and maybe to imitate their gallant deeds,” he continued, holding up a small well-thumbed volume. “I have not made as much progress this morning as I expected to do, for I have ever and anon been watching yonder fine ship, which has long been in sight, striving to beat down Channel against this light westerly breeze, but for some time past she has made no progress, or rather has been drifting back to the eastward.”

“It seems to me that she is standing in this way,” observed Stephen, shading his eyes with his hand from the noonday sun. “Certes, she is a goodly craft, and light as is the wind slips swiftly through the water.”

“Would that I were on board of her!” exclaimed Roger. “She is doubtless bound out to some of those strange lands of which I have read in Master Purchas Pilgrims, and many another book of voyages. How I long to visit those regions, and to behold with mine own eyes the wonderful sights they present!”

“Many, you should understand, are mere travellers’ tales—lying fables—such as Sir John de Mandeville would make us believe about monsters, half man and half beast, and people walking about with their heads under their arms, and cities of marble, the windows of precious stones, and the streets paved with gold, and such like extravagances,” observed Stephen. “I much doubt also whether your father will readily accede to your wishes. Think how he would grieve should any of the many mishaps befall you which so often overtake those who voyage on the treacherous ocean.”

“My father knows that I must seek my fortune in some calling or other, and he would be well pleased were I to come back with a goodly store of the gold of Golconda to restore the impoverished fortunes of our house,” answered Roger, still looking eagerly towards the approaching ship.

“Day-dreams, my friend, day-dreams,—natural enough, but very unlikely to come true,” said Stephen in a somewhat sententious tone, such as he considered became one of his mature years. If the truth were to have been known, however, Master Stephen Battiscombe was apt to indulge in day-dreams himself, though of a different character—a judge’s wig and robes, or even a seat on the Woolsack, were not beyond his aspirations. He now added, “But we must stop talking here longer. See, the sun is already at his height in the heavens; an we delay the Colonel and Madam Pauline will be justly chiding us for being late to dinner.”

“I am ready,” answered Roger, still, however, lingering and watching the ship in the offing. “But tell me, what cause brought you to Eversden this morning?”

“I came over to ask you to return with me to Langton, that you might join us in making war on the young rooks, which have increased too greatly in our woods of late. Not finding you, I would fain, I own, have remained in the house to enjoy the society of sweet Mistress Alice, but Madame Pauline, cruelly insisting that she required her aid in the manufacture of some conserves, sent me out to search for you.”

“I am bound to be grateful to you for coming, whether willingly or not, to look for me, or I might have remained in my nest mayhap till the sun had sunk behind Beer Head out yonder,” said Roger, beginning to climb up the cliff. “I would gladly, however, remain till the ship comes near enough to let us get a better sight of her.”

To this, however, Stephen would not consent, for the reason he had already given, and Roger also well knew that his uncle, Colonel Tregellen, would be displeased should they not appear at the regular dinner-hour.

Roger Willoughby’s cosy nook, as he called it, was a small hollow in the cliff a few feet from the summit, surrounded by a thick growth of purple bramble, scented clematis, pink thorn, and other shrubs, which formed a complete shelter from all but southerly winds, and likewise concealed it from any one passing along the downs above. It was on a part of the Dorsetshire coast between Lyme and Bridport, almost in the centre of the extensive bay which has Portland Bill on its eastern side and the Start Point on the west. To the right could be seen Lowesdon Hill and Pillesdon Pen rising above the surrounding country, while to the left a line of precipitous cliffs extended in a bold sweep for several miles to the conical height of the Gilten Cap, visible to the mariner far away out at sea, while inland, beyond a range of smooth undulating downs, were fields of grass and corn, orchards and woods, amid which appeared here and there a church steeple, the roof of a farm-house or labourer’s cottage, or the tower or gable-end of some more pretentious residence.

Still, Roger accompanied Stephen Battiscombe with evident reluctance, and turned more than once to take another look at the approaching ship which had so attracted his attention.

“She must be purposing to come to an anchor close to the shore, and we may be able to go on board her,” he exclaimed.

“Very possibly her captain intends to bring up to wait till the tide turns,” said Stephen in a tone of indifference. “If you have a fancy for visiting her, the sooner we get back to Eversden the more time you will have to accomplish your object, should your father not object to your going; but as we do not know the character of the vessel, he may doubt whether the trip is a safe one—she may be a pirate, or a trader in want of hands, and may kidnap you and your boatmen to fill up the complement of her crew.”

Roger laughed heartily as Stephen ceased speaking. “We need not fear any danger of that sort,” he said. “My father is not so over-careful of me as you suppose. Neither he nor the Colonel will say me nay, and if you are unwilling to accompany me, I will go alone.”

“No! no!—if you go I will go with you,” answered Stephen. “I merely wished to warn you, that you might not be disappointed.”

“I know well that I can always trust you, and that you are ever ready to please me when you can,” said Roger. “But, as you say, it were a pity to lose time—so we will hasten on to the manor-house, and as soon as we have satisfied our hunger, we will return to the shore and get Ben Rullock and his boy Toby to put us aboard the stranger. See, she is still standing in for the land, and she would certainly not come so close except for the purpose of anchoring.”

The boys had now reached the highest part of the downs. After this, having to descend to the cultivated ground, they lost sight of the ship. Making a short cut across some fields enclosed by stone walls, they reached a lane with hedges on either side, along which they proceeded for a mile or more, as snake-like it twisted and turned in various directions, till, crossing what from its width looked like a high-road, though as full of ruts and holes as the lane, they passed through a gateway, the entrance to an avenue of fine beech-trees. The once stout gate shook and creaked on its rusty hinges as they pushed it open; the keeper’s lodge was in ruins, burnt down many years ago, for the marks of fire were still visible on the portions of the walls seen between the ivy and other creepers partially covering them. The lads, hurrying up the avenue, soon reached a substantial house of some size, surrounded by a broad moat with a roughly constructed wooden bridge, where once a drawbridge had existed across the narrowest part, directly in front of the chief entrance. The most prominent feature of the building was a porch of stone, handsomely carved; on the right side of it was a breadth of wall with several windows, and at the end what appeared from its architecture to be a chapel, though the large window at the gable-end had been bricked up, a few loopholes only being left in it. On the other side of the porch was a still more extensive range of windows, giving light to a large hall, and beyond that again was a square stone tower, serving in the eyes of the architect as a balance to the chapel. The moat was a sufficient distance from the house to allow of a roadway round it to the back, where, guarded by a high wall, the offices and stables, the cow-house, the piggeries and poultry-yard, were situated.

The boys hurried through the open doorway, the savoury odours proceeding from the hall on the left exciting their appetites. The family were already seated at table, and Master Holden, the parson of the parish, was in the act of saying grace. As soon as he had concluded, they took the places left vacant for them, Stephen managing to place himself next to Mistress Alice Tufnell, while Roger, who cared not where he sat, went to one on the opposite side of the table between his father and the parson, who had at first humbly taken a lower position. At the head of the table sat Colonel Tregellen, the owner of Eversden Manor, with his sprightly French wife, Madam Pauline, on his right, and his brother-in-law, Master Ralph Willoughby, Roger’s father, on his left.

“You are late, lads,” said the Colonel, looking first at one, then at the other, in a somewhat stern manner. “You know the rules of the house—how comes it?”

“Please, sir, I was looking for Roger, and only lately discovered him,” answered Stephen, who was the elder, and thought it incumbent on him to speak first. “He was not aware how the hours had gone by.”

“And why were you not aware how time passed, Master Roger?” asked the Colonel, turning to his nephew. “The sun is shining in the heavens, and you should have known when noon arrived.”

“I was sitting in the shade and reading, good uncle,” answered Roger in a brisk tone, which showed that he had little fear of the Colonel’s displeasure; “besides, to say the truth, I was watching a fine ship standing in for the coast, which ship I have a notion has come to anchor not far from this, and as soon as Stephen and I have stowed away some food, with yours and my father’s leave and good pleasure we propose going on board her to learn what cargo she carries, whither she is bound, and all about her.”

“You are of an inquisitive disposition regarding all things nautical, Roger,” observed the Colonel. “I have no objection, if your father has not, but take care you are not carried off to sea. We must make Stephen Battiscombe answerable for that; and if the vessel has a suspicious look, remember that you are not to venture on board.”

“Ah, yes; do take care that the strange ship you speak of is not a pirate. It would be dreadful to have you spirited away, as I have heard has sometimes happened,” observed Madam Pauline.

“There is not much risk of that,” observed Mr Willoughby. “Since the noble Blake commanded the fleets of England, such gentry have not dared to venture into the English Channel.”

“And are you also going, Master Battiscombe?” asked Alice, turning to Stephen.

“I have no great fancy for the expedition, and would rather spend my time here, Mistress Alice,” he answered. “But Roger begs for my companionship, and I must go to look after him, for I suspect that he would not be greatly grieved if he were to be carried off, as his heart is set on visiting foreign lands, and he knows not how to accomplish his wishes.”

“If you go I know you will advise him wisely,” said Alice, in a tone which showed that she placed confidence in the person she was addressing.

Stephen looked gratified. “I will not betray my trust,” he said, “and I hope, Mistress Alice, that I shall act in a way to merit your approval.”

The lads did not allow their plates to remain idly before them. Roger sent his for an additional supply of the goodly sirloin which the Colonel was carving, and then, as soon as he had finished eating, without waiting for the pasties or Master Holden’s grace, he started up and said: “We have your leave, uncle, my father not objecting, to visit the stranger, and I doubt not we shall bring you before evening a good account of her.”

Mr Willoughby nodded his assent. “You may go, Roger, and Stephen is his own master, but remember the caution you have received. Should you find, which is most probable, that the commander is a goodly person, and his ship is going to remain long enough at anchor, you may invite him up to the manor-house, and say we shall gladly receive him. It may be that he has been long at sea, and some fresh provisions will be welcome.”

“Thank you,” said Roger, leaving his chair.—“Come along, Stephen; we shall find Ben Rullock and Toby at their hut before they leave for their evening fishing, if we make haste.”

Stephen, with less eagerness than that exhibited by his friend, rose from his seat, and bowing to Madam Pauline and Mistress Alice, followed Roger out of the hall.

“They are spirited lads,” observed the Colonel, “and as they have little enough to fill up their time, I like not to deny them such amusement as they discover for themselves.”

“Where it is harmless ’tis right that it should be encouraged,” remarked Master Holden, who seldom said anything except it was to agree with the Colonel, his patron, by whose means he had been reinstated in the parish at the Restoration.

Colonel Tregellen, a staunch Cavalier, the owner of Eversden, had during the Civil War been among the most active partisans of King Charles the First, in whose service he had expended large sums of money. On the triumph of Cromwell his property was confiscated, and he had judged it prudent to escape beyond seas. The manor, however, had been purchased by his brother-in-law, Roger Willoughby, who had married his sister, and who had held it during the period of the Commonwealth. Mr Willoughby was a rigid Puritan, and had been as active in supporting Cromwell as his brother-in-law had been in the cause of the opposite party. At the Restoration the tables were again turned, and Colonel Tregellen, who had some time before ventured back to England, had, by an amicable arrangement with his brother-in-law, again become possessed of the estate, it being settled that Mr Willoughby and his son should reside with him.

While abroad, Colonel Tregellen had married a French Protestant lady, a very charming and lively person, who made herself liked by all who came in contact with her. Having no children of their own, they had adopted the grand-daughter of a Cavalier friend killed at Naseby, who had committed his only daughter to the Colonel’s care. On his return to England she came to live at Eversden Manor, where she married Mr Harry Tufnell, the younger son of a gentleman of property in the county. He, however, soon afterwards died, leaving his widow and infant daughter slenderly provided for. Two years elapsed from his death, when Mrs Tufnell, who was then staying at the manor-house, followed him to the grave. Madam Pauline had promised to be a mother to her child, and such she had ever since truly proved. Alice, who was too young to feel her loss, had always looked upon the Colonel and his wife as her parents, and loved them as such, though the Colonel had considered it expedient that she should retain her father’s name, and keep up such intercourse with her family as circumstances would permit. She amply rewarded the Colonel and Madam Pauline for the care they bestowed on her by the amiability of her disposition, her sweet and engaging manners, and the affection she exhibited towards them. She was a year or two younger than Roger, but from her intelligence and appearance, and a certain manner she had caught from Madam Pauline, she was generally supposed to be older. She and Roger were fast friends, and regarded each other as brother and sister. Of late she not only looked but felt herself the elder of the two, and treated him as young ladies are sometimes inclined to treat boys, in a slightly dictatorial way, ordering him about, and expecting him to obey her slightest behest; as he was invariably obedient they never quarrelled, and she always appeared to receive his service as her right.

Mr Willoughby, who lost his wife some years after the Restoration, and was in infirm health, had sunk almost heart-broken into the position of a dependant on his brother-in-law. He had paid a heavy price to obtain Eversden, and had also expended large sums in support of the cause he advocated, besides which, certain mercantile speculations into which he had entered had been unsuccessful, so that when deprived of Eversden he had no means remaining for his support. The hope, which he probably entertained, that his son Roger would be Colonel Tregellen’s heir, was somewhat damped when Mistress Alice was adopted as his daughter—not that he felt any jealousy of her in consequence,—indeed, he might possibly have entertained the idea that she would marry Roger, and that, should she become the Colonel’s heiress, the property would thus be restored to the family. Had the subject, however, been spoken of to him, he would very likely have replied that he did not wish his thoughts to dwell on such sublunary matters, that, all being ordered for the best, he would leave them in the hands of Providence, without attempting to interfere. Still, as Alice grew up into a sweet and engaging girl, he could not help wishing, as he looked at her, that she would some day become his son’s wife. It is certain, however, that such thought had never for a moment crossed Roger’s mind, nor that of the young lady either. She would have laughed heartily if the subject had been mentioned to her, and declared that she should as soon have thought of marrying old Mr Willoughby himself, whom she always called her uncle. Fortunately no one had ever been silly enough to talk to her about the matter, and she and Roger had never had what might prove a barrier to their friendship placed between them.

Roger’s thoughts were generally occupied with his grand idea to go abroad to the Indies, or to America, or to the plantations, to make a fortune, and to restore the family to its former position. He did not consider that his father was dependent on the Colonel, but he saw that the latter himself had but limited means; for the estate, although of considerable extent, yielded but a poor income. Its owner had nothing else to depend on, so that he was unable to repair the house or to make improvements on the land. The King on his Restoration had promised to give him a lucrative post as soon as he could find one suited to his talents, but year after year passed by, and he received no appointment; at length he went up to London—a journey not easily performed in those days,—and after waiting for a considerable time, through the interest of an old friend he obtained an interview with the Merry Monarch.

“Gadzooks, man!” exclaimed the King, when he saw him, “I remember you well,—a loyal, sturdy supporter of our cause. We have had so many loyal gentlemen applying for posts that we fear all have been filled up, but depend on it we will not forget you. Go back to Eversden, and wait with such patience as may be vouchsafed you. In due course of time you will receive notice of the appointment to which we shall have the satisfaction of naming you.”

Colonel Tregellen took his leave and returned to Eversden, but he was too old a soldier to have his hopes raised high, and from that time to the present he had received no further communication on the subject—indeed, he had reason to believe that the King had forgotten all about him. Though he did not in consequence of this waver in his loyalty, it did not increase his affection for the King, and made him criticise the monarch’s proceeding with more minuteness than might otherwise have been the case. He had ever been a firm Protestant, and he had become still more attached to the Reformed principles, and more enlightened, from the example set him by his wife, and also from the instruction he received from her. He was sufficiently acquainted with political affairs to know that the King was more than suspected of leaning to Romanism, while the Duke of York—the heir to the throne—was a professed Romanist. His love, therefore, for the family for whom he had fought and expended his fortune had greatly waned of late years, and he therefore agreed more nearly with the opinions of his brother-in-law than formerly. This change of sentiment permitted him willingly to receive young Battiscombe, who was of a Puritan family, at his house, though at one time he would not have admitted him within his doors. He also lived on friendly terms with other neighbours holding the same opinion as the owner of Langton Hall. Still, the Colonel did not altogether abandon his Cavalier habits and notions, which, without intending it perhaps, he instilled into the mind of his young nephew, who, although his father had been a supporter of Cromwell, was ready enough to acknowledge Charles as the rightful king of England. He and Stephen often had discussions on the subject, but as neither held his opinions with much obstinacy, they never fell out on the matter, and generally ended with a laugh, each asserting that he had the beat of the argument. Stephen, if not a bigoted Puritan, was a strong Protestant, and never failed to express his dread of the consequences should James come to the throne.

Stephen Battiscombe was the second son of Mr Battiscombe of Langton Park, who had several other sons and daughters. He had been an officer in General Monk’s army, and had consequently retained his paternal estates, although he had been compelled to part with some of his broad acres in order to secure the remainder. Stephen had been for the last year or two a constant visitor at Eversden, he and Roger having formed a friendship; it may be that he came oftener than he otherwise might have done for the sake of enjoying the society of Mistress Alice, whom he greatly admired.

The early dinner being concluded, and the viands removed, the ladies retired to pursue their usual avocations, while the Colonel, with Mr Willoughby and Master Holden, sat still at the table, not so much to indulge in potations, though a flagon of wine and glasses stood before them, as to discuss certain parochial questions in which they were interested.

The first matter to be discussed had scarcely been broached when the Colonel, whose quick ears had detected the sound of horses’ hoofs in the court-yard, exclaimed, “Hark! here come visitors. I pray you, Master Holden, go and see who they are, and, should they have travelled far, and require food, bid the cook make ready a sufficiency; whether they be old friends or strangers, we must not show a want of hospitality if they come expecting to find it at Eversden.” The curate, ever accustomed to obey his patron’s directions, rose and hastened to the door. Not long after he had gone, Tobias Platt, the Colonel’s serving-man, who performed the duties of butler, valet, and general factotum, entered the hall.

“Master Thomas Handscombe, cloth-merchant of London, who has just come down from thence, craves to see Mr Roger Willoughby,” he said.

“Do you know him?” asked the Colonel of his brother-in-law.

“Yes, an old and worthy friend,” answered Mr Willoughby, rising from his seat.

“Let him be admitted, and assure him of a welcome,” said the Colonel, turning to Tobias Platt, who hurried out of the hall, while Mr Willoughby followed him somewhat more leisurely. He found his old friend, a middle-aged man of grave exterior, in travel-stained cloak, broad-brimmed beaver, just dismounting from a strongly-built nag, to whose saddle were attached a pair of huge holsters in front, and a valise behind. He was accompanied by two attendants, each of whose animals carried considerably heavier burdens, apparently merchandise, more or less of cloth and other articles, firmly secured by leathern straps.

“I am glad to see you again, Master Handscombe,” exclaimed Mr Willoughby, warmly pressing the hand of his old friend; “although I am no longer master of this mansion, I can bid you welcome, for my good brother-in-law, Colonel Tregellen, desires that all my friends should be his friends; but you will remember that he is an old Cavalier, and that there are certain subjects it were better not to touch on.”

“I mix too much with all classes of men not to be on my guard,” answered the merchant, as he accompanied Mr Willoughby into the house, when Tobias Platt came forward to take his dusty cloak and beaver, and then followed Mr Willoughby into the hall, where the Colonel received him as his brother-in-law’s friend.

“You will be glad to shake off more of the dust of your journey while a repast is preparing,” observed the Colonel. “The servant will provide you with water and other necessaries.”

The guest gladly accepted the offer. Mr Willoughby himself accompanied him to the room, that they might have an opportunity of conversing in private, which they might not afterwards obtain. Madam Pauline and Alice, on hearing from Master Holden of the arrival of a stranger from London, returned to the hall, where all the party were soon again assembled. Master Handscombe, though a man of grave deportment, had no objection to hear himself speak.

“When did you leave London?” was one of the first questions very naturally put by the Colonel to his guest.

“Just seven days ago, good sir,” answered Mr Handscombe. “Having sent all my goods with my two servant-men by the stage-wagon, I took my place by the light coach which now runs from London to the West. There were six of us inside, who, till the moment we met, were not aware of each other’s existence, though, before we parted, we had become as intimate as a litter of puppies. Pretty close stowing it was too—yet, considering the jolting, bumping, and rolling, that was an advantage. Oftentimes I feared that the coach would go over altogether into the ditch, when I was thankful that there was not any one outside except the coachman and guard, who are in a manner born to it, to break their necks. Still, notwithstanding all impediments, we accomplished thirty miles a day; that is fast going, you will allow, compared to the stage-wagon or other ancient means of conveyance. Once only we were stopped by highwaymen, but the guard’s blunderbuss disposed of one of them, and an old officer, who was fortunately for us one of the passengers, though his legs were of the longest, shot another, and the rest, fearing that the Major’s pistols would settle a third of their gang, rode off, leaving us to proceed unmolested. Mine host of the ‘Green Dragon,’ where we had stopped, seemed greatly surprised at seeing us arrive safely, and pulled a long face at hearing of the highwayman whom the Major had shot, for he owed a long score, he acknowledged, which he had now no chance of getting paid. At Salisbury I found my nag and servants, and, leaving the coach, proceeded on to this place by such roads as I could discover. It was one comfort to believe that we were not likely to encounter highwaymen by paths so little frequented, though we had several streams to cross, where we ran no small risk of our lives, especially near Salisbury, where the waters were out, and for some hours no boat was to be found to ferry us across. However, at length, by God’s kind providence, we got over, and as you see, good masters, I have arrived sound in health and limb.”

“Truly you have reason to be thankful,” observed Mr Willoughby; “for it is a long time since I made a journey to London, and, of my own free will, I will never again undertake it.”

“And what news do you bring from the city?” asked the Colonel. “How go matters at Court?”

“About the Court I know but little, except such as appears in the broad-sheet and scraps of information which reach the city. The Dukes of York and Monmouth are still at daggers drawn, the King now favouring one, now the other, though Monmouth by his affable and condescending manners wins the hearts of many of the people, while the Earl of Shaftesbury is ever plotting and contriving how he may keep the power in his own hands, and play one against the other. The Duke of Monmouth, who was, as you may have heard, banished, has returned without the King’s permission, and, as he refuses again to quit the kingdom, has been stripped of his various offices; but a short time ago appeared a tract in which the Duke is clearly pointed out as the fittest person, from his courage, quality, and conduct, to become the ruler of these realms. It is remarked that he who has the worst title will make the best King. There is a story current of the existence of a black box in which is deposited the marriage-contract between the King and the Duke’s mother, but some doubt, not without reason, whether such a black box exists, much more the contents spoken of. Be that as it may, many persons speak boldly of the Duke of Monmouth some day becoming King of England.”

“What is your opinion, Master Handscombe?” asked the Colonel.

“I have merely reported what is said,” answered the merchant. “My business is in buying and selling, and I have no wish to enter into political affairs.”

“Well answered, sir; but I would have it clearly understood that I hope none of those in whom I have an interest will ever draw sword or aid by tongue or otherwise in supporting any but the rightful and legitimate Sovereign of these realms. Though James has become a Papist, he will not interfere with the rights and privileges of his Protestant subjects.”

“On that point there exist adverse and strong opinions,” answered Master Handscombe. “A Roman in power and a Roman out of power are two very different species of animals. The one rules it like the lordly lion, and strikes down with his powerful paw all opponents; the other creeps forward gently and noiselessly like the cat,—not the less resolved, however, to destroy his prey.”

“You would then rather see the Duke of Monmouth than the Duke of York king of England?” said the Colonel.

“No, good sir, I said not so,” answered Mr Handscombe. “I am merely repeating at your desire what people do say in the city, and in the towns also through which I passed.”

While they were speaking, Tobias Platt had placed a smoking hot dish before the hungry traveller, on which the Colonel bade him fall-to. Scarcely, however, had he commenced operations, when young Roger hurried into the hall.

“We have brought him, uncle; he was very willing to come, and you will like him as much as we do. I ran on to announce him, and he and Stephen will be here anon.”

“But who is your friend?” asked the Colonel. “You have not told us.”

“He is the captain of the fine ship we saw entering the bay; his name is Benbow, and his ship is the Benbow frigate. He received us in a courteous manner when we went on board, and told him that we had come to invite him on shore. He said as there was no prospect of a breeze for some hours, he would gladly accept your invitation.—Here he comes.”

A youngish, broadly-built man, with light blue eyes and somewhat sun-burnt complexion, dressed as a sea-going officer of those days, entered the hall accompanied by Stephen Battiscombe, and advanced, hat in hand, towards the Colonel, who rose to receive him.

“You have come just in time, Captain Benbow, for such I hear is your name, to partake of a dinner prepared for a friend from London; you are heartily welcome.”

“Thanks, good sir, but I dined before I came on shore, though I shall be happy to quaff a glass of wine to your health and that of your guests,” he answered, as he seated himself in a chair, which the Colonel offered, by his side.

“We have not many visitors in this quiet place, and are always glad to receive those who have sailed, as you have undoubtedly, to many foreign lands,” observed the Colonel, as he poured out a glass of sparkling wine for the new-comer, who, before putting it to his lips, bowed to the ladies and then to the Colonel and the other gentlemen.

“Methinks I should know you, Captain Benbow,” said Mr Handscombe, looking up at him from the other side of the table. “We have met on ’Change, and I may venture to say it in your presence that no sea-captain stands higher than you do in the estimation of the merchants of London.”

“Much obliged to you, Master Handscombe, for the opinion you express of me,” said Captain Benbow, at once recognising the worthy merchant. “I have always wished to do my duty towards those whose goods I carry, and to defend my cargo against pirates, privateers, and corsairs of all descriptions, as well as to carry it safely to its destination.”

“The name of Benbow sounds familiar to my ears,” said the Colonel, looking earnestly at the merchant captain. “I had two old well-loved comrades, Colonel Thomas and Colonel John Benbow, gentlemen of estate in Shropshire, who raised regiments in the service of his late Majesty, of pious memory, and for whom I also had the honour of drawing my sword. I well remember that 20th of September in the year of grace 1642, when they and many more came with their faithful men to Shrewsbury to enrol themselves under the King’s standard, and opposed those who had resolved on his destruction. From that day forward we fought side by side in many a bloody battle, sometimes in the open field, sometimes in the defence of towns or fortified manor-houses, till the King’s cause was lost and his sacred head struck off, though even then we did not despair that the cause of monarchy would triumph; and as soon as our present King, marching from Scotland, reached Worcester, I, with the two Colonel Benbows, who had mustered their Shropshire men, and a few other noble gentlemen—alack! not so many as we had a right to expect—arrayed ourselves under the King’s standard. We had secured, as we hoped, a strong position, and expected that when Cromwell and his Ironsides marched against us we should drive them back and hold our own, with Wales and other loyal counties in our rear, till the nation was aroused. But such was not to be, for without waiting to give himself breathing-time after his march, Cromwell set upon us. Though many fought bravely, others grew faint-hearted, and took to flight, and the day was lost. I fell wounded, and was conveyed to the house of a faithful friend, who concealed me; but unhappily the Colonel Benbows were both made prisoners, and Colonel Thomas Benbow with the Earl of Derby and several other gallant noblemen. To my grief, I heard soon afterwards that Colonel Thomas Benbow was shot with the Earl and several others, for engaging in what the usurper pleased to call rebellion; but of my friend Colonel John Benbow I could for a long time hear nothing, and had myself to escape across seas.”

“I am the son of Colonel John Benbow, of whom you speak,” said the Captain. “I know that my uncle Thomas was made prisoner in the fight at Worcester, and afterwards cruelly shot. My father escaped with the help of a friend, and remained concealed with my mother and their family, living in the humblest way, till King Charles the Second was restored to the throne. Through the influence of some friends my father obtained a small office connected with the Ordnance in the Tower, which brought him in sufficient to feed and clothe his family in a simple fashion. I was young, and used to what might be called penury, and I well knew that I must seek my fortune in the world, and work hard. I had an early taste for the sea, for we lived near the Thames, and I often used to make trips with the watermen, among whom I was a favourite. When I was old enough to make myself useful they paid me for the assistance I gave them, looking after boats, sometimes bringing them a fare from the shore, and often taking an oar. I was just ten years old when the present King came to the throne, and I might perchance have joined one of his ships, but from the way I heard my friends the watermen say that men were treated on board them, I had no fancy for joining a man-of-war. Soon after the time I speak of, an old friend of my father’s got him an appointment in the Tower, which brought him in indeed but 80 pounds a year; yet as that was more than our family had had to live on for many a long year, it was a cause of much rejoicing and thanksgiving. Still it was not enough to allow any of us who could work to live in idleness, and I determined to try what I could do. I was one day looking out for a fare for an old waterman, John Cox by name, who had engaged my services, I being an especial favourite of his, when a sailor-like man came down and said he wanted to be put on board the Rainbow frigate lying in the stream. ‘John Cox will put you on board,’ says I; ‘there’s his boat. I’ll hail him, and he will be down in a moment.’

“‘That will do,’ said the stranger, and he stepped on board the boat.

“‘Are you the old man’s son?’ he asked.

“‘No, sir; I am the son of Colonel Benbow, who has got an office in the Tower.’

“‘What! his son thus employed!’ exclaimed the stranger. ‘Is he going to bring you up as a waterman?’

“‘An please you, sir, I am bringing myself up to gain an honest livelihood as best I can,’ I answered.

“‘Would you like to go to sea and visit foreign countries?’ asked the stranger.

“‘That I would, sir, with all my heart,’ I answered.

“‘What will you say if I offer to take you?’ he asked, looking at me.

“‘That I will accept your offer, and serve you faithfully,’ I said.

“‘Then, lad, you shall come with me aboard the Rainbow. We will go back and see your father. I would not take you without his sanction; but if he approves, we shall have time to get such an outfit as you require, for I do not sail till to-morrow.’

“John Cox and I put Captain Downing, for such was his name, on board the Rainbow. He told us to wait alongside for him. After some time he again stepped into the boat, and ordered John Cox to pull for the Tower Stairs.

“On landing, he bade me conduct him to my father’s lodgings, which I gladly did. My father, as it happened, had met Captain Downing, and knew him to be a man of probity. Thanking the Captain for his offer, he without hesitation gave me leave to accompany him as cabin-boy. It did not take long to get an outfit, and bidding my old father and my kind mother and brothers and sisters farewell, I went on board the Rainbow. We dropped down the Thames the next day, but it was nearly a week before we were fairly at sea. The moment I stepped on board, having determined to become a sailor, I set to work to learn everything I could. The Captain helped me in every way. I observed especially the manner he treated his men. He spoke kindly to them, took care that they had plenty of good provisions, and never demanded more work of them than he knew they could perform. Thus the same crew sailed with him voyage after voyage, and I said to myself, ‘Whenever I get command of a ship, I will treat my men in the same way.’ We sailed for the Levant, and were more than a year away, and then made several voyages to Lisbon and Cadiz, and other places on the coast of Portugal and Spain, two out to the West Indies. When I got back I found my father holding his old post in the Tower, still cheerful and contented, though, as he said, he thought some of his old friends might have found him one with better pay, considering what he had lost for holding to the Royal cause. The first Dutch war was just over, when the Governor received notice that the King himself was going to visit the Tower to inspect the ordnance. All the officers, from the highest to the lowest, in their best attire, were drawn up to receive his Majesty. Among them stood my father, his white hair streaming over his shoulders, a head taller than any of the bystanders, I well remember the cry which was raised of ‘Here comes the King!’ Presently his Majesty appeared. As he walked along, nodding to one, exchanging a word with another, his eye fell on my father, whom he knew at once, as he did most people, however long a time had passed since he had seen them. ‘Gadzooks! why, there’s my old friend Colonel Benbow!’ exclaimed the King, going up to him and giving him a warm embrace. ‘I have not seen you since we parted at Worcester; if all had acted as bravely as you did, we should have had a very different account to give of that day. What do you here?’

“‘An please your Majesty, I have a post of 80 pounds a year, in which I do my duty as cheerfully as I would were it 4000 pounds a year,’ answered my father.

“‘Alack, alack! that an old and faithful friend should have been so neglected,’ said the King. ‘You ought to have had one of the best posts I have it in my power to confer, for you lost not only your own property, but your brave brother lost his life, as I have heard, with many other gallant gentlemen.—Colonel Legge,’ he said, turning to one of the officers in attendance, ‘bring Colonel Benbow to me to-morrow, and we will see what office we can best bestow on him. I will provide for him an his family as becomes me.’

“As the King passed on, my honoured father, overcome with joy and gratitude for the King’s intended goodness, sank down on a bench, where he sat motionless. Suddenly a pallor was seen to overspread his countenance, and he would have fallen forward had not some of those standing by hurried to support him;—but he was past human help; the sudden revulsion of feeling was more than his weak frame could stand, and before the King had left the Tower he had breathed his last. It was a sad day to my mother, but we tried to comfort her by reminding her that our father died from excessive joy, that the King would graciously bestow the favour he had intended for him on her and us. From that day forward, however, no message came from his Majesty to inquire why my father had not appeared at Court. Though means were also taken to let the King know of our father’s death, and that his wife and family were almost destitute no notice was taken, and my mother had to depend on such support as I and her other children could give her; but do all we could, it was only sufficient to keep her from starving. Well may I say, ‘Put not your trust in princes.’

“I need not trouble you, fair ladies and gentlemen, with a further account of my early life. I was in great favour with Captain Downing, with whom I sailed for many years as his chief officer, and on his death, which occurred at sea, he left me his share in the Rainbow, and other property. As she was getting old and unfit for long voyages, I sold her and built the Benbow frigate, which ship several of my former crew joined as soon as she was ready for sea. Thus, you see, my life has not been a very eventful one, though I have risen to independence by just sticking to my duty. I do not say that I have not met with adventures, but I will occupy no more of your time by attempting to describe them.”

Roger and Stephen, especially the former, had been eagerly listening to the account Captain Benbow gave of himself.

“How I should delight to sail with you, if my father would give me leave!” exclaimed Roger.

“If there were time, I should be happy to take you on board my ship and teach you to become a sailor, but I fear there is no time, as I must be away again as soon as the tide changes, for I am bound up to the further end of the Mediterranean, and you require certain suits of clothing and other articles which cannot be procured in a moment.”

“If you propose putting into Plymouth, the difficulty might be obviated,” said Roger, who looked much disappointed. “I could soon scrape such few things together as I require, for I care not much what I wear.”

“But you have not yet obtained your father’s sanction to your going, young gentleman, and it was only provided that he should give his permission that I offered to receive you on board my ship,” said the Captain.

“Thank you heartily, Captain Benbow,” said Mr Willoughby. “From the report I have heard of you through my friend Handscombe here, there is no man to whom I would more willingly confide my son, for he has set his heart on being a sailor; but, as you observe, he requires suitable clothing, and that cannot be procured forthwith; still, if you will give me intimation of your return to England, and are willing to take him on your next voyage, I will send him to the port at which your ship lies without fail.”

“I will do that,” said the Captain.—“So, Master Roger, you may look upon yourself as my future shipmate.”

Still Roger appeared much disappointed, as he had expected to go off at once.

“Cheer up, my lad,” said the Captain good-humouredly. “I will not fail to give notice of my arrival to your father.” The Captain evidently took compassion on the boy’s eagerness, for he added, “To show my readiness to take you, if your friends will undertake to collect such needful articles as you must have, I will agree to wait till a breeze springs up, which may not be for several hours to come.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” cried Roger, looking at his aunt and Mistress Alice, and then at his father and the Colonel, as much as to ask what they would do.

“If your father gives you leave, I will not say you nay,” observed the Colonel. “But I know nothing of the required preparations. Madam Pauline and Alice had better say what they and the maidens in the house can do in the course of a few hours.”

Roger turned inquiringly towards them.

“As Captain Benbow is good enough to take you, we will do our best to get the things you require ready,” said Madam Pauline.

“I am loath to lose Roger, but if he will accept some of my clothing, I will ride back to Langton Park and get it for him,” said Stephen. “It is much against the grain, though, I confess.”

“Thank you, thank you, Stephen,” cried Roger, grasping his friend’s hand. “I know that you are sorry to part from me, but then you know how much I long to go to sea, and may never have so good an opportunity.”

The matter being thus settled, Madam Pauline and Alice hastened to inspect poor Roger’s scanty wardrobe, and to consider how with the materials in the house they could most speedily add to it, while Stephen, mounting his horse, rode away for Langton, and Roger himself, accompanied by Master Holden, hunted through the big lumber-room at the top of the house, with the hopes of finding a chest in which his property might be stowed. He soon found one of oak, clamped with iron, which, though larger and heavier than was desirable, might, he thought, serve the purpose required. Their next business was to collect the treasures, including a few well-thumbed books, which Roger wished to take with him, and which he at once placed in the bottom of the chest. The rest of the party remained at table, the Colonel talking chiefly with Captain Benbow, whom he looked upon as an old friend.

“You will remain at the manor-house to-night, I hope,” said the Colonel, “and you may return in the morning with my nephew at as early an hour as you desire. I suspect that the females of the family will take but few hours of rest, as their needles will be busy during the night in preparing the young fellow’s wardrobe.”

“Thank you for the offer, Colonel, but I have made a rule, from which I never depart, always to sleep on board my ship,” answered the Captain. “I know not what may happen during the night, and I am thus in readiness for any emergency.”

Mr Willoughby was engaged in earnest conversation with Master Handscombe, the merchant, on matters which, it appeared, they were unwilling should reach the ears of the Colonel. They spoke of the Duke of Monmouth, Lord Shaftesbury, and many other persons. Master Handscombe appeared to be very anxious to ascertain the political opinions of the landowners and other gentlemen residing in that part of Dorsetshire and the neighbouring counties of Wilts and Devon. It might have been suspected that the cloth-merchant had other objects in view besides those connected with his mercantile pursuits.

In spite of the exertions made by the indefatigable Madame Pauline and her assistants during the evening, Roger’s wardrobe was not completed; indeed, darkness was approaching before Stephen Battiscombe returned with the bundle of clothing which he had generously devoted to the use of his friend. Captain Benbow had risen from the table, and having wished the Colonel and the rest of the party good-bye, was prepared to set out on his return to his ship. Stephen and Roger insisted on accompanying him, and he was glad of their society, as he confessed that he might have some difficulty in finding his way alone. His boat was waiting for him at the beach.

“You will come down with your traps as soon as possible after daylight, my lad,” he said, as he stepped on board, “and I will send a boat on shore for you.”

“No fear, sir, about my being punctual,” answered Roger, and his heart bounded as he thought that in a few hours more he should be on board the stout ship which rode at anchor out in the bay. He and Stephen stood on the beach watching the boat till she was lost to sight in the fast increasing gloom. Already, as they stood there, they observed that although the calm was as perfect as before, the water had begun to break with considerably more force than it had done since the morning. Smooth undulations came rolling in and burst with a dull splash on the sand, then rushed up in a sheet of snowy foam, which had scarcely disappeared before another took its place.

“I cannot quite make it out,” observed Stephen. “It seems to me that the sky is unusually dark away to the south and south-west; to say the truth, it looks to me as if there was a bank of dark clouds out there.”

“I do not see any bank. It is simply the coming gloom of evening which darkens the sky in that direction,” answered Roger. “I think you are mistaken; however, it is time that we should get back, as I have many things to do, and I don’t like to desert my poor father, as it will be the last evening I shall spend with him for many a day.”

Stephen acknowledging this, they hastened back to the manor-house.

Chapter Two.

Madam Pauline, aided by Alice and several active-fingered maidens, laboured without cessation for several hours till they had prepared Roger’s kit as far as circumstances would allow. The Colonel had retired to his chamber, and Mr Willoughby had seen Master Handscombe to one which had been prepared for him. Roger and Stephen had fallen asleep in spite of their intention of sitting up all night to be ready for the morning, when suddenly a strong blast, which found its way through the window, blew out two of the lamps at which the maidens had been working. Madam Pauline ordered them to run and shut it. Scarcely had this been done, when another blast, sweeping round the house, shook it almost to its foundation, setting all the windows and doors rattling and creaking. Even Stephen and Roger were at length awakened. The wind howled and whistled and shrieked among the surrounding trees, the thunder roared, the lightning flashed, the rain came down in torrents.

“Which way does the wind blow, think you?” asked Roger in an anxious tone.

“From the south-west, I fear,” answered Stephen. “And if so, Captain Benbow will have reason to wish that he had got a good offing from the shore before it came on.”

“Surely she’s a stout craft, and will stand a worse gale than this,” answered Roger.

“I do not know what you would call a worse gale than this,” said Stephen. “It makes the house rock, and I should not be surprised to find many an old elm torn up by the roots.”

“I wish that I had been on board to assist our brave friend and his crew,” said Roger.

“You may have reason to be thankful that you are safe on shore,” remarked Stephen. “Such a gale as this is sufficient to drive even a stouter ship than the Benbow frigate from her anchors; but we must wait patiently till the morning to ascertain the truth.”

“Why should that be?” exclaimed Roger. “I am not afraid of the wind, and can find my way if it were twice as dark as it is.—Come along.”

Stephen, however, who was not inclined to expose himself to the inclemency of the weather, proposed that they should wait till the morning.

“No, no,” said Roger, rising and putting on his clothes; “if we are to be of any use we should go at once.”

“Certainly, if such is the case,” said Stephen, also rising. “But I am afraid that we can render no assistance to the stout frigate if she is in peril.”

“Let us go and see about it, at all events,” said Roger, who had finished dressing.

They put on their thick overcoats; fortunately Stephen had left his some days before at the manor-house. They had hitherto awakened no one, and had just reached the side-door when they saw a light coming along the passage.

“Who goes there?” asked a voice, which they recognised as that of Mr Willoughby. “Whither are you going, lads, on such a night as this?” he inquired.

“We are greatly afraid that some misadventure may have befallen the Benbow frigate, and are going to see, father. You will not say us no, I hope?”

Mr Willoughby hesitated, but Roger pressed the point, and finally obtained leave, his father assisting them to close the door, to do which required no small amount of exertion. So great was the darkness, in spite of Roger’s knowledge of the road and the lantern he carried, the lads could not at times clearly see their way. The wind blew in their faces the branches waved to and fro, the tall trees bent, while ever and anon down came the rain in huge drops battering against them. Still they struggled on. Crossing the downs, they had still to make greater exertions, or further progress would have been impossible, but they were not to be daunted.

“We must take care that we do not go suddenly over the edge of the cliff,” said Stephen, who was always cautious. “Even with the light of the lantern it is difficult to distinguish it.”

“I shall see it clearly enough when we get there,” said Roger. “But I propose that we first visit Ben Rullock’s cottage, and get him and his boy to help us; he will know whereabouts the ship lies.”

“But you do not think we can go off to the ship in his boat?” remarked Stephen.

“No; my fear is that the ship may be driven in close to the shore, and that her crew may be unable to escape from her,” said Roger.

He, knowing the locality well, even in the darkness, managed to hit the path which led down to the old fisherman’s cottage; he and his companion, however, had to walk cautiously, for it was narrow and winding, and a false step might have sent them over the cliff.

On reaching the door they knocked loudly.

“Ben Rullock, turn out! turn out! there is a ship in danger!” shouted Roger. But the dashing of the breakers on the shore, and the howling of the wind, produced so wild an uproar that his voice was not heard. Again and again he and Stephen shouted and knocked louder and louder.

“Who’s there wanting me at this hour of the morning?” they at length heard a voice from within exclaim. Roger repeated what he had before said, and at length old Ben came to the door with a candle, which was immediately blown out.

“A ship in danger, young master!” he exclaimed. “I have not heard her guns firing, or other signal of distress, and my ears are pretty sharp, even when I am asleep.”

“We are anxious about the Benbow frigate, as we are afraid that she may have been driven on shore.”

“Her captain knows too well what he is about to allow her to do that,” answered old Ben. “He had not been aboard yesterday evening two minutes before he got under weigh, and must have gained a good offing before the gale came on.”

“I heartily hope that such may be the case,” observed Stephen.

“I am afraid that if he got under weigh he will not be coming back,” said Roger.

“We shall soon know,” observed Ben. “Dawn is just breaking, and it will be daylight ere long.—Come in, young gentlemen, and in the meantime, for you are wet through, I will rouse up young Toby, and we will have a fire lighted to dry your wet duds.”

The lads were glad enough to accept old Ben’s invitation, for though they had strained their eyes to the utmost no sign could they discover of the Benbow frigate, but they fancied that the darkness, which is generally the greatest an hour before dawn, had concealed her from their sight. Toby, who turned out on being called, quickly lighted a fire with the driftwood, of which there was generally an abundant supply on the beach, and they sat before it for some time drying their wet clothes, its bright light preventing them from seeing how rapidly the dawn was advancing. At length Roger starting up exclaimed, “Why, it is nearly broad daylight: we shall be well able to see the ship where she lay at anchor.”

“I doubt if you will see her there or anywhere else,” said old Ben, as he accompanied Roger and Stephen, who eagerly ran out of the cottage.

Though the rain had ceased, the gale was blowing as hard as ever, while the spray which rose from the breakers dashing on the shore beneath their feet filled the air as they reached a point where, by shading their eyes with their hands, they could obtain a view over the whole bay. They eagerly looked out, but nowhere was the Benbow frigate to be seen. Ben’s information was correct.

It was evident that Captain Benbow, on perceiving the approach of bad weather, had immediately got under weigh to gain a good offing. In vain the lads gazed along the whole line of the horizon extending from the Bill of Portland to the Start—not a sail was visible.

“Maybe she’s run in for shelter on the other side of Portland, or, still more likely, has stood on through the Needle passage to bring up inside the Isle of Wight,” observed Ben. “She will not be coming back here, you may depend on?”

As there was nothing more to be done, Roger, greatly disappointed, returned with Stephen to the manor-house. He was very glad to find that the ship had escaped, but he was afraid that it might be long before she would return, and his hopes of going to sea on board her would be realised.

The gale lasted scarcely the usual three days, when the weather became as fine as before, and Roger paid many a visit to the shore in the hopes of seeing the Benbow frigate coming once more to an anchorage. Though many ships passed by, they were bound up or down Channel, and none came near the land.

It was the first great disappointment Roger had ever had. Day after day went by, but still the Benbow frigate did not make her appearance. Sometimes he hoped that he should receive a letter from her captain, telling him to come to some port farther west; where he might go on board, but no letter was received. The thought occurred to him that the vessel had been wrecked or had gone down during that dreadful night, but old Ben assured him that she had got under weigh while the wind was sufficiently to westward to enable her to weather Portland Bill and its dreaded Race, and that she was well out at sea before the worst of it commenced.

“All a sailor wishes for is a stout ship and plenty of sea-room, you should know, Master Roger, and if he gets that he is content, as I have a notion Captain Benbow was on that night,” observed the old man.

Roger often looked at his chest of clothes, and at length he did up those Stephen had brought him, and took them back to Langton Park, but his friend begged him to keep them.

“You may want them still, I hope, and you will not refuse to oblige an old friend by accepting them,” he said.

Meantime Mr Handscombe accompanied Mr Willoughby to pay a visit to Squire Battiscombe at Langton Park; his object he did not explain.

“I have a notion that your worthy friend has some other object besides attending to his mercantile affairs in his visit to the west country,” observed the Colonel to his brother-in-law, who came back to the manor-house without his companion.

“If you do not insist on knowing, it were as well that I should not tell you,” answered Mr Willoughby. “All I can say is that he is much touched by the Duke of Monmouth, Lord Shaftesbury, and others, and that he is a true Protestant and right honest man. He is bound for Bristol, from which place he promises to write to me, though it may be some time before I shall hear from him.”

The Colonel was satisfied with this explanation; it did not occur to him that any evil consequences would arise from his receiving so respectable a personage as Mr Handscombe at his house.

Roger was expecting another visit from Stephen, and perhaps Mistress Alice might have been looking forward with some pleasure to his coming, when a note was received from him saying that by his father’s express desire he was about to accompany Mr Handscombe to Bristol; that before the note would reach Roger he should already have set out. He regretted not having had time to pay a farewell visit, and begged to send his kind regards to Madam Pauline and Mistress Alice, as also to the Colonel and Mr Willoughby. “Mr Handscombe,” he continued, “undertakes to place me in a situation of trust, and my father thinks that it would be folly to decline so fine an opportunity of forwarding my interests in life. I promise you, Roger, that should I hear of any situation which you can fill with advantage, I will not fail to let you know, and I hope that your father and the Colonel will approve of your accepting it; you know that I mean what I say, and therefore do not look upon it as a mere make-believe promise.”

This last paragraph somewhat consoled Roger for the regret he felt at the loss of his friend and companion.

“I am sure he will do his best,” said Mistress Alice, who was always ready to praise Stephen; she, indeed, thought there were but few people like him in the world.

“Yes, he is honest and truthful, two excellent qualities in a young man,” observed Madam Pauline.

“Yes, that he is, and I shall not find any one like him in this part of the country,” said Roger.

Stephen often said the same thing of his friend.

Roger Willoughby had now plenty of time to attend to his studies; he continued working away steadily with his book of navigation, as well as with the few other works which he possessed, his uncle and father helping him to the best of their ability, but neither of them had had much time in their youth for study. He obtained rather more assistance from Master Holden, who was very willing to impart such knowledge as he possessed, albeit not of a description which Roger especially prized.

Almost sooner than he expected, Roger received a note from Stephen Battiscombe, saying that his good fortune had been greater than he expected. He had got a situation in one of the principal mercantile houses in Bristol with which Mr Handscombe was connected, and that a post for which he considered Roger very well suited being vacant, he had applied and obtained it for him.

“Lose no time in setting out,” he wrote, “for after a few weeks’ training we are to sail on board one of the ships belonging to the firm for the Levant.”

Mr Willoughby and the Colonel were highly pleased with this. It seemed to open the way to Roger’s advancement, while he would be able to gratify his taste for the sea without being bound to it, as he would have been had he sailed with Captain Benbow. The question arose how he was to get to Bristol. The distance was considerable, upwards of sixty miles in a straight line, and much more when the turnings of the roads were calculated, which roads were in many places in a very bad condition. Roger himself, who was eager to set out, proposed performing the journey on a small horse or cob, with such luggage as could be carried in his valise and saddle-bags, while the remainder was to be sent by the stage-wagon from Lyme.

“But, my dear boy, you might be attacked by highwaymen, and robbed and murdered on the road,” said his father.

“I will try to beat off any highwaymen who may attack me, or gallop away from them,” answered Roger. “Besides, I doubt whether any gentlemen of the road would think it worth while to attack a boy like me; they generally fly at higher game. I have been talking to Tobias Platt, and he says that old Tony, though he has not done much work of late, will carry me well, and that if I do not push him too hard, I may do the journey in three days, or four at the most.”

Old Tony was a cob which Mr Willoughby had ridden several years, but was now allowed to spend most of his days in the meadows. As no better mode of conveyance could be suggested, it was arranged that Roger should set out in a couple of days with his valise and saddle-bags, with a brace of pistols and a sword for his protection, in the use of which he had been well instructed by the Colonel. Old Tony in the meantime was fed on oats to prepare him for the journey. Just as Roger was about to set out, the Colonel received an intimation that his neighbour, Mr Battiscombe, would proceed the following day in the same direction, and he accordingly rode over to Langton to ask whether he would allow Roger to travel in his company.

“With great pleasure,” he replied, “although, as I have several places to visit I may be longer about the journey than he would were he to go alone.”

This, however, was of little consequence compared to the advantage it would be to Roger to travel with a gentleman who would, of course, have several servants in attendance.

The morning arrived in which Roger Willoughby was to start from the home of his childhood to commence the active business of life. He was to sleep at Langton Park that he might start at daybreak the following morning with Mr Battiscombe.

The Colonel accompanied him part of the way.

“It is as well that you should make your appearance alone,” he observed. “It will show that you can take care of yourself, for your father and I have given you plenty of good advice, and all I have now to counsel you is to remember and follow it at the proper time. I have always found you to be honest and upright. Continue to be so. Fear God, and do your duty to man, and you will grow up all your father and I wish to see you. Now, fare thee well,” he added, pressing Roger’s hand. “If this proposed expedition to sea be carried out, you will witness strange sights and things of which you little dream at present, and you will come back, I hope, well able to amuse us two old men in our solitude with an account of your adventures.”

The Colonel turned his horse’s head, and Roger rode forward on his nag to Langton Hall. The squire received him in the kindest way possible.

“As I cannot take one of my sons, I am glad of your company, Roger, though it may delay your arrival at Bristol for some days,” he observed.

“I thought that the journey could be performed in three days,” said Roger.

“So it can under ordinary circumstances,” answered Mr Battiscombe, “but there may be interruptions, and we may have to tarry at the houses of friends; but I will talk to you more about that matter when we are on the road.”

Roger was always treated as a friend by the family at Langton Hall, who thought of him more as the son of Mr Willoughby, who agreed with them in politics and religion, than as the nephew of the Cavalier Colonel Tregellen, with whom they differed on many points.

At an early hour the following morning the whole family were astir to see the travellers start. Mr Battiscombe took with him a couple of stout serving-men, well mounted on strong horses. Farewells were uttered, and they set out. Leaving Axminster and Chard to the west, they proceeded northward along green lanes, the hedges on either side rich with flowers of varied tints. For some distance they met with few persons, for the labourers were out in the fields, and no travellers were journeying along those by-roads. The first day’s journey was but a short one, as Mr Battiscombe was unwilling to run the risk of knocking up his horses. As there was no inn on the road, they stopped at the house of a friend of his, holding the same religious and political opinions. As Roger took but little interest in the subjects they discussed over the decanters of beer which were placed on the table at supper, he was not sorry to be ordered off to bed.

“If we do not make more progress than we have done to-day, it will be a long time before we get to Bristol,” he thought. “Had I been by myself, I could have made my nag go twice as far. However, we shall see how much we can accomplish to-morrow.”

As on the previous day, they started at early dawn, that, as Mr Battiscombe said, “they might run no risk of having to travel by night.” They stopped at noon at a farm-house, with the owner of which Mr Battiscombe was well acquainted. The family were sitting down to dinner, and the travellers were warmly invited to enter and partake of the abundant though somewhat rough fare placed on the board. At one end of the table sat the sturdy farmer with his buxom wife and his sons and daughters; at the other were the farm-servants, with wooden bowls and platters before them, their knives the only implements they possessed to help themselves to food.

“We are about to make holiday this afternoon Mr Battiscombe,” said the farmer. “The great Duke of Monmouth, with a party of friends, has ridden down from London to pay us west country folks a visit, and is on his way to stop at White Lackington House, where Mr George Speke awaits to welcome him. The country people from all quarters are turning out to do him honour, and we wish to show the affection we all feel for the champion of the Protestant faith.”

“I had some intimation of this a few days ago, and so timed my journey to Bristol that I might be able to pay my respects to our brave Duke,” said Mr Battiscombe.

As soon as dinner was over the farmer and his sons mounted their horses, and the whole party rode forward at a more rapid rate than Mr Battiscombe and Roger had gone on the previous day. As they reached the high-road which was between Ilchester and Ilminster, they saw numbers of people, some on horseback, some on foot, hurrying up from all directions, both men and women, among them several parties of young maidens dressed in white, and carrying baskets of flowers, the men generally in their gayest costumes. Presently the cry arose, “The Duke is coming!” when the young women hurried on and strewed the road with herbs and flowers, and as the Duke appeared, incessant shouts arose, “God bless King Charles and the Protestant Duke!” No one could look on him without admiring his fine figure, his handsome features, and graceful manner, as he bowed with his plumed hat, now to one side, now to the other. It was truly an exciting scene. Banks lined with people in their gayest dresses, trees covered with boys who had climbed up to obtain a better view of the spectacle, banners with various devices waving everywhere, while the people bawled themselves hoarse with shouting their joyous welcomes. Mr Battiscombe was among those who rode forward to salute the Duke and then to fall into his train, which was rapidly increasing. At last two thousand appeared in one body from the direction of Ilminster, more and more continuing to pour in, till their numbers must have swelled to twenty thousand at least. Mr Battiscombe met several friends and acquaintances, with whom he held conversation, and all were unanimous in speaking of the affability and condescension of the Duke. Thus for several miles they rode on, their numbers increasing, till they reached the confines of White Lackington Park. Mr Speke, the owner, who had been prepared for the Duke’s coming, rode out with a body of retainers to welcome his Grace; and that there might be no impediment to the entrance of the multitude who had arrived, he forthwith ordered several perches of the park paling to be taken down. In front of the house stood a group of Spanish chestnut-trees, famed for their size and beauty; beneath them were placed tables abundantly spread with all varieties of refreshment, of which the Duke with his immediate attendants were invited to partake.

Mr Speke no sooner observed Mr Battiscombe than, beckoning to him, he introduced him to the Duke, with whom he had much conversation, while Roger was left by himself to watch the proceedings. The horsemen rode round and round that they might obtain a good view of the Duke, while those on foot pressed forward for the same purpose, and it was not without difficulty that they were prevented from approaching too near. No person, indeed, under royal rank had ever been received with the respect and honours now bestowed on the Duke. So well accustomed, however, was he to be thus treated, that he took everything as a matter of course; at the same time he expressed his gratitude to his noble entertainers for the honour they were doing him. He was leaning back talking to Mr Battiscombe, his hand hanging carelessly over the side of the chair, when from among the crowd a woman rushed forward, and eagerly seizing it, placed it on her head and face. The Duke, apparently much astonished, started up.

“Why did you do that, good woman?” he asked.

“That I might be cured of the king’s evil, for which I have in vain applied all the remedies the surgeons can prescribe,” she answered. “I have also travelled a score of miles that I might be touched by the seventh son of a seventh son, though all with no effect; but now I am assured that I shall recover.”

“I pray that you may, good woman,” said the Duke, “though I know not how far the power of curing resides in me. What is your name?”

“Elizabeth Parcet.”

“Here,” said the Duke, producing a coin from his pocket, “this may help to console you should my touch fail to produce the desired effect.” The woman on this immediately retired, telling all those present that she felt sure she should ere long recover.

The Duke slept that night at White Lackington House, to which Mr Speke invited Mr Battiscombe and Roger, who had thus a further opportunity of seeing the Duke. The next day the Duke set forth to visit Sir John Sydenham at Brampton House, where he was entertained with a splendid dinner. In the evening he went on to Barrington Court, the seat of Sir William Strode, who had prepared another sumptuous entertainment to do him honour. After dinner, attended by a multitude of people, he rode to Chard, at which town he was met and welcomed by a crowd of men, women, and children, all shouting their welcomes till their voices were hoarse. At night he slept at Ford Abbey, where he was treated to a very splendid supper by the owner, Mr Edmund Prideaux.

Mr Battiscombe would willingly have accompanied His Grace during the rest of his progress, but he was compelled to proceed on his journey. He, however, received due notice of the movements of the Duke, who visited many other gentlemen of rank and influence throughout Somersetshire and other parts in the west. He received, too, notice of the perfect cure of Elizabeth Parcet, the document being signed by Henry Clark, minister of Crewkerne, two captains, a clergyman, and four others, which was forwarded to him before he reached Bristol.

“This is wonderful!” he exclaimed as he showed it to Roger. “It proves one of two things, either that the Duke of Monmouth is the lawful son of Charles the Second, or that imagination must have had a powerful influence on the poor woman, for it is here stated that in two days she was perfectly well.”

“Is it not possible that there may not be a third solution to the mystery?” asked Roger, who was clear-sighted and somewhat matter-of-fact. “There being a good many people who desire to have it supposed that the Duke is the rightful heir to the throne of England, it is possible that the paper was a bold forgery, drawn up for the purpose of influencing the populace. Either the woman may have been hired to play her part, and was not really a martyr to the king’s evil, or she may not be cured. It might be worth while to inquire whether Mr Clark, the minister of Crewkerne, ever put his signature to the paper, or if such a person exists; such, I suspect, would be the opinion my uncle would have formed on the subject.”

“Thou art a thorough infidel, Roger!” exclaimed Mr Battiscombe in a half angry tone, though he confessed there was some probability in what Roger said.

Be that as it may, the document produced the effect intended on the minds of many of the ignorant, not only in the West of England but in London, where it was circulated, and the Duke and his supporters were not persons generally inclined to contradict what was calculated to forward their objects.

Instead of three or four days, more than a week had passed before Mr Battiscombe and Roger reached Bristol, where Stephen welcomed them at the lodgings he occupied, close to the mansion of the wealthy firm in whose service he was employed. Mr Handscombe was still there, though about to return to London. He was highly pleased at hearing of the reception the Duke had met with.

“He has been sowing the seeds which will, I hope, produce ample fruit in good time,” he observed. “While his present Majesty lives, though at heart more Papist than Protestant, it may be well for him to remain quiet; but should James Duke of York come to the throne, it will be time for all who love our Protestant principles to rally round the standard of Monmouth.”

Mr Battiscombe having soon transacted the business which had brought him to Bristol, took his departure to return south with Mr Handscombe.

Roger set to work with the zeal which was one of his characteristics to master the details of the work he had undertaken, and soon won the approval and confidence of his employers.

Bristol, though covering a much less extent of ground than at the present time, was then looked upon as a large city, but its beautiful churches were surrounded by a labyrinth of narrow lanes, through which a coach or cart could with difficulty pass along; goods were therefore conveyed about the town almost exclusively in trucks drawn by dogs. As even the chief merchants could not use carriages when they went abroad, they walked on foot, attended by servants in rich liveries. They were renowned also for their luxurious entertainments, when their guests were supplied with a beverage composed of the richest Spanish wines, known as “Bristol milk.” The merchants traded chiefly to the West Indies and the American plantations, as also to the coast of Africa and the Levant. It was in one of these princely firms that Stephen Battiscombe and Roger Willoughby were so fortunate as to find employment, and, thanks to the strong recommendation of Mr Handscombe, they were both placed in posts of trust.

Chapter Three.

Several months had passed away, during which Stephen Battiscombe and Roger Willoughby had performed their duties in the counting-house at Bristol much to the satisfaction of their employers. Roger had not abandoned his wish of going to sea, though he was too wise to give up his present situation till a good opportunity should offer. He had, while passing along the quay, observed a house with a large wooden quadrant over the door, and on inquiry he found that a certain master-mariner, Captain Trickett, who gave lessons in astronomy and navigation, resided there. He made bold to enter, and explaining his wish to master the subjects the captain taught, soon entered into an arrangement to attend three evenings a week.

“I promise you, lad, before the winter is over, to turn you out as good a navigator as Sir Francis Drake, Master John Hawkins, or any other sea-captain you may be pleased to name,” said the old captain. “Give your mind to it, that is the first requisite; it is of little use for an instructor to put information in one ear which pops out at the other as soon as it is received.”

Captain Trickett was an enthusiast in his art, had been pilot in his youth to several expeditions which had gone forth from England to explore foreign regions, and had many strange accounts to give of the buccaneers and logwood cutters in the Caribbean Sea, where he himself had spent some time. Roger made considerable progress in his studies, and at length persuaded Stephen Battiscombe to accompany him.

“It would not be lost time if you also were to take some lessons and were to try to master the subject; it is very interesting, and perchance some day, if you have to sail on business to foreign lands, you may find the knowledge you acquire of use,” said Roger. “Captain Trickett tells me that he has known instances where the officers of a ship have died, and no one on board remained capable of taking her into port.”

Thus instigated, Stephen, who had a very good head for mathematics, readily attended the instruction of Captain Trickett, and following the Captain’s advice by giving his mind to the subject, soon acquired as much knowledge as Roger himself. On holidays, when the sun was up in the sky, the Captain delighted to accompany his pupils to some open space, where, with the aid of a false horizon, he could teach them practically how to take an observation or to “shoot the sun,” as he called it. The mode in which the two lads were employing themselves came to the ears of the principals of the firm, who much approved of their diligence and industry.

“Would that we had others like you!” said Mr Kempson. “Our difficulty is to find men who combine knowledge of business with that of seamanship and navigation. After a few voyages, if Captain Trickett does not speak of you in too laudatory terms, you will be able to take charge of a ship to sail either to the West Indies or to the North American plantations, or to the coast of Africa, or to the Levant. We will take care, in the meantime, that you have opportunities of exercising your skill.”

Roger and Stephen thanked the worthy merchant for the approval he had bestowed on them, and promised to continue as diligent as heretofore.

Roger often went down to the river to inquire what vessels had arrived, in the hopes of meeting with Captain Benbow, who he felt sure would receive him on board his ship, but the Benbow frigate did not make her appearance. He heard, however, that she had been met with bound for the Thames, so that he had the satisfaction of knowing that she had escaped the gale which caught her off the Dorsetshire coast. He was told, indeed, that she always traded between London and foreign ports, and that there was very little probability of her putting into Bristol, unless she should obtain a cargo from any merchants connected with that port, which was not likely, as they always reserved their freights for Bristol vessels.

“I must hope for some other chance of meeting him,” said Roger to Stephen as they were walking home. “I do not think he can have forgotten me, and he appeared to be a man who, having made a promise, would certainly keep to it, so that if I could fall in with his ship I should not hesitate to go on board and ask him to take me.”

“You are very well off where you are,” remarked Stephen, “and I would advise you to stick to the desk till you have gained a thorough knowledge of mercantile affairs. You may then have an opportunity of turning them to good account, whereas at present you scarcely know enough to be of much use to you.”

Roger could not but acknowledge that this was the case, and he wisely determined to quell his impatience and to go on as he had begun.

They both occasionally received letters from home, which seldom, however, contained much matter of interest except to themselves. More frequently news came from London of important public matters. They heard of the Rye-house Plot, of the fall of Shaftesbury and of his escape to Holland, the execution of Russell and Sydney, the death of Essex by his own hand in the Tower, to escape the fate awaiting him. Roger took but little interest in politics; Stephen, on the contrary, was always eager to read the News-Letter when it arrived from the capital. He mourned over the banishment of the Duke of Monmouth, who, after the discovery of the Rye-house Plot, though forgiven by the King, thought it prudent to retire to Holland; and he was indignant at hearing of the way the Duke of York was ruling Scotland, of the odious laws he had passed, and of the barbarous punishments he caused to be inflicted, often himself being present when prisoners were subjected to torture. It was said that he watched the agony of the sufferers as if it afforded him intense satisfaction.

“His tyrannical proceedings show clearly how he intends to govern England. Should he succeed to the throne of England, he must never be allowed to mount it,” exclaimed Stephen. “He will not be content till he has crushed out our civil and religious liberties, which the best blood of our country has been shed to obtain. Would that when the gallant Duke of Monmouth came to the west, the thousands who greeted him had banded together and marched to London to insist on the exclusion of the Duke of York and the nomination of Monmouth as heir to his father.”

“Such a proceeding could scarcely have succeeded without bloodshed,” observed Roger.

“Better to have shed a few streamlets then than the rivers which may have to flow should the tyrant gain the throne,” answered Stephen.

The opinions of Stephen Battiscombe were held by a good many others, although, like wise men, when they could not benefit the cause they did not utter them in public. Bristol having had fighting enough in former years, they did not again wish to see war brought to her gates. Stephen might at present safely entertain his opinions, but there seemed no chance just then of his having an opportunity of practically acting on them.

The summer had commenced, when one morning Mr Kempson sent for Stephen.

“You know, Battiscombe, that we have a new vessel, the Dolphin, fitting out in the river, and judging from the intelligence you have shown and your aptitude for business that you will be well suited for the office, we propose sending you out as supercargo, and as young Roger Willoughby has given us satisfaction, we think of letting him go as cabin-boy that he may assist you. Are you willing to undertake the office?”

“With all my heart,” answered Stephen; “and I can answer for Willoughby, who will, I know, be delighted, for he has long wished to go to sea.”

“We will consider that matter settled, then,” said Mr Kempson. “Here is a list of the cargo we intend shipping, and you and Willoughby will go on board to-morrow morning, and note each case and bale as it is lowered into the hold. You will also be supplied with samples of all the goods, so that you will be well acquainted with the articles under your charge. I will give you further directions by and by. In the meantime you can see about young Willoughby’s outfit and your own, and tell Mr Tape the tailor to send in the account to us.”

Stephen was highly pleased with the complimentary way the senior partner spoke to him, and he was about to leave the room eager to tell Roger the good news, when a strongly-built black-bearded man entered.

“Stay, Battiscombe,” said the senior partner; “I will take this opportunity of introducing you to Captain Roberts, who commands the Dolphin, as you will be shipmates for some months, or longer.”

“Happy to make the young gentleman’s acquaintance,” said the Captain, putting out his hand and giving Stephen a grip which nearly wrung his fingers off; “hope we shall get on well together. I came up here, Mr Kempson, to say that the ship is ready to take in cargo as soon as you are ready to ship it.”

“We may say to-morrow, then, and Mr Battiscombe, with young Willoughby to assist him, will go on board and take charge of the cargo.”

As the Captain had some further business to transact with Mr Kempson, Stephen took his leave, and hurried out to tell Roger, who was just leaving the counting-house for the day.

“What, are we really to be off soon!” exclaimed the latter. “I can scarcely believe the good news you tell me. I little thought when I got off my high stool, that it was the last time I was to mount it, for I suppose that the Dolphin will sail as soon as the cargo is received on board.”

“Little doubt about that,” said Stephen. “The sooner we see to getting our outfits the better.”

“I have brought a good store of things from home,” said Roger.

“You have outgrown a good lot of them, I should think,” remarked Stephen; “and we will at once pay a visit to Mr Tape, who will know more or less what you require.”

“But how are they to be paid for?” asked Roger.

“Mr Kempson will settle that,” said Stephen.

“He is very kind and generous, and I am grateful to him,” said Roger.

They at once carried out their intentions.

The following morning by daybreak they went on board the Dolphin. As none of the cargo had arrived, they had time to look over the ship, and to take a glance round the cabin which was to be their home for some months to come. It was fitted up with several berths, besides a state cabin intended for the Captain’s use. There were arms of various sorts, such as musketoons, pistols, pikes, and hangers, fixed against the after-bulkhead, and there was a table in the centre, surrounded by strong wooden chairs. There was not much in the way of ornament, everything seemed intended for use.

While they were there the Captain, who had come on board, entered the cabin. “Glad to see you so soon, young gentlemen,” he observed; “it is the early bird that gets the worm,” as they say. “I thought that we should very likely have to wait for you, but now when the cargo comes down we may begin stowing away at once.”

In a short time a number of trucks arrived on the wharf, bringing bales and packages, which the crew began hoisting on board with the help of a crane and whips. The process was a somewhat long one compared to the rapid way in which vessels are laden at the present day. Stephen and Roger had plenty of time to note each bale, package, and cask before it was lowered into the hold, it being Roger’s business to see where each was stowed, so that they might be got at when required. They worked on diligently, knocking off only for a short time to dine, so that in the afternoon, when Mr Kempson came down, they had made good progress. He commended them accordingly. Roger, as he looked at the pile of goods, wondered how room could be found for them on board, yet after all the cases had been stowed away in the capacious hold, there was plenty of room left for more. In three days, however, the cargo was complete, the hatches were put on and fastened down, and Captain Roberts announced that he was ready for sea. Stephen and Roger had but little time to get their things, to run round and bid their friends farewell; their last visit was to Captain Trickett.

“Farewell, my boys, and a prosperous voyage to you!” he said, as he shook their hands warmly. “You may meet with adventures, some not as pleasant as you would desire, but stick to your duty, never say die, and hope for the best.”

That evening the Dolphin began to drop down the river with the tide. She was a fine vessel, not so large, Roger thought, as the Benbow frigate, but she had three masts, with a long mizzen-yard, on which a triangular sail was set. She was deep-waisted, with a high poop, and topgallant forecastle, from beneath each of which two guns were so placed that should boarders gain the deck, they would be quickly shot down. She had, besides, eight guns pointing out at the sides, and was able to defend herself against any ordinary enemies; indeed, in those days when pirates and buccaneers abounded, it was necessary for merchant vessels which had rich freights to guard to be well-armed, especially when they sailed alone, without convoy of a man-of-war. As the wind was from the northward, as soon as they got clear of the Severn all sail was hoisted, and they stood down the British Channel, and Roger walked the deck with no little satisfaction at finding himself at length on board ship. The following day they were out of sight of land. When Roger saw the Captain and his mates bring up their quadrants on deck just before noon to make an observation, he brought up his, and began in a methodical way to make preparations for taking one also.

“What, youngster, have you been at sea before?” asked the Captain.

“No, sir, but I have studied navigation, and I want to put my knowledge into practice.”

“Well, now is the time; let us see how you do it.”

Roger “shot the sun” in very good style; not only did that, but rapidly worked out the calculation on a small piece of paper, and it exactly agreed with that taken by the Captain, who looked well pleased, but it differed from that of one of the mates, who had made a mistake.

“You will do, my boy,” said Captain Roberts. “I will try you with other observations by and by. Where did you get your knowledge?” Roger told him. “What, from old Trickett? No wonder you are correct; there is not a better navigator in Bristol.”

Next day Stephen brought out his quadrant and did justice to his instructor, he also receiving a due amount of praise from the Captain. The mates looked rather jealous at the two youngsters, who had never before been to sea, who took observations as well as they could. Before the Dolphin had got half-way across the Bay of Biscay it fell calm, and she lay laving her sides in the smooth water, as the swell, which is seldom wanting there, passed under her keel. For many hours she did not move her position; the big mizzen, which had been flapping with reports like thunder, was furled; the other sails were brailed up. Roger, who was always of a social disposition, took the opportunity of having a talk with some of the crew. Among them was a black, who, although still very young, being scarcely more than a boy, had met with many strange adventures,—among others, he had been made prisoner by the Moors. He could talk Arabic, he said, as well as English, which was not, by the by, very correctly. He was called Jack Jumbo on board, but he preferred being called Felix, a name, he told Roger, some gentlemen had given him because he was always a merry fellow. He hinted that he had been a prince in his own country, but he had been carried away at an early age; he did not know much about it. Roger took a great liking to him, for from his intelligence and good disposition he was a better companion than the rough seamen who formed the crew of the Dolphin. The only other person who need be named was Sam Stokes, an old sailor who had fought under Blake and Admiral Penn, had made half a dozen voyages to Virginia and the West India Islands, besides to many others in different parts of the world. He was rough enough to look at, being the colour of mahogany, his countenance wrinkled and furrowed by strong winds and hot suns. He was quiet in his manners, seemed kind-hearted, with plenty of sense under his bald head and its fringe of grizzled hair. He was an excellent seaman, and took a pleasure in instructing Roger, who always went to him when he wanted information. He would tell him not only how to do a thing, but the why and the wherefore each thing was done, so that Roger made rapid progress under his tuition. Of the mates and boatswain little need be said; they were tolerable seamen, but the first two were but poor navigators, and the boatswain could not take an observation or work a day’s work, being unable to read or write, though he was the best seaman of the three. The crew were rough-and-ready fellows, were tolerably obedient when they were well treated and liquor was kept out of their way; but if anything was done to displease them, they were ready to grumble and try to right themselves after their own fashion. The two mates and the boatswain, who constituted the officers of the ship, were somewhat jealous of Stephen and Roger, whom they considered unduly favoured by the owners. Neither of them, however, took any notice of this. Roger’s great object had been from the first to master all the details of seamanship. From morning till night he was at work getting the seamen to show him how to knot and splice, to steer and reef; whenever sail was to be made or taken in he was always on the yard, and as active as any one, so that he soon gained the respect of the seamen. It was a great advantage to him and Stephen to have fine weather for so long a period, though they made but slow progress on their voyage, but it enabled them to gain experience far more easily than they would have done had the sea been rough and the ship tumbling about. Owing to light and contrary winds, five weeks had passed before the Dolphin got into the latitude of the Straits, nearly a hundred miles to the westward of them.

“When, Captain Roberts, think you, shall we be into the Mediterranean?” asked Stephen, who had been examining the chart.

“That must depend on the way the wind blows,” answered the Captain. “It has been out of temper with us for a precious long time, and I cannot say when it is likely to get into a better humour.”

The Captain was right not to be too sanguine; before an hour had passed the wind shifted to the east-north-east. The Dolphin, close-hauled under larboard tack, stood towards the African coast.

“What about Algerine corsairs, the Sallee rovers?” asked Roger.

“If we fall in with any of the gentry, as our business is to trade not to fight, we must run if we can; but if they come up with us, we must show what British pluck can do, and beat them off,” said the Captain.

“As little honour is to be gained, we may hope not to encounter any of the gentlemen,” said Stephen.

The Dolphin had been standing on to the south-east, a course which would take her some way to the southward of the Straits. Captain Roberts said he hoped that a tack or two would enable him to fetch the Straits, and once through them, that they should get a fair wind up the Mediterranean. Evening was approaching when the look-out from aloft shouted, “A sail on the weather-bow.”

“What does she look like?” asked the Captain.

“She’s a large craft, standing to the south-west, under all sail.”

The stranger’s course would bring her directly down upon the Dolphin. Captain Roberts was provided with a telescope, an instrument not long introduced at sea, which many merchant vessels did not possess. Taking it with him, for he was not willing to intrust to the hands of any one else, he went aloft, steadying it against the mast; while he stood in the maintop, he took a long gaze at the stranger. Returning on deck, he immediately ordered the ship to be kept away, so as to bring her before the wind. All sail which she could possibly carry was set, some hanging down from the yards, rigged across the bowsprit to the very water, while stud-sails were rigged out on the foremast, and the sheet of the huge mizzen was eased off, and the sail bulged out with the freshening breeze.

“What do you think of the stranger, sir?” asked Stephen of the Captain.

“I deem her to be an Algerine, one of those piratical craft we were but just now speaking of. She’s a large ship, more than twice our size, and probably carries heavy guns, and four or five times as many men as we do; we might beat her off, and if she comes up to us, that is what we must try to do, but it will be wiser to keep ahead of her. We shall soon see which is the fastest craft, and what chance we have of running out of her sight. We have the advantage of night coming on, and during the darkness we must alter our course so as to give her the slip.” All hands were on deck at their stations, ready to shorten sail should it be necessary. Many an eye was turned towards the stranger to ascertain if she was getting nearer.

“What do you think about it, Sam?” asked Roger of the old sailor.

“Yonder craft is light, and we are heavily laden, though I will allow that the Dolphin slips along at a good rate; but there is no doubt that she is gaining on us, though a stern chase is a long one. We may keep ahead of her for some hours to come, always provided we do not carry anything away.”

“But if she does come up with us, what shall we have to do?” asked Roger.

“Beat her off, of course, though we have only eight guns, and may be she carries twenty or more; we must work ours twice as fast as she does hers. I know those Algerine cut-throats of yore; and if they are met bravely, they quickly show the white feather. It is only when the Christians cry out ‘Peccavi!’ and seem inclined to give in, that they become wonderfully brave, and shout and shriek and wave their scimitars. I was with the brave Captain Harman, aboard the twenty-six-gun ship Guernsey, with a crew of a hundred and ten men all told, when we fell in up the Straits with an Algerine man-of-war, carrying fifty guns and five hundred men, called the White Horse. She stood down upon us, under all sail, having the weather-gauge, and as soon as she got within gunshot began blazing away. Several times she attempted to board, but we drove back her cut-throat crew, though the rest of her people were blazing away at us with musketry from her poop and forecastle. I believe we should have taken her, but our captain received three musket balls in his body, and was nearly knocked over by a gunshot; still he would not go below, and remained on deck till he sank from loss of blood. Our first lieutenant then took the command, and we continued engaging for another hour or more, till we had lost nine killed and three times as many wounded, for no one ever thought of giving in—that meant having our throats cut or being carried off into slavery; but at last the Algerine hauled off. Our rigging was too much cut about to allow us to follow, so she got away with the loss of not far short of a third of her crew, I suspect, from the number we saw hove overboard. Our brave captain died three days afterwards from the effects of his wounds, and the first lieutenant was promoted, as he deserved to be. Now, it is my belief that if we do not capture yonder craft, should she attack us, we may beat her off just as we did the White Horse.”

Old Sam told this story in a loud voice, so that his shipmates might hear and be encouraged to resist to the last.

Captain Roberts walked the poop, every now and then taking a glance at the stranger through his telescope. Stephen and Roger joined him there. He looked calm and determined.

“If I can, I intend to avoid fighting,” he said; “but if we are attacked, I know I can rely on you two, as I have seen what stuff you are made of. You will do your best to keep the crew at their guns; and should anything happen to me, you will fight the ship as long as there is a shot in the locker or a charge of powder remains. I wish I had more confidence in my mates; but I am afraid that they have not the hearts of chickens, though they are good seamen, for I have been trying to make them understand that it is safer to fight than to yield, for if we give in, one and all of us will be knocked on the head or carried into slavery, so that it will be far better to let the ship sink under us than to strike our colours.”

Stephen and Roger fully agreed with the Captain, and promised to do their best to keep their men at the guns. At length the sun went down, his last rays shining on the lofty canvas of the stranger, now about two miles astern; still the Dolphin might keep ahead. Darkness came on, but with the darkness the chance of escaping increased. At length the dim outline of their pursuer alone could be seen against the sky. Those on board the Dolphin well knew that while she was visible to them, they must also be seen by her, and that it would be useless to attempt altering their course. They therefore kept on as before. The Captain kept his eye upon her, hoping that some change of the atmosphere might occur to hide her from sight, but that dark phantom-like form grew more and more distinct.

“My lads,” cried the Captain, “before another half-hour has passed she will be up with us. Have your matches ready, and fire as soon as I give the word; do not wait for further orders, but load as fast as you can, and blaze away at her hull. The Moors, if I mistake not, will soon have had enough of it; they are not fond of attacking vessels when they meet with opposition.”

Roger felt his heart beat quick when shortly after this he saw the ship’s white-spread sails, towering towards the sky, come ranging up on their quarter.

“Down with the helm,” cried the Captain. “Now, lads, fire!” The Dolphin sent a raking broadside aboard the Algerine, and the helm being immediately put up again, she stood on her former course. Shrieks and cries and groans came from the deck of the enemy, followed immediately by a broadside intended to rake the Dolphin. Though several shot came on board, no one was hurt. Captain Roberts knew, however, that he could not expect to execute the same manoeuvre with the like success. In a short time the Algerine was close abreast of her. All the Dolphin’s guns had been run over to the same side, and were now fired as rapidly as the crew could load and run them out. The enemy, however, were not idle, and their shot came crashing aboard; first one man was shot down, then another, still the British crew cheered, and kept blazing away. This sort of work had been going on for some time, when the Captain shouted, “Look out, lads! Boarders; repel boarders!” And the Algerine was seen ranging up so as to fall alongside, her rigging crowded with figures, arms and weapons waving, showing their eagerness for the fight. In another minute there came a loud crash, and a number of her crew, led by their captain. Most of them were cut down, others driven overboard, or back into their ship, the grappling-irons were cast loose, while the Dolphin rushed forward on her former course. Still her after-guns were plied vigorously, though the enemy, again ranging up abreast, fired her broadsides in return. As far as Roger could perceive, the mates behaved well, assisting the men to work the guns. The Captain continued to cheer them on, and presently Roger, who was standing not far off, blazing away with his musket, saw him stagger, hurried to his assistance barely in time to save him before he fell on the deck.

“Are you hurt, sir?” he asked.

“I am afraid somewhat badly. Do not let the men know it. Help me to the bulwarks, where I can hold on.”

He called Stephen, who was also loading and firing as fast as he could, to come and help him. The Captain continued, wounded as he was, to cheer on the men. Several more broadsides were exchanged, the bullets all the time flying about like hail, when the pirate’s bows were seen to be turning from them. Presently she hauled her wind, and stood away to the southward. The British crew on this raised a hearty cheer as they sent a few last shot flying after her. Scarcely had the shout died away than the brave Captain sank down on the deck.

“We must carry him below and see to his wounds,” said Stephen, and Roger called Sam Stokes and another man to their assistance.

“Tell the mate to stand on till he loses sight of the pirate, and then haul to the northward,” whispered the Captain in a faint voice. He could say no more. As soon as he was placed in his berth, Stephen and Roger did their best to doctor him, but they were unaccustomed to surgical operations.

“Let me see what I can do,” said Sam. “I have had half-a-dozen bullets in my body during my time, and seen hundreds of men wounded, so I ought to have a little notion.” So he set to work in a methodical way to discover what had become of the bullet which had entered the Captain’s side. He managed to find it, and, what was of great consequence, the cloth which had been carried in at the same time, and got them out, then stopped the blood and bound up the wound.

“Cannot say how he will do, but I have done my best, and can do no more,” observed old Sam as he left the cabin to look after some of his wounded messmates.

Three men had been killed and five wounded out of the crew, which greatly reduced their strength. The first mate, who now took command, hauled up to the northward, as the Captain had directed him. As the Dolphin had been running for so many hours out of her course, she was considerably to the southward of the Straits, though the mate asserted that they would be able to fetch the entrance of the Straits if the wind held the following day. Nothing more was seen of the Algerine during the night, and hopes were entertained that she would not again attempt to molest them. The Captain, notwithstanding that the bullet had been extracted, continued in a very weak state, and almost unconscious. Stephen and Roger, not trusting to the mate’s navigation, got out the chart, marked down the course they had run to the best of their knowledge, and the next morning took an observation, which placed the Dolphin considerably to the southward. Whereon the mate asserted that she was much nearer the coast, in fact she had been sailing almost parallel with it for a considerable distance, and soon after noon he put the ship about and steered due east.

“I think, sir, that to sight the rock of Gibraltar we should be steering north-east,” observed Stephen, pointing to the chart.

“Ho, ho, young man, you fancy that you understand navigation better than I do,” said the mate. “Just keep your remarks to yourself till I request you to make them.”

Stephen could say no more, but he and Roger agreed, when the first mate went below, they would try to get the second to alter the ship’s course. The first mate seemed to suspect their intentions, for he remained on deck, and when the wind drew more from the east which it did shortly after noon, kept the ship away to the south-east.

“The fellow will be running us on shore, or we shall be falling in with some Sallee rovers, for we cannot be far off their coast by this time,” said Stephen. “I think we had better have a talk with Sam Stokes, and hear his opinion.”

Sam, although no navigator, was perfectly inclined to agree with them.

“If the Captain was himself, we might get orders to put you under arrest, for it might be a serious affair if we did so and fell in with a man-of-war; we should be accused of mutiny and intending to turn pirates,” observed Sam.

Roger, however, was strongly of opinion that they ought to make the mate again tack to the northward. They again spoke to him on the subject, and warned him of the danger he was running. He laughed scornfully, and again told them to mind their own business, asserting that they had nothing whatever to do with the navigation of the ship. On this they applied to the second mate and boatswain, and did their best to alarm them. They were still speaking on the subject, and had some hope of success, when the first mate came up and inquired what they were talking about.

“This is mutiny, downright mutiny!” he exclaimed, and without more ado he ordered the second mate and boatswain to lash their arms behind them and carry them into the cabin.

“I do not wish to be hard with you, but I will not have my authority disputed, and you youngsters will remain there till I can prove to you that I am right and you are wrong.”

Though they protested loudly at this treatment, the mate would not listen to them; they had therefore to submit. In the evening Jumbo brought supper to them, but he said that he was ordered not to hold any conversation, but to come away again as soon as he had placed the supper before them.

“But how is the ship going; what course is she steering?” asked Stephen.

“Bery well as far as me make out,” answered Jumbo. “Sometimes steer east-south-east, sometimes south-east.”

“Well, tell the men that that course will carry us on shore before daylight to-morrow morning,” said Stephen.

“Me tink dey break dis nigger’s head if he stop talking,” said Jumbo, hurrying away in a great fright.

As their arms had been released, as soon as they had had their supper, being pretty well tired with the exertions which they had made the previous night, they lay down, and in spite of the danger they considered the ship was in.

After some time Roger woke, and going to the door of the cabin, found to his surprise that Jumbo had not locked it. Anxious to know how the ship was steering, he went up on deck, hoping not to be perceived by either of the mates. Getting a glimpse at the compass, he found that the ship was still steering south-east, and that the wind had become very light; the boatswain had charge of the deck. He knew by examining the sailing directions that strong currents set in towards the coast thereabouts, and should the wind shift to the westward, he even fancied, as he looked over the bulwarks, that he could see the distant land. He accordingly went back to Stephen, and rousing him up, asked him to come on deck. Stephen immediately hurried up with him.

“If the wind shifts to the westward, it will not be long before we are on the shore,” said Stephen boldly to the boatswain.

“Who told you?” asked the boatswain in a somewhat anxious tone.

“My own sense,” answered Stephen.

Scarcely had he spoken than the wind, which had dropped almost to a calm, shifted suddenly to the westward, and began to blow with considerable force.

“All hands shorten sail,” shouted the boatswain, and the crew came tumbling up from below. The mates turned out of their berths, and the first mate looked with much astonishment at the state of affairs. The mate now saw that the ship’s head must be put to the northward, and under diminished canvas he endeavoured to haul off shore. The wind blew harder and harder. Not half-an-hour had elapsed when a loud grating sound was heard.

“Down with the helm!” shouted the mate. It was too late; the ship would not come about, but drove on till she stuck hard and fast with her broadside to the sea. Stephen and Roger hurried into the cabin to secure some important papers, also to see what could be done for the poor Captain, should the ship go to pieces. They had fancied him unconscious, but he had been aroused by the sound of the ship striking, the meaning of which he knew too well.

“Battiscombe,” he said, “help me on deck. I know what has happened, and that mate of mine has been the cause of it. I must see what can be done.”

Though he was very weak they did as he directed them. His appearance tended to restore order.

“Men,” he said, in as loud a voice as he could speak, “your lives depend upon obeying my directions. Battiscombe, you and Willoughby lower a boat, and carry a line ashore with you. Take Stokes and Jumbo with you. The rest of us must remain and try to get the ship afloat.”

They did as he told them. The boat being lowered, they carried a long rope so as to form a communication with the shore, that should the worst come, those who remained on board might have a chance of gaining it. They had got within fifty fathoms, when a roller came in and capsized the boat, and sent them all struggling into the water. Stephen, who was a good swimmer, struck out, calling to Roger and the rest to follow him, and in a few seconds his feet touched the sand. He scrambled out, but on looking round, what was his horror not to discover Roger! He saw Sam Stokes and Jumbo strike out for the land. He gazed for a moment towards where the boat had been capsized, when he saw a head and arms rise amid the surf. Darting forward, he breasted the waves, and soon caught hold of the person he had seen. It was Roger, who, on being hauled on shore, quickly came to himself. Together they managed to rescue the seamen, but the boat was knocked to pieces, and the end of the rope lost. They could now neither return nor help those on board to reach the shore. The wind was increasing, clouds covered the sky, and they lost sight of the vessel in the thick spray and darkness. Roger proposed lighting a fire as a signal to those on board, but no driftwood could be discovered, and the fierce gale would soon have scattered the ashes had they made the attempt. They shouted at the top of their voices.

“It is no use in exhausting your strength,” observed old Sam. “In the teeth of this hurricane our voices cannot travel half the distance to the wreck.”

Finding at length that they could do nothing on the beach, they sought for shelter under the lee of a sandhill, where, being exhausted by their exertions, they soon fell asleep.

Chapter Four.

When they awoke the next morning and looked out, not a vestige of the vessel could they see, but the beach was strewn with the wreck, while here and there lay the dead bodies of their shipmates.

“Sad fate, poor fellows!” said Stephen. “We should be thankful to Heaven for being preserved, to Captain Roberts for sending us on shore; but, alack, what will become of the cargo? It will be a heavy loss to Kempson and Company, and we might try to collect whatever is driven on shore.”

“I am afraid if we did that the natives would soon come down and deprive us of our property. If we can find some food among the things cast on shore it will be more to the purpose.”

They searched about, and at length, to their infinite satisfaction, discovered a cask of pork and a case containing bottles of wine.

“We are in luck,” said Sam. “And I have a notion that the savages of these parts will not drink the wine or eat the pork, so that we may have a chance of its being left to us.”

They broke open the cask of pork. Having no means of cooking it, they were obliged to eat it raw, while the wine did little towards quenching their thirst.

“I would give much for water,” said Stephen, “though not a drop do I see anywhere.”

“There may be some, notwithstanding,” observed Roger. “Many springs exist in the interior which lose themselves in the sand. We must push inland in search of one, and carry as much food as we can on our backs, while we hide the rest, with the wine, in the sand.”

Acting on this suggestion, the party provided themselves with broken spars to support their steps and serve as weapons of defence. Before starting they climbed to the top of a sandhill to take a look-out, but no vessel was in sight. The foam-covered sea came rolling in and dashed sullenly on the beach.

“While the gale lasts no vessel will willingly approach near the shore,” observed Stephen. “Water we want, and water we must have, or we shall perish.”

They accordingly set out, and all that day pushed on eastward, and the next, and the next. Their salt pork had turned bad, and the wine was nearly exhausted, and they were well-nigh starving. At last, getting to the top of a sandhill to look out, Roger fancied he saw some green trees in the distance.

“There may be an oasis out there,” he said; “we must try to gain it.”

In spite of the hot sun beating down on their heads they went on. Still the oasis, if such it was, appeared as far off as ever. Roger, whose strength, though he was the youngest, held out, did his best to cheer them on. At last old Sam declared that he could go no farther, and sank down, begging the others to bring him water if they could find it. In vain they tried to persuade him to move along, and they supported him for some distance till they came to another sandhill, where they placed him under some bushes which might afford some slight protection. Having no fire-arms they could only leave him a pointed stick with which to defend himself. They now hurried on, eager to obtain water not only for themselves, but that they might rescue their shipmate from death. They were almost sinking when their eyes were cheered by a grove of trees, though still far off. Roger acknowledged that they could not have been visible from where he had supposed he had seen them.

“They are date-trees!” he exclaimed. “They will afford us food, and water we may hope to find under them.”

As they reached the oasis their eyes were gladdened by the sight of a small pool formed by a spring bubbling out of the earth. Falling on their knees they eagerly baled the water into their mouths with their hands. Thus revived, Jumbo was able to climb one of the trees and obtain as many bunches of dates as they wanted. They now thought of their old shipmate, but when the sun went down the sky became overcast, and to find him in the dark seemed impossible.

“We cannot let him die,” said Roger. “I am ready to run the risk.”

“And I will go with you,” said Stephen.

“I go too,” said Jumbo.

And much as they would have enjoyed the rest under the trees, they started without delay. Roger thought he knew the direction to take, and in the cool air of night travelling was easier than in the daytime. They did not trouble their heads about lions, or leopards, or beasts of prey; though ready to sink with fatigue, they went on till they fancied that they had reached the spot where they had left old Sam. They shouted his name, but no answer came. They searched about, keeping within hail of each other. At length Jumbo cried out, “Here he is, and he no speak.” They hurried up, but poor Sam was apparently at the last gasp. Having poured some water, however, down his throat, he somewhat revived.

“Thought you would never come back, mates,” he said; “but give me some more water and I will soon be myself again.” After a second draught of water Sam was able to eat a few dates, and now declared that he was ready, if they wished it, to go with them to the oasis; but Stephen and Roger were both too tired to walk so far, and throwing themselves down under the shelter of the bushes they fell asleep. The sun had already risen high when Roger awoke, and on going to the top of the sandhill to look out for the oasis, he saw between it and where he stood a number of objects. He called Stephen, who joined him.

“There are two parties on camels and horses, it seems to me,” said Stephen, “one flying from the other.”

Descending the sandhill they concealed themselves behind it lest they should be discovered; but Roger, unable to restrain his curiosity, crept on one side whence he could see what was taking place. The fugitives had turned round to meet their pursuers; a fierce fight was going forward, in which the camels on both sides seemed to be taking part by kicking and leaping at each other, and he could hear their peculiar cries amid the clash of the weapons and the shouts of the combatants. Presently he saw a person, who had apparently been thrown from his camel, come rushing at headlong speed towards the sandhill. Roger drew back, and in another minute the stranger came round to where the party lay. He was a mere boy, dressed in loose trousers, a silk jacket, a shawl round his waist, and a turban on his head. His alarm at seeing them was so great, that he was running on to avoid them, when Jumbo, who, it will be remembered, spoke Arabic, called to him gently, telling him that they were friends. On this he came and crouched down close to them, trembling in every limb.

“Ask him from whom he was flying,” said Stephen to Jumbo.

“From the Ouadelins, who carried me off from my father’s camp,” said the young Arab.

“But were your friends not pursuing?” asked Stephen. Jumbo as before put the question.

“No; those who attacked my captors are equally enemies of my people, and had they taken me I should have fared worse than before,” answered the young Arab.

From the sounds which reached their ears Stephen and his companions knew that the fight was still raging, but moving farther and farther from where they lay. The young Arab could not refrain from trying to see what was going on, and had not Roger pulled him back, would very likely have been discovered. At length the sound ceased, and crawling to the brow of the hillock, so as just to look over it, Roger saw the two parties apparently still carrying on a straggling fight in the far distance. They were by this time getting very hungry and thirsty.

“Come, gentlemen, let us be going to the date-grove,” cried old Sam; “my throat is like a dust-bin.”

“Should the Arabs come back they will carry us off if we do,” observed Stephen. “Better bear our hunger and thirst till the coast is clear.”

It was somewhat difficult, however, to restrain themselves. Seeing this, Selim, for so the young Arab was called, said Stephen’s advice was good, and counselled them to remain concealed for the present. At last old Sam declared that he could stand it no longer, that he had eaten up the dates of the rest of the party and drunk up their water, and that it was his business to go and forage for them. Stephen again warned him, but in spite of this he set off, running for the date-grove. Roger, who had climbed to the top of the hill, watched as far as he could see his figure. At last he appeared to have entered the grove, and had been gone for some time, when Selim, who, accompanied by Jumbo, had been looking out from the top of the hill, said that his enemies were coming back and were making for the date-grove. Roger feared that old Sam would be on his way to rejoin them, and, being seen by the Arabs, would lead them to their hiding-place. The Arabs came nearer and nearer, and Roger fancied that he saw the old sailor just coming out of the grove, but on perceiving the Arabs, he darted back again, probably to conceal himself. His capture seemed certain. The Arabs reached the date-grove, and to the dismay of the shipwrecked party, appeared to be preparing to pass the night there. Their sufferings now became intense; they feared also that the old sailor would be compelled to betray them. The evening was approaching, and Roger and Stephen agreed that they could scarcely hope to live through the night unless they could obtain food. Suddenly Selim, observing their countenances, which showed how much they were suffering, put his hand in his pocket and produced a quantity of dried dates, which he offered to them. Though their thirst was great they were able to eat the dates, and felt much revived.

“The Arabs will go by daylight to-morrow,” said Selim, pointing to the grove, “and then we may obtain water.”

When night came, they lay down to rest. There was little risk of being discovered by their enemies, but a lion or some other wild beast might scent them. Both Roger and Stephen were, however, too tired to keep awake, but Selim seemed to divine how matters stood, and offered to sit up and watch while they slept. He was faithful to his trust, for when the dawn broke and Roger awoke, he saw him still sitting, with his eyes fixed on them.

“Ouadelins are on the move,” he said, “but we must lie close or they will discover us.”

Roger, however, went to the top of the hillock, on which a few bushes completely concealed him, and from thence he could see the date-grove. In a short time the Arabs, mounted on their camels, were seen moving to the north-east. Stephen and Roger, with their two dark-skinned companions, waited till the Arabs had disappeared in the distance; they then all four hurried to the grove. On reaching it they lost not a moment in quenching their thirst, and as soon as they had recovered their voices they shouted for old Sam, but no answer was returned. They hunted about in all directions, and at last came to the conclusion that the Arabs had carried him off. They had taken away a large portion of the dates, but a few remained, which Selim and Jumbo, climbing the tree, got for them. They remained in the grove all day eating dates and drinking water.

“I say, Stephen, we cannot live here for ever,” said Roger, “for we shall soon have eaten all the provisions the country supplies. We must consult with Selim as to what course to pursue.”

Selim, through Jumbo, advised that they should move northward.

“It is a long journey to tents of my people,” he said, but he thought that he could conduct them there in safety.

Accordingly, after another night’s rest, and having loaded themselves with dates and filled their bottles with water, they set out. Selim advised them to be very careful of the water, as it might be many days before they reached another spring. With their sticks in their hands they trudged over the plain. Though the heat was great, the country as they advanced was less arid and sandy than farther south. After travelling for five or six days they unexpectedly came upon another date-grove shading a pool. Here they replenished their provisions and water, and after a whole day’s rest again set forward. Stephen suggested that they should return to the coast, where they might be taken off by some passing vessel.

“You forget that passing vessels are more likely to be enemies than friends,” observed Roger. “We cannot be very far off from Sallee and those ports out of which the rovers sail. Having thus unexpectedly met a friend, it will be better to stick by him, and he may, through his relatives, find the means of enabling us to escape from the country.”

When they spoke on the subject to Selim, he advised them not to go to the coast, but to continue on till they could meet with his people, who would be sure to show their gratitude for the service they had rendered him. Day after day they trudged on, sometimes almost starved and ready to die of thirst. Occasionally they saw what they supposed to be caravans moving in the distance, but Selim recommended that they should not attempt to join them, as he feared that the Arabs might carry them off to sell as slaves. At length one day they were traversing a wide open plain without either hillocks or bushes, when they saw some objects moving towards them. On they came rapidly, and were soon discovered to be a party of men on the backs of camels.

“The camels are of the Bu Saif breed,” cried Selim; “we cannot escape them.”

“Let us stand still and not make the attempt,” said Stephen.

They accordingly stood, as Stephen advised, close together, he in front, Selim and Jumbo on one side, and Roger on the other. As the camels drew nearer, it was seen that they were ridden by dark-skinned fellows, who were brandishing in their hands long spears and scimitars. Uttering loud shouts, the strangers dashed forward as if about to cut down the shipwrecked party, when suddenly Selim sprang forward, and raising his hands, exclaimed, “I am Selim Ben Hamid, the son of the chief of the Malashlas. Spare these white men, they are my friends.”

The Arabs instead of cutting down the party, instantly reined in their animals. One of their leaders took up Selim behind him, the three others—Stephen, Roger, and Jumbo—in their fashion treating the white young men with great respect; then, turning their camels’ heads, they again set off at full speed northwards.

“I say, Stephen, how do you like it?” asked Roger.

“Not at all; but it is better than being killed,” he answered.

Indeed, in a few minutes, from the rough motions of the camels, the skin was nearly worn off their legs. For the remainder of the day they travelled on till they reached another oasis, where their friends encamped, and very glad Stephen and Roger were to get some rest. Selim told them that they had still many more days’ journey before they could reach the town, or rather the camp, where his father was chief. When Roger observed that they did not think they could bear the bumping, he replied that they would soon get accustomed to it; indeed, a night’s rest and some black biscuit, in addition to the dates, restored their strength, and next day they proceeded on their journey.

“I am afraid I shall have to give in,” cried Stephen, as the enduring camels went jogging on for twelve hours together without stopping. “What they and their masters are made of I cannot conceive, for the Arabs have eaten but a few dates each day since we started; for my part I feel nearly starved.”

“We must keep up, notwithstanding,” said Roger; “it won’t do to give in, or they will look on us with contempt;” for Selim had told them that would be the case.

They got accustomed to that style of travelling, and by drawing their handkerchiefs tight round their waists, they did not suffer much from the pangs of hunger, though they in a short time became merely skin and bone. At length Selim told them that in two or three days’ time they would reach his father’s camp, and they were looking forward to the rest they so much needed. They were now passing over a hilly country covered with low shrubs of a peculiarly brittle character, between which the camels had to pick their way, winding in and out among them, which greatly increased the length of the road traversed. They observed that the Arabs moved with more caution than heretofore, several men being sent in front to act as scouts. Evening was approaching, and they were looking out for a spot on which to encamp, when, as they were passing the base of a rocky and precipitous hill, a party of horsemen dashed out from a narrow ravine on the left, where they had remained concealed from the scouts. At the same moment, another party of men on foot appeared on the heights above them. The chief of their own party, with whom Selim was riding, immediately turned his camel’s head and made off to the eastward, calling on his men to follow. Some did so, but the horsemen dashed in between them and the remainder, whom they furiously attacked, shooting some of the camels and ham-stringing others. Stephen and Roger had in vain endeavoured to follow Selim and the chief, but both of their animals were brought to the ground. They fully expected to be cut down, but Jumbo, who had been riding near them, disdaining to fly, threw himself from his camel, which was uninjured.

“These are white chiefs!” he shouted out. “They wish to be your friends; do not harm them.”

The Arabs as they heard these words paused for a moment. The horsemen, in the meantime, were pursuing Selim’s party; but as no animals were faster than the Bu Saif breed of camels, they failed to overtake them. Roger and Stephen believed that their young friend had made his escape. Each of their assailants now inquired who they were, and where they were going.

Turning to Jumbo, they desired him to reply that their ship had been wrecked, and that they wished to make their way to Mogador, or some other place whence they could get aboard an English merchantman or a man-of-war.

The chief laughed. “It will be a long time before they reach their native land. They must understand that when Christians come into this country they have to work for us, their masters.”

“This is not pleasant news,” observed Stephen, when Jumbo had translated what the chief said. “Cannot we try to move the barbarian’s heart?”

“We will see what Jumbo can say, but I am afraid there is no chance of doing that,” said Roger.

Jumbo confirmed Roger’s opinion.

“We must bear our misfortune as best we can,” remarked Stephen. “However, we will lose no opportunity of trying to make our escape.”

The chief of the marauders now gathered his prisoners together, and ordered them to move forward, surrounded by his men on foot, while his mounted followers brought up the rear close behind them. They proceeded some distance, when, just at dusk, they encamped at a spot, a stream on one side and a hill on the other. Fires were lighted, sentries placed in the more exposed part, and the remainder of the people began cooking their provisions. Stephen and Roger had some camel’s flesh given to them and a handful of dates, and Jumbo brought them water from the river.

“Me stop here and do talkee,” he said, as he sat himself down before the fire to assist in cooking the camel’s meat.

“Come, we are better off than we might have expected,” said Stephen.

They were allowed to lie down, covered up with pieces of camels’ hair cloth, which one of the Arabs gave them. They woke before daylight. Jumbo was sitting up by their side.

“Who is this robber chief; have you been able to learn anything about him?” asked Roger.

“He called Sheik Beirouc, great man in his own country; me fear he make us all slavee,” answered Jumbo.

“Tell him that we would pay him well if he will liberate us and send us back to England,” said Stephen.

“He no trust us till he see de money in his hand,” answered Jumbo, “and dat de difficulty.”

“So it is, but we must manage to overcome it,” said Stephen. “Speak fair, and say that we are grateful to him for having given us food and this cloth to cover us.”

Jumbo promised to do as he was directed.

At daybreak the whole camp was astir, when the Arabs went down on their knees looking towards Mecca to say their prayers, an impressive sight, for every man seemed in earnest. Soon afterwards the Sheik approached and inquired whether Stephen and Roger could ride.

“Tell him, since we were children,” answered Stephen. “If he will let us have horses we will show him.”

Some more dates and water were brought them for breakfast, shortly after which a man appeared leading two active little steeds. The lads, supposing that they were for them, leaped into the saddles, and at once galloped off into the open country.

“If we knew our way to the coast it would be a good opportunity of escaping,” said Roger.

“It would be an act of folly to make the attempt,” said Stephen. “Let us turn now and go back, and show the Sheik that he may place confidence in us.”

They returned at the same pace at which they had gone out. The Sheik smiled grimly at seeing them come back.

“You shall have the horses to ride on for your journey,” he said.

“How are you to travel, Jumbo?” asked Roger.

“Me go on camel,” he answered. “The Sheik know that you can’t run away without me. You can’t talkee to the people.”

In a short time the order was given to march, and the Sheik led the way, accompanied by the two young Englishmen, and Jumbo rode behind another man on the camel. After proceeding for some miles they began to climb a range of mountains covered with heath, along beaten paths. On the summit there was suddenly a change of scenery. Behind was the monotonous sterility of the desert, and before a cultivated country, in every part of which were considerable camps in circular enclosures of from sixty to eighty tents over the plain. They perceived numerous horses and mules, as well as camels, while travellers continually passed them on the road, some mounted on camels, but the greater number on horses of a small size, all well-armed. About an hour after noon they arrived at a well, surrounded by a vast number of animals, camels, horses, mules, donkeys, goats; and so completely blocked up was the approach that it was with the greatest difficulty that they reached the water to satisfy their burning thirst. In the evening they reached some tents belonging to Beirouc, where they passed the night. He told them that the next day they would arrive at his town, where they were to spend some time. This was agreeable news, as they hoped to obtain some means of communicating with the coast. Towards evening Beirouc pointed out to them his habitation. At first they looked everywhere without perceiving any building, but at length discovered towards the east, at the foot of a mountain, a circle of reddish walls, in the middle of which rose a tower of considerable height. It had the appearance of being what it really was, a shelter for brigands. On their right was a forest of palm-trees, and some cultivated gardens, while a number of Moors were lying carelessly about outside the walls. The news of their arrival was soon circulated among all classes, and from every direction came men, women, and children, running to see the Christians, whom they looked upon as some singular wild beasts. At length Beirouc told one of his attendants to conduct the three prisoners to their habitation. The whole town was composed of houses built with sun-dried bricks of a yellowish tint. They were conducted into a square, out of which opened several chambers, or houses with small doors; one of these they were told to enter. It had a miserable and dirty appearance; at first, coming out of the glare of day, they could see nothing, but as their eyes got accustomed to the gloom they were much dismayed at perceiving the number of chains hung to the walls. Jumbo, however, relieved their anxiety by saying that they were merely to fasten up horses, the place having been used as a stable. Though the chief hitherto treated them with more humanity, still, as might have been expected, they felt that they were slaves, and they asked Jumbo to make inquiries.

“Yes, we all slavee,” he said. “Beirouc, he make us work; he sell us.”

Jumbo brought them further intelligence that they were not to remain at their present station long. They had little rest, being exposed from morning to night to the gaze of the Moors, who came to look at them from feelings of curiosity alone, without the slightest tinge of compassion. Many amused themselves by mocking at them, inquiring whether they wished to become gardeners, carpenters, bricklayers, or masons. At all hours of the day their unwelcome visitors appeared, regarding them much as if they were wild beasts shut up in a cage. There were really no bars nor any guard placed over them; indeed they might without difficulty have got out into the country. But Beirouc well knew that they would have been unable to find their way, and that they would either have been starved, or made prisoners by the inhabitants, or killed by wild beasts, and he told Jumbo to give them a hint that such would be their fate should they attempt it. They had therefore to submit as best they could to the indignities offered them.

At length one day a new character, who accompanied Beirouc, made his appearance; he was a tall, fine-looking man, with a white beard, and handsome though somewhat stern countenance. Having seated himself on a carpet in the centre of the court, he ordered the two captives, accompanied by Jumbo, to approach him, and inquired who they were, whence they had come, and how they had hitherto been employed. Jumbo evidently took upon himself to give such a report of them as would increase their importance in the eyes of their captors. He declared that they were chiefs in their own country, that they were officers on board the ship, wonderfully expert navigators, and were possessed of great wealth, their object in leaving home having been to see the world. Stephen, who guessed that Jumbo was going on a little too far, stopped him.

“All right, massa,” he answered, “me tell the truth presently.”

Jumbo’s account had certainly the effect of raising their value in the estimation of the new arrival. Jumbo informed them that the chief’s name was Ibraim, that he resided in the northern part of the country, towards which they were forthwith to set out. Soon afterwards Jumbo on his return to their cell burst into tears.

“What is the matter?” asked Stephen.

“Beirouc say he no sell me, and that I stay here.”

“Tell him that we cannot do without you,” said Stephen.

“Me tell Ibraim; that more use,” said Jumbo.

Jumbo was evidently looked upon as a very clever fellow by the Arabs, and he so managed the matter that Ibraim purchased him as well as the two young Englishmen, and they immediately set forward on their journey northward. The whole party rode on horseback. Their steeds were small, active little animals, which managed to scuffle along at a great rate, up and down hill being apparently the same to them. Stephen and Roger agreed that it was far more pleasant riding than on camel-back. They were happier also when travelling than when stopping at night, when they were compelled to sleep in some dirty hut, with Jumbo and a number of Arabs as their companions. They were badly fed, and could seldom get any tolerable water to drink. At first they fancied that they were to be carried to Marocco, but they found Ibraim had no intention of visiting the capital, which he left far away on the right. On and farther on they went northward.

“So much the better,” said Roger. “The farther north, the more chance we shall have of escaping.”

At length, on passing over a lofty hill, Roger observed the blue ocean glittering brightly to the left, while in the far distance he made out the minarets, towers, and flat roofs of what appeared to him to be a large town. He pointed out the spot to Stephen.

“That is a town, no doubt about it, and probably it is to be our future abode; we must get Jumbo to learn its name.”

“Dat Rabatt; they call it also Sallee,” said Jumbo.

“Why, that is the place where the Sallee rovers sail from!” exclaimed Roger. “For what we can tell, the one who attacked us came from there.”

“I think she was an Algerine; Captain Roberts thought so,” remarked Stephen.

Descending from the high ground they had been traversing they crossed a river, the third they had passed since morning. Continuing down its bank on the north side, they found themselves before an extensive and strongly-fortified town, with high walls, towers, and battlements. Ibraim, having passed through a gateway, continued on along narrow streets and alleys crowded with people of all colours, though mostly dressed in Moorish costume. Their arrival did not appear to create much interest; some stared at them, a few abused them as Christian slaves. At last Ibraim led the way into a court-yard, when he ordered them to dismount. He pointed to a cell much like the one they had before occupied, where he told them they might take up their abode. It had the advantage of being more airy and less damp than might have been the case, though they were somewhat exposed to public view.

Ordering them to remain there, and to move out at their peril, Ibraim stalked away. Several persons made inquiries about them of Jumbo. This continued till dark, when they were allowed to rest on the bare ground in quiet. As no one brought them any food, and Ibraim seemed to have forgotten them altogether, they had to go supperless to sleep. Next morning they awoke very hungry, and as there was no other way of getting food, they told Jumbo to entreat their visitors to bring them some, but the hard-hearted Moors refused. At last a white-haired man, habited as a Moor, his dress of nautical cut, his turban set somewhat rakishly on one side, came in. He started as he saw them, and stood gazing at them for some minutes.

“Who are you?” he exclaimed. “Did you really get off with your lives from the robbers?”

“Is it possible that you are Sam Stokes?” exclaimed Roger.

“I was Sam Stokes, but am now Mustapha Mouser.”

“Well, Sam, I cannot congratulate you on having turned renegade, but am glad to see you,” observed Stephen.

“Could not help myself, Mr Battiscombe; did it to save my life. Now I have found you, I want to see how I can help you. Maybe you are hungry?”

“That indeed we are,” exclaimed Roger.

“Then without further palaver I will be off and try and get you some food,” said Sam.

“I hope he will be quick about it,” observed Roger when Sam moved off, “for I am well-nigh starved.”

Old Sam did not disappoint them, for in a short time he returned with a flask of water and dried goat’s flesh, bread, and dates.

“Make haste, lest anybody should come by and my feet get a taste of the bastinado.” They did ample justice to the repast, helped by Jumbo, who was as hungry as they were. Sam sat down and tried to look as much like a Moor as he could.

“How are you employed?” asked Stephen.

“I have been assisting in fitting out one of their vessels. She is a fine craft for her size, but I cannot say I quite like the work, for I suppose we shall go robbing on the high seas, and if we are caught shall be strung up like the rest.”

“Nor do I, Sam, for your sake,” observed Stephen, “though you will only be engaged as Prince Rupert and Prince Morris were after the civil war; not that their example is one to be followed, and I would advise you to get clear of the pirates as soon as you can.”

“More easily said than done,” answered Sam. “The Moors always keep a look-out on those whom they suspect, but I will not forget your advice if I have the opportunity of escaping; but I must not stop talking here, or I may be suspected of favouring you.” And old Sam, getting up, rolled away with his hands in his pockets, looking as independent as any of the passing Moors.

“I wonder what is to be our fate,” said Roger.

They asked Jumbo to make inquiries. His idea was that they were to be sold, but he said that he would try and find out. Though looked upon as a slave, he was allowed more liberty than they were, it being supposed that he would not desert them. Had they possessed money they would thus have had no difficulty in procuring food, but as they had been deprived of every coin they had had about them, they were entirely dependent on others. The appearance of old Sam Stokes somewhat relieved their minds on that score, as they hoped he would find means to supply their wants. When Jumbo came back late in the evening, he looked very melancholy.

“Me afraid Ibraim sell us. Cruel master. Make workee; little food; plenty stick.”

“Patience,” said Roger. “We must try to work hard and avoid the stick; and as to the food, we must be content with little if we cannot get much, and hope some day to get away.”

A guard was placed at the door of the yard, so that Jumbo could not get out during the night. The next morning Ibraim appeared with several other persons, one of whom, by his dress and the way he swaggered along, appeared to be a person of some consideration. Ibraim summoned the two lads and Jumbo much as he would have called as many dogs, and seemed to be expatiating on their various qualifications. The stranger, whom they heard called Hamet, then put several questions to them through Jumbo, chiefly relating to their previous mode of life. He seemed satisfied, and at once turning to Ibraim counted out the money which he had promised to pay for them. Scarcely looking at them, or uttering a word of farewell, the old Sheik pocketed the coin and walked away, while the new purchaser beckoned to Stephen, Roger, and Jumbo to follow him.

“This is unbearable,” exclaimed Stephen; “the old fellow treats us like goods and chattels. He fancies that we are willingly to be turned over to the man to whom he has thought fit to sell us. We must show him that we do not intend to be treated in that way.”

“What had we better do?” asked Roger.

“Stay where we are, and refuse to follow him,” said Stephen.

“Oh, massa, don’t do dat,” cried Jumbo. “Dey soon show wid de bastinado dat dey got de power.”

Hamet, their new master, by the frown gathering on his brow as he observed their hesitation, soon showed them what they might expect, and they agreed that it would be wiser to submit to circumstances. They accordingly followed him as he led the way through the streets till he reached another court-yard, in which a number of persons were collected, dressed in all sorts of costumes, many in rags, and looking thin and careworn, their countenances being those of Europeans.

“These must be Christian slaves,” observed Stephen.

“Yes, and it is very clear that we are to be compelled to labour with them,” said Roger.

They were not long in doubt as to this, for a number of persons gathered round them, and two addressed them in English, and inquired where they had come from, and how they had been captured. While they were narrating their adventures, others gathered round to listen. There were French, Portuguese, Spaniards, Italians, and Dutchmen. They all, it appeared, belonged to Hamet, who employed them in building a new house. At a signal from Hamet they formed into order, and were marched off to perform their daily task, under the charge of four guards with loaded fire-arms. Stephen and Roger were obliged to follow, for to refuse would have only brought down blows on their heads and backs. They walked along very unwillingly, though they tried to keep up their spirits. On arriving at the spot they were at once set to work. Though accustomed to manual labour, they found their tasks very severe in hauling up blocks of stone, carrying heavy beams and rafters. They were very thankful when the day’s work was over. All the time not a particle of food had been given them, and it was with difficulty, suffering from hunger and thirst, that they could get back to their prison.

“You will soon get accustomed to it,” said one of their companions in misfortune.

On reaching the yard the only provisions served to them and the rest of the slaves were some brown bread and some almost putrid water, which they could scarcely drink. Most of the prisoners were too low and broken-spirited to complain, but Stephen and Roger were very indignant; hunger and thirst however compelled them to eat the coarse bread and drink the water, bad as it was. At night they had to lie down in a place which had been used for stables, with a scanty supply of straw, and that not of the cleanest, for beds. Their companions in misfortune moaned and groaned in their different languages till they moaned themselves to sleep.

“I wonder how long this is to last,” said Roger.

“Till we are set free,” said Stephen.

“But how are we to get free?” asked Roger. “Cannot we devise some means of escaping?”

“We must try and let our friends at home know where we are in the first place, so that they may ransom us,” said Stephen.

“The difficulty will be to get a letter home. There is no communication between this place and any European port, as far as I can learn. Our unhappy companions have been here for years,” said Roger.

“If we cannot get off ourselves, perhaps Jumbo can make his escape and carry a letter for us,” said Stephen.

“A bright idea,” exclaimed Roger. “He is asleep now; still we can think it over to-morrow and see how it can be managed.”

At length they top, merely with the toil they had gone through, closed their eyes, happily to dream of far distant scenes. They were awakened by their companions moving about, and another dole of brown bread and water was served out to them. Just, however, as they were about to be marched off to their daily toil, they caught sight of Sam Stokes, who was peering about in the court-yard, apparently in search of them. They eagerly beckoned to him.

“I have been hunting for you young gentlemen since daylight,” he said. “Here’s some meat and sweet biscuits, some oranges, and a bottle of goat’s milk; it is better than any water I could get. I should like to have brought you some stronger stuff, but if I was to be found with any I should have my head chopped off in a twinkling. It is against the rules of the Koran. Though I have not had time to learn much about the book, I know that.”

They thanked Sam cordially, and shared the provisions he had brought with Jumbo. He sat by to see that their companions did not rob them, which, from the wolfish glances they cast at the food, they seemed much inclined to do.

“Stow away the remainder in your pockets, you will want it for dinner, and I will try to come back in the evening and give you more. I must now be off to my work,” said Sam.

The day was passed much as the former one had been, though they had a short time allowed them to eat the food Sam had brought. It was very hard and trying work, and they were well-nigh knocked up by the evening, when they had to return to their dirty prisons. Hunger had compelled them to begin munching their brown bread, when Sam appeared bringing a small quantity of provision.

“It is all I could get,” he said. “I am much afraid that I shall not be allowed to bring you much more. Captain Hamet, who bought you from the old Sheik and commands a vessel I have engaged to serve aboard, has found out that I bring the food to you, and does not seem well pleased. Why, I cannot exactly understand, as I should have thought he would rather have you strong and well than weak and sick, as you would be if you had no better food than that brown bread; however, I shall know more about the matter to-morrow. I will bring you word if I can.”

The morning came, but Sam did not appear, and, as before, they were marched away with the rest of the slaves to their daily toil. For three days after this they heard nothing of Sam, while they were obliged to subsist on the coarse fare supplied to the slaves. Their condition was now becoming very trying. They talked over all the plans they could possibly think of to effect their escape. Jumbo was willing to try and get off to carry a letter to Tangiers, but he warned them that he might very likely be captured and lose his life in making the attempt, and they were unwilling to expose him to so much danger. The other slaves told them of the dreadful punishment which had been inflicted on several of their number who had attempted to escape, while, so far as they knew, not one had succeeded. It seemed to them that they were doomed to spend the remainder of their lives in bondage, and worse bondage than that of Israel. The Jews, at all events, had plenty to eat, whereas they were almost starved; still, like brave lads as they were, they endeavoured to keep up their spirits. At length one morning, after they had endured for upwards of a fortnight the sort of life which has been described, their eyes were gladdened by the sight of Sam walking into the court-yard just as their morning meal had been served out.

“I am thankful to say that I have been able to bring you some food, young gentlemen, and Captain Hamet has sent me to say that you are to go aboard the Tiger, the ship he commands.”

“But the vessel is a pirate!” exclaimed Stephen, “and we shall be assisting them in their evil deeds. I would rather remain here and toil as a wretched slave than turn corsair.”

“So would I,” said Roger. “Tell Captain Hamet that we will not obey his orders.”

“Very sorry to hear you say that, Master Willoughby,” said Sam. “You see it is not a matter of choice; the Captain has the power to make you do what he wishes, whether you like it or not.”

“There is an old saying that you may take a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink,” said Stephen; “he may carry us aboard by main force, but he cannot compel us to do any duty when we are there.”

“Now, just look at the matter in this way, young gentlemen,” said Sam. “The Captain has heard that you understand navigation, and he wants some one to navigate his ship, for, as far as I can learn, these Moorish fellows do not understand much about that thing. He will make officers of you and treat you well, and I do not suppose he expects you to fight.”

“How could he know that we understood navigation?” asked Stephen.

“That is more than I can say,” answered Sam. “I know that I did not tell him; he heard it by some means, and that was the reason he bought you of the old Sheik, and paid such a high price for you too. So you see he is not likely to be balked, and I’d advise you to come with a good grace. I am very sorry that you should have to do what you do not like, but you see you have no choice in the matter; when he asked me I had to confess that it was right.”

“Me tell how it happened,” said Jumbo. “Me tell Captain Hamet that Massa Battiscombe and Massa Willoughby were two officers, and that if he buy dem he some day get a good ransom, but neber tink at de time dat he want dem to serve aboard his ship; dat’s how it came about.”

“That explains the mystery, and we don’t blame you, Jumbo,” said Stephen. “But we cannot go and serve willingly on board a pirate.”

“Still I must obey orders, young gentlemen,” said Sam, “and I came ashore with a boat’s crew to carry you on board, and I will bear witness if we ever fall into the hands of a king’s ship that you did not come willingly.”

As he spoke Sam made a sign to several men who were standing at the entrance to the court-yard, who at once, marching in, surrounded the two young Englishmen and Jumbo, and seizing their arms, began to drag them along into the street. They struggled to free themselves, but the Moors, strong muscular fellows, quickly mastered them, and conducted them along through the narrow lanes towards the port. On reaching it they were shoved somewhat unceremoniously into a boat, which immediately pulled away for a large vessel which lay at the entrance of the harbour.

“Very sorry, gentlemen, that you should be treated in this fashion,” said Sam. “If you had come willingly it would not have happened. It is not my fault, you will understand; but if I did not carry out the orders I receive, I should have my head whipped off in a moment.”

Stephen and Roger were too indignant just then to make any reply, though they saw clearly the position in which poor Sam was placed. Captain Hamet was walking the deck when they arrived alongside. He received them in a somewhat stern fashion, and calling Jumbo, told him to say that their treatment would depend on the way they behaved themselves.

“Tell him that as he has compelled us to come on board, we desire to know what he requires us to do,” said Stephen.

On this Captain Hamet beckoned them to come into the cabin. He then placed several nautical instruments before them, with charts of the Mediterranean, the western shores of Africa and Europe, extending as far as England.

“He wants you to make good use of these to mark down every day the course the ship has run,—her position at noon. He does not require you to fight; indeed, if we meet an enemy, he will allow you to go below and keep out of harm’s way if you wish it.”

“Under those circumstances I do not think we should wisely refuse to obey him,” observed Stephen.

“I would rather not have to do it,” said Roger.

“But I do not see how we can get off, and we shall certainly, by remaining on board, have a better chance of escaping than if we were kept in slavery on shore,” said Stephen. “Tell the Captain, Jumbo, that we will do as he desires, though we would rather have been allowed to pay a ransom for our liberty.”

Hamet, smiling grimly, nodded his approval, and then sent for Sam, who showed them a cabin which he told them they were to occupy.

“I am glad to hear, gentlemen, that you have agreed to do as the Captain wishes. It would have been no earthly use to refuse, as he could have compelled you with a pistol at your heads.”

“I do not think he would have fired it, considering that he had paid a high price for us, though he might have ill-treated us till he could have obtained a price for setting us free.”

“Well, as far as I can see, all you have got to do is to put a good face on the matter, keep up your spirits, and navigate the ship carefully. I warn you that if you do not do that, he will heave you overboard without the slightest ceremony.”

“Then we will do our best to navigate the Tiger wherever the Captain wants her to go; it won’t be our fault if he some day catches a Tartar, or runs his nose into a lion’s den.”

Chapter Five.

As the harbour was very shallow, the Tiger had to haul out into the outer roads, inside the island of Tedal, off the mouth of the river Gueron, before she could take her guns, powder, or stores on board. A number of boats came out with them, so that she soon had her lading and provisions on board, and was now ready for sea. She mounted twenty guns, and had a crew of a hundred men, sturdy, active, dark-skinned fellows, armed with sharp scimitars, with which they practised daily. They had also fire-arms, spears, and boarding-pikes; indeed were in every way well prepared for fighting. A strong westerly gale kept the Tiger in the roads for some days, but at length, the wind shifting to the eastward, the anchor was hove up, and she stood out into the Atlantic. Hamet now intimated to Stephen and Roger that his wish was to get to the northward, so that he might attack vessels in latitudes where Sallee rovers were seldom to be found, and thus take them by surprise, and so be more likely to effect their capture without resistance. They were by this time able to understand much that he said. He told them that he wished each to keep a separate reckoning, so that he might compare the two; that they must take good care that they agreed.

“That would be a puzzler for me,” observed Stephen. “As you, Roger, are a much better navigator, you would probably be correct, whereas I am very likely to make mistakes. I think that I had better tell him at once that I am not much of a navigator, and that he would be wise to rely on you.”

“That may be the safest plan, though I will try to pass my calculations on to you without letting him discover that I do so,” said Roger.

The very next day, when they were out of sight of land, Stephen, who was ordered to stand at the forepart of the ship to take an observation, made some mistake, and placed their position a degree or more out. Of course, her Captain, who understood the use of the charts perfectly, afterwards told Roger to put it down, which he, having carefully taken his observation, did properly.

“How is this?” exclaimed the Captain. “Which of the two am I to believe?”

“You may trust me,” said Roger, firmly. “My friend, though older, has less experience; but if you will allow me, I will teach him, and he in a short time will be as useful to you as I am.”

Thus the difficulty was got over, for happily the Captain did not suspect that any trick was being played him. Fortunately at first the weather was fine, and as the Moors were sober men, and not addicted to quarrel among each other, the Tiger glided over the calm sea, and everything went smoothly.

“Really, from the appearance of things, I should not have supposed that we were aboard a piratical craft,” observed Stephen, “for truly they are a very gentlemanly set of cut-throats, and I doubt if Prince Rupert’s men behaved half as well.”

“It may be not, but they did not knock all their prisoners on the head, or make them walk the plank, as these fellows are said to do; we as yet have only seen them in their good behaviour,” observed Roger.

Hamet insisted on their carrying the Tiger northward till they were about in the latitude of the rock of Lisbon. Not a ship had been sighted which they could venture to attack. They had passed in the distance squadrons of three or more large ships, but Hamet deemed it prudent to stand away from them, though he discussed the possibility of cutting off the sternmost during the night-time, but old Sam dissuaded him from making the attempt. The sun had just risen on the top-mast canvas of a ship of some size coming down before a fresh breeze from the northward, the wind about north-east. Hamet possessed a telescope, and pointing the stranger out to Roger, bade him go aloft with the telescope, and on his return report to him what he thought she was. Roger, slinging the telescope over his shoulders, climbed up the rigging, and took a steady look at the stranger. She appeared to him to be a large ship—a man-of-war—carrying probably forty guns or more, with which the Tiger would be utterly unable to cope. On coming down he told Hamet his opinion.

“If she is a merchantman, the larger her size the better prize she will prove,” he observed.

“But should she be a man-of-war, you may find that instead of taking her you are taken yourself,” said Roger.

The Captain, who seldom did anything without consulting his officers, had a talk with them on the subject. Some were inclined to run alongside the stranger and try to capture her, but others thought such a proceeding would be dangerous. The two vessels approached nearer and nearer.

“These are bold fellows to think of attacking a ship of that size,” observed Roger. “I am nearly certain that she is an English man-of-war, and if so, the Tiger will be taken, and if we are not killed, we may hope to gain our liberty.”

“One good thing is, we need not fight,” said Stephen. “The most prudent thing we can do is to stow ourselves away as soon as we are within gunshot.”

“The agreement from the first was that we might remain in our cabin,” remarked Roger.

“Oh no; but I propose that we get into the lowest depths of the ship, where there is less chance of a shot coming,” said Stephen.

“Suppose she is sent to the bottom,” said Roger, “we shall be drowned with the rest. We shall see the water rising, and if so, we must hurry up on deck.”

While Roger and Stephen were holding this conversation, they observed a good deal of excitement among the officers. Presently two or three came aft to the Captain, and, by their gestures, it was very evident that they were insisting that the ship should be put about, and that they should try and make their escape. The Captain yielded; the helm was put up, the yards squared, and away the Tiger ran before the wind, every additional stitch of canvas which she could carry being set. The stranger was not near enough to fire, or it might have fared ill with the pirate.

“Our chance of liberty is diminishing by this time,” observed Roger. “The Tiger before the wind has a remarkably fast pair of heels.”

The stranger, however, seeing what the pirate was about, also made all sail, and came bowling away after her, guessing probably her character.

“She will not catch us, gentlemen,” said Sam, who came up to them. “Cannot say that I am sorry we are running away. I put the officers up to insisting on it, by telling them that we should be sent to the bottom, or captured and strung up to the yard-arm, and they fortunately believed me.”

At first it was doubtful which ship was sailing the fastest; and Roger thought, in spite of what Sam said, that the stranger was coming up with them, but after a time it became evident that the Tiger was getting ahead. The Captain told Roger to be careful to mark down their course, as they were standing away from the land to the westward. All day long the chase continued; there was still some chance of their falling in with another large ship, and if so, they might have to fight after all. It was some hours past noon; they had already sunk the courses of the stranger below the horizon, but there she was, in her former position, still following, though a dark bank of clouds was now seen rising to the westward, indicating a change of wind, and probably a heavy gale. The clouds rose fast, and came scouring across the blue sky, while the hitherto calm ocean was covered with foam-crested seas, which rose higher and higher. Hamet ordered sail at once to be taken in—not a moment too soon, for down came the gale, and the stout ship heeled over to it. The Tiger, however, still kept to the southward. At last the gale increased to such an extent that the Captain ordered her to be hove-to. Roger looked out for the stranger, but she was nowhere to be seen. That danger was escaped, but the question was how the slightly-built rover would endure the tempest. They might have run for a port on the Barbary coast, but that was a long way off, and no other would afford them shelter; for as their hands had turned against every nation, so every nation was a foe. Night came on, and as there was no good in their remaining on deck, Roger and Stephen went to their cabin. Poor Jumbo soon made his way there.

“Oh dear, me tink we go to de bottom,” he said. “Wish we had stayed on shore; all my doing too, for if I no say you knew how to manage de ship, Hamet not bring you.”

“You acted for the best, Jumbo, and I do not blame you. We must hope to escape this danger and make our escape another time. Remember that we do intend to make our escape, if we can, on board the first vessel the pirate gets alongside. It will be somewhat hazardous, but it is our only chance. You must try and escape also, and I hope that Sam will, though it would be more difficult for him, as he has to fight with the rest of the crew.”

Jumbo shook his head; he evidently thought Roger’s plan impracticable. All night long the tempest howled, the ship was tossed to and fro, the blocks and rigging rattled, the sea dashed over her, the voices of the seamen were heard amid the uproar shouting to one another, while occasionally the clanking sound of pumps was added to the noise. Morning broke dark and gloomy. During the day the wind decreased, and Hamet told Roger to continue his course to the southward. He seemed to fancy that in those northerly regions he was likely to meet with more gales than were pleasant. The following day the weather had moderated greatly, and by degrees the sea went down, and the ship glided on as smoothly as before. A bright look-out was of course kept for strangers; and the Tiger was about the latitude of the Straits of Gibraltar when a sail was seen to the eastward, which had apparently come out of the Mediterranean. Chase was at once made, for she appeared to be a merchant vessel, and, though of good size, not much larger than the rover. As they got nearer, she showed English colours. Roger and Stephen watched her anxiously, and they called Jumbo.

“Remember what I told you,” said Roger. “Follow our movements whatever happens; you are not expected to fight, so probably will not be missed.”

“What do you think of her?” asked Roger, who went in search of the old seaman.

“That she is a stout English craft, likely not to give in without tough fighting; but she probably carries not more than thirty men, if so many, and we muster a hundred, so that she has very little chance if we run her alongside.”

“But you don’t mean to say that you fight your countrymen, Sam?” said Roger.

“Cannot help myself,” he answered. “I would rather not; but should have my head whipped off in a moment if I was to show the white feather, or try to hide away.”

“Well, I tell you this much, Sam,” said Roger. “I don’t believe that craft will be taken, although she may have but thirty men on board; but they are thirty honest Englishmen against these hundred cut-throat Moors; and if you can manage to get on board and let them know that you are an Englishman wishing to escape, you will act wisely.”

“Cannot do it, Mr Willoughby,” said Sam with a sigh. “I should like to be free. The chances are the Englishmen cut me down before I can open my mouth, and the Moors will whip off my head if they see me making the attempt.”

“Still you would have done the right thing, and I hope you will risk it,” said Roger. He could not venture to say more, as the Moors always cast frowning glances at the Englishmen when they saw them talking together.

Roger went back to Stephen, who was standing aft, watching the stranger. Suddenly he exclaimed, “She is wonderfully like the Benbow frigate. Though so long a time has passed since we saw her, I remember her well. I hope she may be, for Captain Benbow is not a man to yield to a pirate. See, she has no intention of avoiding the fight.”

As he spoke, the English ship brailed up her courses and hove-to, preparing for the combat. This seemed somewhat to cool the courage of the Moors, who looked at each other, for they were accustomed to see the merchant vessels they attacked run from them and do their utmost to escape. The English ship remained stationary. The Sallee rover stood on, and as she got nearer, shortened sail to be more under command. Presently the former filled, not to escape, but to be ready for manoeuvring, and almost the next instant opened fire from ten long guns, run out from her sides, and the Moors began blazing away in return; but their shot fell short, whereas those of the English ship came rattling on board them.

“I say, Roger, there is no use remaining on deck to be a target for our friends,” said Stephen. “Let us slip below before we receive damage; we shall judge when the time arrives for us to act, by the noise they will make should the rovers run their opponents on board. I see Jumbo watching us.”

Roger unwillingly slipped down and followed Stephen, for he was anxious to see what was taking place. Their cabin was not altogether safe, for a shot might come through the rover’s side and reach them; but, at the same time, they could from thence easily spring upon deck. They waited anxiously. Again and again the rover fired, while they heard the shot of the English ship come crashing on board, tearing up the planks, piercing the bulwarks, striking the masts and spars, occasionally knocking over one of the crew on the deck, while shrieks and cries arose as the Moors fell wounded to the deck. None were brought below, as there were no surgeons to attend to them, and they were left to lie as they fell. Hamet was anxious to put an end to this sort of work as soon as possible, and shouted orders to his men to prepare for boarding. The English ship had gained the weather-gauge, so he could not escape. Now, suddenly putting down his helm, he ran her aboard. A loud crash was heard as the two vessels struck together; grappling-irons were thrown aboard, the Moors swarmed into their rigging to drop down on the deck of the vessel they expected to capture.

“Now is our time,” cried Roger. “Come along, Stephen! Come along, Jumbo! We must look out not to be stopped by the Moors, and make ourselves known to our friends before they cut us down.”

They made for the after part of the ship; it was the only spot whence they could hope to escape. The vessels were surging against each other; now their bows almost meeting one instant, their quarters struck together.

“Now is our time,” cried Roger, who had been waiting for the opportunity, and together they all three sprang from the quarter-rail of the Tiger on to that of the English ship, and throwing themselves over it, were the next moment on her deck, where Jumbo narrowly escaped being crushed before those parts of the vessel.

“Look out, lads; we are being boarded aft,” they heard a voice shout, and three or four seamen, with gleaming cutlasses, came springing towards them.

“No, no, we are friends; we are Englishmen,” shouted Roger and Stephen in chorus. “Save us! save us! We are escaping from the Moors.” They could scarcely get the words out in time to prevent the sailors from making mince-meat of them.

“I do believe they are Englishmen,” cried one of the men.

“All right,” cried one of the seamen. “Lie quiet, or, if you like, you will find some spare cutlasses in the companion-hatch; go and get them and help us.”

“There is another Englishman on board who wants to escape,” cried Roger, remembering poor Sam. “Try and save him if you can.”

“Ay, ay,” answered the sailor, who the next instant sprang back to hack and slash away at the Moors, who were endeavouring to gain a footing on board. As yet, fiercely as they were fighting, the Moors had gained no advantage. Some indeed had reached the deck, but it was only to pay the penalty of temerity with their lives, for not one had succeeded in gaining a footing. Roger, looking up, recognised the Captain of the English ship; there was no doubt about it, he was Captain Benbow. With a huge hanger in his hand he was slashing away furiously at the enemy, driving back some, cutting down others. Roger and Stephen made their way to the companion-hatch, where they procured a couple of hangers and joined the brave Captain. They were seen by the rovers, several of whom, uttering expressions of rage, attempted to get at them, and paid the penalty of their daring with their lives, being cut down by the British seamen the moment they reached the deck. The rovers fought with desperation, believing that they could quickly overcome the small crew opposed to them. Fresh gangs, summoned by their Captain, were attempting to leap on board, when suddenly the grapnels gave way. While some were still clinging to the sides of the Benbow frigate, the vessels parted, and the Tiger forged ahead. Ere many seconds were over not a boarder remained alive; some were hurled into the sea, others fell inside the bulwarks on to the deck.

“Now, ply them with the great guns,” cried Captain Benbow.

His crew, reloading them and running them out, in spite of the bodies which cumbered the deck, sent such showers of shot on board the rover that she did not again attempt to close, Hamet evidently considering her so tough a customer that he might pay too dear a price for victory, even should he gain at last. He was seen to haul his wind and to stand away on a bow-line, though he continued firing at the English vessel as long as he could bring his guns to bear. The shot, though they did no damage on deck, cut up the rigging and prevented the frigate from following, though Captain Benbow ordered his crew to knot and splice the ropes as rapidly as possible, in the hopes that she might be able to do so. The rover was soon out of range, and as she continued standing away the British crew gave her a lusty cheer as a farewell. On and on she stood, making all the sail she could carry. It was soon evident that the Benbow frigate had no chance of overtaking her, though the crew worked away with right good-will at the rigging. Strange as it may appear, not one of the British crew had been killed, although about a third of their number had received wounds more or less severe.

“Now, lads, let us count the bodies of these villainous Moors their friends have left behind,” said the Captain. Thirteen were found stretched on the deck, presenting a ghastly appearance, and the crew were about to heave them overboard.

“No, no, lads,” cried Captain Benbow; “we must carry some trophy on shore to show our friends at Cadiz what we have done, or they may chance not to believe our report. Bring up a cask of salt.”

There were several on board that it was intended to fill with Spanish pork. The Moors’ heads, as they were chopped off, were put into the cask with layers of salt between them, when, the whole being packed, and more salt added at the top, the head of the cask was then fastened down. The crew then set to work with buckets of water to wash down the blood-stained deck. Roger and Stephen had in the meantime, with Jumbo, been standing aft, waiting to make themselves known to the Captain, but he had hitherto been too much engaged to notice them. They now, seeing that he was for a moment disengaged while considering what was next to be done, advanced to him.

“You probably do not recollect us, Captain Benbow, though we are old acquaintances of yours,” said Stephen.

“I am the lad you promised to take to sea when you visited Eversden manor-house on the Dorsetshire coast,” said Roger.

“Bless my heart alive, I remember the circumstance perfectly, though you have grown out of my recollection, young gentlemen; but how in the name of wonder did you happen to be aboard the rover, and how did you manage to gain the deck of this ship?” exclaimed the Captain, putting out his hand and shaking theirs warmly. “Very glad to see you, however it happened, and I can congratulate you on making your escape, for it must have been no easy matter.”

Stephen and Roger between them briefly explained what had occurred. They were again welcomed by the Captain. They also mentioned Sam Stokes, and his intention of attempting to escape.

“Poor fellow, I know that he must have lost his life if he tried to do so,” said the Captain, but he inquired among his crew whether they had recognised an English face among the rover’s crew.

On this two or three came aft and declared that they had observed an old man spring on to their forecastle, that he had warded off several blows aimed at him without attempting to strike in return, and had suddenly disappeared, they supposing that he had gone overboard, although, as they had been compelled to defend the forepart of the vessel from a party of rovers who were attempting to follow him, they had not time to take any special notice.

“Then perchance he is the very man we were inquiring about, and may have succeeded in getting below. Let search be made for him,” cried the Captain.

Several of the crew on this leaped below, and one lighting a lantern, they began to search the fore peak. Before long the light from the lantern fell on an English-looking face in one of the bunks.

“Halloo! how did you come here?” exclaimed the seaman with the lantern.

“Don’t cut my head off and I will tell you all about it,” said the man in the bunk.

“You need have no fear; come out of that and we will hear what you have got to say for yourself,” said the seaman; and drawing off the blanket, he exposed to view a seeming Moor, who was quickly dragged out.

“Why, you are the very man we are looking for,” exclaimed the sailor. “Come up, our Captain wants to have a word with you.”

And Sam Stokes, willingly obeying, accompanied the men up on deck, where Stephen and Roger and Jumbo welcomed him.

“Glad to see you have escaped, my man,” said Captain Benbow, “for if you had been caught you would have had a great chance of losing your head.”

“Please you, sir, I do not feel it quite comfortable on my shoulders while I am dressed in this outlandish fashion among Christian men,” said Sam; and he whispered to Roger, who was standing near him, “Do not say that I turned Moor, Mr Willoughby, an you love me. I will soon get whitewashed, I hope.”

The Captain, taking the hint, ordered a suit of sailor’s clothes to be got up, which Sam without delay put on, and then doing up his Moorish dress in a bundle, hove it overboard, exclaiming, “I hope that I may not wear such duds as those again; and now, Captain, just to show that I am turned into a Christian once more, I shall feel greatly obliged if you will give me a glass of honest liquor. To say the truth, I have not dared to touch a drop since I turned Moor.”

“With all my heart,” said the Captain, and he ordered a glass of strong waters to be handed to Sam, who quaffed it off at once, giving a deep sigh as he reached the bottom.

“Come, that does a fellow good; I feel once more like Sam Stokes instead of the rascally Mustapha Mouser I was turned into.”

As soon as the ship had been put to rights a course was shaped for Cadiz, to which port Captain Benbow told his young friends he was bound when attacked by the Sallee rover.

“Now that you have come on board, Master Willoughby, I shall be glad to fulfil my promise and keep you if you desire to remain,” he said to Roger. “I was heartily sorry to have to leave you behind, as I knew how much you would be disappointed, but I was many months absent from England, and when I got back there was no time to send down to Dorsetshire and have you up, should you have been still willing to come; however, a promise is not broken as long as there is time to fulfil it, and so you are welcome to remain on board the Benbow frigate.”

Roger warmly expressed his thanks, and said that he would rather serve with Captain Benbow than go on board any other ship. He made the same offer to Stephen, who, however, having no wish to follow the sea as a profession, declined accepting it, though he begged that he might return home. Sam was at once duly entered as belonging to the ship. Jumbo, when he first came on board, had fixed his big round eyes on the Captain with an inquiring glance, but had been apparently too much awed to speak to him, and now he came aft, and making a profound bow, said, “Me tink you remember Jumbo, Captain Benbow; serve on board dis ship to sweep cabin when little boy.”

“Cannot say that I recollect your face; to my eyes, one nigger is much like another; but I have no doubt about the truth of your story, and am pleased to have you aboard again, and will enter you on the ship’s books as one of my crew if you wish it.”

“Oh yes, massa,” said Jumbo, with a broad grin. “Bery glad serve Captain Benbow; hope to sail wid you while you keep de sea.”

“Not much chance of my keeping anywhere else,” said the Captain.

So the matter was settled, and Jumbo, to his great delight, found himself one of the crew of the Benbow frigate. In about three days land was sighted, and that evening the ship entered the magnificent bay of Cadiz.

Next morning after breakfast the Captain ordered his boat to go on shore, and invited Roger and Stephen to accompany him.

“Jumbo, you will go with us,” he said. “You will have to carry a sack on your shoulders, but you need not ask what is in it.”

“Neber mind, Captain, me ready to do whateber you tell me,” answered Jumbo.

Roger and Stephen had taken their seats in the boat with the Captain, when Jumbo appeared with a big canvas sack, which was handed down after him. The men who were looking over the side grinned as they watched it placed in the bows of the boat.

“Give way, my lads,” cried the Captain, and they pulled for the shore.

They soon reached the quay, when, the Captain and his young friends stepping out, he ordered Jumbo to take up the sack and follow him. They had not gone far when they met two officers of the revenue, who stopped and inquired what was contained in the sack the negro carried.

“Salt provisions for my own use,” answered Captain Benbow. “You know me. I am a frequent trader to this port, and I have never attempted to smuggle.”

Still the officers insisted on seeing the contents of the sack.

“No, no,” said the Captain, “I have made up my mind not to show them. I tell you, I never ran any goods since I came to sea, and have no intention of doing so now.”

“We cannot help ourselves, Señor. What you say may be very true, but it is against our orders to allow you to pass. However, as the magistrates are sitting not far off, if you like to declare before them the contents of your sack, the negro may carry them wherever you order him.”

“The very thing I wish,” said the Captain. “I will go before the magistrates, and if they desire to see my salt provisions, they shall be welcome to do so.”

Accordingly, Captain Benbow leading, with his two young friends, Jumbo following with the sack, and the two officers bringing up the rear, proceeded to the custom-house, where a party of grave and reverend Señors were sitting. The officers at once stated what had occurred, when the president, who knew Captain Benbow, greeted him politely, expressed his regret that he should have to inconvenience him for such a trifle, but observed that he must adhere to the laws; that as soon as he had shown what the sack contained he should be at liberty to proceed wherever he might choose.

“Well, Señor, since you insist on seeing my salt provisions, I will show them to you,” said the Captain. “Jumbo, open that sack and throw the contents out on the table.”

Jumbo did as he was ordered, the whites of his eyes glancing, and his mouth at a broad grin, for he was certainly not ignorant of what he had been carrying, and, untying the string, out rolled thirteen gory heads. The magistrates started back, some with amazement, others with horror expressed in their countenances.

“There they are,” cried the Captain, “and at your service.”

“How did you become possessed of them?” asked the president.

“This bright sabre served me to cut the fruit from the branches,” he answered, and then gave an account of how he had been attacked by the Sallee rover, and succeeded in driving her off, after she had lost a large number of her men, besides those who had fallen on the deck of his ship, and whose heads he now exhibited.

The magistrates were greatly astonished, and highly delighted at his gallantry, for the Moors had much interfered with their trade of late, and had cut off a number of their ships. For although Admiral Blake, during Cromwell’s firm rule, had punished them severely and kept them in order, they had, since Charles the Second came to the throne, resumed their predatory habits with greater vigour than ever, while the Governments of southern Europe had been too much engaged with their own internal affairs to send any of their squadrons to keep them in order. The president highly complimented Captain Benbow on his gallantry, and invited him to a public banquet, to take place the next day in the Town-Hall. What became of the heads history does not narrate. They were probably returned to their sack after due note had been taken of them, and carried out to sea, and sunk with a shot or two in deep water; for it would certainly have been believed that they would not rest quietly on Christian soil, the Spaniards overlooking the fact that the ancestors of these Moors had once possessed the country as lords and masters.

Through Captain Benbow’s liberality, Roger and Stephen obtained fitting costumes to attend him at the banquet, where they had the satisfaction of seeing his health drunk and due honour done him, while they also had, through an interpreter, to give some account of their own adventures.

Some time was occupied in unloading the ship and receiving a fresh cargo. Before this was accomplished, Captain Benbow, to his astonishment, received an invitation from Charles the Second, King of Spain, to visit Madrid, and to give him personally an account of his exploit, of which his Majesty had heard through the officials at Cadiz.

“I know nothing of kings and courts, and if I go, shall feel like a fish out of water,” said the Captain to his young companions. “But, you see, kings’ commands must be obeyed, and perchance I may get a good turn or some benefit to my trade. I should like to have taken you with me, but as the king has not invited you, and I require some one to look after the ship, I must leave you behind.”

Roger and Stephen were in hopes that Captain Benbow might have taken them, as they would have wonderfully liked to have seen Madrid, but they were proud of having so much confidence placed in them, and they promised to do their best to attend to the duties of the ship both when unloading and loading, and their experience at Bristol enabled them to do the task. They had some difficulty from not knowing Spanish, but they got over it with the help of gesticulating, and a word thrown in occasionally by those who knew English. There were several English merchants, even at that time, settled at Cadiz, some of whom were shipping by the Benbow frigate. These, finding two young well-educated Englishmen on board, invited them to their houses, and were highly interested at hearing of their adventures during their captivity among the Moors, and their remarkable escape. As they became known they were made a great deal of, and thus greatly enjoyed their stay at Cadiz, though they were anxious to return home to relieve the anxiety of their fathers; but Captain Benbow had told them that the Dolphin had long since been reported lost, and they probably had been given up by their friends as dead. They were delighted, therefore, when one evening, the day’s work being over, they saw, advancing along the pier, a cavalier mounted on a stout mule, with a couple of attendants on foot. Till he drew near they did not recognise the mud-bespattered, dust-covered traveller as their Captain, but he soon made himself known by his hearty cheer as he saw them.

“How fares it, lads, with you; how fares it?” he shouted out. “All right with the Benbow?”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Roger. “All right with the ship and all right with us. How did you fare with the king and his courtiers?”

“A mighty deal better than I expected. Though they live in a big palace and are dressed in fine clothes, there is nothing after all, as I could see, about them to be afraid of, so I cracked my jokes and smoked my pipe, made myself at home, and his Majesty promised to write to his brother King of England, and tell him what a fine brave fellow he thought me, and it would be shame in him if he did not make me one of his own captains. The King of Spain asked me if I would become one of his, but I shook my head, and told him that I was born an Englishman, and an Englishman I hoped to die; that I had no wish to fight, but that if I did fight it would be for my country and my country alone. I am not exactly like Master William Penn, who thinks we can do without fighting altogether. The king gave me a letter which I am to deliver, and he said that he would write direct through his ambassador in London, so that this little affair of mine will make more stir in the world than I at first expected.”

The Captain received a further welcome from the inhabitants of Cadiz, who considered that in some way or other his feat reflected a great lustre on themselves.

The exhibition of Moors’ heads was in accordance with the barbarous customs of the times, and the grim humour of the brave Captain greatly took the fancy of people of all classes. As the Benbow frigate sailed out of the bay, flags were flying at the mastheads of all the other vessels in the harbour and from the flagstaffs on shore, and guns were firing and trumpets braying to do her gallant Captain honour.

Chapter Six.

The Benbow frigate sailed out of the Bay of Cadiz bound for England. The wind was fair, the sea smooth, and she carried every stitch of canvas which could be set, eager to reach her destination, the port of London. Stephen and Roger walked the deck with her commander, who was in high spirits at the success of his voyage, for he had secured not only a good freight out and home, but had received a bag of gold and other presents from the King of Spain as a testimony to his gallantry.

“And are you two young men willing to continue to sail with me?” he asked.

“With all my heart,” answered Roger promptly. “It has been the earnest desire of my heart ever since you came into our bay; and long before that I wished to go to sea, though it mattered but little to me with whom I should sail. Now I know you, I shall never wish to serve under another commander.”

Captain Benbow smiled at Roger’s enthusiasm. “I may hope to keep afloat for many a year to come, and I am always glad to have those with me who serve from affection rather than from interest, so you may depend on having a berth on board whatever ship I may command, and I will never let the grass grow under the keel if I can help it. And, Master Battiscombe, what do you say to following sea life?”

“I have not made up my mind for doing so,” answered Stephen. “I had no intention of going afloat till I was appointed supercargo of the Dolphin, and the experience I have had does not tempt me to go again, though I thank you, sir, for the offer, and am bound to confess that I would rather serve under you than any other commander.”

“Well, well, each man to his taste,” said the Captain. “I conclude that as you have been so long absent from home, and your friends must have been in great anxiety for your fate, that you would like to land as soon as possible. Should the weather permit, I will put you on shore either at the Start or the Bill of Portland. I cannot promise to run in to West Bay, lest I should be delayed in my passage up channel; may be, however, we shall fall in with a Torbay fisherman, or some craft bound to Lyme, which will land you still nearer home.”

Roger, on hearing this, was strongly tempted to ask leave to accompany Stephen, for he longed once more to see his father and uncle, and sweet Alice and Madam Pauline, but he restrained his feelings; he feared that should he once leave Captain Benbow it might not be again so easy to join him. He therefore said nothing on the subject, but applied himself as diligently as before to improving his knowledge of seamanship and navigation.

Nothing has been said of Jumbo since he was employed in carrying the Moors’ heads on shore. He had devoted himself to Captain Benbow, and fully expected to continue in his service. Sam Stokes also had entered as a seaman on board the Benbow frigate, but he was greatly changed; he had never been quite himself since they sailed from Cadiz.

“I cannot help thinking of those Moors’ heads,” he said one day to Roger, who inquired what was the matter. “Sometimes I see them dangling, and they taunt me for having deserted the ship when I had sworn on their Koran to stick to them to the last.”

“I am not very well able to say whether you are right or wrong in what you have done; still I think you were right in escaping from the Moors, for you would have died a Mohammedan if you had remained with them, and I hope you will die a Christian,” said Roger, who was greatly puzzled to console poor Sam.

“Cannot say, sir,” murmured Sam. “I was a very poor one, or I should not have turned Moor; even to save my life. There were a good many other poor fellows who refused to turn, and got cruelly treated in consequence. It seems to me that I acted like a big coward, when, to save myself, I agreed to become a Moor, and I should have been served right if I had never been able to get away from them.”

“At all events, you have great reason to be thankful that you did get away from them,” said Roger. “Now, you have to see that you behave yourself like a Christian man in future.”

“I will try,” said Sam, gravely. “I wish you would speak to the Captain and have those heads thrown overboard.”

On this it occurred to Roger that the best thing was to tell Captain Benbow of the hallucination under which Sam was suffering.

“I will soon settle that matter,” said the Captain, and he directed one of the mates to go forward and tell the men that if he ordered them to heave overboard the Moorish heads ranged on the forecastle, they were to pretend to do so. Presently he came on deck, and calling Sam aft, asked how he dared to have allowed those heads to remain on the forecastle. He then, keeping Sam by him, ordered the men to heave them into the sea, and not let one remain. They, being prepared, went through the action of heaving heads overboard. Sam looked on with open eyes and mouth agape.

“Now, my man,” said the Captain, “we have got rid of those Moorish heads.”

“Ay, ay,” said Sam, looking over the side to see some of them floating astern. “I hope we have seen the last of them; it’s my belief they have all gone to the bottom.”

After this the Benbow frigate continued her course across the Bay of Biscay without meeting with any adventure. One day the Captain was talking over his plans with Stephen. “When I get to London, as soon as I have discharged my cargo and secured another freight, one of the first things I shall have to do will be to present myself to King James and see what notice he is inclined to take of the King of Spain’s recommendation.”

“To King James!” exclaimed Stephen. “Why, I was not aware that King Charles the Second was dead.”

“Dead he is though, and, as the Spaniards say, died a true Catholic. Cannot say it is much to his credit, as he always pretended to his subjects to be a Protestant, and now that King James, who is more honest in that respect, acknowledges himself to be a Catholic, the French and the Spaniards are rejoicing at the thought that England will be turned back to the old faith, and that the object of the Spanish Armada will be gained.”

“Heaven forbid that such should be the case!” exclaimed Stephen.

“I have no wish for it, and do not believe the people of England will consent to such a change,” remarked the Captain; “but as I am a tarpaulin, as they call us, I do not trouble myself with affairs on shore, and it is my business to obey the laws, and do my duty to whatever king is on the throne.”

“I cannot altogether agree with you there,” said Stephen. “Our fathers fought to gain our civil and religious liberty, and it behoves us, their children, to defend those liberties with our lives.”

The Captain shrugged his shoulders, remarking that he had not given his thoughts to such matters.

The news he had heard made Stephen meditate a great deal, and become more than ever anxious to return home. At length the Lizard was made, and the eyes of the adventurers were gladdened with the sight once more of their native land. The wind being fair, the Benbow frigate soon afterwards passed the Start, when she came up with a small vessel running in for the land. The Captain hailed her.

“Where are you bound for?” he asked.

“Lyme,” was the answer.

“Heave-to, then, for I have a passenger for you.”

“Now, Battiscombe, here is an opportunity if you wish to take advantage of it.”

“Thank you, sir; I will do so,” said Stephen.

In another minute his small bag of clothing was got on deck. He thanked Captain Benbow for all his kindness; he and Roger grasped each other’s hands; they felt the parting more than their words could express.

“Tell them all about me,” said Roger; “how much I should have liked to come home, but that I am bound to the ship and cannot leave Captain Benbow.” He sent many more messages, which need not be repeated.

A boat was lowered, and Stephen was speedily carried on board the trader, which stood on towards Lyme, too far off then to be perceived, while the frigate, having hoisted her boat in, continued her course up channel. The Bill of Portland was soon passed, and the high cliffs of the Isle of Wight sighted. Before the sun rose the next day, the Benbow frigate had run through the Straits of Dover, and was about to haul round the North Foreland, when a heavy north-westerly gale sprang up, which compelled her quickly to shorten all sail. In vain an attempt was made to steer for the Downs; the gale increased with such fury that it became evident that she would run a fearful risk of being driven on the Goodwin Sands. The ship was stout and well found, and Captain Benbow still hoped to beat up against the wind; but he was driven farther and farther from the English coast, while under his lee he had the dangerous Flemish bank. Few men, however, knew the shoals of that coast better than he did. Now the ship was put on one tack, now on another, but on each tack she lost ground.

He might, to be sure, have run for Dunkerque, Ostend, or other places along the coast, but night was coming on, and to steer in among the sandbanks was a dangerous undertaking, with the weather so thick and squally as it then was, and without a pilot; still, unless the Benbow frigate could beat off the coast,—it was one of two alternatives which remained—she might ride to her anchors, though risk of her dragging them was very great. Still, as long as her masts and sails remained uninjured, Captain Benbow resolved to try and keep to sea; a shift of wind might enable him to gain either the Downs or the Thames. The cool intrepid way in which Captain Benbow managed his ship excited Roger’s admiration, while the crew, accustomed to confide in his skill, executed his orders with prompt obedience. When morning at length broke, dark clouds covered the sky, while leaden seas, capped with foam, rolled up around them, but no land was in sight to leeward, which showed that they had not struggled in vain; still the wind was blowing as strong as ever, and, stiff as was the Benbow frigate, it would have been dangerous to set more sail; indeed, she was already carrying as much as she could bear.

“If the gale does not increase we shall do well,” observed Captain Benbow to Roger. “As soon as it moderates we may stand in for the Thames.”

As the Captain had been on deck all night, he now went below to snatch a short sleep, leaving his first officer in command. Roger was also glad to turn in, for he could scarcely keep his eyes open. He might have been asleep for about a couple of hours, when he was awakened by hearing two loud crashes in rapid succession. He sprang up on deck to discover, to his dismay, that both mainmast and foremast were gone by the board. The Captain was already there issuing his orders to clear the wreck, and to prevent the butts of the masts striking the sides of the ship. Never, perhaps, before had the Benbow frigate been in greater peril, and it was more difficult than ever to keep her off the shoals. The long dark night was coming on, the masts were pounding away against the sides, having been cut adrift. An effort was made to rig a spar on the stump of the foremast, so as to keep steerage-way on the ship, the Captain having resolved to steer for the Scheldt, in which river he hoped to find safe anchorage. Owing to the way the ship was tumbling about, some hours passed, however, before the jury-mast could be rigged and sail set on it. The ship was then kept as much as possible to the westward, and Captain Benbow expressed a hope that he should be able to reach the mouth of the river. Before the morning came the wind had dropped considerably, and had shifted to the southward, whereon the ship’s head was immediately turned in the direction of the Thames. She had gone but a short distance, when a sail, which had been sighted at daylight coming from the northward, approached under Dutch colours.

“Mynheers and I have always been friendly, and if yonder vessel has any spars on board, I doubt not that her Captain will gladly supply us with anything we want.”

The stranger soon drew near, and Captain Benbow having explained his wants, which were indeed very evident, the Dutch Captain at once offered not only to furnish him with spars, but, it being almost calm, to send some of his crew on board to assist in getting them set up. The offer was too good to be refused. The stranger was the Elephant, Captain Coopman, who, knowing Captain Benbow by reputation, said that he was delighted to be of service to him. While the two ships lay close alongside each other, their crews busily engaged with the work in hand, another ship was approaching, which was not discovered till she was a couple of miles or so off. Captain Coopman, on observing her, expressed his astonishment and annoyance.

“She is French,” he exclaimed. “By not keeping a proper look-out, I have allowed myself to be caught.”

“But I cannot permit you to be caught by the Frenchman,” said Captain Benbow.

“Thanks, friend,” answered the Dutch Captain. “I would willingly not expose you to an attack from the Frenchman, but I cannot help myself. See, the wind has fallen completely; it has become a dead calm.”

While he was speaking, a boat was seen to put off from the stranger, and as she approached, it was observed that she was full of armed men. Captain Benbow, on this, ordered the guns to be loaded and run out, and directed his men, while the Dutch Captain, going on board his ship, followed his example. In a short time the stranger was alongside. Captain Benbow stood at the gangway.

“You are welcome to come on board if you visit us as a friend,” he said, “but I cannot allow you to step on my deck if you approach as an enemy.”

“Whither are you bound, and to what nation do you belong?” asked the stranger.

“I am English,” answered Benbow, “and am bound from Cadiz to the Thames. You, I see by the colours you carry, are French.”

“What is the other vessel alongside you?” asked the French Captain.

“She is Dutch, and has delayed her voyage to render me assistance in getting fresh masts set up, as you will observe, mine having been carried away in the gale.”

“I regret to have to interfere with her, but I must, notwithstanding, make her my prize,” said the French Captain.

“If you make prize of her you must make prize of me,” answered Captain Benbow. “In common gratitude I cannot allow her to be captured while I have the means of defending her.”

“Notwithstanding, I must take her, for I am bound to make prizes of all Dutch vessels I fall in with,” answered the stranger.

“At present, my friend, I think we are more likely to make you and your boat’s crew prisoners,” said Captain Benbow. “See, you are under our guns, and I have only to give the word, and we can sink you in a moment; however, what do you say to a compromise? You give me your word that you will let this vessel escape, and I promise not to make prisoners of you and your boat’s crew, which I shall otherwise most certainly do.”

“Who are you?” asked the French Captain, standing up in his boat. He appeared to be in the prime of manhood, and exhibited a tall yet well-knit figure, and a fine bold handsome countenance.

“John Benbow, at your service,” answered the Captain. “May I ask your name?”

“I am Jean Bart, in the service of the King of France. I am pretty well known in these seas.”

“That indeed you are; a better seaman does not sail out of Dunkerque,” answered Benbow. “I have often heard of you and your doings, and from the number of prizes you have taken, I judge that you can afford to let one go without any loss to your reputation or purse. I tell you frankly that I am glad of having an opportunity of meeting you.”

Captain Bart looked pleased at the compliment paid him.

“Come, my friend,” said Captain Benbow, “agree to my proposal. Step on board; crack a bottle with Captain Coopman and me. Your men shall be entertained forward, and while the calm lasts you need be in no hurry to take your departure.”

Without further hesitation Captain Bart agreed to the proposal.

“I trust to your honour, Captain Benbow,” he said.

“You may rest assured that, as you have given your word to allow the Elephant to continue her voyage unmolested, you will be able to leave this ship whenever you desire.”

The three Captains were soon seated in the comfortable cabin of the Benbow frigate. Captain Benbow, having regarded Captain Bart for an instant, put out his hand, exclaiming, “Why, we served together as lads for two years or more under Admiral Ruyter—surely I am not mistaken—and saw a good deal of pretty hard fighting.”

“You are perfectly right,” answered Captain Bart. “I remained with him till I was twenty-one and a half years of age, when I returned to my native town of Dunkerque, not supposing at the time that I should have to fight against my old friends the Dutch.”

“You and I must be about the same age, Captain Bart,” observed Benbow, after they had been comparing notes of certain events which had taken place.

“I was born in the year 1650,” said Bart.

“Very same year that I first saw the light,” observed Benbow. “We both of us have been ploughing the salt water pretty nearly ever since.”

“For my part I expect to plough it to the end of my days, as most of my ancestors have done; for we men of Dunkerque are born seamen, and fond of the ocean,” said Bart.

“And to my belief I am the first of my race that ever went to sea,” said Benbow.

Roger had been an interested listener to the conversation carried on in English, which Bart spoke remarkably well, as did Captain Coopman.

“Will you tell Captain Bart your adventure with the Moors’ heads, sir?” he said, thinking it would interest their guests.

The other Captain was eager to hear it, and Benbow gave the account, and told of the wonderful way in which Roger and Stephen had escaped.

“You acted bravely, my young friend,” said Captain Bart, turning to Roger. “It required no small amount of nerve and courage to escape from the Tiger. Those Sallee rovers have become the pest of the ocean. I hope that my Government will send me in search of them, though for my part I would rather catch them alive than cut off their heads, as each Moor fetches a good price as a slave, and very useful well-behaved servants they make, always provided their tempers are not irritated, and it is prudent not to allow them to carry arms of any description.”

After some time Captain Bart rose to take his leave. His men had, he found, been hospitably entertained by the crew of the Benbow frigate. Very loath to quit her, the Frenchmen, embracing their hosts in a most demonstrative manner, swore eternal friendship, expressing the hope that England and France would hereafter, as now, remain on friendly terms. The Dutchmen had of late been suffering too much from the privateers of Dunkerque to regard the French with any amicable feeling, but wisely kept on board their own vessel.

“Now, Captain Bart,” said Benbow. “I must trust to your honour not to interfere with our friend here.”

“Certainly, certainly,” answered Captain Bart, and shaking hands with his brother Captains, he stepped into his boat, which pulled leisurely towards his frigate.

“Now, my friend,” said Benbow to Captain Coopman, “yonder Frenchman may be a very honourable person, but it is as well not to trust him more than we can help. I would advise you to make sail directly it becomes dark, so that you may put as wide a distance as possible between your two vessels before to-morrow morning. I will remain here and show my lights for some time longer, so that he will not know in what direction you have gone.”

The Dutch Captain, considering Benbow’s advice sound, promised to follow it. The calm continued till about half the first watch was over, when a light breeze sprang up from the northward, thus placing the English and Dutch vessels to windward of Jean Bart’s frigate. The Elephant immediately made all sail, and stood away for the Texel, not allowing a glimmer of light to proceed from her sides, and Captain Benbow trimmed his lanterns brighter than ever, and waited for an hour or more, when, a breeze freshening, he shaped a course for the Thames.

“Come,” he said, “we have done a good turn to our Dutch friend; I hope that he will manage to escape from their clutches.”

Chapter Seven.

We must now return to Eversden. Months had passed by since Roger and Stephen had sailed from Bristol, and no news had been received of them. At length one day Mr Battiscombe made his appearance, having ridden over from Langton Park, and desired to have a word with the Colonel alone. He looked graver and sadder than usual.

“I bring you news,” he said, “and I beg you to break it to my friend Willoughby. Our two sons, as you know, sailed in the Dolphin. The owners write me word that so long a time has elapsed since they heard of her without receiving tidings of her, that they are compelled to give her up as lost. She had not been heard of at any of the ports up the Mediterranean. It is within the pale of possibility that the lads may have escaped, yet surely we should have heard.”

“God’s will be done,” said Mr Willoughby when he heard the account. “I will not give up all hope of their return, though what has happened to them it is indeed hard to guess; still there are chances by which they may have effected their escape.”

Though he could not at all times hide his grief, yet he bore up remarkably well. The only person in the family who would not consent to believe that Roger and Stephen were lost was Alice Tufnell.

“If it had been known that the Dolphin had gone down, and there was one survivor who could report that all the rest had perished, we might then believe that the ship had foundered,” she said, talking to Madam Pauline. “Who can tell but that the Dolphin may have been driven on the shore of some unknown island, whence the crew have been hitherto unable to escape? I have read of many such adventures. The ocean is very wide, and perhaps Roger and Stephen are even now living the lives of castaways, and engaged, may be, in building a vessel in which they will some day return home. If I were a man I should like to fit out a ship and go in search of them.”

“My dear, such undertakings appear very easy to the imagination, but practically the matter is very different,” answered Madam Pauline. “It would be like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. Supposing that the two dear lads are still alive, you would not know in what direction to go. You might sail about the ocean for years and visit every known and unknown island, and yet not find them. We must have patience and simply trust in God’s mercy to bring them back if He had thought fit to save their lives.”

When, however, not only month after month, but year after year went by, and the young men did not make their appearance, even Alice began to lose hope of seeing them. She spoke of them less frequently than formerly, though a shadow of sadness occasionally crossed her fair brow, but yet little had occurred to draw out the character of Alice Tufnell. She was determined and energetic, zealous in all she undertook; at the same time she was gentle and affectionate to those who had befriended her, with her sweet and loving disposition and sweet temper. Her voice was sweet and musical, and Madam Pauline and the Colonel delighted in hearing her singing. She was now about seventeen, her figure of moderate height, well rounded and graceful, while her countenance exhibited the serene and joyous spirit which dwelt within. She frequently accompanied the Colonel on a small pony, which had been Roger’s, on his walks about the country. Sometimes she attended Madam Pauline, who, however, did not often extend her perambulations beyond the grounds or the neighbouring village. Why it was she had scarcely been able to say, but, when not engaged, Alice frequently made her way across the Downs to the top of the cliff, sometimes descending to Ben Rullock’s cottage, not that she often found the old man at home, as he was generally out fishing, or gone away to Lyme, or some other place on the coast, to do commissions for the villages. Sometimes she would sit in Roger’s favourite nook, at others would pace up and down on the cliffs, gazing out over the ocean, now blue and calm, and sparkling in the sunlight, now of a leaden hue, covered with foaming seas which came roaring up on the beach with a thundering sound. Of course she more frequently came when the wind was light and the water calm, and she could sit and gaze at them with satisfaction.

She had one day gone down to old Ben’s cottage. Not finding him at home, she had strolled along the beach till she turned with her face towards Lyme, when she observed a boat slowly rowing along the shore. That must be old Ben’s, and he probably has Toby with him, and they appear to have a passenger. It was curiosity perhaps which tempted her to linger for the arrival of the old man, to hear the news from Lyme, as it reached that place generally a day or two sooner than Eversden. She waited, now stooping to pick up a shell, now to mark with a stick she carried in her hand how far the sea had risen on the beach. Looking up as the boat drew near, she observed that the passenger had risen; as he did so he lifted his hat, but he again sat down as old Ben and Toby pulled rapidly in for the beach, up which they ran the bows of the boat. The stranger then stepping out advanced towards her, and once more bowed.

“Miss Alice Tufnell?” he said in a tone of inquiry.

“That is my name,” she answered, looking at him with a somewhat doubtful expression. He was a young man, tallish and thin, with a complexion burnt to a dark brown, his countenance showing that he had undergone toil, if not probably also sickness and suffering.

“How do you know my name?” she asked.

“What, Alice! what, Miss Tufnell! don’t you remember Stephen Battiscombe!” exclaimed the stranger.

“Is it possible?” she exclaimed, putting out her hand and gazing at his face. “I knew you were not lost; I always said so. And Roger, my dear brother Roger, why has he not come with you? Where is he?” she asked in an anxious tone.

“He is serving with the brave Captain Benbow. Though he longed to come and see you all, yet he would not quit his ship till she arrives in the Thames, and not then unless there is time to come down here and return before the Captain again puts to sea. Roger is wedded to a sailor’s life, notwithstanding the dangers he has already run in following it; but he bade me give his best and truest love to you, Miss Alice, and his father and uncle and aunt.”

Mistress Alice lingered for some time on the beach, so interested in listening to what Stephen was telling her, that she forgot he might desire to be proceeding homewards to relieve the anxiety of his own family. At length, however, Stephen suggested that they should proceed towards Eversden, when she led the way by the narrow path up the cliff. They then walked on, somewhat slowly it must be confessed, which was but natural, that Stephen might have time to narrate some of his adventures since the loss of the Dolphin. Madam Pauline was the first person they met, and she uttered an exclamation of surprise as she saw Mistress Alice approaching with a strange young gentleman, with whom she appeared on terms of intimacy.

“Who do you think he is, aunt?” asked Alice.

“Roger; no, he cannot be Roger; surely he must be Stephen Battiscombe!”

“You are right in your conjecture, my dear Madam Pauline,” said Stephen; and the little French lady, seizing both his hands and looking into his face kindly, then hurried him off to see the Colonel and Mr Willoughby, to whom he had to narrate, as briefly as he could, his and Roger’s adventures, and give the messages which his friend had sent by him. Mr Willoughby was anxious to see Roger before he again sailed, but his difficulty was to know where to find him.

“I must write to Master Handscombe,” he observed; “he will ascertain when the Benbow frigate comes into port, and will easily convey a message on board desiring him to come, and requesting the Captain to give him leave.”

After partaking of some refreshment served to him by the fair hands of Mistress Alice, Stephen set off to return home. Next morning he came back to Eversden. He omitted in his hurry, he said, to pay old Ben Rullock for bringing him from Lyme. He invited Mistress Alice to accompany him to the beach.

“It is a path I have often trod alone of late,” she answered, “and I know not why I should hesitate in accompanying you.”

As Madam Pauline did not forbid her, she accompanied Stephen. Their conversation was probably interesting to themselves, but it need not be recorded. Stephen, of course, had a vast deal to tell her of his adventures, which she had not hitherto heard. This made them linger on the way, and sit down on the top of the cliffs, that they might converse more at their ease.

Certain it was that Madam Pauline considered it her duty to chide Mistress Alice for being away so long from home, although Stephen took the blame on himself by saying that he had to wait for some time to see old Ben, who was out in his boat, but he promised to try and keep better time in future. Day after day, on some excuse or other, he returned to Eversden. His father, he said, had written to his friend Mr Kempson at Bristol, who would, he believed, restore him to his position in the counting-house, while he hoped, from the encouragement he had before received, that he should soon make a satisfactory income, which would enable him to set up house for himself. He did not venture to say who would share his fortune with him, or to hint that Mistress Alice might be interested in the matter.

All this time no news had been received of Roger. Mr Willoughby had written to Mr Handscombe, who was still in London. He replied that the Benbow frigate had not yet arrived, though she was long overdue, but the merchants to whom her freight was consigned had received notice of her having left Cadiz. Except from the account sent them through Stephen, they had not heard of her being in the channel. They spoke of the heavy gale which had occurred in the North Sea, and fears were entertained that she might have met with some disaster. This made the family at Eversden very anxious. Mr Handscombe wrote other news, however, to Mr Willoughby. He spoke of the extreme unpopularity of the king, especially among the Dissenters. Notwithstanding his promise not to support the Popish system, and to allow the right of free worship to all his subjects, he had already introduced innovations. The man who had governed Scotland with fire and sword, and murdered through his agents numberless persons for adhering to their religious principles, was, it was said, likely to commence a similar system of terrorism in England. Large numbers of Londoners, ever opposed to tyranny, were ready to revolt as soon as a leader should come forward. That leader had already been found, and only waited for an opportunity to carry out the proposed project, and to dethrone the Popish king. It was hoped that numbers in all parts of the country, especially in the western counties, would follow their example as soon as the signal was given, and the man to whom all looked as their leader had made his appearance on the scene. Mr Handscombe mentioned no names, he only spoke of reports, nor did he say whence the expected chief was likely to come; but Mr Willoughby was fully convinced that rebellion on a large scale was in prospect. He did mention the contents of this part of his letter to his brother-in-law. He felt sure that the Colonel would take no part in any proceeding of the sort, and might, from his loyal principles, feel himself called upon to support King James by sending notice of any information he might obtain, if not by taking more active measures. Mr Willoughby, however, rode over the next day to Langton Hall, and had a long consultation with Mr Battiscombe, who would, he knew, cordially support the cause calculated to overthrow the Papal system with which the country was threatened. They had a long and interesting discussion, at which his elder sons as well as Stephen were allowed to be present.

Stephen had now to set off for Bristol, Mr Kempson having agreed to receive him, but begged that he might pay one more visit to Eversden to bid his friends farewell. He rode over on a good horse that he might have a longer time to spend there. He found Mistress Alice about to set off on her favourite walk to the cliffs. As Madam Pauline was engaged up-stairs, and the Colonel was out in the fields, he did not hesitate to offer to accompany her, and she did not forbid him. They had just reached the Downs when they saw three vessels, one of large size and two others of smaller dimensions, standing in for the land. They watched them with much interest, Alice wondering what they could be, as ships of large burden seldom came near that part of the coast, Stephen observed that he knew something about the matter. “His father had received notice that morning that the Duke of Argyll, with a large force, had landed in Scotland, that the Highlands were in revolt, and that the Duke of Monmouth had sailed from the Texel. There can be little doubt,” he added, “therefore, that the ships we see belong to him, although they are fewer in number than I should have expected.”

“Then is there to be a rebellion in this part of the country?” asked Alice, in a tone of considerable anxiety. “Will the scenes I have read of in the time of Cromwell be again enacted?”

“I fear it is the only way by which we can get our rights, my sweet Alice,” answered Stephen. “I would that war could be averted, but better to have war than to be tyrannically treated, our religious and civil rights trampled on as they have been for many years past; but, for my own part, I am ready to draw the sword in defence of our freedom.”

“But can our freedom thus be secured?” asked Alice. “All the blood shed in former years gained nothing, and in the end the king, who has just died, was more securely seated on the throne than his father had been. You belong to a peaceable profession, and whatever is done, I entreat you not to engage personally in warlike undertakings.”

“I thought, Mistress Alice, that you were a heroine, and would have been ready to gird on my sword and bid me go forth and fight in a noble cause,” said Stephen, in a half playful, half serious tone.

“And so I would if I were convinced the cause was noble, right, and just, with a prospect of success.”

“I promise you, Mistress Alice, not to draw sword unless in a righteous cause,” said Stephen. “Will that satisfy you?”

“If the cause is righteous; but who is to settle that?” said Alice gravely.

While they were speaking the ships stood off the coast, the wind flowing northerly, and soon again were lost to sight.

“Perhaps after all that may not be the squadron which has been looked for,” said Stephen. “Then you have uselessly been made anxious.”

“I trust it may be so,” said Alice.

And they continued their walk discoursing on subjects far more interesting to themselves than politics. Stephen spoke of his expected career at Bristol, and hoped, he said, to pay occasional visits to Langton and the spot endeared to him more than his paternal home. Though neither wished to return, they remembered that Madam Pauline and the Colonel might naturally complain were they long absent, and they at length bent their steps homeward. As they approached the manor house they were met by a loud shout; presently Roger came rushing out towards them. He greeted Alice as a sister, and shook Stephen warmly by the hand.

“I have just arrived from London town,” he exclaimed. “We only got into the Thames a week ago. I scarcely expected to get leave, but Master Handscombe pressed the point with the Captain, and undertook that I should return in ten days, so that my holiday will be a very short one, and I must make the most of it.”

Alice and Stephen expressed their delight at seeing him, and inquired the cause of his delay. He then described to them the gale in which the frigate had lost her masts, and their strange encounter with the French Captain Bart. Stephen required very little pressing to stop for the evening meal, which was soon to be placed on the table. He mentioned to Mr Willoughby that he and Alice had seen some strange vessels in the offing. Mr Willoughby seemed deeply interested at the account, and became very thoughtful.

“It agrees with the message which Roger brought me down from London, and which I would have you carry to your father, for he would intrust nothing to him in writing. The future man is on his way, and whether our slavery is to continue or freedom is to be obtained depends on the preparations made for his reception. If the gentlemen and yeomen of the West rise to a man, success would be secured; pray say that I shall be glad to have some conversation with your father without loss of time.”

As the days were long, Stephen had broad daylight with which to return. Roger accompanied him, as the two young men had naturally much to talk about. Stephen again spoke of the vessels they had seen off the coast. He was convinced that they portended something of importance, and he proposed to Roger to ride into Lyme the next morning to learn any news the people of that town might have obtained on the subject. Roger gladly consented to accompany him, remarking, however, that he did not feel deeply interested in the matter. “Captain Benbow says that a sailor should stick to his ship and look after his men, and not trouble himself with affairs on shore, and I intend to follow his example.”

On getting back to Eversden, Roger had so much to talk about that he kept the family, who were eager to listen to him, up to a later hour than usual. Notwithstanding, he was on foot at an early hour, and mounting his father’s horse, he in a short time joined Stephen on the road to Lyme. The road was somewhat circuitous, hilly, and rough, so that it took them nearly two hours to reach the high ground above the town, whereupon they gazed across it over the blue sea. Stephen exclaimed, “Why, those must be the very three ships I saw yesterday evening; then I was not wrong in my conjecture, they must be the ships; they have, probably, troops and stores on board, and perhaps the Duke is with them. Let us ride on and ascertain.”

Riding down into the valley, on the sides and at the bottom of which the town is built, the houses in outskirts being scattered somewhat irregularly about, they proceeded to the “George Inn,” where they put up their horses, and to their surprise they found that no one was at all certain as to the object of the vessels in the offing; they were said to be Dutch, but they showed no colours. It was supposed that they were about to proceed along the coast; still there was some excitement. A boat had been seen to land at Seaton, some way to the east, and had put some persons on shore; who they were, and where they had gone, no one knew. Unable to gain any definite information in the town, Roger and Stephen walked down towards the Cob, where they saw a boat pulling out towards the ships.

“If we had been a little sooner we should have been able to go in her and ascertain what those vessels really are,” observed Stephen.

“We shall know soon enough when the boat returns,” observed Roger.

But the morning went by, and still the boat did not come back to the shore. This seemed to have created some suspicions in the minds of the authorities. They then proceeded to the Church Cliffs, to the west of the town, from which lovely spot, as they walked up and down, they could observe the vessels. Here they found a number of persons, who all offered various surmises as to the character of the strangers. Among the persons present were the Mayor and other authorities of the town. The former suggested that a gun should be fired to recall the boat, when, it was thought, if she had been retained for any particular reason, a friendly signal would be made.

“An excellent idea, Mr Mayor,” answered another member of the Corporation. “But to confess the truth, we have not a grain of powder to fire a musket; we must wait patiently till the boat comes back.”

The day passed by, till towards evening the post arrived. On this the Mayor and several of the Corporation hurried to the post-house. The post had brought a weekly News-Letter, in which it was stated that three ships had lately sailed from a port in Holland, and were supposed by the English ambassador to be bound either for England or Scotland, and that the Duke of Monmouth was aboard.

“What if those three ships out there are those spoken of!” exclaimed the Mayor. “We shall have an invasion, rebellion, and much fighting in these parts. My friends, we must call out the borough militia, we must oppose the landing, we must turn the tide of war from our own town to some other part of the coast.”

This speech was highly applauded by the loyal part of the inhabitants. The drum was immediately beat to summon the lieges to defend the town. A very few answered to the call; instead of doing so, their Captain mounted his horse, and galloped off to carry the information to London. The Mayor, finding that he had gone, with several other members of the Corporation quietly slipped out of the town, and in a short time the whole place was in a state of confusion. No one had been able to say what was about to take place. Seven boats were now seen approaching the beach west of the Cob. Roger and Stephen went down to meet them.

“Come,” said Stephen, “let us go down and meet them. We shall soon know all about the matter.”

“But, surely, you will not join them whether the Duke is there or not, till you understand what are their intentions,” said Roger.

“If the Duke comes, as I believe he will, to oppose the Papists and establish civil and religious liberty, I am bound to aid him with my life’s blood,” answered Stephen, enthusiastically.

In a short time the boats got near the beach, and from the largest a tall graceful man of handsome countenance, dressed in purple, with a star on his breast and a sword by his side, stepped on shore, when about eighty-three other persons, many of them by their dress being gentlemen, landed at the same time. As soon as all were on shore, the Duke, in a loud voice, his countenance beaming with satisfaction, exclaimed, “Silence, my friends. Let us now return thanks to God for having preserved us from the dangers of the sea, and especially from the ships which would have prevented our progress.” Kneeling down on the sand, all the rest imitating his example, he lifted up his voice in a prayer of thanksgiving, though some of those who might have joined him were silent. The Duke then rising, with a cheerful countenance, drew his sword, and, ordering his men to fall into their ranks, advanced towards the town. Numbers now rushed forward to welcome him and kiss his hand, so that it was with difficulty at times that he could make his way. Among the most eager was Stephen, who, in spite of what Roger had said, hurried up to the Duke and offered his services. The townsmen now came up shouting, “A Monmouth! A Monmouth! Protestant religion.” Amid a considerable concourse the Duke made his way to the Church Cliff, where his blue standard with the motto, “Pro religione et libertate.” This done, some temporary tables were formed, at which several writers took their seats with books before them, ready to enter the names of those who were willing to enlist under his standard. The volunteers flocked in rapidly, and the number of the force was soon increased by sixty stout young men, for whom arms were provided, chiefly from those stored in the Town-Hall for the use of the militia. The two principal leaders next to the Duke were Lord Grey of Wark, who had landed with a musket on his shoulder, a pair of pistols in his girdle, and, far more important to the cause, a Scotch gentleman, a soldier of experience, Fletcher of Salton, who, taking command of the men, at once ordered some to take possession of the forts, others to guard the avenues, and the remainder to get the arms and ammunition from on board ship, including four field-pieces—the only heavy guns brought with them.

Roger had stood aloof, for he very well knew that were he to join, it would be, in the first place, in direct opposition to his uncle’s wishes, and besides he had also engaged to serve with Captain Benbow on board a Royal ship, to which he expected shortly to be appointed. He was anxious, therefore, to return home as soon as possible, but he was unwilling to go without first ascertaining whether Stephen had made up his mind to remain with the Duke. He had some little difficulty in finding him among the crowd flocking round the standard, but at length he got up to him and took him by the arm.

“I am loth to leave you,” he said, “but go I must. Tell me, will you return to Langton and consult your father before joining the Duke? and if so, we should be on the road, for the day is waning, and little more can be done this evening.”

“I would rather ask you, Roger, if you have made up your mind not to join the noble cause. I tell you that I have resolved to throw in my lot with the Duke. You know not what I sacrifice by so doing, should success fail to attend our enterprise; but it must succeed, and ere many days are over, the Duke will be at the head of an army sufficient to drive James of York from his usurped throne.”

“I tell you I am sorry that you have so decided,” answered Roger. “Am I then to bear any message to your father except to say that you will not return home?”

“Yes, tell him that I have joined the Duke; and I am well assured that my brothers will, as soon as they hear of his landing, hasten to his standard.”

“Have you any other message?” asked Roger.

“Yes, one which I know I can confide to you,” answered Stephen in a low voice, not free from agitation; “it is to Alice. Tell her that I know I am acting contrary to her advice, and it grieves me deeply to do so, as it may appear that I am regardless of her wishes, but that I consider everything must be sacrificed to the cause of duty, and that no more sacred cause exists than the one in which I am engaged.”

“I will carry out your wishes,” said Roger with a sigh. “It seems to me as if we two had changed places; you used once to act the part of my Mentor, now I am urging my advice on you, though, alack! you appear but little inclined to follow.”

“It is impossible, Roger, for I have already signed my name as one of the Duke’s adherents, and I cannot desert him.”

Roger, all his expostulations useless, wishing his friend farewell, hurried back to the inn, where he was just in time to prevent his horse from being taken possession of by some of the Duke’s zealous adherents, who were eager at once to form a body of cavalry.

“Quick, young gentleman, and mount,” whispered the landlord; “they have already secured all the steeds they could find at the ‘Pig and Whistle,’ and will be here anon.”

Roger threw himself into the saddle. As he galloped off he heard shouts calling him back, but using whip and spur he was soon out of the town, nor did he pull rein till he was beyond reach of any pursuers. At the first hamlet through which he passed, several of the people seeing him riding fast, inquired if anything unusual had happened. Without considering that his prudent course would have been to keep silence, he replied, “Yes, the Duke of Monmouth landed this evening at Lyme, and I saw his standard set up in the market-place; what he is going to do, however, is more than I can say.”

“Hurrah! At last he has come to free us from our Popish tyrants and taxes,” cried one of the villagers; and another raised the shout of “A Monmouth! A Monmouth! We will go to him and fight for him if he wants us.”

Roger rode on, and at the next village gave the same information with a like result. No sooner had he told the people that the Duke had landed, than nearly all were eager to join him. Roger had promised Stephen to ride straight for Langton Hall to inform Mr Battiscombe of what had occurred. He was delayed here and there by having to answer numerous interrogations, and at length he reached the Hall, by which time it was nearly dark. He told a servant to hold his horse while he went into the hall where the family were assembled at supper.

“What brings you here, Master Roger, and what has become of Stephen?” asked Mr Battiscombe.

“He has joined the standard of the Duke of Monmouth, who landed this afternoon, and he bade me ride on and tell you, being assured that you would approve of his proceeding.”

“Would that I could join him myself!” exclaimed Mr Battiscombe.

“But I can, and I can,” cried out two of his other sons, rising from their chairs as they spoke. “We will join him this very night; and you will return with us, Roger, of course.”

“I am bound homewards,” answered Roger. “I could not take such a step without consulting my uncle and father.”

“For so glorious a cause we ought not to hesitate for a moment,” exclaimed one of the young Battiscombes; “but if you will not go with us we must set out without you.”

“Better wait till to-morrow morning,” said Mr Battiscombe. “Employ this evening in preparing your arms, and collecting such articles as you may require.”

After Roger’s sturdy refusal to join the Duke, the young Battiscombes treated him with unusual coldness, barely indeed with civility; he, therefore, wishing them good-evening, mounted his horse and made his way towards the manor-house.

“Have you heard anything more about the ships Alice saw last night?” asked his father.

“Yes,” answered Roger, and he described who had landed from them. “Stephen has joined the Duke, and wanted me much to do the same, but I declined till I had consulted you.”

“You acted wisely, Roger,” said his uncle. “It may be that he will gain the day, it may be that he will lose it; but certain it is that he who brings civil war into a land brings a heavy curse.”

“And has Stephen actually joined the Duke of Monmouth?” exclaimed Alice, turning pale. “I urged him not to join so desperate a cause as that which the Duke’s must be when he comes to oppose constituted authority.”

“But he does not consider it desperate,” said Roger, “but a right noble cause; and judging by the enthusiasm exhibited by the people, if the Duke has brought arms to put into their hands, and officers to drill them, he may speedily have a large army under his command.”

“That remains to be seen,” observed the Colonel. “I had hoped not to witness another civil war in our country.”

Mr Willoughby had all the time kept silence. Although, perhaps, thankful that his son had not joined Monmouth’s standard, he rejoiced that the Duke had safely landed and that the people showed enthusiasm in his cause. His belief was that the whole of the west of England would quickly be up in arms, that the army of James would melt away, and that a bloodless victory would be obtained over the tyrant. He made a remark to that effect to the Colonel.

“I wish no ill to the Duke of Monmouth,” he answered. “If he succeeds he will be called the deliverer of our country, if he fails he will be branded as a traitor. It all depends on the prudence with which he acts, no less than on the purity of his views. If his cause is so intrinsically just, he is likely to obtain general support. If not, should he fail, he will be guilty of the ruin and destruction of those who engage with him. Undoubtedly the Duke, like you and others, believes that the whole of the west country, including the noblemen and gentlemen, will rise in his favour, that a rising will take place in London, that the Duke of Argyll will be successful in Scotland, and that the rebellion will be organised in Ireland; but all this remains to be proved, and it appears to me that the Duke, before he ventured on English ground, should have thoroughly assured himself that these events would occur.”

Such were the opinions of a large number of the upper classes who were not unfavourable to the Duke, but were unwilling to hazard their lives and fortunes by taking an active part in an enterprise which had been commenced, as they considered, without due and sufficient preparation. The older men had witnessed and the younger ones had heard too much of the horrors of civil war to desire again to see it commence, unless they could be satisfied that the cause they advocated would be speedily and entirely triumphant. The large majority of Protestants would gladly have seen the Popish king driven from the throne, but even that event might be purchased at too high a price, and thus they thought it prudent to remain neutral in the coming struggle.

Before retiring to bed the Colonel summoned Roger to speak to him in private. Having commended him for the prudence with which he had acted, he added, “Now, my lad, I wish you to give me your word of honour that you will not be tempted by any persuasions to join the Duke. I know the enthusiastic spirit which animates your friend Stephen, who fully believes that he is engaged in a righteous cause, regardless of all the consequences of failure. He acts with the approval of his father, therefore I do not blame him; but I think it probable that he will endeavour to win you and others over, and I therefore wish to prepare you to resist all his arguments and solicitations.”

Roger was somewhat surprised at this address, for he fancied that Stephen, whatever he might say, was not at all likely to win him over. He, however, readily gave his word to his uncle.

“I can now with much more satisfaction enjoy your society during your brief stay with us,” said the Colonel, “and feel confident that you will make the best of your way back to London to join your ship when your leave is up.”

The next day Mr Battiscombe came over from Langton Hall to call on the Colonel and Mr Willoughby. The object of his visit was very evident. He at once entered into the subject of the Duke of Monmouth’s enterprise, and used every argument he could think of to induce his friends to support it.

He had given his sons, he said, to the cause, though his age and infirmities must prevent him from joining it personally, but he purposed setting to work to enlist men who would soon raise a body of cavalry, of which he hoped Colonel Tregellen would take command.

“I will do nothing of the sort, my friend,” answered the Colonel, laughing. “My fighting days are over, and even if I thought better of the Duke’s cause than I do, I would not risk the safety of those dependent on me by engaging in it. As a friend, I would advise you to return home and remain quietly there; you have given your sons to the cause, and I pray that they may be preserved from the dangers to which they must inevitably be exposed.”

Madam Pauline and Alice were present; the former was greatly relieved when she heard the Colonel say this. Poor Alice looked pale and anxious. She was more ready than ever to forgive Stephen for having acted contrary to her advice, when she heard that he had done so in obedience to his father’s wishes; still she dreaded the dangers to which he would be exposed,—dangers which the Colonel’s remarks had conjured up in her imagination. Roger’s stay was to be a very short one, he had spent so much time on his journey down; and as he would probably be longer returning, it was settled that he was to start on the following Monday. The family on Saturday night had retired to rest, but Roger, a very unusual thing for him, could not sleep. He had thrown open the window, which looked northward; before it, at some distance, ran the road between Lyme and Bridport. Presently he heard the tramp of feet and the murmur of voices. As he watched a part of the road which could be seen between the trees, he observed it filled with armed men marching eastward. There appeared to him to be a large number on foot pressing forward, then there came a body of horsemen. At length they all passed by. He was doubtful whether he should tell his uncle, but what would be the use, he thought, if they are Monmouth’s men?—he would not join them. Or is it likely that the Duke could so soon have got an army together? If they are the king’s, he might be called upon to give his assistance. He was very much inclined to let himself out of the house to go and ascertain what they were about. He resisted the temptation, however. Should he be discovered, his uncle, he felt, might suppose that he was breaking his word. Drowsiness stealing over him, he left his window open and turned into bed. He rose rather later than usual, and on going down to breakfast mentioned what he had heard during the night; but no one had been disturbed, and his father declared that he must have been dreaming. Roger asserted that he had both seen and heard a large body of men passing. The Colonel was somewhat unwell, and Mr Willoughby never left the house at an early hour, so Roger volunteered to go out and ascertain if anything unusual had taken place. He had just got to the edge of the plantations which bordered the high-road, when he heard the tramp of horses, and looking along it, saw a large body of mounted men trotting along at a fast rate coming from the direction of Bridport. Not wishing to encounter them, he crouched down among the underwood. At their head rode one of the officers who had landed with the Duke, who he heard was Lord Grey. His followers seemed to be in a desperate hurry, some pushing on before the others, as the oxen in a large drove are apt to do when the dogs are barking at their heels. They looked neither to the right hand nor to the left. The road was somewhat narrow, only three or four could ride abreast; thus they were some time in passing. Roger fancied they had all gone by, when, looking up, he observed a smaller party riding in better order. In the last among them, and apparently acting as an officer, he recognised Stephen Battiscombe, who kept continually turning round as if he expected some one to be following. Roger was much inclined to shout out and ask what had occurred, but he restrained himself, for he thought it possible that some of the men might look upon him as an enemy or a spy, and make him a prisoner. The appearance of Stephen had left no doubt that the party belonged to the Duke, and that they had been engaged in some expedition which had apparently not been successful. He now went on to the village, expecting there to obtain some certain information. Except the landlord of the little inn, who was too burly and short-winded to move, not a man did he find in the place.

“They are all gone, Master Roger,” said Joe Tippler; “marched away to Lyme to join the Duke of Monmouth. The Duke, they say, will soon have a mighty army, and go and take London town.”

Several women to whom he spoke could give him no further information; no one appeared to have heard the force passing during the night. Being unable to gain any further information, he was about to return home, when, on looking along the road, he saw towards the east another body of men on foot. It struck him that they might be the advanced guard of the king’s forces, and that it would be prudent to keep out of their way. He hurried back, therefore, to the plantation in which he had before concealed himself. As they came up they appeared to be marching in tolerable order, and he soon saw by their flags that they were the Duke of Monmouth’s men. They had among them several horses and a number of persons, who were evidently prisoners by the way they were guarded. Here and there some of the men appeared to have been wounded. Then there must have been fighting, and Monmouth’s party after all have been victorious, thought Roger. He now returned home to make his report. He had done nothing heroic, but he had acted with prudence in keeping out of the way. The Colonel, with Madam Pauline and Alice, was preparing to go to church when he arrived, and by his uncle’s desire he accompanied them. When they reached the church-door, however, except Master Holden and the clerk, with half a dozen poor women, no one was there. Notwithstanding, Master Holden performed the service, but it was evident that he was puzzled what to preach about, as it would have been useless to such a congregation to warn them against rebellion, as had probably been his intention. He therefore dismissed them without his usual address, observing that at any moment bodies of armed men might be visiting their peaceful village, and that they would be safer in their own houses than abroad. From Roger’s account the Colonel had no doubt that Bridport had been attacked, that the cavalry having been roughly handled had retreated, neither horses nor men being accustomed to stand fire, while the infantry perhaps had held their own, having driven back their enemies, and had retired in good order. Roger wanted to go out again after dinner to obtain some more news, but the Colonel forbade him to leave the grounds, as it was likely that the king’s forces would advance upon Lyme, if they were in sufficient number, and he might uselessly get involved in a skirmish. The remainder of the day, however, passed quietly. The next morning Roger was to start on his journey. He rose at an early hour; the whole family were up to see him off. It had been arranged that John Platt was to accompany him for the first twenty miles on the road towards London. He had a stout cob, which his uncle had given him to be sold in London for his benefit.

“Your father’s friend Mr Handscombe will certainly find a purchaser,” observed the Colonel. “Now, farewell, my lad, it may be months, it may be years, before you come back; you know not to what part of the world you may be sent. You have acted wisely; continue to do so, and should your life be preserved you will rise in your profession.”

Roger’s other farewells were made, and he mounted his horse. He carried a brace of pistols in his holsters, a sword by his side, and a valise strapped on behind the saddle. John Platt rode with an arquebuss hanging at his back, a good pistol in one holster, and a broadsword which had done duty in the Civil War. The Colonel ordered them to push forward as fast as possible towards London, that they might get clear of the excitement caused by the Duke’s landing, and have less chance of being interrupted. John Platt promised to carry out his master’s instructions.

“They shall pay dear, whether king’s men or rebels, if they attempt to stop us,” he said, as he clutched his big sword, which in his younger days he had used with powerful effect as a trooper under the Colonel, though at present it seemed doubtful whether his arm had still strength enough to wield it. The Colonel gave them his parting charges as they rode out of the court-yard and pushed forward, as they had been directed, towards Salisbury by by-paths with which John Platt was well acquainted. Here and there they met peasants hurrying towards Lyme, who eagerly inquired news of the Duke. Some asked if a battle had already been fought; others said that they understood the Duke had landed with an army of ten thousand men, which by this time had increased to twenty thousand.

“He landed with not ten thousand or not ten hundred either,” answered John dryly. “He may have a thousand or two about him by this time. If you take my advice you will go back home and not risk your necks by joining him.”

The advice, however, was seldom if ever followed, the men looking upon honest John as a malignant. As they advanced they met bodies of militia marching westward under Tory country gentlemen, who considered it their duty to side with the king though they had no personal affection for him. Roger on each occasion had to give an account of himself, and he found some difficulty in persuading some of these zealous Royalists that his intentions were honest. He was allowed, however, to go on, till at length the time came for his separating from John Platt. They warmly shook hands, as Roger did not consider it derogatory.

“Circumspect Master Roger,” said the old man, “do not let strangers get into your confidence; give them the cold shoulder rather; ride straight on; when you arrive at an inn, see to your horse yourself that he gets properly fed; if a stranger enters into conversation, listen to what he may have to say, but give him as little information as you can in return.”

Roger promised to follow the old soldier’s advice, and found it greatly to his advantage. His horse held out well, and by judicious management he contrived to get to London in five days after leaving Eversden. On entering London he found the city perfectly quiet, not the slightest sign, as far as he could discover, of a proposed outbreak, the fact being that the king had arrested all suspicious persons of influence. He inquired his way to the house of Mr Handscombe, who lived not far from the Thames. The cloth-merchant was at home, and received him kindly. He was looking somewhat pale and anxious, and made many inquiries as to what was going forward in the south. Roger gave him all the information he possessed, but Mr Handscombe made but few remarks in return.

“Now, my lad,” he said in a kind tone, “the sooner you get on board your ship the better for you. Captain Benbow is expecting you, and I promised to send you down as soon as you arrived, for I may not remain here long. Before you go you must take some refreshment, and I in the meantime will order a boat to be in waiting.”

“Where snail I find the Benbow frigate?” asked Roger.

“She is not the ship you are to join,” answered Mr Handscombe. “Her Captain has parted with her, and is now in command of a fine king’s ship, the Ruby, of fifty guns, lying at Deptford.”

Mr Handscombe was absent while Roger was taking the food provided for him; he appeared, on his return, in a travelling dress.

“I have made arrangements for the sale of your horse as your father requests me; here is the amount which the animal will probably fetch, put it in your pocket and do not throw it away; and now come along.”

“What, are you going with me, sir?” asked Roger.

“Yes, in the character of your father, going to see you on board your ship. Circumstances make it convenient to be away from London just at present, and the idea has struck me that I could not have a better opportunity. Your chest has been transferred to the Ruby, and you can carry your valise while I carry mine.”

They hastened down to the boat and immediately stepped aboard, when the boatmen began to row lustily down the stream, the tide fortunately favouring them. They safely shot under the arches of London Bridge, and were now among vessels of various sizes and rigs, some moored to the banks, others brought up in the stream. Though the day was long, it was dusk before they reached the Ruby Shaking Roger by the hand, Mr Handscombe bade him answer the hail of the sentry, and then without loss of time stepped up the side with his valise.

“Are you not coming, sir?” asked Roger. “No, my lad,” was the answer; “I am going on board a merchant vessel which sails by the next tide. Fare thee well. I hope to meet you again some time when you return home; at present I know not exactly what is to be my destination.”

Roger, as desired, answered the sentry’s hail, and was allowed to step on board, when the boat glided away immediately, and was lost to sight. Captain Benbow, who was on board, received him cordially, and expressed his satisfaction at seeing him return so punctually. Roger expected to be questioned as to what was taking place in the west, but the Captain showed very little interest in the matter. He merely observed, “The Duke of Monmouth has landed, I understand. He did a foolish thing, but will do a wiser if he gets out of the country as fast as he can. Now, Willoughby, there is plenty of work for us on board; we have to fresh-rig the ship and get the crew into good discipline. At present except the men I brought from the Benbow frigate, for one and all volunteered to follow me, we have not many worth their salt.”

Roger was well pleased at being treated in a confidential way by his Captain; it showed that he was looked upon not only as a sailor, but as fit to become an officer. Except one lieutenant, the master, and boatswain, the other officers, strange as it may seem, had not been regularly bred to the sea.

“We must get another tarpaulin or two if the ship is ever to be brought into order,” observed Benbow; “these young gentlemen from the shore are very well in their way, but they are more ornamental than useful.”

As soon as Roger had parted from the Captain, on going round the ship he encountered old Sam Stokes.

“Glad to see you aboard our new ship, Mr Willoughby, though somewhat bigger than our old craft, but doubt whether she has as fast a pair of heels; however, if there comes a war we shall do something in her, no doubt about that, with such a Captain as ours.”

Jumbo, on hearing that Roger had come on board, hurried up, and Roger had a talk with him of old times, and then went round among his old shipmates and spoke to each individually, thus winning their kindly feelings. He often wished that Stephen had been with him instead of having joined the hazardous enterprise in which he had engaged. He wrote twice to his friend. Not knowing where he might be, he addressed the letters to Langton Park, but he received no replies.

At length the ship was ready for sea, and, dropping down the Thames, stood out in the channel for a cruise.

Chapter Eight.

We must now return to Lyme. The cordial reception Stephen Battiscombe met with from the Duke made him more than ever devoted to his cause. Having a good horse, he at once volunteered to ride out and collect horses with men accustomed to riding, who might be willing to join and form the nucleus of a cavalry force. The news of the Duke’s landing rapidly spread far and wide. Other friends of the cause galloped off in all directions, running no little risk of being captured by the militia, who had been called out by several loyal noblemen and gentlemen on information being received that the rebellion had commenced. The Duke was indefatigable in his exertions. Rising at an early hour on the morning after his arrival, he was ready to receive the volunteers, who flocked in by hundreds from all directions. When he had caused their names to be taken down, he sent them by a messenger with a list to the Town-Hall, where the arms were stored, and persons ready to give them out. The volunteers were immediately armed and sent to the officers at different posts which had been established round the town, where they, without loss of time, were drilled and exercised. All day long, as well as the following night, people came crowding in, and the next day, which was Saturday the 13th, they appeared in such prodigious numbers that it was no easy matter to take down their names and to supply them with arms. Thus at the close of the day the Duke’s army already amounted to a thousand foot and one hundred and fifty horse, which were every hour augmenting. Whatever the Duke and the gentlemen who accompanied him, Lord Grey, Fletcher of Salton, and others, might have thought of this force, their increasing number greatly raised the enthusiasm of his followers. They felt themselves ready to undertake any adventure which might be proposed. Stephen Battiscombe had met his brothers coming to join the camp. Together they proceeded to the houses of such friends and acquaintances as they knew were friendly to the cause. Some allowed their servants and dependants to join, and others sent horses, although they themselves thought it prudent not to appear in arms on the Duke’s side. So energetically did Stephen execute his commission that in a few hours he returned with twenty mounted men and several spare horses. The Duke, immediately on his appearance, appointed him lieutenant of the troop, observing that he expected before long to be able to give him the rank of captain.

“We shall probably before long meet the enemy, if they do not rather run away when they see us. Notice has just been brought in that the Duke of Albemarle is approaching with a strong body of militia, and intends to attack this night; but I intend to forestall him, and we are about to march out to form an ambush, so that we may set upon him suddenly should he approach.”

This news created considerable excitement among the young recruits, who were eager to strike a blow for the cause they had espoused. As evening approached the force marched out in silence, orders having been given that there should be no shouting, lest they should betray their whereabouts. The force amounted to eight hundred foot and one hundred and fifty horse, and with it three pieces of cannon. They took up their position at a cross road behind hedges, and in the narrow way behind which it was supposed that the Duke of Albemarle would come, the foot lying in the field with their arms in rank and file, the horsemen holding their bridles in their hands. Every moment they expected to be up and doing, but the night drew on and no enemy appeared. At length day dawned; the men rose to their feet. They had taken their first lesson in campaigning, and felt the better prepared for meeting the enemy. Stephen Battiscombe had had more experience than most of his companions during his adventures in Africa, so that the sort of work was not quite so new to him as it was to many others. As he surveyed the rapidly increasing army, he observed that though many of the recruits had no fire-arms, and were compelled to content themselves with scythes lashed to the end of stout poles, still these would prove formidable weapons in the hands of stout men. He rode back at the head of his little troop to join his brothers and other young gentlemen, some acting as officers, some as privates, at breakfast, not in those days a meal of toast, eggs, butter, and tea, but of beef, bread, and beer. They were still seated at table when the trampling of horses outside announced the arrival of another party. On running to the window they saw a grey-haired personage of no very aristocratic appearance, though mounted on a fine steed, at the head of about forty horsemen; but he was old Mr Dare, paymaster to the forces. He was one of the two persons who had landed at Seaton on the morning of the 11th, and had gone inland at no little risk to apprise Mr Speke of the Duke’s arrival. He was a bold man with much intelligence, and was one of the moving spirits of the rebellion. As he arrived before the George Inn the Duke went out to meet him, and welcomed him cordially. The levies came in faster than ever, and it was as much as the Battiscombes, and other young gentlemen who could write, could do to take down their names and send them off to the regiments now forming, called after various colours, as was the custom in those days. Stephen’s zeal was remarked by Fletcher of Salton, the principal officer of military experience who had joined the Duke, a man of great talents, but possessed of a hasty and irritable temper. “I see who will be among our future colonels,” he observed, as he rode by, mounted on a somewhat sorry hack, to dine with the Duke of Monmouth. Thus encouraged, Stephen continued his labours. His disappointment was very great when he found that the arms and ammunition were already running short, and that no weapons were to be procured to put into the hands of the eager recruits. Numbers had to return home, fortunately for themselves, who would gladly have fought for the cause. In the afternoon information was received that a strong body of Dorset militia had occupied Bridport, and that another regiment, under Sir William Portman, was expected to disperse these forces. In the hopes that a large number would come over to him with their arms, the Duke determined on sending an expedition against the town. It was intended that Fletcher and Lord Grey should command the horse. The former, after dining with the Duke, sallied out to make the necessary preparations. Finding a handsome horse in the stables, he at once appropriated it without sending to ask leave of the owner, who proved to be Mr Dare, the paymaster. Stephen was getting his little troop in readiness, as he expected to be sent on the expedition, when Fletcher rode into the market square mounted on Mr Dare’s horse. The owner, without considering Fletcher’s military rank and social position, came up to him, and in an insulting manner inquired how Mr Fletcher ventured to take a horse belonging to him without first asking his leave.

“The exigencies of the moment require it, my friend,” answered Fletcher; “and as I am to command the cavalry, it is important that I should have a horse capable of performing whatever work I may demand of him. I therefore considered myself justified in taking the first horse suitable for my purpose, irrespective to whom he belongs.”

“But I am not thus to be ridden over by a Scotch Laird,” exclaimed Dare in an insulting tone; “the horse is mine.”

“It may be,” said Fletcher, “but you are not about to act as a cavalry officer, and I am. Therefore, for the good of the service, I consider myself justified in retaining the horse.”

“Retain it you shall not,” cried Dare, flourishing a cane which he held in his hand. “Whether you are a cavalry officer or not, I will make you dismount from that horse,” and he advanced with a threatening gesture towards the high-spirited Scotchman. A fatal moment. Fletcher drew a pistol and ordered Dare to stand back. Dare still advanced, when, to the horror of all the bystanders, the pistol exploded, and Dare fell mortally wounded to the ground. Stephen and others ran to lift up the fallen man, but life had fled. Fletcher was instantly seized with remorse at the fatal act he had committed, when he saw Dare was no more. Numbers gathered from all parts, and among them came the son of the slain man, accompanied by a number of the new levies, who demanded punishment of the assassin. The Duke of Monmouth, hurrying up, in vain endeavoured to allay their anger. They threatened that if Fletcher was not arrested, they would take the law into their own hands and tear him to pieces. The poor Duke was almost distracted by this unfortunate event. In Dare he had lost a devoted partisan, while Fletcher was the only man besides himself in his whole army who had seen service, who, by his talents, was capable of acting as a General. As the only way to save him, he told him to consider himself under arrest and, turning to Stephen, directed him to convey Mr Fletcher on board his frigate, which still lay in the outer roads.

“I regret the duty I am called on to perform, Mr Fletcher,” said Stephen; “you must at once accompany me to the harbour.”

“I am under your command,” answered Mr Fletcher.

Upon which Stephen surrounded him with a party of his own men, who with difficulty kept off the followers of Mr Dare, who were thirsting for his blood. They however reached the quay in safety, when Stephen, with his prisoner and four of his men, embarked on board one of the frigate’s boats, which had just come to the shore. There was still a risk of their being pursued, so Stephen ordered the boat to pull off immediately for the frigate.

“I hope, sir, when it is known what provocation Mr Dare gave you, that the anger of the people will be appeased, and that you will be able to return and take command of the army.”

“Though disappointed with the class of persons who have flocked to the Duke’s standard, I will still gladly risk all for the sake of the noble cause in which he has embarked,” said Fletcher, “and I may hope that in a few days the tide will turn in my favour, though I confess with the deepest regret the result of my hasty temper.”

“Can I, in the meantime, be of any use to you on shore?” asked Stephen.

“Thank you, sir,” answered Fletcher. “I shall be obliged to you if you will bring my valise and papers which I left at the George; and as I may not have an opportunity of seeing the Duke for some time, I beg that you will express to him how deeply I regret what has taken place.”

Mr Fletcher was silent for the greater part of the way, and Stephen, having seen his prisoner on board, returned with his men to the shore. On landing he was met by frowning looks from many of those who had accompanied Mr Dare. Stephen at once made his way back to report what he had done to the Duke, who replied, “I must send you back once more with orders to the master of the ship to sail immediately, and to proceed along the coast to Bristol. I have given directions to have a mariner, one John Kerridge, impressed, as he is a skilful pilot, and will be able to conduct the ship to Bristol. You will engage a boat from the shore, and put him with Mr Fletcher on board.”

With these directions Stephen returned to the quay, where he found John Kerridge, who seemed in no wise desirous of performing the duty imposed upon him. However, being in the hands of armed men, he could not help himself, and was placed with a guard in the boat, in which Stephen conveyed him on board the frigate. Whenever Stephen had left her side, he saw her crew making preparations for getting under weigh. Her anchor was hove up, her sails set, and the wind being off shore, she at once stood out to sea.

“She seems to me to be standing more to the southward than her due course for the Start,” he said to one of the boatmen.

“May be the Captain does not know how the wind will come, which is to give the Start a wide berth,” was the answer.

As far, however, as Stephen could watch, he observed that she held a south-westerly course. On his arrival on shore he found that notwithstanding the untoward event of the afternoon, the expedition to Bridport was still to be carried out. He found a party of three hundred men under Colonel Wade, with a hundred men under Captain Goodenough, while the cavalry was commanded by Lord Grey, who had charge of the whole expedition. They were to march all night in great secrecy, hoping to fall on the militia early in the morning. They waited till sunset, when, all being prepared, they marched out of Lyme, the infantry leading, the cavalry bringing up the rear. The men were ordered to keep silence, and to make as little noise in any way as possible. It was no easy matter to induce raw recruits, however, to do this. Stephen of course, knew every inch of the way. They were still some three or four miles from Bridport, when the advanced guard met two men coming from the direction of the town. Instead of running away they advanced boldly, declared that they had escaped from the town, and that their wish was to join the Duke of Monmouth.

“You have found them sooner than you expected,” said Lieutenant Mitchell, the officer commanding the vanguard.

The men willingly agreed to return with the party, although they said that there were no less than one thousand two hundred foot, and a hundred horse already holding the town. Still, as they had come thus far and were positively ordered to attack, the leaders were unwilling to go back without attempting something, although they were far outnumbered. A thick fog came on towards morning, which completely concealed their approach towards the end of the town, which consists of one long broad street with a stone bridge at either end, and a cross street running north and south. The bridge was quickly won, the outposts retiring with expedition to the main guard, who speedily retreated, standing only to receive one volley from Monmouth’s vanguard. The king’s horse, with a small body of infantry, alone occupied the town, and as the troopers ran away, they let their horses go, which were at once captured by the successful assailants. Colonel Venner now led on his men to attack the eastern bridge, leaving parties of musketeers and pikes to command the entrances to the other streets, and fighting took place in front of the inn, when two of the king’s officers and others lost their lives, and several prisoners were made by Monmouth’s men. Colonel Venner, however, was wounded. When Lord Grey was advancing on the bridge, the loyal militia fired a heavy volley, which induced him and his troop to turn their horses’ heads and gallop off. On Colonel Venner being wounded, Colonel Wade took command, and led to the western part of the town, where for half-an-hour his men and those of the king’s forces were shouting to each other. He then, finding that the rest of the force had retreated, considered it his duty to retire, which he did in pretty good order, with thirty horses and about fourteen prisoners. The whole transaction must have shown the Duke how little reliance he could place upon his new levies, or even upon some of his principal officers. The Duke complimented Stephen on his good conduct in bringing off his men. The party were pretty well knocked up by their march to Bridport and back, and there was little drilling that evening, except among the new levies; but early the next morning the drum beat to arms, the regiments were formed under their respective leaders, and the Duke, putting himself at the head, passed them all in review. As Stephen rode near the Duke, he observed that his countenance wore a melancholy expression, the animation which had at first appeared having quite faded from it. He evidently had taken greatly to heart the death of Dare; still, as he had commenced the enterprise, he seemed resolved to carry it out. His troops were in a very different mood; they saw not the dangers ahead, and were mostly under the belief that the king’s forces would melt away before them should they be encountered. Stephen, as he rode among the ranks, observed the awkward movements of some of the men, the jaunty air of others, and the ragged appearance of the cavalry, many of the horses being large untrained colts, and began to feel less confident of success till he recollected that probably the militia regiments on the king’s side were much in the same condition, and, moreover, that they were well-affected towards the Duke. The army marched slowly and leisurely along till they reached Axminster, where news was brought to the Duke that Albemarle was advancing with a large body of militia to attack them. Monmouth skilfully drew up his forces; the four field-pieces were planted so as to command the road along which the Royal troops were approaching, while the thick hedges which on each side overhung the narrow lanes were lined with musketeers; the cavalry were held in reserve.

“Here they come, my lads,” cried Stephen Battiscombe, as Albemarle’s men were seen in the distance. “Steady, now; if they venture to attack us, we shall soon send them to the right-about.”

At first the enemy came on boldly and rapidly. While still beyond musket range they were seen to halt, then suddenly to retreat. The insurgents on this dashed forward. As they heard the cheers and shouts of Monmouth’s men, throwing down their arms they took to flight, and scampered off in all directions across the country. They were pursued for some distance, and coats, muskets, and pikes were picked up by the victorious insurgents.

“Now, surely the Duke of Monmouth will follow up the pursuit, and we shall probably capture Exeter without a blow,” observed Stephen.

“No chance of that, I fear,” answered his brother Andrew, who was riding by his side. “Hark! there is the recall, and it is a signal our raw fellows will be glad enough to obey.”

This last remark was too true. The Duke of Monmouth, probably unwilling to employ his recruits in any hazardous service till they were better trained, thought it wise to be satisfied with the advantage he had already gained, and continued his march towards Taunton, and that evening reached the neighbourhood of Chard, where the troops encamped in a meadow outside the town. The Duke was now near the estates of those friends who had entertained him so sumptuously a few years before, and he naturally looked forward to being joined by a number of those gentlemen and their retainers; but only one, John Speke, the son of Mr George Speke of White Lackington Hall, arrived at the camp, with forty horsemen of no very imposing appearance from Chard. The next morning the Duke’s forces marched to Ilminster, about four miles off, and encamped in a field about half a mile beyond the town; still he was looking forward to the arrival of fresh levies headed by men of consequence. None, however, arrived, though labouring men in vast numbers would have joined his standard if arms could have been found for them. Bad news also arrived from Lyme; the king’s frigate had sailed into the harbour and had captured the Pink and another vessel which had on board numerous barrels of gunpowder, and several thousand breast and head pieces for cavalry, though, considering that there were no horses or men to wear the defensive armour, it was not of much consequence. Thus far there had been no success. The Duke now resolved to march to Taunton, that celebrated and beautiful little town which had endured so heroic a siege under Blake. It was here that during his progress he had been received with such remarkable honours, and he fully expected now to receive a similar treatment. Taunton was densely populated, and was the seat of the trade in serges, and as most of the manufacturers were Dissenters, they were universally in favour of the Duke of Monmouth. As Monmouth approached Taunton several persons came out from the town, who informed him that it had been occupied till the day before by Royal troops, but they, hearing of the disorder into which the militia had been thrown between Axminster and Chard, about midnight, a drum sounding both officers and men, had marched out, having received orders to appear at Bridgewater. Messengers also promised a cordial reception to the Duke should he come. The Duke, having encamped his forces outside the town, prepared to enter it. He was met by a large body of men on horseback, every person who possessed a steed going out to meet him, while the rest of the inhabitants on foot rent the air with applause and acclamations. The streets through which he passed were strewed with flowers; the windows were thronged with spectators, all eager to gaze on the hero they had been taught to admire. The Duke’s spirits rose higher than they had been since he landed. The Duke had taken up his residence at the house of Captain Hucker. The following morning it was announced to him that a procession was approaching to do him honour. He descended the steps in front of the house, when he saw coming towards him a band of young maidens, each carrying banners of different colours, which they had worked with their own hands. At their head appeared a lady of more mature age, carrying a naked sword in one hand and in the other a small curious Bible, which she presented with a short acceptable speech. The Duke, looking greatly pleased, assured her that he had undertaken with a resolution to defend the truth contained in the book, to seal it, should it be required, with his blood. He then saluted each of the young ladies, as did Lord Grey. His Grace then mounted his horse, and the twenty-seven young maidens followed, each bearing a banner, and led by a young man. Among the flags was a golden banner worked with the initials J.R. and a crown. Having paraded through the streets, the Duke returned to his abode, and the young maidens retired to their own homes. The day after, some of his principal advisers recommended the Duke to assume the title of King. The Duke was willing to do this, and there were many reasons in favour of the step, though many also against it. It was argued that a large number of the nobility were unwilling to take up arms in his cause, fearing that unless a king was at the head of the movement, it might result in the establishment of a Commonwealth, to which they were strongly opposed. Several of his Republican officers, on hearing of the proposal, expressed themselves greatly averse to it; and it was not without much difficulty that they were won over to give their consent, in the hopes that they should be immediately joined by the nobility and gentry, who were now hanging back. Stephen Battiscombe and his brothers, knowing their father’s principles, felt sure that he would disapprove of this step; at the same time, they had become so attached to the Duke that they were ready to agree to anything which it was supposed would forward his interests. The subject was anxiously discussed by many of the best friends of the Duke. The flag carried by Miss Mary Mead, the work of the maids of Taunton, on which were emblazoned the initials J.R. and the crown, had been seen by thousands, and that emblem could not have been mistaken. No one had complained. The fatal step was quickly decided on,—fatal, because should the Duke fail and be captured, it would cut off all hope of pardon from James the Second. On Saturday, 20th June, some of the chief magistrates were compelled to attend in their gowns at the market crossing, where a large concourse of people were assembled. Mr Tyler then read the following proclamation:—“Whereas, upon the decease of our Sovereign, Charles the Second, late King of England, the succession to the Crown of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, with the dominions and territories thereunto belonging, did legally descend and devolve upon the most illustrious and high-born Prince, James, Duke of Monmouth, son and heir-apparent to the said King Charles the Second; but James, Duke of York, taking advantage of the absence of the said James, Duke of Monmouth, beyond the seas, did first cause the said late King to be poisoned, and immediately thereupon did usurp and invade the Crown, and doth continue so to do. We, therefore, the noblemen, gentlemen, and commons at present assembled, in the names of ourselves and all the loyal and Protestant noblemen, gentlemen, and commons of England, in pursuance of our duty and allegiance, and of the delivering of the kingdom from Popery, tyranny, and oppression, do recognise, publish, and proclaim the said high and mighty Prince, James, Duke of Monmouth, our lawful and rightful Sovereign and King, by the name of James the Second, by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, defender of the Faith,” etcetera.

“God bless the King,” the people shouted, and immediately the officers of the army and the principal inhabitants advanced and kissed Monmouth’s hand, and addressed him as, “Sire,” and, “Your Majesty.” The news spread far and wide, and an enthusiastic gentleman, Colonel Dore of Lymington, in Hampshire, proclaimed the Duke of Monmouth, and raised a troop of a hundred men for his service. Volunteers now poured in in even greater numbers than before. Many had to be sent back for want of arms of any description. There was not even a sufficiency of scythes for all Monmouth still waited in vain for news of an insurrection in London. Colonel Danvers, who had promised to head it, hung back, fearing to risk his life in the enterprise. The king’s forces were now gathering from all directions to oppose the Duke. The household troops, the only real soldiers who could be depended upon, were marching from London, and were likely to prove formidable antagonists to Monmouth’s ill-disciplined volunteers. Stephen had been sent on outpost duty with his small body of horse. He had been directed to proceed in the direction of Chard, when towards evening, as he was about to return, he discovered a party of Royal horse galloping towards him. Though he soon discovered that they were superior in numbers to him, he drew up his men to receive them. They came on, led by a young officer, who showed abundant bravery if not much skill. As the party advanced Stephen gave the word to charge. Shots were rapidly exchanged, and swords were clashing as the combatants met in a doubtful fight. First to fall was the young officer. Two of Stephen’s men dropped from their horses, two others directly afterwards were shot. Notwithstanding, the Royal troopers, discouraged by the loss of their officer, wheeled round and took to flight. Several more of his men had been wounded, so that Stephen was unable to pursue the enemy, and he judged it wise to make the best of his way back to Taunton, fearing that he might be shut up in the town. The Duke at once resolved to march on Bridgewater, where he might hope to obtain arms and pecuniary assistance from the wealthy inhabitants devoted to his cause. It had been proposed to fortify Taunton, but since its memorable siege, when defended by Blake, the walls and fortifications had been destroyed, and a considerable number of men would have been required for its defence. The day after Monmouth had assumed the kingly title he marched out of Taunton at the head of an army, which, in point of numbers, might well have encouraged him with hopes of success, but Stephen Battiscombe observed with regret that he looked dispirited, in spite of the acclamations of the devoted thousands which were raised wherever he appeared. Stephen, as he was passing out of the town, observed Mr Ferguson, the Duke’s chaplain, whom he had often met, standing with a drawn sword in his hand, looking more like a lunatic than a sane minister of the Gospel.

“What can have come over the man?” remarked Stephen to his brother. “Hark! hear what he is saying.”

“Look at me, you have heard of me,” shouted the chaplain. “I am Ferguson, the famous Ferguson, for whose head so many hundred pounds have been offered.” Thus he continued uttering the same or similar phrases till the army had passed by.

“I have long ago taken the man’s measure, and have heartily wished that the Duke had a better adviser,” said Andrew.

The two brothers rode on with their men, keeping a watchful look-out on every side in case the enemy should suddenly appear. Bridgewater was reached without opposition, and in the evening Monmouth’s army, now mustering six thousand tolerably armed men, entered Bridgewater. The Duke met with a cordial reception from the Mayor and Corporation of that town, who proclaimed him king at the High Cross. The army was encamped on Castle Field, on the east side of the town, and the Duke himself took up his lodgings in the castle close by. The Duke might have been encouraged when he thought of the siege and gallant defence of Bridgewater by the famous Blake, who was a native of the town. A body-guard of forty young men, well mounted and armed, who paid their own expenses, had been formed for the protection of Monmouth’s person, while the whole of his cavalry amounted to a thousand horse. His object was now to push forward, and, if an opportunity offered, to capture Bristol. He therefore made but a short stay at Bridgewater, and proceeded on to Glastonbury, in the famous abbey of which a part of the army took up their quarters, while others occupied the neighbouring churches. His intention of taking Bristol was frustrated by the bridge across the Avon being broken-down, and by the Earl of Feversham having entered the city at the head of two hundred and fifty of the Horse Guards, formidable antagonists for Monmouth’s ill-disciplined cavalry to encounter. During the march Monmouth’s troops had been greatly harassed by the cavalry under Lord Churchill, afterwards the famous Duke of Marlborough. Monmouth knew that the inhabitants of Bristol were ready to rise the moment he should commence to attack, but the Duke of Beaufort, who commanded there, threatened to burn down the city at the least sign of rebellion, and Monmouth was delayed by the destruction of the bridge, while the king’s forces were gathering round him in large numbers. He was compelled to abandon his design and to countermarch to Bridgewater. At Philip’s Norton the advanced guard of the two armies met and had a sharp action, that of the Royal army being led by the Duke of Grafton, a half-brother of Monmouth. Grafton, leading on his men, found himself in a deep lane with fences on both sides of him, from which a galling fire of musketry was kept up, but he pushed on boldly till he came to the entrance of Philip’s Norton; there his way was crossed by a barricade, from which a third fire met him full in front. His men now lost heart, and made the best of their way out of the lane; but before they got out of it more than a hundred of them had been killed or wounded. Grafton now encountered a party of Monmouth’s cavalry, and cutting his way through them, came off safe. Though the two armies were now face to face, neither was anxious to engage in a general action. Feversham was waiting for his artillery, and Monmouth knew that his followers, in spite of their courage and zeal, were no match for regular soldiers. He had hoped that those regiments which he had formerly commanded would pass over to his standard, but that hope he was now compelled to relinquish; his heart filled, and he almost gave way to despair. Even at this time a proclamation was circulated, issued by James the Second, offering an amnesty to all who would lay down their arms and abandon Monmouth, excepting certain leaders who were expressly named. A meeting was accordingly held by some of Monmouth’s chief supporters, who proposed that those who were excluded from the amnesty should retreat to the coast and embark for Holland, leaving their followers to make such terms as they could with the Government. Monmouth in the present desponding mood was much disposed to adopt this measure. He did not look upon it as a disgraceful proceeding. Many lives would be saved, and he and his officers would preserve theirs. The step, however, was strongly opposed by Lord Grey, who implored the Duke to face any danger rather than requite with ingratitude and treachery the devoted attachment of the western peasantry. Abandoning this project, Monmouth, hearing that there was a rising of the inhabitants of the districts in the neighbourhood of Bridgewater, determined to return thither, and re-entered that town on the 2nd of July, having passed through Wells on his way. He now thought of fortifying that place, and had commenced the undertaking when the king’s forces appeared in sight. They consisted of two thousand five hundred troops, and one thousand five hundred of the Wiltshire militia. Instead of at once attacking the Duke, they encamped on the plain of Sedgemoor, about three miles from Bridgewater. Stephen Battiscombe, by his courage and judgment, had risen high in Monmouth’s favour, and now, with several other officers, accompanied the Duke to the top of the parish church steeple, the loftiest in the county. From it a wide view could be obtained, and with their glasses they could distinguish across the moor the villages where the royal army was posted. In one of them, Weston Zoyland, lay the royal cavalry, and here Feversham had fixed his head-quarters. Further off lay Middle Zoy, where the Wiltshire militia were quartered, and upon the moor, not far from Chedzoy, were encamped several battalions of regular infantry. Among them the Duke distinguished Dumbarton’s regiment, which he himself had once commanded.

“I know those men,” he said, turning to Stephen; “they will fight. If I had but them, all would go well.”

Still, formidable as the force appeared, the Duke knew Feversham’s incapacity, and even on the eve of battle his spies brought in word to Monmouth that his troops were regaling themselves with cider, and that no regular outposts had been established. On this the idea occurred to him that it might be possible to surprise the king’s forces, and to cut them to pieces. Lord Grey and the other principal officers agreed to this, and it was arranged that they should march out that very night. Castlefield, where they were encamped, presented on that Sunday afternoon a spectacle which for many a long year had not been seen in England since the disbanding of Cromwell’s soldiers. The greater number of the men were Dissenters. The day was passed in religious exercises according to the Puritan fashion. The preachers who had taken up arms against Popery, some of whom had fought in the great Civil War, appeared in red coats and jack boots, with swords by their sides. Stephen Battiscombe heartily joined in the religious exercises, though he avoided the spot where Ferguson was holding forth, and endeavouring to prove that the war in which they were engaged was not rebellion, but a righteous enterprise which merited the support of Heaven. Among the soldiers were their wives and daughters, who had come into the town from the surrounding districts to see them on that Sabbath-day; and when the camp-meeting broke up, and the trumpet summoned the men to their ranks, many parted who were never to meet again. Evening of that summer day drew on, and the time to commence the march arrived. As the Duke, with his body-guard, rode out of the castle, many remarked that his look was sad and full of evil augury. The night was well suited for the contemplated enterprise. Though the moon was at the full, and the northern streamers were shining brilliantly, the marsh fog lay so thickly on Sedgemoor that no object could be discerned fifty paces off. The Duke himself led the infantry, while the cavalry, a thousand strong, had been committed to Lord Grey, notwithstanding the remonstrances of many who mistrusted him after his previous ill-success. Stephen would willingly have had a different leader, for though Lord Grey was faithful to the cause he had espoused and courageous in council, yet he was destitute of that nerve which is the great requisite of an officer. He could have had no confidence in the greater number of his men, who, though brave, were quite undisciplined. Many of them had been embodied but a few days, and had not learned the use of their weapons, while their horses were unaccustomed to stand fire, or to act in concert with each other, so that they could be scarcely kept in their ranks. Even on the march most of the infantry also lacked discipline. At the same time, many had served in the militia, and being all animated with the same zeal, knew that they could trust each other. The scythe-men especially were sturdy fellows, drawn from the neighbouring mines, and were ready to fight to the last. Although the distance to Feversham’s camp was little more than three miles, in order to avoid two deep ditches, called in those parts plungeons or steanings, the Duke, led by a guide, took a circuitous route of nearly six miles in length. There was a third ditch, called the Rhine, which still lay between him and the king’s camp, but of which he knew nothing. There was a ford across this Rhine, by which his troops might have passed over, but which in the darkness was missed. In silence and darkness Monmouth’s devoted troops marched on. Some confusion and delay were caused by the first two ditches, but these having been passed, the Duke, believing no obstruction existed between him and the royal camp, fully expected to succeed in his enterprise. He here halted for the horse, consisting of eight squadrons, to advance. The four iron guns followed the horse, at the head of the foot, which consisted of five great battalions, each having one company of one hundred scythe-men, who did the duty of grenadiers. He had got within a mile of the camp, when the advanced sentries of the Royal Horse Guards were discovered. A party of Lord Grey’s cavalry charged them, when they galloped off to arouse the camp. Just before this a pistol had been heard to go off, which undoubtedly drew the attention of the king’s troops to the advancing force. Monmouth, hearing that the king’s camp was alarmed, ordered Lord Grey to advance rapidly with the horse, and to fall among the tents of the foot, so as to take them in flank, being still ignorant of the great ditch which protected them. Lord Grey accordingly marched on, to execute the orders given him, towards the upper plungeon; but he missed the passage over the ditch, and led his men by the outside till they were opposite Dumbarton’s regiment. Being challenged, some one answered “Albemarle,” and he accordingly, supposing them to be friends, allowed five hundred of them to pass. Lord Grey, then coming to the first battalion of the Guards, Captain Berkley, who commanded the right wing of the musketeers, inquired whom they were for. The answer was, “The king.”

“What king?” he asked.

“Monmouth, and God with us,” was the reply.

Berkley then cried out, “Take this with you,” when his own and several battalions opened a heavy fire, and a considerable number of Grey’s horses and men fell. When unable any longer to stand the fire, they rode off as hard as they could pelt. A smaller body of horse, to which Stephen belonged, under the command of Captain Jones, made several desperate charges, and were also compelled to retreat without having crossed the ditch, when they went off towards Sutton Hill, where they took up a position to see the issue of the fight. The flight of Lord Grey’s horse threw many of the infantry into confusion. Some refused to advance, and others ran away; but a still greater disaster was in store, for on coming to the end of the moor, where forty-two ammunition wagons had been left, the drivers, alarmed at the arrival of the fugitives, and being told that the Duke’s army had been routed, took to flight, and did not stop till they arrived at Ware and Axbridge, twelve miles off. Shortly after the Duke’s horse had dispersed themselves over the moor, his infantry advanced at the double, guided through the gloom by the lighted matches of Dumbarton’s regiment; but on reaching the edge of the Rhine they halted, and contrary to orders, began firing away, their fire being returned by part of the royal infantry on the opposite side of the bank. For three-quarters of an hour the roar of the musketry was incessant. The guns also opened fire, which was likewise returned by the king’s cannon as soon as they could be brought up. For a considerable time the battle raged, the sturdy Somersetshire peasants behaving themselves as though they had been veteran soldiers, though they levelled their pieces too high. Monmouth was seen like a brave man, pike in hand, encouraging his men by voice and example. He by this time saw that all was over; his men had lost the advantage which surprise and darkness had given them. They were deserted by the horse and the ammunition wagons. Lord Churchill had made a new disposition of the royal infantry. The day was about to break. The event of a conflict on an open plain by broad sunlight could not be doubtful; yet, brave as he was, the hope of preserving his life prevailed above all other considerations. In a few minutes the royal cavalry would intercept his retreat. He mounted and rode for his life, till he was joined by Lord Grey and a few other officers; but his brave infantry still made a gallant stand. They were charged right and left by the Life Guards and Blues, but the Somersetshire clowns, with their scythes and butt-ends of their muskets, fought to the last. At length their powder and ball were spent, and cries were heard of “Ammunition; for God’s sake give us ammunition!” But no ammunition was at hand. The king’s artillery began playing on them, and they could no longer maintain their ranks against the king’s cavalry. The infantry came pouring across the ditch, but even then the Mendip miners sold their lives dearly. Three hundred of the royal soldiers had been killed or wounded; of Monmouth’s men more than a thousand lay dead on the moor. Their leader, it was found, had disappeared, the cavalry had been dispersed, and the survivors fled across the moor towards Bridgewater. The king’s cavalry, meantime, were sweeping over the plain, cutting down those who attempted to make a stand, which some of the brave fellows did, while they captured others, till the whole army which marched out of Bridgewater the previous evening had been completely dispersed. Before evening five hundred prisoners had been crowded in the parish church of Weston Zoyland, many of them badly wounded. The church bells sent out a peal which must have had very different effects upon the ears of the victors and of the vanquished. The battle was over, but not the blood-shedding, for Feversham ordered a number of the prisoners for execution. Gibbets were erected in all directions, and the fatal Bussex Tree was long known as the place where numbers were put to death without the form of a trial.

Among those captured was a fine young officer, an ensign in the Duke’s army, who was celebrated for his extraordinary feats of agility; his powers were described to Feversham, who promised him his life if he would submit to be stripped, have one end of a rope fastened round his neck, and the other round that of a wild young colt, and would race the colt as long as it could run. He agreed to the ordeal; the brutal Generals and no less brutal soldiers collected round the young man to prepare him for the race, close to the Bussex Rhine in Weston. Away they started at a furious rate till the horse fell exhausted by the side of his ill-fated companion, at Brinsfield Bridge, Chedzoy, a distance of three-quarters of a mile. The young man, worn out with fatigue, extricating himself from the halter, claimed his pardon; but the inhuman General, regardless of his promise, ordered him to be hanged with the rest. A young lady to whom he was betrothed, on hearing of his fate, lost her reason, and for many years was to be seen dressed in white, wandering about the grave in which he and his companions were interred. The inhabitants of Zoyland still speak of the white lady. We will not enter into the details of the numerous barbarities which were committed, nor will we give a prolonged account of Monmouth’s well-known fate. On leaving the battle-field, he was joined by Buise, who, was a German, Lord Grey, and a few other friends, among whom were Stephen Battiscombe and his brother. At Chedzoy he stopped a moment to mount a fresh horse, and then galloped on towards the English Channel. From the rising ground on the north of the fatal field he saw the last volley fired by his hapless followers, and before six o’clock he was twenty miles from Sedgemoor. Here he and his companions pulled rein, many of them advising him to seek refuge in Wales, but he fancied that he could more easily get across to Holland should he reach the New Forest, where, till he could find conveyance, he could hide in the cabins of the wood-cutters and deer-stealers who inhabited that part of the country. He, Lord Grey, and Buise consequently separated from the rest, who took different courses. He and his companions galloped on till they reached Cranbourne Chase, where their horses broke down. Having concealed the bridles and saddles, and disguised themselves in the dresses of countrymen, they proceeded on foot to the New Forest. The direction they had taken had been discovered, and a large body of militia surrounded them on every side. Lord Grey was first captured, and a short time afterwards Buise, who acknowledged that he had parted from the Duke only a few hours before. The pursuers recommenced the search with more zeal than ever, and at length a tall gaunt figure was discovered in a ditch. Some of the men were about to fire at him, but Sir William Portman coming up, forbade them to use violence. He was dressed as a shepherd, his beard, several days’ growth, was prematurely grey. He trembled, and was unable to speak. Even those who had often seen the Duke of Monmouth did not recognise him, till, examining his pockets, the insignia of the George was discovered, with a purse of gold and other articles, among them some raw pease, which he had gathered to satisfy his hunger. This left no doubt who he was. He and Lord Grey were kept at Ringwood strictly guarded for two days, and then sent up to London. Broken-down in health and spirits, he wrote abject letters to his uncle entreating for pardon, and begging that the king would see him. The latter petition was agreed to, and he was brought into the presence of James, his arms secured by a silken cord. He had fancied that should the king see him, his life would be spared, and he made the most abject proposals to obtain it. James had resolved that the hated rival should be put out of the way as soon as possible, and refused to listen to his plea. Lord Grey behaved with far more dignity and courage than the Duke. Both were sent to the Tower; the Duke was ordered for execution, Lord Grey was allowed to live, and ultimately, on the payment of a heavy fine, escaped, though hundreds who were certainly less guilty in the eye of the law were mercilessly put to death. The Duke was beheaded a couple of days after being sent to the Tower. As his blood flowed on the scaffold, the crowd rushed forward to dip their handkerchiefs in it, and his memory was long cherished by those who had risen in arms to support his cause, while no inconsiderable number believed that he was still alive, and would appear again to lead them to victory. Two impostors in succession, taking advantage of this belief, represented Monmouth. One was whipped from Newgate to Tyburn; another, who had raised considerable contributions, was thrown into prison, where he was maintained in luxury by his deluded followers. So ends the ill-starred Monmouth’s sad history.

We must now return to the more prominent characters of our tale. Stephen and his brother Andrew, on parting from the Duke, consulted what direction they should take. They agreed that it would be madness to attempt returning home. They were proscribed men, and even should they reach Langton Park, search would be made for them, and their father would be exposed to danger for sheltering them. Stephen said that he was sure Mr Willoughby would willingly try to conceal them, but the Colonel might object to his doing so, from the danger to which he would be exposed should they be discovered. They agreed at length that their safest course would be to push to the north coast of Devon or Cornwall, where they might obtain concealment in the cottages of the fishermen or miners, who were generally favourable to the Protestant cause, and thence cross over to the Welsh coast.

“Let us then commence our march,” said Stephen, “and pray that we may escape the dangers that surround us.” They rode on rapidly without speaking. Both their hearts were sad; they had lost many friends and faithful followers, whom they had led to join the ill-fated expedition. Stephen was full of self-reproaches. He thought of Alice, who had warned and besought him not to engage in the enterprise. He had acted with courage on several occasions, but following the example of his chief, he had fled from the field of battle, and he felt ashamed of himself for not having remained with the brave men who fought to the last, and fallen among them.

“We should have done it,” he exclaimed at length, as they had to rein in their steeds while they ascended a steep hill.

“Done what?” asked Andrew.

“Died on the field, as I wish that the Duke and Lord Grey had done rather than run away,” replied Stephen.

“As we are doing,” remarked Andrew; “for my part, I think it is the wisest course we could have pursued. I hope they will escape to fight in the same cause on a more favourable occasion; we should have gained nothing by remaining on the field of battle, and lost everything if we should have either been killed or captured.”

“We should have preserved our honour,” said Stephen.

“I do not consider that we have lost that, since every man who had a horse to carry him has done the same; but there is little use discussing the subject. At present we must exert our wits to preserve our lives, and any honour we have lost may be retrieved on a future opportunity.” Andrew had generally an answer for his brother’s remarks. Having gained the brow of the hill, they again pushed forward, keeping as near the coast as the nature of the ground would allow, and avoiding all villages and hamlets, though they hoped that the news of their defeat would not have preceded them in the direction they were going.

The evening of that fatal day was drawing on when they saw before them a lone cottage by the seaside. Both their horses were knocked up, and they themselves were much fatigued and desperately hungry. Still Stephen was unwilling to approach the cottage without first ascertaining the character of the inmates.

“Ride on a short distance to the south and wait for me there,” he said to his brother; “I will then turn back and see if the people are likely to treat us hospitably. I will tell them that we want a place of rest, as we know of none in the neighbourhood, and that if they will find some oats or beans or other provender for our horses, and provide us with some food, we will be thankful and pay them whatever they may demand.” Near the cottage was a boat-house, which appeared to be high enough to serve as a stable, and they hoped that their horses might be sheltered in it during the night. Accordingly, after proceeding a little distance beyond the cottage, Stephen turned back and rode up to the door, and gave a couple of knocks with the hilt of his sword. The next instant it was opened, and a grey-headed old man in a fisherman’s dress appeared.

“What do you want here, master?” he asked.

Stephen, after surveying the old man, answered as he had intended.

“Food for a horse I don’t keep in store, and for a man I have little enough, though I might give you some bread and cheese,” said the old fisherman.

“We will pay you for whatever you can supply us with and be thankful,” said Stephen.

“Two men and horses; why, you will eat me out of house and home,” said the old man, peering forth at Andrew, whom he could see in the distance. “My son, however, will be in anon from fishing; if he has got a good haul there will be food enough, and as for the horses, why, now I come to think on’t, I have a couple of sacks of damaged oats, got out of a vessel not far off; if your animals are hungry, as you say, they will manage to eat them.”

“By all means, my friend,” said Stephen. “And I suppose you can put our horses up in your boat-house?”

“As to that, as the boat’s away, and it is summer weather, there is room for them.”

“Well, then, I will call my brother, and we will take advantage of your hospitality,” said Stephen, and he rode back and called Andrew.

“Bring us the oats without delay, my friend,” said Stephen; “our poor beasts want food as much as we do.”

The old man went into his hut and reappeared with a good-sized basketful of oats. The young men, taking off their bridles, allowed the poor beasts to commence their meal, fastening them up with some ropes, of which there were several coils in the boat-house.

“You have come far, I suspect,” observed the old fisherman, as he watched the horses devour their provender.

“You must give them some water, though,” said Stephen, “or they will not get through enough food to sustain them.”

The old man got a bucket, and went to a well a little distance from the cottage, among a group of trees, the only ones to be seen in the neighbourhood.

“A merciful man is merciful to his beast,” he observed, as he brought the water, which the horses greedily drank. “Travellers have need to look after their steeds for their own sakes. Are you riding northward? It may be if you are, you are going to join the Duke of Monmouth’s army. We have heard say that he has gone in that direction.”

“No, we have no intention of joining his army,” answered Stephen evasively, thankful to find that the news of the Duke’s defeat had not as yet reached thus far. They now, closing the door of the boat-house, accompanied the old man to the cottage. They fancied that he was alone, but on entering they discovered an old woman seated by the fire, engaged in preparing the evening meal. She looked up from her task, and asked her husband who the strangers were.

“Travellers, goodwife; they want some food, and you must just put on whatever you have got to give them. Fry some more bacon and some of the salt fish we have in store. They will pay for it, goodwife,” he whispered in her ear. “It is some time since your eyes have been gladdened by the sight of silver.”

The old lady looked satisfied, and was soon frying a further supply of bacon and fish. The smell made Stephen and Andrew feel so sick with hunger, that they begged leave to fall-to without waiting for the return of Mark, the son of the old couple. It took them some time, however, to appease their appetites. The old man and his wife looked on with astonishment at the amount of food they stowed away.

“One would suppose that you two had not eaten anything since yesterday,” observed the old man.

“You are not far wrong, friend,” answered Stephen. “We have had good reason for spurring fast. As we are weary, we will beg you to let us stow ourselves away in a corner of your room and go to sleep, asking you to call us should any strangers come near the hut.”

“You are welcome to do that, seeing we have no beds to offer you except Mark’s, and he might grumble should he find himself turned out of his.”

“We would not do that on any account. Do let us lie down without delay,” said Stephen. “See, my brother’s head is already nodding over the table.”

They had brought in their cloaks, unstrapped from their saddles, and rolling themselves up in them, with some lumps of wood for pillows, they were asleep almost as soon as they had stretched themselves on the ground.

The old man and his wife sat talking in low voices for some time, every now and then glancing at their guests, till the door opened, and the son they had spoken of entered the room. He was a big, broad-shouldered, black-bearded man.

“Whom have we here?” he asked, turning his eyes towards the sleeping fugitives.

“That is more than I can tell you, Mark,” answered his father. “They say they came from the south, and, as far as I can make out, they are pushing on to Bristol. They seem to have ridden hard, and are dead beat.”

“That may or may not be,” said Mark. “I heard say yesterday a good many men have been deserting from the Duke of Monmouth’s army. That is not to be wondered at, seeing that the king’s forces are rapidly gathering around him; wiser if they had never joined. However, that is no business of ours.”

“So I say, son Mark,” said the old man. “You are a wise fellow not to run your head into danger, let the world wag as it lists; all we have to do is to catch fish and find a market for them. Have you had a good haul?”

“Pretty fair; and I hope the packman will be here ere long to carry them to Bridgewater, where they say the Duke of Monmouth and his men are encamped. I will now turn in, father, to be ready to send off the fish as soon as the packman comes.”

Mark accordingly turned into his bunk in a little recess, for it could not be called a room, in the hut, and was soon snoring away, while his father sat up by the fire in a rough arm-chair, ready, apparently, to awaken him as soon as the packman should arrive. Stephen and Andrew were so thoroughly done up that they slept on the whole night through, undisturbed by voices or any other noise; indeed, had a gun been fired over their heads, they would scarcely have heard it. They started up at daybreak.

“We should be off as soon as we have taken some food,” whispered Stephen to his brother. “I wish that we had gone a couple of hours ago; the moon is in the sky, and we could have seen our way.”

They rose to their feet, and looked about them; they could see no one in the hut. Presently the old man appeared from behind a piece of an old sail, which served to screen off his sleeping-place.

“We must be going, friend,” said Stephen, “and we will thank you for some more food, as we know not when we may obtain any.”

“You shall be welcome to what we have,” and he called out to his wife, “Mollie, Mollie, get up and cook some breakfast for these young gentlemen; they wish to be on their way.”

While the meal was preparing they went out to look at their horses. The animals were munching some oats, which it was evident that either the old man or his son had given them; the former followed and got some water, which the poor beasts much required. Both animals looked much better for their food and rest. Stephen and Andrew hoped that they should be able to make a long day’s journey, and find some safer place of concealment than the hut of the old fisherman. On their return to it they found breakfast ready, which they discussed with good appetites; and then paying the old man handsomely for the food and lodging he had afforded them, hastened out again, intending to ride off without further delay. Stephen led out his horse, and Andrew followed, when, as he was about to mount, he exclaimed, “Why, the poor animal is lame.” He led him on a few paces; there could be no doubt about it.

“This is unfortunate,” he said. “But I will not delay you, Stephen; you ride on, and I will run down his leg; perhaps in the course of an hour or two the lameness may go off. I cannot fancy what has caused it.”

“No, no,” answered Stephen; “I will remain with you whatever happens; the chances are the news of the fight won’t reach this place for some days to come. We will share each other’s fortunes, whatever they may be.” All Andrew could say would not induce Stephen to ride on alone. They examined the horse’s leg, but could discover no cause for its lameness; they rubbed down the leg, and did all they could in hopes of taking it off. Presently the old fisherman appeared, and seemed much surprised at hearing that the horse was lame.

“We must trust to your hospitality for a few hours longer,” said Stephen. “We should run the risk of having the horse break down altogether were we to proceed in its present condition.”

The old man made no objection, so they put their horses back into the boat-house, and re-entered the hut. They inquired if his son had returned on the previous evening.

“Yes,” he answered; “and he has now gone out in the boat to catch some more fish, so we shall have enough to feed you. You must rest on the ground as you did last night.”

As they had scarcely recovered from their fatigue, they were glad enough to lie down again and get some more sleep. They were aroused for dinner, which was composed chiefly of fish, and as soon as it was over, they went out to look at their horses. Andrew led his from the stable, and walked it up and down; it already appeared better. “I really think we might push forward; it would be safer than staying here. The chances are Feversham’s cavalry will be scouring the country in all directions to make prisoners, and before long some of them may be here.”

Stephen agreed, and went back to the hut to pay the old man and wish him good-bye. He was standing at the door of the hut, when Andrew cried out, “Quick! quick! I see some horsemen in the distance, and they are coming this way. They may be friends, but they are more likely to be enemies.”

The old man heard what was said, but made no remark. Stephen hurried to the boat-house, and quickly bridling and saddling his horse, mounted, without stopping to look behind them.

“Halloo! I thought you were going the other way,” the old man shouted after them.

They waved their hands without replying. On they galloped, and soon lost sight of the horsemen; but whether the latter were pursuing them was the question. Andrew’s horse went better than they expected. The country was generally level, though the roads were none of the best. They had proceeded for a couple of hours or more when Andrew’s horse began to flag; the animal was evidently feeling its lameness; still they had reached no place where they could hope to obtain the concealment they sought for. Their wish was to get among the rocky and wooded part of North Devon, and beyond the district from which any of those who had joined the rebellion would come; there would then be less chance of their being sought for. Yet they felt, if it was suspected that they had been with Monmouth, they would even so run the risk of being betrayed.

“We must obtain disguises of some sort, though it may be difficult to find them,” said Stephen, “for it would be dangerous to enter a town.”

It was certainly important to get rid of their uniforms, for those alone would betray them, as soon as the fate of the battle was known. At the same time they thought if they could obtain the dresses of gentlemen, they should less likely be suspected while travelling, at all events, than if they disguised themselves as countrymen, as their dialect and appearance would at once show that they were strangers. The long summer’s day was well-nigh closing in when they reached a hilly district, where they hoped to find concealment.

“What shall we do with our horses?” asked Andrew. “It will be difficult to hide them and find provender for them at the same time; besides which, should they be discovered, they would betray that we were in the neighbourhood. To turn them loose would be equally dangerous, for they would break into some corn-field or garden, and inquiries would be made to whom they belonged.”

“The only way, I fear, will be to kill them and throw them over the cliffs,” said Stephen.

“Then we shall have no means of travelling farther on,” observed Andrew. “At all events, do not let us kill them to-night, but try to find some place where we can conceal both ourselves and them.”

They rode on, the sun descending on their right into the waters of the Bristol Channel, enabling them to steer a tolerably direct course. At last they came to a deep wooded dell, the sides covered with trees, being so steep that it at first appeared that they could not possibly get down them. The sound of falling water assured them that there was a stream at the bottom, which would enable them to give their horses water. They were not likely to find a better place. They accordingly, dismounting, led their horses down, endeavouring as little as possible to disturb the ground, so as to leave no traces behind them. They were not disappointed in the locality. There was water and grass for their horses, and they had some dry bread and fish, with which the old fisherman supplied them, in their knapsacks for themselves, while the trees grew so closely that it was impossible for any one above to discover them. They, therefore, having watered their horses and eaten some of their scanty provision, lay down with a sense of tolerable security to sleep, while their animals cropped the grass close to them. Still they were anxious to get farther southward, where, among the rough Cornish miners, they were likely, they hoped, to be able to effectually conceal themselves till the search for fugitives from the battle-field was likely to be over. Night passed quietly away, the weather continuing fine, and at early dawn, their horses being thoroughly refreshed, they led them up out of the dell. The country was now much more wild and rugged than any they had yet passed over, and their progress was proportionately slow. Under other circumstances they would have enjoyed the scenery, but their hearts were too sad and their anxiety too great to enable them to think of anything but the means of securing their safety. They had proceeded for about a couple of hours, and were looking out for a place where they could stop and eat the scanty remains of food they had brought with them, when they caught sight of two horsemen coming towards them.

“Who can those men be?” asked Andrew.

“King’s dragoons,” answered Stephen. “It would be no use to fly. Our only chance is to dash forward and cut our way past them if they attempt to stop us.”

“Agreed,” said Andrew. “You take the fellow on our right, and I will tackle the other.”

They rode quietly forward, nerved for the contest; but just as they were about to plunge their spurs into their horses’ flanks, three other dragoons appeared coming along the road. There was a deep ravine on the right full of trees and brushwood. Andrew proposed that they should ride down it as far as they could go, and then throwing themselves from their horses, endeavour to make their way through the wood till they could find some place of concealment. The attempt was a desperate one, as the dragoons might follow as fast as they could. At the same time, they would have somewhat of a start, and being more lightly clad than the dragoons, would make quicker way.

“Whatever we do let us keep together,” said Stephen; “and, if die we must, die fighting side by side.”

“Agreed,” said Andrew, who was always ready to follow his younger brother’s lead. Just, however as Andrew was about to ride his horse down the steep bank, the dragoons dashed forward at so rapid a rate, that Stephen saw it would be impossible to follow without the risk of being cut down when unable to defend himself.

“Keep on the road,” he cried out to Andrew, who had just time to turn his rein, and drawing his sword, galloped forward. The next moment the dragoons fired. The weapons of all four were clashing together. Both were tolerably skilful swordsmen. Stephen wounded his antagonist in the sword-arm. Andrew gave the other a plunge in the side which made him reel in his saddle, and dashed on to encounter the other three, who were now spurring forward to meet them. They had some hope of success, and their courage was high, though their horses were not equal to those of their opponents. They quickly met, when Stephen found his sword whirled from his grasp, and his horse borne to the ground. At the same moment Andrew uttered a cry, and Stephen saw him, to his dismay, fall bleeding from his horse.

“We give in,” cried Stephen, anxious to save his brother. Notwithstanding, two of the dragoons, with swords uplifted, were about to cut them down, when the third, who appeared by his uniform to be an officer, cried out, “Do not strike,” throwing up his men’s weapons at the same time.

“You have acted like gallant fellows, whoever you are,” he said, turning to Stephen, and getting off his horse, stepped forward to assist in lifting up Andrew, whom Stephen was endeavouring to help. The two dragoons who had first been encountered now came up swearing vengeance. The officer ordered the other men to look to their hurts, while he attended to Andrew’s, which was not so severe as Stephen had at first supposed.

“You have come from the field of Sedgemoor,” he said, surveying the two young men. “You will return with us to Lord Feversham’s camp, and must take the consequences of your folly. You are gentlemen, and I do not wish to treat you as I should common clowns.”

The hurts of the wounded men being bound up, the two prisoners were placed on their own horses, having been deprived of their weapons, while their arms were bound behind them, and their feet secured under their saddles. The officer now led the way along the road they had just come.

“We have had a long search for you,” observed the officer. “We heard of your having been harboured at a fisherman’s hut, and have been following you ever since, though you managed to elude us yesterday. I do not wish to alarm you, but you must be prepared for the fate which has overtaken all the rebels that have been captured. General Feversham is not very lenient, and Colonel Kirk, who is expected immediately, is inclined to hang every one he can catch. I myself will do what I can for you, for I am pleased with the bold way that you attacked us; I despise a cowardly enemy.”

“We are much obliged to you for your courtesy,” answered Stephen. “But, sir, does it not occur to you that we should be less inconvenienced if we had at least our arms at liberty, and were able to guide our horses over this rough road. Should they fall, we shall be in an unpleasant predicament, and may chance to break our necks or limbs.”

“Will you give your word that you will not attempt to escape, rescue or no rescue?” asked the officer.

Stephen thought for a moment without answering. There might be an opportunity of getting free, and should they give their word of honour not to escape, they would be unable to take advantage of it. There was, however, very little probability that any party of their friends would be found able to attack five well-armed dragoons, for even the wounded men were still able to make a stout defence. The officer appeared to suspect his thoughts.

“Remember, my friends,” he observed, “should a rescue be attempted, the first thing we should do would be to shoot each of you through the head.”

“Thank you for your frankness, sir,” said Stephen. “What do you say, Andrew; shall we give a promise not to escape, with a remote prospect of being rescued, and the tolerable certainty of being shot should we make the attempt to take advantage of it?” said Stephen.

“We will give our word provided we are also to have our legs at liberty, and can ride like gentlemen,” answered Andrew. “We must do it provisionally, however. If the number of men who may attempt to rescue us is double that of the dragoons, they will then have a good excuse for letting us go; and that is, I believe, after all, what Cornet Bryce wishes.”

“I fear that the Cornet will not agree to our arrangement,” said Stephen, “though he may think that there is very little chance of ten or twenty men suddenly appearing in this part of the country to rescue us.”

“Still let us try,” said Andrew; “it will show him that we entertain some hope of being rescued, that our friends will revenge themselves on him if we are ill-treated. As to shooting us, I do not think he is the man to do that. We must run no small risk either way, and be prepared for it.”

“Well, lads, have you made up your minds?” asked the Cornet, who, though holding a subordinate rank, was a man of a certain age.

Andrew, as the eldest, made the proposal he had suggested.

“Not very likely that I should agree to it,” he answered. “I have you now in my power, and if your friends attempt to rescue you, I must pistol you as I promised.”

“Look here, Cornet,” said Andrew, “should you kill us, our friends will to a certainty cut you down in revenge; for supposing that twenty or thirty of them appear, you would have no chance, and as to giving our word not to attempt under such circumstances to escape, we cannot do it.”

“Well, then, you must take the consequences,” answered the Cornet; “you must ride on with your legs bound under you, but I will allow you the use of your hands, for if your horses were to fall you might break your necks, and I should have only dead men to convey to the camp.”

Stephen, who all along had had no wish to give his word, was glad of this arrangement. The Cornet ordering his men to halt, himself unloosed the prisoners’ hands, and bade them take the reins and see that they kept their horses on their feet. The cavalcade now moved forward at a more rapid rate than they before ventured to go. Neither Stephen nor Andrew had the slightest hope of being rescued, as few of the cavalry who had fled from Sedgemoor had kept together, each man having gone off in the direction where he hoped safety might most quickly be found. They concluded, with correctness, that many had been already captured, and that the dragoons were scouring the country in all directions in search of others. Their only consolation was, that they had fallen into the hands of a humane man, who was certainly not thirsting for their blood. Where there is life there is hope. They therefore rode on less downcast than under the circumstances might have been expected.

Chapter Nine.

Stephen and Andrew Battiscombe had, without hesitation, given their names and other particulars of their family to Cornet Bryce.

“Well, my friends, I can tell you that I think there is a chance, though a slight one, that you may escape hanging,” he observed, as he rode alongside them in a familiar fashion, two of his men going in front and two guarding the rear. “Our General and some of the officers under him are not above taking bribes, and if you can persuade them that your father will pay handsomely, you may possibly get off, provided they do not hang you without asking questions. I give you the hint, as it may be of value to you.”

“Thank you,” said Andrew. “I am very sure that our father will be ready to pay any sum he can afford to save our lives; should we even now obtain our liberty, the person who enables us to escape would be handsomely rewarded.”

“He will probably be shot or lose his commission if caught, besides which, to do so he would neglect his duty as a soldier,” answered the Cornet. “No, no, young gentlemen, I gave you advice for your benefit, not for my own. I am not surprised at your making the proposal to me; some might take it. I thirst for no man’s blood, and I have no wish to handle blood-money. My father served under Cromwell, and though I am in the service of King James, I have not forgotten the principles of my ancestors. Would that I could free you without dishonour!”

These remarks accounted for the Cornet’s kind treatment to his prisoners. They had too much reason to fear that they should not find many like him in the camp. As they could reach no town that night, all the horses being too tired, the Cornet knocked at the door of a farm-house and demanded admittance. The farmer cast an eye of compassion on the two prisoners, but said nothing, and, without a moment’s hesitation, admitted the officer and his troopers, while he sent two of his men to lead their horses to the stables. His wife, on observing that two of the troopers were wounded, came forward and offered at once to dress their hurts.

“I have some skill in that way,” she said, “and I hope that if any of the Duke of Monmouth’s men were to come asking help, I should not be hardly dealt with if I gave it.”

“I would advise you, dame, not to try the experiment,” said Cornet Bryce. “I fear you and your goodman would run a great risk of being hung up if you were to afford help to the youngest drummer-boy in the rebel army.”

“Alack! alack! these are cruel times,” cried the good woman. “We hear that the king’s General is hanging up the poor people by scores; we do not desire to get our necks into the same noose. You will note, good sir, that we are peaceable people, that we gave you an instant welcome, and will provide the best our house can afford.”

“Do as you propose, good dame, and I will report as well of you as I can,” said the Cornet, placing himself at the table, where he directed his two prisoners to sit, close to him. The farmer busied himself in helping his wife. As Stephen examined his countenance, he thought he recognised it as that of a man who had been in Monmouth’s army. He made no remark. Once or twice, while the Cornet and his men were engaged in discussing their food, the farmer cast a glance at Stephen and Andrew, which showed, Stephen thought, that he also recognised them, and said very clearly, “Do not take any notice of me.”

As soon as supper was over, Stephen, turning to the Cornet, said, “If you will give me leave, sir, I will take this opportunity of writing to my friends in Dorsetshire. I may not have another. Farmer Stubbs here will, I doubt not, be able to despatch a letter; and when he knows that life and death depend on it, he will exert himself to convey it in safety.”

The farmer started on hearing himself spoken of by name, which Stephen did inadvertently.

“Ay, that I will, you may depend on it, young gentleman; I would rather be the means of saving a man’s life than killing one, even in fair fight. If the Cornet will give me a safe pass that I may not be taken for one of those running away from the fight, I will undertake to convey the letter myself as soon as it is written.”

The Cornet did not appear to think that there was anything unusual in this proposal, and without hesitation promised to write a pass if Farmer Stubbs would find the paper.

“Here it is, gentlemen,” said the farmer’s wife, who had got up and had been searching about in a cupboard, as she produced several sheets of coarse letter-paper, very different from the fine notepaper of the present day, together with a bottle of ink, some quill pens, and a piece of sealing-wax.

Stephen at once commenced to write his proposed letter to his father, stating that he and Andrew had been captured on the supposition that they were escaping from the field of Sedgemoor; that they should probably be executed forthwith unless they were ransomed; and he pointed out to his father the importance of at once sending a person of trust with a sufficient sum, who might endeavour to obtain their liberation. Supposing that Roger Willoughby was still in England, he wrote a short letter to him to be forwarded by post, entreating that he would communicate with Mr Kempson and get him to exert his influence. This was done, it must be understood, under the idea which Stephen entertained, that after the slaughter of the battle-field was over, the prisoners captured would have a fair trial and time for their defence. He little dreamed of the cruel way Colonel Kirk and his lambs would treat those placed in their power, or the bloody assize under Judge Jeffreys. As soon as the letters were finished, he asked the Cornet to give his promised pass to the worthy farmer, as if it were a matter of no great consequence.

“He shall have it, and I shall be very glad if he succeeds in obtaining your release,” said the Cornet.

At length the farmer proposed that his guests should retire to rest, observing that his good woman would see them off in the morning, as his journey being a matter of life and death, he intended to start a couple of hours before daylight.

To this Cornet Bryce made no objection. “Very wise, as I suppose you know the road,” he observed.

More satisfied than they had been for some hours, Stephen and Andrew placed their heads on the pillow of the rough pallet which had been prepared for them; the soldiers stretched themselves on the floor, except the two wounded men, for whom the good dame made up separate beds, and again looked carefully to their hurts. They were all four soon snoring in concert. Andrew had joined them. Stephen kept awake, considering if there was any possibility of escaping. From what Cornet Bryce had told him, he knew that there was a risk the moment they arrived at Bridgewater of their being hung without examination or trial of any sort, numbers having been so treated by Feversham and Colonel Kirk. It was far safer, therefore, to escape, if it could be done. The Cornet himself, though he sat up talking with the farmer for some time, at length turned into the truckle bed provided for him, and was soon as fast asleep as his men. Farmer Stubbs was making certain preparations apparently for his journey, filling his saddle-bags with provisions, his holsters with a brace of pistols and ammunition. They were thus engaged as noiselessly as possible when the door opened, and two young men entered. The old woman put her finger to her lips as they gazed somewhat astonished at the number of occupants of the common room. Presently another came in; then the old lady, beckoning to them, accompanied them outside. On seeing this Stephen’s hopes rose. If they were all staunch men they might overpower their guard without the slightest difficulty, but then serious consequences might ensue to the farmer. Probably his house would be burnt down and his property destroyed, should the troopers suffer any violence. It seems surprising that Cornet Bryce should so far have neglected his duty as to go to sleep without placing a watch over them. After some time one of the young men returned and came up to Stephen’s bed. Finding that he was awake, he made a sign to him to get up, and arouse his brother as noiselessly as possible. As soon as they were both on foot he beckoned them out of the room.

“Our father’s ale and cider are pretty strong, and if these fellows wake we are more than a match for them. We may either bind them and keep them prisoners somewhere in the neighbourhood, or we may put them to death, or you may escape by yourselves, while you lame their horses to prevent them from following you.”

“If we had the power we would choose the latter course,” said Stephen. “May they not revenge themselves by imprisoning your father and destroying his farm?”

“He will be far away from this before morning,” answered young Stubbs. “They will not catch a sight of any of us if we are in hiding, and they can scarcely injure our poor old mother, who will know nothing of your flight.”

“Then by all means let us try the latter course,” said Stephen, his spirits rising as he thought of once more obtaining his liberty.

“Come along then,” said young Stubbs. “One of us is going with you, the rest remain, for we are safer in hiding close to the farm than we should be in travelling across the country. We wish to serve you as we know you well. Mother will remain in the house, and be as much surprised as the soldiers when they find you, their prisoners, have gone. She is a wonderful woman, and will not yield an inch, besides which, we shall be at hand; should any violence be offered her by the soldiers, we will be ready to astonish them.”

Simon said this while he led the way to the stables. He quickly led out Stephen’s and Andrew’s horses, with one for himself.

“Mount,” he said. “There is no time to lose. My brothers will look after the troopers’ animals, and take good care that they are not in a fit condition to follow us. They have had no food all this time, poor brutes. Some they will lame, others they will let loose. Stay, there is one thing we forgot. The uniforms you wear are likely to betray you. It will be better to change them for my brothers’ clothing. Wait here, and I will be back in a minute.” Simon, who had not yet mounted, hurried into the house. He soon returned, bringing a couple of bundles, with two countrymen’s hats. “Now we will mount and away, and change these when we are farther on the road, before daybreak.”

At first they walked the horses, till they had got out of hearing of the house, then stuck their spurs into the animals’ flanks and galloped on. Simon knew the road, and did not pull rein for a dozen miles or more. He proposed, he said, riding right across Devonshire so as to reach the southern coast, where they might find a vessel going over to France, or still better, to Holland, where they would be among friends. Stephen and Andrew felt their spirits rise at thus finding themselves again at liberty, and they doubted not that this time they should make their escape. Simon was evidently a very intelligent fellow, and up to all sorts of plans and projects for eluding the enemy. As daylight approached he proposed entering a thick wood, in which he said he had no doubt a stream could be found for watering their horses; they could here change their clothes, and hide their uniforms in some place where they were not likely to be found. Stephen was inclined implicitly to follow his advice, and without hesitation did as he suggested; but after refreshing themselves, they changed their dresses, as proposed. Hunting about they found a hollow beneath an old tree; here they put in their uniforms, and covered the hole up again with light earth and leaves; they then remounting their horses, rode on again for a couple of hours more. Even should the Cornet and his men follow them, it was impossible that they could reach thus far for several hours to come; they accordingly dismounted by the side of a stream where there was sufficient grass for their horses; thanks to Simon’s forethought, they had food to last them, he calculated, till they could reach the coast. The next two stages were made at night, thus avoiding any dangerous questions being asked by the people they would have met if they had travelled by day. At length they considered that they might venture to travel during part of the day. Accordingly, after breakfasting near a stream, of which they found an abundance on their road, they pushed forward during the morning. As they kept as much as possible on the by-roads, and avoided the villages, they met but few people. Some of them looked at them askance, others addressed them and inquired where they were going, but the greater number took but little notice of them, supposing, probably, that they were farmers from a distance. A few, seeing that they were coming from the north, asked for information regarding the Duke of Monmouth’s misadventure. Of course, they could say they knew nothing of the Duke’s movements, and as to the battles which had been fought, the less said about them the better; they might be taken for partisans of one side or the other, and all they wanted just now was to attend to their own affairs, important enough to them, whatever they might be to others. This answer satisfied the inquirers, and the travellers got on with less inconvenience than they had expected. They were not generally very acute persons, or they might have suspected that Stephen and his brother, who were fine-looking young men, were not farmers, though Simon, both in his dialect and appearance, showed his real character. At length the coast was reached. It was one of those rocky secluded little bays, or coves as they are called, which abound on the shores of Devonshire; three or four fishermen’s cottages were scattered about on the sides of the cliffs; one was considerably larger and better built than the rest. In the centre of the bay floated a boat, or rather a little vessel.

“The probabilities are that that boat belongs to the owner of the cottage. She is large enough to carry us to France or Holland. If the owner will let her to us we can procure sufficient provisions.”

“Let us inquire then,” said Andrew. “Simon and I will stand by the horses, you will go down to the cottage.”

Stephen, agreeing to this, set off, and was soon at the door of the cottage. A superior-looking seafaring man opened it and bade him enter.

“Does the boat brought up in the bay belong to you, friend?” he asked.

“Yes, and as wholesome a one as ever floated on salt water; she will go through any amount of sea, always provided she is properly handled.”

“Then I should think she is just the craft to suit my two friends and me. I want to know whether you will let her to us for a couple of weeks or so.”

“Where do you want to go to in her?” asked the old man, eyeing his visitor.

“To be honest with you, we desire to be put across either to the coast of France, or should the wind prove favourable, we should prefer running on to Holland.”

The old man eyed Stephen narrowly as he was speaking. “You have some particular reason, I conclude, for wishing to get off,” he remarked. “It is not merely a pleasure trip you wish to make, and if you go, I need not expect you to bring the boat back again.”

“To be frank with you, we have a particular reason,” said Stephen. “We are willing to pay accordingly. We will hand over to you a security, and pay a certain sum down, and give you a promissory note for the remainder.”

The old man seemed to be turning the matter in his mind. “I cannot send the boat alone, but you shall have the man who usually sails her since I have been laid by, Joe Savin, and my lad Tom Peddler, provided you pay their wages from the time they sail to the time they return into harbour.”

To this Stephen willingly agreed, highly pleased to make the bargain with so little trouble. He accordingly, mounting his horse, rode back to where he had left Andrew and Simon, who at once accompanied him to the house of the old pilot, for such he appeared to be. Here they all three underwent a further scrutiny.

“Here are our horses, which, if I mistake not, are worth a considerable portion of the value of the boat; I will, in addition, pay you five pounds down, and will give you a promissory note for a further 10 pounds, which my father, Mr Stephen Battiscombe of Langton Hall, will pay you.”

“That is tolerably good payment, I will allow, for the risk I run of losing my boat,” said the pilot; “but that risk is very considerable, and you must understand that if I did not suspect more than you have told me, I would not enter into the venture. I do not ask questions.”

From this remark Stephen knew that the old pilot suspected him and his companions to be fugitives from the field of Sedgemoor, and entertained a sympathy which he was unwilling to allow.

“As there is no time to be lost, we will ask you, friend, to give directions to your men to go on board to store the craft with such provisions as we shall require for the voyage. I, of course, shall be ready to pay for them in addition; five mouths to feed, we will require a good store.”

“I have a cask of salted herrings, some dried cod, and I will see what my good wife, who is out marketing, can supply when she comes home,” said the pilot. “May be we shall find some bread and other things in the village.”

Fortunately for the fugitives the goodwife soon returned home. On hearing the account they gave of themselves, she seemed to take as warm an interest in them as did her husband, by her exertions. Joe Savin and his mate being summoned, the little vessel was quickly provisioned. There was still some time of daylight when they finally went on board, having bid farewell to the old pilot and his wife.

“Now, Joe, let us get under weigh,” said Stephen. “As I have been to sea I can lend you a hand, and will either take the helm or help you forward.”

“You will take the helm, and let the other young men come forward and do as I tell them,” said Joe, eyeing Simon’s muscular form and Andrew’s active figure. “We are stronger-handed than usual, for even when old Mr Headland is aboard, though he has got a head on his shoulders, he has not much bodily strength remaining.” The main-sail was soon set, the anchor, with the assistance of Andrew and Simon, quickly hove up and secured, when the little vessel began to glide out of the cove. They had just got off the southern point of the bay when they saw a number of men running along the cliff towards them. As Stephen was steering he did not observe them particularly, but Andrew and Simon, after attentively looking at them, exclaimed, “They are soldiers!”

As they caught sight of the boat, the soldiers were seen to beckon vehemently, as if to call her back.

“Very unlikely that we will do that,” said Stephen. “The fellows have somehow or other found out who we are, and old Mr Headland will, I fear, be the sufferer.”

“If those soldiers want us, should not we put back?” asked Joe.

“The very reason we should not,” said Stephen. “We should do no good, and should certainly have our voyage delayed.”

Just as he was speaking the sail gave a flap; the boat was becalmed under the high ground.

“Get out the oars, lads; we must make the best of our way from the shore.”

Joe and the lads got out the oars, and Andrew and Simon assisted them to pull. They had not made many strokes before several shot came whistling over their heads.

“Pull away,” cried Stephen; “we shall soon be out of range, and in a few minutes will catch the breeze again.”

The soldiers once more fired; two bullets struck the boat, but did no damage; the third went through the main-sail. The soldiers shouted and gesticulated more vehemently than before. The party in the boat, at Stephen’s suggestion, took not the slightest notice of them, though they pulled on with might and main till the breeze once more filled the sails and rapidly freshened. The boat now stood away to the southward, and was soon out of range of the soldiers’ muskets.

“Perhaps after all we shall be followed,” remarked Andrew.

“No fear of that,” said Joe. “There is not a man left in the harbour to take out a boat; the chances are the soldiers are not able to pull themselves or they would have been after us by this time. See, the breeze is freshening, and by nightfall we shall be well away from the land.”

This information greatly relieved the minds of the fugitives; they had now every hope of getting free, and, should the fine weather continue, be able to land in Holland. Stephen’s chief anxiety was for the old pilot; the horses would very likely be taken from him, and he might too probably be carried off as a prisoner for having enabled rebels to escape. Though they had not witnessed the cruelties practised by Colonel Kirk and his lambs, Simon had told him of what he had heard, and of the hundreds who had been hung up on the Bussex oak directly after the action. They were justly afraid that Mr Headland might be treated in the same cruel manner; and “if we had gone back we could have done no good,” Stephen said to himself over and over again. For some hours the weather continued fine, and the boat made fair progress, but towards midnight a dark bank of clouds rose to the eastward, threatening a gale.

“What do you think of it, Joe?” asked Stephen.

“We shall catch it, but the boat will float like a cork; we will shorten sail in good time, though we shall not make much of our way towards Holland till it is over, I have a notion.”

The boat, it should be understood, was only half-decked; but she had good high sides, and was provided with water-ways, so that unless the gale should prove of unusual violence, they had no reason to fear for their safety. Though Andrew had lived near the sea, he had seldom been afloat, and Simon had never even seen the ocean before. At first he had been highly pleased with its appearance, but now that he saw the dark leaden foam-topped waves rising up, he began to look as if he would rather have been safe on shore; but he was a stout-hearted fellow, and was not disposed to give way to idle fears. The boat began to pitch and tumble about, and to take the water over her bows.

“I will go to the helm now,” said Joe to Stephen, “for though I see you know how to handle a boat in smooth water, it is a very different matter in a heavy sea.”

Stephen gladly gave up the helm, and stood by with the lad to shorten sail, should it be necessary. Two reefs had already been taken down, and the little vessel went bobbing away over the dark foaming seas, making but little progress. She might, as Joe affirmed, be the best sea-boat out of Kenway Cove, but she was certainly not a fast craft, and was inclined to make as much way to leeward as she did ahead. She was now standing over to the French coast, but Stephen and his friends were unwilling to land there except in a case of great necessity. Should they be discovered, the French Government, who were friendly with James, would be very likely to hand them over to him. Their only hope was to get into some retired place on the coast of Normandy, where they might live unnoticed, and engage themselves in fishing or some other employment. The wind increased; now the rain came down in torrents, drenching through those who were but ill-protected, old Joe, in a thick woollen coat, and a pipe in his mouth, and a tarpaulin drawn down over his head, looking as unconcerned as if it were a fine summer day. He advised Andrew and Simon to get into the cuddy.

“You ain’t of much use,” he observed, “and there is no reason why you should get wet through to do no one good. Mr Stephen here may do as he pleases; we are likely enough to want his help; he has shown that he can give it.”

Andrew and Simon, though they did not feel complimented, followed the old sailor’s advice, but the tossing and the tremendous thumps which they heard every instant against the bow of the vessel, effectually prevented them from going to sleep, and made them wish to get out again. They felt also very sick and uncomfortable: the cuddy was hot and close. The gale increased, and old Joe deemed it necessary to take down the last reef and lower the fore-sail, keeping only the small storm-jib set. The operation took some time, and while Stephen was assisting in shifting the jibs, a sea struck the bows, and carried him off his legs. Providentially he clung to the forestay, or he would have, the next instant, been overboard; but he saved himself. He got the storm-jib hauled well on board before the next sea struck the vessel. Sail being reduced, everything was made snug, and he came aft. Looking into the cuddy, he inquired how his friends were getting on.

“Very badly,” they both answered. “How soon is the gale likely to be over?”

“It is impossible to say,” he answered. “It may likely enough come on to blow harder; we shall then have to heave the vessel to, and wait till it decreases.”

Andrew and Simon groaned on hearing this, and wished themselves safe on shore. In a few minutes Joe determined to heave the vessel to, which was done under the storm-jib and mizzen, while the main-sail was lowered down and stowed. When morning broke, there the little vessel lay, riding on the leaden seas, and the dark clouds overhead, and masses of spray driving against her. Old Joe said they were pretty nearly about the spot where they were the night before—no nearer the French coast, no farther from that of England. There seemed to be little likelihood of the gale abating. Joe put the lad, who had been sleeping most of the night, to watch the helm while he took a snooze. The rest of the party had slept but little. Stephen had not closed his eyes, but he now felt very weary, and could no longer keep awake, so he lay down in the cuddy, caring less for the thumping sound than Andrew had done. He slept on for some hours in spite of wind whistling in the rigging, the roaring of the seas, which ever and anon broke over the little vessel, half filling her with water. Old Joe got the pump rigged, and bade Andrew and Simon, as they could do nothing else, work away at it. He kept them at it till their arms ached, but it was far better than being idle. At last Stephen got up; he proposed that they should have some food, as neither of his friends had taken anything since the previous evening. At first they declared that they could get nothing down. He persuaded them to try. Following his example, they succeeded better than they had expected, and were able again to turn to the pump. With an easterly gale such as they were now experiencing, there is generally a clear sky, but on this occasion, clouds massed on clouds came rushing along from the North Sea. Though hove-to, as far as old Joe could calculate, about mid-channel, the little vessel was drifting fast to leeward, farther and farther from the direction which those on board desired to go. Old Joe proposed at length that they should run back to some port on the English coast. Against this Stephen protested. They had had a narrow escape as it was, and wherever they might put in, they would be nearly certain to be suspected.

“Then we must bear up for a French port,” said Joe.

“That will only be a degree better,” observed Stephen.

“Well, then, it is a choice of evils,” said Joe. “If we do not get into some port or other, and it should come on to blow harder than it does now, the chances are the craft will go down. Better to be taken by the French.”

“We will hope that the gale won’t increase,” said Stephen, who having thus far succeeded in escaping from his enemies, was not inclined to despair. His brother and Simon were more out of spirits about the matter. Still it seemed probable that the gale would increase; not a break appeared in the clouds. As long as the provisions lasted, and the boat could keep above water, Stephen determined to remain at sea. The boat, however, was leaking considerably, and the provisions were becoming exhausted, so that even should the gale moderate they could scarcely hope to reach a Dutch port before their food would have come to an end. All day long the little vessel lay tossing about. They spoke little, though they had much to think about. Their thoughts were not such as they could give expression to before others. Joe, who was generally a cheery old fellow, sat looking glum and downcast.

“It is all very well for you to say you won’t go back, but if we don’t, as I said before, we shall go to the bottom.”

Still Stephen was determined to attempt to get on as soon as the gale had abated. He knew that it was as dangerous to run before the seas, when there would be a great probability of being pooped, as to remain hove-to. That they had been drifting down channel he was aware. How far they had got it was difficult to say. To attempt to make the land they might fail to enter any sheltering harbour, and might be cast on some rocky shore, where the vessel would be lost. Stephen argued the point with old Joe.

“Well,” replied the latter, “you must be answerable for whatever happens. Remember, if the craft goes down it is your fault, not mine.”

Stephen was half inclined to smile at what Joe said, and willingly undertook to be responsible for whatever should occur, and going to the pump, set to work to encourage his companions. Thus they continued tumbling and tossing about as they had been doing for many hours. At length, overcome with fatigue, Stephen lay down in the cuddy, hoping to snatch a short rest. How long he had been asleep he could not tell, when he was awakened by a loud crash. Starting up, he saw to his dismay that the mast had gone by the board. Old Joe was equal to the emergency. “Get out the oars, lads, and we will try and keep the craft’s head to wind, while I cut away the wreck. It is our only chance, for if she is brought broadside to the sea, she will fill in an instant and go down.”

Tom Peddler, accustomed to obey old Joe, promptly got out one of the oars, while Andrew and Simon got out the other; Stephen, springing aft, went to the helm. Joe soon cleared the mast, the butt end of which had been battering away against the side of the boat, threatening to knock a hole in her. By considerable exertion she was kept head to wind, while in a few minutes old Joe, who had been looking out, shading his eyes with his hands, declared that the gale was breaking. Soon a light was seen to shine forth between the clouds to the eastward, and it became evident that the wind, having played them this cruel trick, was going down. Though they had to pull hard to prevent the boat from being swamped, still, as long as they could do that, they hoped at all events to save their lives for the present. Though, after all, they should be compelled to put into a French port, to do so was not altogether hopeless, as they would have the excuse of coming in for the sake of getting a fresh mast. The wind continued to go down, and the sea to decrease so much, that their exertions were greatly lessened. They were able to enjoy a better meal also than they had taken. They had just finished, when Andrew, who was on the look-out, exclaimed—“I see a white sail away to the east. See, the canvas shines like snow against the clouds.”

Joe jumped up at hearing this, and took a look at the stranger, which he pronounced to be a large ship bearing directly down for them. “Whether friend or foe, we cannot escape her; but if she is Dutch we are in no danger. I do not know how a Frenchman would treat us. We have most to dread from one of our own ships; more’s the shame it should be so.”

As there was no necessity any longer for keeping the oars going, all on board anxiously watched the approaching ship.

“She is a man-of-war, I have little doubt,” said Joe. “Carries fifty guns. She is English, too,” he added; “she has hoisted her ensign at the peak.”

“Remember we have but one simple tale to tell,” said Stephen to Andrew and Simon; “we are bound for Holland. We must neither show fear nor surprise if we are taken on board. Merely ask the English Captain to supply us with a mast and the necessary rigging, in place of the one we have lost.”

In a short time the frigate was up to the little vessel. A boat was lowered, and a lieutenant and midshipman came in her.

“What has brought you into this condition, friends?” asked the former, looking at Joe.

“Oh,” replied Joe, “a sudden squall carried away our mast.”

“The Captain’s orders were to bring your boat alongside,” said the lieutenant. “Get out your oars; we will soon tow you there.”

Just then Stephen, who had been looking at the midshipman, exclaimed, “Roger Willoughby!”

Roger started up and cried out, “Stephen Battiscombe! I should not have known you, you look so thin and careworn. What has brought you out here?”

“My brother and I and our friend are going to seek our fortune in Holland,” answered Stephen, who would rather not have had his name mentioned.

As the lieutenant was in a hurry to obey his orders, he directed Joe to heave him a tow-rope, and the little vessel was quickly carried alongside the ship. On the deck Stephen saw his old commander Captain Benbow, who, however, did not recognise him, dressed as he was in countryman’s clothes.

“What brought you out here, my men, in mid-channel?” asked the Captain. “Come up on deck, and let me have a talk with you.”

Stephen at once obeyed; Andrew and Simon followed him more slowly. To Stephen’s surprise Roger took no further notice of him, though his old friend, knowing how he had been engaged, had a shrewd suspicion of the truth, and thought that he had probably assumed some fictitious name. It was better to let him answer for himself. Stephen replied, as had been agreed on, that he and his companions were bound for Holland to seek their fortunes, and that in consequence of being unable to find a larger vessel, they had embarked in the Duck and had it not been for the gale they encountered, they hoped to have been there by this time.

“Not much chance of getting there unless you are fitted with a new mast,” said the Captain. “My wish is always to help fellow-seamen in distress. Though you are dressed as a farmer, I am very sure that by the way you came up the side that you have been at sea before, and while I look at you, it appears to me that we have been shipmates. I will not ask questions. If I did I should want true answers. Come, my friend, the sooner we get your craft fitted out the better for you; the wind may breeze up again, and it may become a difficult job.” Without taking further notice of Stephen and his companions, he ordered the carpenter and boatswain to try how fast they could fit and rig a new mast for the little Duck. “That won’t be looked upon as neglect of duty or aiding and abetting. Remember, we don’t know who these men are,” he said, turning to Roger. “We found them in distress on the high seas, and we do what every man is bound to do, help them to get into port as best they can.”

Roger did not say that he recognised Stephen, although he guessed that the Captain, from what he said, had done so. He was longing himself to ask Stephen to give him an account of his adventures, but he judged that the Captain would object to his doing this. He was very thankful that Stephen had escaped from the battle of Sedgemoor, of which a full account had reached London, as well as of the dreadful slaughter which had been inflicted on the insurgents. Like all those who served under Benbow, the carpenter and gunner of his ship, aided by their crews, exerted themselves to the utmost to get the mast finished. They knew that it need not be very shapely, provided the main-sail, which had been saved, could be set upon it. In the course of a couple of hours the little Duck was once more ready to continue her voyage. Stephen heartily thanked the Captain for his kindness.

“Say not a word about it, my lad,” answered Captain Benbow; “I am glad to give you a helping hand. I should have advised you to come on board my ship instead of continuing your voyage in that cockle-shell, but I am bound up the Bristol Channel to look out for fugitives from the Duke of Monmouth’s unfortunate army, and my directions are to cruise between Bideford Bay and Bridgewater Bay. If I had found a craft coming from that part of the coast, I should have been compelled to detain her and all on board. Now, fare you well. I wish that you had stuck to the sea, and you would have kept out of difficulties into which so many at the present day have fallen. By the by, as you have been out so long, you may be in want of provisions; I have some private stores, and you shall be welcome to them,” and he ordered his steward to put a keg of biscuits, a case of Spanish hams, a couple of casks of water, and other minor articles on board. The honest Captain, from the warmth of his heart, could not help shaking his old acquaintance by the hand as he dismissed him to his little vessel. Roger slipped down the side and grasped his hand.

“I am so glad you got off,” he exclaimed. “I did not speak to you before, because I waited to take the cue from the Captain. It is all right; remember, let them know at Eversden, through the Colonel, when you arrive safely in Holland. I am glad you are going there instead of to France, for the Captain thinks we shall be at loggerheads with the Mounseers soon.”

Saying this, and having wrung Stephen’s hand, Roger sprang up the side of his ship, when the little Duck, shoving off, made sail to the eastward, while the Ruby stood on her course down Channel.

Chapter Ten.

The gale had been blowing for some days on the Dorsetshire coast. The seafaring men along the shore pronounced it the hardest they had known at that season for many a year, harder than one which had blown a few days previously for a short time. A vessel, from stress of weather, had put into Lyme, and reported that she had passed two small craft, tempest-tossed and sorely battered, but they refused assistance, saying that they intended to keep the sea, as they were bound to the eastward. This information being given to the authorities at Lyme, notice was issued to the men stationed along the coast, placed there to prevent the escape of rebels, and they were directed to watch for the two vessels, which it was conjectured had on board fugitives from Sedgemoor, or others who had taken part with Monmouth.

Colonel Tregellen had been deeply stirred with indignation at the cruelties practised by the Earl of Feversham and Colonel Kirk on the hapless Monmouth’s defeated army, and he felt far more interest in them than would otherwise have been the case.

“Had they been criminals of the darkest dye, they could not have been more severely dealt with. Instead of that, they were honest men, fighting bravely for what they believed a righteous cause,” he observed, as he read the accounts of what had taken place.

It is scarcely necessary to say how Alice Tufnell felt. Though she had warned and entreated Stephen Battiscombe not to take up arms, she knew that he was prompted by the highest and purest of motives. Her heart sank as she thought of the uncertainty that hung over his fate. No news had been received of him and his brother since the day of the battle, and their friends could not conjecture whether they had fallen at Sedgemoor, been killed in the pursuit, or were still in hiding.

The first intimation that his sons were still alive was received from Farmer Stubbs, who had brought Stephen’s letter, saying that he and Andrew were in the hands of Cornet Bryce, and that they were to be carried to Bridgewater or Taunton. Mr Battiscombe immediately sent off to Colonel Tregellen to ask his advice. Farmer Stubbs was very unwilling to put himself into the power of Colonel Kirk and his lambs, and declined going with the sum of money necessary to bribe those in authority. Mr Battiscombe had the money ready, which he hoped would be sufficient. He first thought of Mr Handscombe, but on applying to Mr Willoughby, who had last heard from him, he found that he had left London, no one knew whither. Colonel Tregellen himself would have been a fit person in some respects, for his loyalty would never have been doubted, but his health prevented him from going far from home. He was not suited by his temper and disposition to deal with characters such as Colonel Kirk and those associated with him. Poor Mr Battiscombe, in despair, applied to Mr Willoughby. He had taken no part in the rebellion, and his son, with his sanction, had entered the Royal Navy, and was serving under Captain Benbow. Feeling deeply for his friend, though the undertaking was very contrary to his habits, he agreed to set out without loss of time, and endeavour to carry on the negotiation. He had very little to plead for Stephen and Andrew, except that they were young men carried away with the flattery bestowed on them by the Duke, but their father would undertake for their good behaviour in future, and would send them out of the country. Farmer Stubbs, saying that he had a relative not far off, with whom he intended to stay till the storm had blown over, disappeared the next evening, and Mr Willoughby set out on his mission of mercy, which, as the reader knows, was to prove a bootless one.

The storm had been blowing for some days, when Colonel Tregellen, accompanied by Alice on her pony, started on a ride to the village, where he had some tenants to visit, intending to return along the cliffs, where he hoped that the fresh wind off the sea would raise Alice’s depressed spirits. On reaching the Downs the wind was so strong that they could with difficulty make headway against it, still the little pony seemed to enjoy the breeze even more than its mistress. When the Colonel pressed forward, his horse cantered gaily along. Alice at length, just as they reached the higher part, where an extensive view could be obtained over the ocean, begged to stop to regain her breath. The Colonel was looking westward, when he observed two sails in the distance.

“Look out there, Alice,” he said, “your eyes are sharper than mine. Tell me what those are.”

“Two small vessels or boats,” she answered. “They have a very small amount of canvas, and are running to the shore, while they appear to be terribly tossed about. It is surprising that they can remain afloat in such a sea.”

“They must be in a desperate strait, or they would not stand in for this coast,” remarked the Colonel. “Unless they can manage to reach Lyme they will to a certainty be lost.”

“They are not steering for Lyme,” said Alice, “but are coming on directly for our bay.”

“Can they be the craft reported to have been fallen in with by the Lyme vessel?” observed the Colonel.

“I pray that they may not be, as those too likely contained fugitives from Monmouth’s army,” said Alice.

“There must be some one on board who knows this bay, or they would not be steering for it,” said the Colonel. “As the vessels are small, the crews may hope to run them up on the beach and escape through the surf.”

In spite of the wind the Colonel and his adopted daughter were unwilling to leave the Downs till they knew the fate of the boats. The pathway down to the beach was too steep for the horses to descend, or in their eagerness they would have gone down. The Colonel rode as close as he could to the edge of the cliff, to see if he could observe old Ben Rullock, or some other fisherman, in order to desire them to make preparations for rescuing the storm-tossed crews, whosoever they might be. While he was watching he observed several persons coming along the cliff.

“The fellows are on the look-out for those boats,” he said to himself. “I wish they had not discovered them, for if the people on board are fugitives, should they escape the waves, they will fall into their scarcely less remorseless clutches.” He watched the men as they descended the cliffs, but could not see what had become of them. “I verily believe they have hidden themselves, that they may pounce out on their prey, and give them less chance of escaping.”

The guards, who were all armed, seemed to have made signals to others, who came hurrying up till nearly a dozen were collected about the same spot. A reef of rocks ran off on the west side of the bay, which, circling round, formed a sort of breakwater, which, in moderate weather, enabled Ben Rullock and other fishermen to leave their boats at anchor in security, though at present they were all hauled up. It required nice steering to enter the bay so as to avoid the end of the reef; the two boats approached, their shattered appearance showing the urgent necessity which had induced them to steer for the land. Some of the people in them were baling, others pumping, both pressing eagerly on, almost abreast, instead of following each other. At length they drew close to the bay, when one, standing more to the westward than she ought to have done, struck the end of a reef. The next sea scattered her fragments, and she literally melted away from sight, leaving those who had been on board struggling helplessly in the waves. In vain those in the other boat threw out ropes to rescue the drowning people; they succeeded in dragging only one on board. As far as could be seen from the top of the cliff, the remainder perished miserably. Alice uttered a shriek of horror as she saw the catastrophe; no help could apparently be afforded from the shore; the other boat rushed forward up the bay, and disappeared beneath the cliff.

“The poor fellows have escaped a watery grave, but only to find themselves prisoners in the hands of their enemies,” cried the Colonel.

Shouts and cries heard above the roaring of the seas came up from below the cliffs; then all was still. After the lapse of a few minutes a number of men appeared coming up the cliff which led down to Ben Rullock’s cottage; they were the soldiers guarding six prisoners. The Colonel, followed by Alice, rode forward to inquire where the prisoners were to be conveyed, with a charitable wish to do what he could to alleviate their sufferings. Poor Alice could scarcely restrain the cry which rose from her breast as she saw the first of the prisoners, who was Stephen Battiscombe, followed by his brother Andrew; but she knew the Colonel’s generous intentions. The state of the prisoners was sufficient, it might have been thought, to excite the compassion of their captors; they looked utterly broken-down and emaciated, as if they had long been in want of food, while the bitter disappointment they must have felt at finding themselves immediately on landing in the hands of their foes completely overcame them. Stephen lifting his eyes recognised Alice; he bowed his head, and then cast his eyes again to the ground, as if he felt he had so completely disobeyed her wish that she could have no further interest in him.

“Where are you going to take these persons, my friends?” asked the Colonel of the soldiers. “Judging from their appearance they are scarce able to walk, much less to march any distance, and the sun is nearly setting. Whoever they may be, or whatever they have done, they are our fellow-creatures, and in sore distress. They certainly were not flying from the country, for you all saw that they steered for the shore, and evidently intended to land instead of attempting to go farther. I shall be glad if you will bring them on to Eversden Manor,—it is not far from this,—and I will give you and them quarters and provisions, which they at all events, judging from their looks, sorely want.”

The sergeant who had taken charge of the party, after making some remarks to two or three of his comrades, who seemed to like the idea of getting into comfortable quarters, instead of having to march to Lyme or Bridport, replied that he would accept the Colonel’s offer.

“Come then, friends,” said the Colonel; “I will ride on ahead while you follow with your prisoners; but do not hurry them, for they are but ill able to move at a fast pace.” Saying this he rode slowly on, with Alice by his side.

“I thought it wise not to show too much interest in the young Battiscombes, lest it might be supposed that I was inclined to favour them,” said the Colonel; “but the poor fellows seem perfectly broken-down for want of food. I fear that if I were to leave them they would be ill-treated or urged on too fast, but I think, were you to ride forward to the house and obtain some refreshment, it might shorten their sufferings. Platt can bring as much more food as he is able to carry.”

The idea was no sooner suggested to Alice, than answering, “That I will, thankfully,” she started off at a fast pace across the Downs.

“What has happened?” exclaimed Madam Pauline, who had seen her coming up the avenue at a gallop, her hair, which had escaped beneath her hat, streaming in the wind. Alice explained in a few words, and Madam Pauline, saying to herself, “It is sad, very sad; I am sorry, so sorry,” set about heartily putting up such food as was ready, together with a bottle of her cordial waters, while Alice directed Platt to prepare to accompany her. No sooner, however, was a basket packed, than, taking it on her arm, she hurried back to meet the Colonel and the prisoners. She found them just as they had crossed the Downs near a tolerably sheltered spot. Here the Colonel requested the sergeant to halt, while she, immediately unpacking her basket, took round the contents to the famishing prisoners. She endeavoured to exhibit no special favour to one more than the other, though this was difficult. As she came up to Stephen a second time, she whispered, “Be on the watch; tell your brother.” She then passed on hurriedly. After some time Tobias Platt arrived with more provisions, a portion of which he distributed among the soldiers, thus putting them in good humour, and making them more inclined than they might otherwise have been to treat their prisoners kindly. As it was getting late, the Colonel advised that they should proceed, and they continued their march to the manor-house. Alice again galloped forward to assist Madam Pauline in getting ready for their reception. She did not hesitate to confide to her aunt her intention of trying to enable Stephen and his brother to escape.

“But you do not consider the risk, my dear Alice,” said Madame Pauline. “Should these young men escape, the Colonel would be implicated, might suffer all sorts of fines and penalties, that he can ill afford, though I know he would gladly spend any sum to buy them off, if that were possible, and help poor Mr Battiscombe. However, we will see what can be done. What a pity that Mr Willoughby should have gone off on his useless errand! We must let Mr Battiscombe know that his sons have been captured, in order that he may take such steps as he deems necessary.”

“I will go,” said Alice; “my pony is perfectly fresh, and I shall quickly gallop to Langton Hall and back.” Madam Pauline hesitated, but Alice soon over-persuaded her to let her go.

On arriving at home the Colonel was somewhat inclined to find fault with Madam Pauline for allowing Alice to set off by herself, though he acknowledged it was important that Mr Battiscombe should be made aware that his sons had been captured, that he might take such steps as he might deem necessary to preserve their lives. He did not conceal from himself the fearful predicament in which they were placed: hundreds, he heard, had been slaughtered, and the vindictive King was not yet satisfied. That King little thought that his cruelties were preparing the way for his own dethronement.

There were numerous rooms in the lower story of the manor-house, and the Colonel proposed that one should be got ready for the young Battiscombes, and another for the remainder of the prisoners, who were of an inferior rank. There was no end of truckle-beds in the house, which he ordered to be got ready. He proposed allowing the soldiers to occupy the hall, while the sergeant might place his guards as he considered necessary. The sergeant, on his arrival, was well pleased with the arrangements that had been made. Not being without human feeling, he was satisfied that the worn-out prisoners should enjoy the comfort of beds and good food, while he was pleased with the ample fare provided by Madam Pauline for himself and his comrades.

The Colonel looked out anxiously for the return of Alice, for he was afraid lest some accident should happen to her. There were wild characters abroad who pretended to be in search of rebels, and had succeeded in obtaining blood-money by capturing several. While Tobias Platt took care that the soldiers should be well supplied with food and good liquor, he did not forget the prisoners, especially the young Battiscombes, to whom he carried more delicate food, suited to their present condition.

The Colonel was on the point of setting out for Langton Hall in order to meet Alice should she have left it, when she arrived, having ridden hard the whole distance. She had been detained in discussing plans with Mr Battiscombe, as also while a package of clothes, of which she had observed they stood in need, was preparing. She had brought it secured to her saddle.

“We need not let the soldiers see the package delivered,” she observed; “Tobias Platt can carry it in as part of their bedding. The clothes will enable them to present an appearance very different from what they do now.”

Tobias, with whom Stephen was a favourite, took good care to carry in the clothes as proposed, without being observed by the soldier on guard. The windows were barred with iron, intended rather to prevent ingress than egress, but answering both purposes. The sergeant, on examining them, considered that his prisoners were perfectly secure in the rooms. Both he and his comrades were kept generously supplied with food and good cider, together with somewhat potent beer; as they had been out all the day in the hot sun, they were well inclined to keep up their carouse.

“It is tiring work, Master,” said Tobias Platt, bringing a comfortable chair to where the sentry was pacing up and down. “You can watch as well seated as walking, I suppose, and I will get you a pipe of tobacco, if you have a mind for it.”

“Ay, that I have, and I say, Master, a glass of something to keep the throat moist won’t come amiss.”

“You shall have it,” said Tobias Platt, and he quickly returned with a small table, a jug of ale, and a pipe with some tobacco.

“Mind you don’t go to sleep, though,” said Tobias, as the sentry, seating himself in the chair and placing his musket by his side, stretched out his legs, when, taking a pull at the jug, he began to puff away from the pipe which Tobias Platt had lighted for him. Tobias then, having placed a lantern with the dark side turned away from the sentry, quietly retired; he came back, however, before long, to find the beer jug empty, while the man was snoring loudly.

“You will do,” said Tobias, nodding as he passed. In a short time he came back accompanied by a light figure in a dark cloak, and turning a key, and noiselessly drawing back some bolts, glided into the room. Both the prisoners were sleeping. She was loth to awake them, yet it must be done. She turned the lantern on Stephen’s face and uttered his name. He started up in a moment. “Can you forgive me?” he whispered in a low voice. “And yet you come as an angel of light to console me in my sore trouble.”

“I come not to blame you, Stephen, but to comfort you if I can. I would inform you the means for your and your brother’s escape have been provided; you have simply to walk out of this room while the sentry is sleeping. Your father is aware that you have been made prisoner, and he has arranged for your concealment, or will endeavour to have you conveyed northward where search is not likely to be made for you.”

“Thanks, dearest, thanks a thousandfold,” said Stephen. “For your sake I would use every exertion to escape, but I cannot desert my companions. I have already brought too many into trouble in endeavouring to get clear of my foes. I have induced several to join our unhappy cause who have lost their lives. I cannot run the risk of bringing the Colonel and his family into trouble, which I should do were I to escape from his house.”

“Indeed, he is anxious to save you, I am sure of it, else he would not have had you placed in this room,” said Alice, “though he wisely would not commit himself further. He knew that I brought you your clothing, and he would willingly run any risk for the sake of saving you from the clutches of Judge Jeffreys, who is expected every day at Dorchester to commence the assize, and all who know him say that it will be a fearful one.”

“I must endure whatever I am called on to suffer,” answered Stephen. “The Colonel and our father will be made responsible were Andrew and I to escape. Were you to be suspected of assisting us, they would not even spare you, Alice.”

“But were I betrothed to you I would urge that as my plea,” said Alice, in a trembling voice. “I know what were your intentions, and if you will even now ask me to marry you, I will consent, and I shall then have a right to plead that I acted according to the dictates of duty, or should you not after all escape, I should be able to exert myself as I best can to obtain your pardon.”

A fearful struggle took place in Stephen’s heart. He had long loved the girl who pleaded with him, and that love prompted him to endeavour to save her from dangers to which she might be exposed; but hope triumphed. Without further hesitation he pledged his troth to her; still he could not bring himself to desert his companions and to compromise the Colonel and his family, which he knew he should do were he and his brother to make their escape from the house. Andrew had been sleeping soundly all this time. He awoke him and told him of the arrangements that had been made to enable them once more to get free from the clutches of their foes. Two spare horses, Alice told them, would be in waiting outside the grounds at midnight, with a guide to conduct them northward. They would be many miles away before their flight would be discovered. By remaining concealed during the following day they might, by riding all night, get beyond the counties where the rebellion had existed. Andrew, according to his custom, considered the matter calmly over.

“I agree with you, Stephen,” he said; “we must not attempt it.” And he used the same arguments which his brother had already done. “Let us remain and brave the consequences; we are deeply grateful to Mrs Tufnell.”

Both spoke so lightly that Alice, though she bitterly mourned their decision, was won over to agree that the course to be pursued was the right one. That they would have succeeded was doubtful, and before she left the room the sound of the sergeant’s voice as he roused up his men to change the guard reached their ears, and she had barely time to escape from the room when the heavy tread of the soldiers’ feet was heard coming along the passage. The guard at the door started up, not so completely overcome as might have been expected. The sergeant looked into the room, to find both his prisoners sleeping apparently in their beds; he then went to the other room, where he found all secure, but his suspicions must have been aroused from some cause or other, for he placed a double guard at the door, and retired highly satisfied with his own vigilance. Poor Alice went back to her room to weep, agitated by various emotions. Though disappointed that Stephen had not escaped at once, she felt that, now she was betrothed to him, she had a right to exert herself in his favour. She determined bravely to do so at all costs. She wished that Roger had been at home, as he would be able to assist her in whatever she might undertake; but there was not the slightest chance, she feared, of his returning for some time to come.

Next morning the family at the manor-house were early on foot. The sergeant was evidently so well satisfied with the way he and his companions had been treated, that he had no wish to move forward. For the sake of the young Battiscombes, the Colonel was not in a great hurry to get rid of them, as he otherwise would have been. In order to have an excuse for remaining longer, the sergeant sent off one of his men to Lyme to learn whether he was to take his prisoners to that place, or to convey them to Dorchester, where, as the assize was soon to commence, they would have a speedy trial. Alice was in hopes that they would be detained another night, and Stephen and Andrew might then be persuaded to make their escape. Having dressed herself as much as possible like a waiting-maid, she took the opportunity of visiting them during the dinner-hour, under the pretence of carrying in their food. Stephen, to her disappointment, was firm as before; the same reasons weighed with him. It grieved him to say so, but he was sure that he was acting rightly. She had not long left the room when Mr Willoughby returned. He looked fatigued and out of spirits as he passed along the passage to the Colonel’s private room, for it could not be justly called a study. Some time passed, when Madam Pauline, who was eager to hear what had happened, went in, accompanied by Alice. Mr Willoughby, who in the meantime had had a long conversation with the Colonel, now told Madam Pauline his first visit was to the abode of Farmer Stubbs, which to his dismay he found empty. Mrs Stubbs had gone no one could tell whither, possibly carried off by the soldiers in revenge for the escape of Stephen and Andrew, although he was not aware of that at the time. The farm itself had not been pillaged, except of portable provisions. This was probably owing to its distance from the camp, or it would have fared but ill. Unable to hear what had become of his young friends, Mr Willoughby had gone on to Bridgewater, and had run a great risk of being seized as a suspected adherent of the Duke of Monmouth, and it was only by asserting that he was brother-in-law to Colonel Tregellen, a well-known Royalist, that he had escaped. He had done his most to gain information of his young friends, of course in vain. It would have been folly to try and get access to any of the leaders for the purpose of purchasing their pardon till he could learn where they were. He said that he was sick at heart at the sight of the heads of the hapless rebels which were seen at the entrance of every village, while gibbets in great numbers lined the roads in the neighbourhood of Bridgewater. Mr Willoughby had several narrow escapes, when he encountered an old acquaintance, who was no other than Cornet Bryce. He had to look at him hard, for he little expected to see him in military guise. The Cornet looked much cast down. Mr Willoughby learned from him the cause of his depression, the escape, namely, of two prisoners. He fully expected to be placed under arrest and severely punished, should it be discovered by the General that they had got off. Mr Willoughby was not long in ascertaining that the two missing prisoners were the sons of his friend. He kept his counsel as to his object in coming to Bridgewater, and returned home as soon as he could. Alice was glad to see him arrive, as she thought he might possibly try to induce Stephen and Andrew to escape. He saw clearly the danger to which the Colonel would be exposed, and declined in any way committing himself, though he promised, should they be delivered over to the officers of the law, to use every exertion to obtain their pardon or liberation.

As the sergeant had not ordered the man he sent to Lyme to make any haste, it was late in the day before he returned with orders to carry his prisoners to Dorchester. “I suppose, Colonel, that you do not insist on our setting out this afternoon?” said the sergeant. “It is a long day’s march to Dorchester. We should make it better by starting fresh in the morning.”

The Colonel assured the sergeant that he was welcome to remain. He knew that in the meantime Mr Battiscombe was exerting himself, through certain friends, with those in authority to obtain the pardon of his sons. Every day he gained was of consequence. He also hoped leave might be obtained to enable them to perform the journey on horseback. In the evening he came over to see his two sons. The parting was an affecting one. Though he had been exerting himself to obtain their pardon, he knew too well that his efforts might prove fruitless. He remained that night at the manor-house, that he might be with them as long as possible. When he asked leave of the sergeant to allow his sons to ride on horseback, the request was refused, on the ground that he could not grant them a favour which was denied to the other prisoners, and that as he and his men would have to march on foot, they must be content to proceed in the same manner.

A sad procession set forth from Eversden Manor on the early dawn of a bright autumn morning. Each prisoner was conducted by two guards with loaded muskets. Farewells had been spoken, and the order to march was given.

Though no mention has been made of the other prisoners, they had been treated at the manor-house with every kindness and consideration, and had been supplied with means for purchasing provisions on the way, as well as on their arrival. Mr Battiscombe rode a short distance beyond the Hall with his sons. Upon his return home, Mr Battiscombe said that he had left the party marching on in tolerably good spirits, not believing, from the numbers already executed, that many more victims would be required to satisfy the demands of the law. Alas! they were to find that they were terribly mistaken.

Chapter Eleven.

The assize at Dorchester was opened on the 3rd of September. Jeffreys had already passed through Hampshire, and succeeded in Winchester in pronouncing sentence on the Lady Lisle for harbouring two fugitives from Sedgemoor. He condemned her to be burnt alive that very afternoon, but, happily, the excessive barbarity moved the feelings of the clergy of the cathedral, who induced him to put off the execution; and though every effort was made to obtain her pardon, the utmost that was gained was that her sentence should be commuted from burning to being beheaded. She was put to death on a scaffold in the market-place of Winchester, and underwent her fate with serene courage. At Dorchester more than three hundred prisoners were to be tried. The court was hung with scarlet, an indication of the bloody purpose of the Chief Justice. It would seem that the work would require a long time to get through. Jeffreys, to make it light, let it be understood that the only chance to obtain a pardon or respite was to plead guilty. On the following morning he attended Divine service at Saint Mary’s Church. When the clergyman, in his sermon, spoke of mercy, Jeffreys was observed to laugh,—an omen of coming vengeance. The sermon over, the Judge, attended by many of the principal gentry of Dorset, Somerset, and Devon, entered the Great Hall. Without loss of time he commenced his charge to the Grand Jury in a tone of voice and language which astonished and alarmed all who heard it. He warned them that their business was to make most strict inquiries not only after principals but after aiders and abettors, the fact being that many of the jury had sheltered refugees, thus making them accessory to high treason after the fact. As not only weeks but months might have been consumed had the ordinary process been proceeded with, to avoid this the Judge adopted a plan to shorten the business, and to procure a confession, without which not a tenth part would have been legally proved guilty. Two officers, such was his plan, were sent into the jail to call over and take the names of the prisoners; they were to promise pardon or execution. If the prisoners confessed, they were told that they might expect mercy, otherwise not; and as many were induced to accept the proffered mercy, these officers were in a condition to appear as witnesses of their confession. The first thirty, however, mistrusting the cruel Judge, preferred the chances of an ordinary trial. This was on Saturday. The same evening Jeffreys signed a warrant to hang thirteen on the following Monday, which was punctually performed. Nearly the whole of the remainder were executed. Witnesses were brow-beaten in a most fearful manner. Jeffreys thundered at them, using the most abusive language; but the scenes which took place are too horrible, too disgraceful, to be dwelt on. No less than two hundred and ninety-two persons received sentence of death at Dorchester alone. Among them were the two Battiscombes; they had nothing to plead, except that they had taken up arms under the firm belief that they were fighting for the defence of the Protestant faith against Popery. Very many others were in the same case. Mr Battiscombe did not venture to plead for his sons, for he might himself have been seized and condemned by the unjust Judge, while he was utterly powerless to assist them openly. The health of the Colonel did not allow him to leave home, or, interested as he was in the fate of his young friends, he would have gone to try and help them. Mr Willoughby, however, who was dauntless in a good cause, offered to attend the assize to be ready to take advantage of any opening which might occur. As he listened, however, to the language of the Judge, who looked more like a drunken madman than a minister of justice, he was in despair; he exerted himself to ascertain the places and time of execution of the different prisoners. He found that Andrew, together with Colonel Holmes, Dr Temple—the Duke’s physician—Mr Tyler, who had read the Declaration, were to be executed at Lyme, near the spot where the Duke of Monmouth had landed, about half a mile west of the town. It gave him slight hope that Stephen might escape; but he in vain endeavoured to see him or to ascertain what was to be his fate. He was returning from the Court to his inn, when he saw before him a slight female figure in a riding-dress; it was Alice.

“Oh, uncle Willoughby!” she exclaimed, taking his hand; “do not blame me; while there is life there is hope. I cannot let Stephen perish without endeavouring to save him; I should never forgive myself.”

“I cannot blame you, Alice,” said Mr Willoughby. “How are you going to proceed? What means have you at your disposal?”

“I know that I can promise any sum that Mr Battiscombe has it in his power to pay, and I propose seeing the Judge himself,” said Alice. “I will tell him that the death of one brother is sufficient to appease the demands of justice.”

“But I fear, Alice, that he will say both are equally guilty,” observed Mr Willoughby. “And you must be prepared for a refusal. Still, I would not hinder you from seeing the Judge, terrible as he is in his manner and appearance.”

“I have thought over everything,” answered Alice, “and resolved to brave the lion in his den. He condemned the elder brother to death, and he may be induced to suppose that the younger was led to join the Duke by his influence.”

“I fear much, Alice, that he will be influenced by no other consideration beyond the amount you can offer him,” said Mr Willoughby.

Strong in the justice of her cause, and prompted by her devotion to Stephen, in spite of the savage nature of the Judge, her aim was to see him before he entered the Court; for she heard that once there, inflamed and excited by his drams of spirits, and by his remarks to prisoners, witnesses, counsel, and jury, she was less likely to induce him to listen to her petition, or to understand its object. She had therefore to remain all night in an agony of doubt and fear in a room next to Mr Willoughby’s. She awoke at early dawn from hearing a noise in the street, and, looking out of her window, the first figure she recognised was that of Andrew Battiscombe; there were two other gentlemen whom she knew by having seen them in court, and who she heard were condemned to death. Her eye ranged over the others, in dread lest Stephen might be seen; but he was not there. She felt relieved, and yet she knew how he must be grieving for the loss of his brother. She hurriedly dressed, in the hopes of being able to say a few words of comfort to poor Andrew, to hear from him of his parting with his brother, also to tell him of her intention of having an interview with the Judge. Scarcely, however, had she reached the street than the mournful procession, guarded by a strong band of soldiers, was ordered to march on. She would have rushed forward to speak to Andrew, as others were doing to their friends and relatives, but the soldiers closed round them, and kept every one off. She returned to her room to finish her toilet, so that she might be prepared to set out with Mr Willoughby as soon as it was likely that the Judge would have risen. Mr Willoughby was soon ready, and as it was understood the Judge breakfasted early, she was eager to start. She had nerved herself up for the encounter, fully prepared for whatever might be said to her. She had heard of the language Jeffreys was accustomed to use towards people of all classes, and she did not suppose her sex and youth would enable her to escape. She was glad, however, to lean on Mr Willoughby’s arm as they approached the house where the Chief Justice had taken up his quarters. Alice had a letter ready, requesting to see him on an important matter. In a short time the servant, to whom she had given the letter, appeared and said that the Chief Justice would see her. Mr Willoughby thought it prudent to remain in the court below. He knew that, should he go in with her, unpleasant questions would be asked, and he would probably be branded as a Puritan, and perhaps sent off to prison to undergo his trial. Alice, without trembling, followed her guide and was ushered into a large room, at the further end of which sat the Chief Justice before a plentifully-spread breakfast-table. His eyes were ferrety, his nose and cheeks fiery red, his countenance even in rest had a savage expression.

“Well, young woman, who are you, and what do you want?” he asked in a gruff tone.

“Please, my lord, I am grand-daughter of a Cavalier who died fighting for his king; my father was a loyal gentleman, and I have been brought up by my guardian, Colonel Tregellen, an old Cavalier. I have had no sympathy with the late Duke of Monmouth, and yet I come to plead for the life of one who has been implicated in his rebellion.”

“Some crop-eared knave with whom thou hast fallen in love, wench,” growled the Chief Justice. “Out on thee, for an idle baggage!”

“I come to plead for the life of my betrothed husband,” said Alice. “And, my lord, there are those who value him for his honesty and other good qualities, and are ready to pay as large a sum of money as they can collect, to obtain his pardon, and I am authorised to hand it over to your Lordship, that you may do with it as you think fit.”

Jeffrey’s eyes sparkled as he turned them towards Alice. “What is the name of this precious youth, thy betrothed husband, wench? I warrant he thinks thou art worth living for.”

“Stephen Battiscombe,” answered Alice.

“Why, he is one I yesterday sentenced to death; he should have been hung by this time, so you are too late, wench.”

“Please you, my lord, it was his elder brother, Andrew Battiscombe,” said Alice. “Were he even more criminal than he is, surely the death of one in the family is sufficient to satisfy the ends of justice.”

“I would stamp out the whole brood of vipers, could I catch them,” said Jeffreys.

Poor Alice felt her heart sink, but she was not to be defeated.

“Whatever his crime, my lord, the sum I am authorised to place in your Lordship’s hands, on receiving his pardon, will, I hope, condone it.”

“Ho, ho,” said the Chief Justice, eyeing the notes and rolls of gold; then, turning to a list he had by his side: “I see he is condemned to be hung, and should have been strung up with his brother this afternoon. To pardon him is impossible. All I can do is to commute his sentence, and condemn him to be sent as a slave to the West Indies. There, do not be weeping, wench. You have obtained your lover’s life, at a cheap rate too. If you care for him you will rejoice. You have saved him for a trumpery thousand pounds.”

“But can he not be pardoned, can he not be pardoned, my lord?” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands. “To be banished to the West Indies as a slave is a terrible punishment.”

“We can hang him instead,” said Jeffreys.

“Then, will you give me a paper stating that his sentence is commuted?”

“You doubt my word, wench? Well, you shall have it to satisfy your incredulity,” and he wrote a few lines. “Stephen Battiscombe, sentenced to death, punishment commuted to ten years’ slavery in Jamaica.”

Alice could scarcely refrain from giving a cry of dismay as she saw this. “Could he not be sent to Virginia?” she asked.

“Could you not go out and join him there?” exclaimed the Judge, tauntingly. “If you are not content with having saved your crop-eared lover’s life, you shall have his dead body by to-morrow morning, wench, and I will order him to be hung forthwith.”

“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands. “Let him live—in your clemency let him live!” and, scarcely waiting to pay a formal farewell to the Judge, she hastened out to rejoin Mr Willoughby. He had in the meantime discovered the prison where Stephen was confined. It was not a place into which Alice could have entered alone, but she was able to accompany him. Together they sought out the officer who had charge of the prisoners, and presented the document which the Judge had given to Alice, to prevent the risk of any mistake being made. The man looked well pleased. “A live prisoner is worth ten dead ones, and you may depend on it we will not hang him if we can help it.”

Alice had hoped to have been allowed to see Stephen, to communicate to him the fact that his life had been spared. This the jailer said was impossible, though he promised to do so as soon as he could. Alice remained another day with her kind friend Mr Willoughby, and at length succeeded in obtaining an interview. Stephen had heard the change in his fate. “While there is life there is hope,” he said. “I may reach Jamaica; when there, I may succeed in obtaining my liberation, and happier days may be in store for England, and I may be able to return without let or hindrance.”

Alice was equally hopeful, and they parted, she having the satisfaction of believing that she had contributed to save Stephen’s life.

The Colonel received her with a look of approbation as she arrived. “You have acted like a brave girl,” he said. “I trust that we shall welcome Stephen back again some day, though.”

The Colonel tried to keep up Alice’s spirits, and did not tell her of the cruel execution which had taken place at Lyme a few days before, when twelve gentlemen, all of education and high character, were put to death, including poor Andrew Battiscombe.

The fate of those who were transported was still more cruel. They were indiscriminately sold to West India merchants, planters, and others, who shipped them off crowded together in small vessels to Jamaica. Stephen, with upwards of eight hundred poor wretches, who had been condemned to be sold as slaves by Jeffreys, arrived in London, having been carried there in carts. Here they were awarded to the various noblemen, courtiers, and others who had applied for them, who sold them for the sum of ten pounds each. Few of them were of the rank of gentlemen—nearly all Monmouth’s officers having been executed, with the exception of such as could pay heavy fines for their lives. Lord Grey, Ferguson, Wade, and other leading men were allowed to live, the former paying forty thousand pounds to the Lord Treasurer, and smaller sums to other courtiers, for their lives. In London the slaves met many of the followers of Argyll, who had, like them, been condemned to the West Indies. Stephen, with about sixty others, was shipped on board a small vessel, the Surge, Captain Hawkins, which, with seven other vessels freighted in the same way, set sail together from the Thames. Never a sadder fleet left the shores of England. The unhappy passengers knew that they were never likely to see those shores again; they had been torn from their families, their relatives and friends, and were going to a pestiferous climate, to be employed in the open air under a burning sun, like the negroes from Africa,—a climate which, under such circumstances, is sure to prove fatal to Europeans. Stephen, notwithstanding what he had gone through, was in tolerable health, and he did his utmost to keep up his spirits. Scarcely was the fleet free of the Channel than, a heavy gale springing up, the Surge was separated from her consorts, and proceeded on her voyage alone. The passengers were secured together below like African slaves, on a deck extending nearly fore and aft, with low benches on which they could sit, a bar running behind it with iron rings to which they were chained. Here they were compelled to sleep and take their meals, a few only being allowed on deck at a time. Stephen contrived to make himself known to the Captain, who listened with interest to the account of his adventures in Africa, and allowed him more liberty than the rest. The Surge had not made much progress when she encountered another gale, in which she received much damage. A heavy sea came sweeping over her deck.

“Hold on for your lives,” shouted the Captain. When the sea had passed, the second mate and two other men had disappeared; they were seen for an instant struggling in the waves astern. There was no hope of saving them; indeed, it seemed but too likely that the Surge herself would ere long founder. The pumps were manned, but the crew were soon knocked up. Stephen proposed to the Captain to liberate the slaves, in order to get them to work the pumps, and explain to them that unless they did so, the vessel would sink, and they would lose their lives. To this they agreed, Stephen setting them the example. Many of them, who had suffered greatly from the voyage, were unequal to the task, and sank down exhausted. The crew, who had no intention again of working the pumps themselves, endeavoured to stir them up. Several declared their inability to labour, and proved it by dying shortly afterwards on the deck where they lay. Stephen, however, urged the stronger ones to persevere explaining to them that they were working for the common good. The leak continued, and though by keeping the pumps going the water did not gain on the ship, it was found impossible to discover it, and it was evident that only by the greatest exertions they could hope to reach their port. A fever, however, of a malignant character broke out among the unhappy passengers as soon as they got into warm latitudes. No surgeon had been sent on board. First one died, then another, and another. Stephen suggested to Captain Hawkins various means for remedying the malady by fumigating the vessel. Nothing seemed to have the slightest effect on those once stricken. Before long two of the crew were attacked, and died. The weather again became calm, and the leak with considerable exertion was kept under, but the fever did not abate. The death-ship sailed on, losing sometimes three or four of her crew or passengers daily. The Captain had asked Stephen to take charge of a watch, and he now enjoyed perfect liberty, and took possession of the cabin of the second mate, who had been lost overboard. Should the death-rate continue there would be few left on board when the vessel arrived at Jamaica, even should the fair wind and fine weather continue. The first mate did not appear to be much of a navigator, and on the fever attacking the crew as well as the passengers, he lost all heart. Stephen did his best to doctor him, but before long he also succumbed, and the Surge was left with a very limited crew.

Captain Hawkins was a stout-hearted man, and kept up his courage. He asked Stephen to select some of the passengers to assist him in working the ship. It was Stephen’s afternoon watch, when he saw heavy clouds gathering in the west. They came on rapidly, while the sea below them was broken up into a mass of foam. He immediately sent and summoned the Captain, and ordered sail to be shortened. Short-handed as the Surge was through the loss of so many of her crew, this was done but slowly. The Captain, who had quickly come on deck, and Stephen exerted themselves to the utmost, while they tried to obtain the assistance of some of the passengers; but those not labouring at the pumps were unable to be of much use. Before all the canvas could be reduced the hurricane struck her abeam. Had she been under her usual sail she would have been sent completely over and have foundered. As it was, she heeled before the blast. The next instant two loud crashes came; she rose on an even keel, but her masts were gone. The Captain and Stephen summoned all hands to clear away the wreck before the butt-ends of the masts should stave in the vessel with the tremendous thumps they were giving against the side. Axes were found, shrouds and other ropes which held fast the masts were speedily cut. Still the hapless vessel lay in the trough of the sea, the waves dashing against her sides, and threatening to sweep everything overboard. The great object now was to get a sail rigged on the stump of the foremast and put her before the wind. When the masts fell several people had been injured, the Captain among them. At first he made light of it. Now that he wished to exert himself more than ever, he was unable to do so. He called for a chair, and sat aft, giving his directions. Stephen had to take everything upon himself. The men obeyed him willingly. While he and the party were working forward, the sea came rolling up and struck the vessel amidships. They held on for their lives. The sea washed right aft, carrying everything before it. When it had disappeared, Stephen looked for the Captain, who was nowhere to be seen, nor were any of those who were standing in that part of the deck; the helmsman among them was gone. Another hand was sent to the helm, the sail, which had been got ready, hoisted, and the vessel put before the wind. Stephen now found himself in command of the Surge, but from her condition he had very little hope of ever arriving at a port. To go to Jamaica was not to be thought of, as he should be delivering his companions, and possibly himself, into slavery. He resolved, therefore, if he could save the Surge, to carry her to one of the New England settlements, where he and his companions would be received as friends; indeed, all those who had escaped from Sedgemoor had probably already arrived there, and would welcome him with open arms. The number of the passengers and crew were, however, sadly reduced. Of the former, scarcely twenty remained alive, while of the crew only six were fit for duty—not a single officer, the boatswain having succumbed to the fever. Stephen picked out two of the best men to act as mates, though neither of them could take an observation. When he informed the passengers of his intention of steering for New England, as soon as the hurricane should be over, they all willingly undertook to aid him to the utmost. Of late the vessel did not leak as much as before; something had apparently got into the opening which prevented the water entering. This tended to keep up the spirits of the storm-tossed party. Still they were in a very desperate condition. They could hope to get up only very imperfect jury-masts, and then, even should they obtain a favourable wind, they would be a long time in reaching a New England port. With their reduced numbers, and their provisions and water, they hoped to hold out, if all hands were at once put on an allowance. Stephen determined to see to this matter as soon as the gale was over. Still the fever continued among them. One of the crew and two more of the passengers died the day after the loss of the Captain. Poor fellows! it seemed a hard thing, in the prospect of liberty, thus to be summoned away after all they had gone through. Stephen had kept the deck nearly two days without once going below, having his food brought to him. At length, worn out with fatigue, he was compelled to seek an hour or two’s rest in the cabin to enable him to continue his work. How long he had closed his eyes he could not tell, when he felt that the ship hove on her beam ends. He rushed up on deck, and shouted to the crew. No voices replied. It was very dark, but he made out that the jury-mast had been carried away, and the vessel lay in the trough of the sea. He went to the helm. The rudder had been injured, if not carried away; scarcely any of the bulwarks remained. The Surge lay a complete wreck amid the wild raging waters. Another sea had apparently swept the deck and carried away every one within its power. As he went below to ascertain if any of the crew survived, cries and groans of the terrified passengers met his ears. He had little or no hope to offer them. Going forward, he could not discover one of the crew. He aroused the passengers, and urged them to turn to at the pumps. They might keep the vessel afloat till the morning, and then build a raft, or perchance a sail might heave in sight and rescue them. Few, however, were able to labour efficiently. It seemed a wonder to Stephen that his own strength had been kept up, when he saw stout fellows, accustomed to wield the scythe and flail, reduced to mere skeletons. The morning came, the Surge still floated, but to build a raft seemed beyond the power of those on board. They wanted both strength and skill. Stephen urged them to try, however. Collecting all the spars and planks to be found, he commenced to work, showing them as far as he was able what to do. The wind had fallen, the sea was going down, or they could not possibly have made even the attempt. The ship, too, had risen more on an even keel than before. It seemed very doubtful whether she would exist much longer above water. The hours went slowly by. The poor fellows laboured as hard as they could. First one dropped, then another, some from fever, others from fatigue. The Surge had been kept afloat during the day. Another night was approaching; nothing could be done during it; even seamen could have scarcely worked in the dark. Stephen, as he went below to kneel in prayer, as was his wont, did not expect to see the sun rise again over the waste of waters.

Chapter Twelve.

We must now return to our hero, Roger Willoughby, who had fortunately, from having joined Captain Benbow, been prevented from being drawn in by Stephen to serve the cause of Monmouth. The Ruby, after relieving Stephen and his companions, continued her course down channel. Roger earnestly hoped that his friend would be favoured with fine weather, and would reach a Dutch port in safety. The Ruby, on her course down the English Channel, then ran some way up the Irish Channel, according to the orders her Captain had received, but she fell in with no vessels or boats containing persons whom he considered himself bound to look upon as rebels. He boarded several vessels with passengers bound out to the New England States, where they said they were going to settle. Some had their families, and, of course, they could not be considered as rebels, while the greater number, who were of all ranks—gentlemen, well-to-do yeomen, and labourers—were single men; but as there was nothing to prove that they had been supporters of Monmouth, whatever the Captain might have suspected, he resolved to give them the benefit of the doubt, and would not detain them. Thus a good many escaped who would have tended to swell the victims of the Bloody Assize, of which the Captain, to his great indignation, heard when sending occasionally on shore. The Ruby, having remained the time she had been directed on the west coast, returned to Portsmouth, where she waited for orders. Seldom in those days could a ship’s company be allowed on shore without the risk of losing a number of men, but so completely had Benbow ingratiated himself with his crew, that when their leave was up they all returned on board.

Roger, meantime, was daily gaining nautical skill and knowledge. Liking more and more the profession he had chosen, he had won the regard and esteem of his Captain, who promised as soon as possible to obtain for him a lieutenant’s commission. Roger had several messmates, with all of whom he got on very well, though some of them were jealous of the favour he received from the Captain. His chief friend was Charles Ross, a lad somewhat younger than himself, who had come to sea with Captain Benbow for the first time. He was a little fellow, light-hearted, merry, and full of fun, though he had his serious moments, which showed that he was not as thoughtless as many would have supposed. He and Roger were much together. Roger was always ready to impart to him the knowledge which he himself possessed, and especially to teach him navigation. Another messmate, who was generally known as Old Dick Kemp, had been a ship’s-boy, but had been placed on the quarter-deck for his good behaviour and gallantry during the last Dutch war, for saving the lives of two shipmates, for behaving with great courage during a heavy gale on a lee shore, when the ship on board which he served narrowly escaped being cast away. Since then, however, Dick Kemp had not risen above the rank of master’s mate, having no friends to plead for his promotion. Captain Benbow appreciated him as being a true tarpaulin, on whom he could rely at all times, which was more than he would have said for his lieutenants, who were young gentlemen of family sent to sea for the first time with that rank. Not having gone through the inferior grades of the profession of navigation, they knew nothing, and looked upon it as beneath their notice, while they were only slowly learning the art of seamanship, and could only manage to put a ship about with the aid of Dick Kemp, Roger Willoughby, or one of the other tarpaulins or true sailors. Such was the way ships were manned in those days.

It is true that many of the shore-going young gentlemen who strutted about in silk doublets, feathers in their hats, and jewelled swords by their sides, fought bravely enough. When they found themselves in the presence of an enemy, they could ably superintend the working of the guns, which they looked upon as their principal avocation; or when boarders had to be repelled, or a boarding-party led, they were generally found fighting bravely at the head of their men. Since Charles the Second, however, made peace with the Dutch, the navy of England had seen no fighting except a few engagements with Algerine or Sallee rovers.

Benbow’s lieutenants soon learned to respect him. He always treated them as gentlemen, though he did not pretend to say that they were sailors. On the contrary, he drew a marked distinction between the gentlemen officers and the tarpaulins, giving the preference undoubtedly to the latter. The Ruby remained so long at Portsmouth that Roger had time to write home, and also to receive a reply. He now heard for the first time of Stephen’s capture, and of his narrow escape from death through the exertions of Alice.

“Bless her!” he exclaimed. “She was always a true girl, and I knew that, should occasion require, she would prove a real heroine. Fancy her bearding that monster Jeffreys, and winning her cause, though I am afraid he will suffer fearfully, and be sent out to the West Indies; but he got accustomed to a hot climate in Africa, and will stand it better than most people; but poor Andrew! sad to think that he should have lost his life, after so nearly escaping. I wish I could have been on shore to help them, though I do not know that I could have done much; but I do know that I would have run every risk. I would have insisted on their making their escape when they were shut up at Eversden. I am sure that my uncle and Madam Pauline would not have found fault with me.”

All he could learn of Stephen was that he sailed a short time before with many hundred slaves from the Thames bound out to the West Indies. His father, who wrote, told him of the hapless Maids of Taunton, who had presented the banners to the Duke of Monmouth, being sold to the Queen and the Maids of Honour, who were making what money they could out of their parents and friends; but one poor little girl had died from fright at being so roughly addressed by Jeffreys. Many thousand pounds had been obtained by the courtiers to whom the slaves had been awarded, while the King had managed to get his share of profit out of the rebellion. These details, which were pretty well known on board, did not tend to increase the loyalty of the officers and seamen of the Ruby. The Captain himself, as became him, expressed no opinion, but Dick Kemp did not conceal his sentiments on the subject. Though he did not venture to say that he wished Monmouth had succeeded, he expressed his opinion that the King and his courtiers were as vile a set of ragamuffins as ever sat in high places, and that the Queen and Maids of Honour were well worthy of them.

At length the Ruby had orders to proceed to the West Indies to look after certain piratical craft, under the leadership of a daring Frenchman, who were infesting those seas.

“It is just the part of the world I want to go to,” cried Roger. “I have heard a great deal of the beautiful scenery, of their strange trees, curious productions of all sorts, and if we touch at Jamaica, which we are sure to do, I will make inquiries for my old friend Stephen Battiscombe; if I can hear anything of him, I will do my utmost to redeem him.”

“I will help you,” said Charlie Ross.

“So will I,” said Dick Kemp. “I should not be surprised that the Captain would exert himself, since as you say he sailed with him.”

With a fair breeze the Ruby sailed down Channel, carrying the fine weather some way into the Atlantic and then encountered a heavy gale; but her hull was tight, and her Captain had seen that she was well fitted, having carefully inspected her masts and spars, and every standing and running rope of her rigging before they were set up and rove. Escaping from the gale without damage, she ran into southern latitudes. She had a fair breeze. One day, with all sail set below and aloft, carrying her along at the rate of seven or eight knots an hour, Dick Kemp, Charlie, and Roger were on deck together, when, as they were looking over the side, they observed a dark triangular object cutting rapidly through the water.

“Hilloa! what is that curious thing?” asked Charlie.

“That is the fin of Jack Shark,” said Kemp, “the vilest brute that exists; the hated foe of us sailors. I don’t know how many fine fellows he has not grabbed by the leg, and gobbled up.”

“I wish that I had a gun, I would shoot him,” said Charlie, “and he would do no more mischief; but unfortunately he has plenty of brothers and sisters like him; as soon as he sees the gun he will be off like a shot.”

“I will borrow a musket, and see if I cannot hit him,” cried Roger. Roger was not long in getting the gun, while Kemp, hurrying forward, obtained a piece of rancid pork, which he fastened to the end of a line.

“Now, Roger, look out,” he said, as he threw the pork overboard, and Roger held his gun in readiness. Presently the fin disappeared; a white glistening object rose to the surface; off went Roger’s musket.

“I hit him, I am sure,” cried Roger, as the shark sank.

“I think you did, and right through the head. I saw a tinge of red, but it went in a moment,” said Kemp. “We have settled the brute, and I wish we could settle every other that comes alongside. We will keep the pork, and if we can find a hook, we will have the next on board.”

On sailed the ship. The Captain, however, coming on deck, observed indications of a change, and ordered canvas to be reduced. Roger’s duty required him to remain on deck; Charlie Ross ran up with the two other midshipmen to the foreyard to superintend the operation of taking in a reef. Roger was looking forward when he observed an object fall from the yard; at the same time a cry burst forth from the throats of several of the crew, “A man overboard!” As Roger ran to the side he had seen Charlie Ross on the yard-arm, but he was not there now, and as the person floated by he felt sure that he was his friend. Without recollecting the shark they had seen in the morning, without thinking of any danger to himself, his ardent desire being to save his friend, he plunged overboard. Charlie had struck the water on his side, and was apparently senseless, for he made no attempt to save himself; but still he floated. The ship running fast at the time, and only part of the sails having been furled, Roger heard the Captain give the order to heave her to, as he struck out towards his friend, whom he reached just as he appeared on the point of sinking. At that moment Charlie’s consciousness had returned.

“Never fear, you are all right,” cried Roger. “Let me put my arms under you, and do not attempt to swim till you are better. I will tread water, and easily keep you and myself up.”

“Where am I?” asked Charlie, in a very faint voice.

“Somewhere out in the middle of the Atlantic,” said Roger, in a cheerful tone. “But the ship’s not far off, and help will come to us as soon as a boat can be lowered; she’s rounding-to, though she had so much way on her that she shot somewhat far ahead.”

Charlie was slowly recovering his senses, and did as he desired; but when Roger looked up, the ship seemed a long long way off; not till then did the thought of sharks occur to him. Though he had fortunately shot the one which had been following the ship, there might be many others. He, however, did not let this idea damp his courage, but kept treading water with might and main, and singing out at the top of his voice, as if he were hailing his shipmates, and urging them to come faster to his assistance. At length he saw a boat lowered, and pulling towards them, but she was still far away; the thought of the abominable sharks would come back. As Charlie was recovering, he told him to sing out, and at the same time to splash with his feet. “Just to keep away the cramps, Charlie,” he said; for he did not wish to frighten him with the thought of the sharks. He looked round, and fancied he saw a dark fin in the distance, but he might, he knew, be mistaken. The boat drew nearer, the crew were giving way with all their might. Old Dick Kemp was steering her, standing up to observe the spot where the two lads were floating. Between her and them Roger observed that dark fin. “I hope that Dick will see it too, and if he has a musket in the boat, will try to hit it.” Roger forgot, if he did, that the bullet would very likely strike them. He shouted and splashed, and bade Charlie do the same, till he was nearly exhausted. The fin disappeared; perhaps the brute had been frightened away; he hoped so, but it did not make him relax in his efforts. It is our best chance to keep the monster off, he thought; he could scarcely have struck out five minutes longer, when the boat got up.

“Take him on board first,” he cried, pushing forward Charlie.

“We will have both of you together,” said Kemp. Scarcely was he in the boat when a white glistening object appeared, and its huge mouth gaped wide, half leaping out of the water. It got many a blow from the seamen’s oars; this had, however, no other effect than making it plunge down and make the water with its tail fly over them.

“Now, lads, pull back as fast as you can,” cried old Kemp. “We must put the boys under the doctor’s care as soon as possible. You are a brave fellow, Roger; I always thought so, now I know it; and the Captain will say so too. I only wish that I were in your place.”

The Scotch doctor, Macpherson, who knew that his services would be required, was standing ready to order the lads to be carried to the sick bay.

“I do not think there is much the matter with me,” said Roger; but his trembling knees and pale face showed that he required care, while Charlie had scarcely yet recovered from the blow he had experienced on falling into the water. The gale seemed to have hung, back till Charlie and his gallant preserver were safe on board,—the ship was under snug canvas, and rode it out well. Roger was a whole day getting round. When he appeared on deck he was warmly praised by the Captain, and he received the compliments of the other officers, even the gentlemen lieutenants.

“Faith,” said the honourable Lieutenant Delamere, “it is more than I could have done if I had expected to be made Lord High Admiral forthwith for doing it.”

“It seemed to me,” said Roger, “that it was just the thing to be done, and so I did it.”

“You tarpaulins are accustomed to the water; it is an advantage you have over us,” remarked the lieutenant.

The Ruby remained hove-to under storm canvas for five days, when, the weather moderating, she once more made sail and stood on her course. She had been running on for several days, the wind had fallen to a light breeze, and the sea was smooth; it was soon after down. Charlie Ross, who was one of the midshipmen of the watch, was stationed on the topgallant forecastle. He had been looking out for some time when he was joined by Roger.

“There is something away there on the starboard bow which puzzles me,” he said. “It looks like the body of a huge whale.”

“It is either that or the hull of a dismasted vessel,” observed Roger. “I think it the latter. You should have reported it to the officer of the watch. I will go and do so.”

Dick Kemp had charge of the deck, for the lieutenants in those days, unless they were tarpaulins or brought up in the service, did not perform that duty. Kemp came forward with his spy-glass, and soon pronounced the object seen to be—as Roger supposed—the hull of a dismasted vessel He at once sent below to obtain permission from the Captain to steer towards it.

“Though she looks in a fearfully battered condition, there may still be people on board, and we must try to rescue them,” he observed.

As the Ruby drew nearer a man could be seen on the deck holding on to a part of the shattered bulwarks and waving a flag.

“There is one man on board at all events,” observed Kemp; “there may be more. Willoughby, do you get a boat ready to lower, and I will let the Captain know that it is time to heave-to.”

Captain Benbow just then made his appearance, and at once issued the order to bring the ship to the wind. The boat was quickly alongside the stranger, a rope was thrown over the side by the man who had been seen waving the flag, and Roger scrambled on board. He and two other men were on foot, weak, and pale, and reduced almost to skeletons, while more lay about the deck unable to raise themselves.

“We are dying of hunger and thirst,” exclaimed the stranger, who appeared to be an officer. “For two days not a particle of food have we eaten, nor has a drop of water moistened our lips; for mercy’s sake bring us some at once.”

“The quickest way would be to take you to our ship,” said Roger, and he ordered his men to come up to carry the sufferers into the boat. While he was speaking, it struck him, in spite of his pale cadaverous countenance and emaciated appearance, that the officer was his old friend Stephen Battiscombe; yet he did not like to ask him, for, if Stephen Battiscombe, he was a convict, and might desire to remain unknown. He treated him therefore as a stranger when the Ruby’s men came to assist the officer.

“No, no,” he said, “take the remnant of my crew first, and then those poor fellows who are passengers. I have endured hunger this far, and can hold out a little longer, while I do not think the vessel will go to the bottom just yet.”

Roger directed that the two seamen should be lifted into the boat, and the two passengers; promising to return immediately for the remainder, he pulled back to the ship as speedily as his crew could urge their oars. On the way, he asked the two seamen who the person was who had waved the flag.

“He was the mate of our vessel,” answered one of the men.

“What is his name?” inquired Roger, eagerly.

“Simon Bates, I fancy,” replied the other; “but we always called him mate.”

As he came alongside he sang out, “Half a beaker of water and some biscuit, or any food to be found.”

The water and some food were handed into the boat; and the moment the people he had brought were hoisted up on deck, he made his way back for the remainder.

“Come along now, Mr Bates,” he said, addressing the officer; “it is all right. The men say you are mate of this vessel.”

Before taking the perishing people into the boat, Roger offered them some water and food. The water was eagerly drunk, but one of the poor sufferers was too far gone to swallow the food. Still, as there was life in him, Roger hoped that the doctor might bring him round.

“There are some more below, though I fear they are past help,” said the mate, in a low voice, for he was but just able to speak.

Roger descended into the cabin. There lay two more persons, but on lifting their hands he saw at once they were dead. In a berth on one side was another who seemed to retain some sparks of life, but he was too far gone to speak. Roger immediately sang out for some food and water, which was handed down to him. He administered a little to the sufferer in the hopes that he might be revived sufficiently to be carried on deck. Though he drank the water eagerly, just as he placed the food between his lips a deep sigh escaped him, his jaw dropped, and he was dead. No other persons being found alive below, Roger, with those he had rescued, shoved off from the sinking wreck, and from her appearance he judged she would not keep afloat many hours longer.

When he had given an account of what had occurred on board, Captain Benbow inquired if he knew the name of the mate.

“The men call him Simon Bates, sir,” answered Roger.

“Then let him be entered by that name among those saved from the wreck,” said the Captain. “And who are the other people?” he asked.

“They are passengers, sir,” said Roger. “The ship’s papers show that she was bound out from London to Jamaica.”

“There is nothing, I suppose, to show who the passengers are?” said the Captain.

“I could discover no paper, sir,” answered Roger.

The people were soon brought on board, and placed under the care of the doctor, who attended to them assiduously. Just as sail was made, Roger, who was on deck, observed the bow of the craft from which the people had been rescued rise slightly in the water, then down she went, stern first, and nothing was seen on the spot where she had floated, her hull being the coffin of the rest of her passengers.

After some time Captain Benbow summoned Roger, to learn what he could make out respecting the passengers. “With regard to the two seamen and the officer, the matter is clear enough,” he said. “They say that he belonged to their vessel, and by his coolness and bravery saved their lives, so that if he likes to enter on board the Ruby he shall be welcome to do so. I cannot give the seamen their choice when they recover. They will prove to be stout fellows I hope, and will be as well off with us as anywhere else; but with regard to the passengers the matter is doubtful. I fear that they are slaves destined to be sold to the planters of Jamaica, but I cannot bear the thought of handing them over to so cruel a fate. Do you, Willoughby, speak to the men. If any of them have served at sea the matter will be more easy, as I can then enter them among the crew of the Ruby. It will be far better for them than labouring in the plantations of Jamaica.”

“Ay, ay,” answered Roger, clearly understanding the drift of the Captain’s remarks. He first visited the mate and the two seamen, and told them that if they chose to volunteer, the Captain would receive them on board the Ruby.

“With all my heart,” said the mate, in a low voice, taking Roger’s hand and pressing it. “Does he suspect who I am, for I am very sure that you know me?”

“What he suspects I don’t know, but he asks no questions,” answered Roger; “and whoever you are, you will enter under the name the man gave you—Simon Bates.”

“Thank you, Roger, thank you,” said the mate. “I little expected such good fortune; but the poor passengers! What is to be done with them?”

“If they have served at sea, the Captain will allow them to enter on board the Ruby,” said Roger.

“Yes, that they have, and very useful they made themselves; indeed, without them the vessel must have gone down,” said the mate. “From what I saw of them, I should say they have the making of good seamen in them when they regain their health and strength.”

“That is all right,” said Roger. “I will speak to the men, and advise them to choose names under which they can enter.”

He found them, however, scarcely sufficiently recovered to understand him, much less to say anything, so that there was no hurry. He left them under the care of the doctor and his assistants. The crew of the Ruby were chiefly west-country folk, and even had it been known on board that the rescued people were slaves condemned for joining Monmouth’s rebellion, they would have gained the sympathy of those on board, with the exception, perhaps, of the gentlemen lieutenants and a few others. Nearly a week passed before the mate was able to leave his hammock. The Captain, on seeing him, beckoned him to approach.

“I understand,” he said, “that you have served long at sea, and I shall be glad, as I doubt not you will prove yourself worthy of it, to place you on the quarter-deck. Your men, I understand, have entered as of the people you were carrying out as passengers. We shall, I hope, have opportunities in which you can distinguish yourself and make your name well known.”

“Thank you, sir, I am grateful to you,” said Simon Bates, of whose identity there could be no doubt, now that he had so much recovered, and was dressed in a becoming costume, obtained for him by Roger. “I will do my best, as you suggest, sir, to make the name of Simon Bates well known.”

A couple of weeks after this the Ruby entered Port Royal, in Jamaica. As she was not to remain long, none of the crew were allowed to go on shore. A certain portion seemed to have no wish to do so; although Simon Bates might have walked the streets of Kingston with impunity, there was a risk that he might be recognised by some traitor and denounced. He therefore thought it prudent to remain on board.

Chapter Thirteen.

At the time the Ruby reached Port Royal harbour the merchants at Kingston were constantly receiving accounts of depredations committed on their vessels by a piratical squadron under the command of a Frenchman. They could obtain no exact information as to the size or number of the pirate ships; they were generally supposed to be small craft. They allowed none of those they captured to escape, and either sent the merchantmen to the bottom, and made their crews walk the plank, or carried them off to the then little-known islands of the Bahama group. On the merchants making application to Captain Benbow, he willingly undertook to go in search of the pirate fleet, and forthwith got his ship ready for sea. He also purchased a couple of large boats, partly decked over and suited for those seas, fitted with sails and long oars, so that they could move rapidly both in a calm and in a breeze. He would willingly also have obtained a tender, but he could find no vessel suited for the purpose in the harbour. All preparations being made, the Ruby sailed at daylight with a land breeze, and soon had run the white forts and batteries surrounding Kingston out of sight, though the Blue Mountains, rising high above them, were visible long afterwards.

“I am thankful that we are clear out of the place,” observed Roger to his friend Simon Bates, with whom he seemed to have a great deal to talk about when no one else was near. “I was never quite at my ease, fearing that some of the inquisitive authorities might have come on board.”

“I have been so wonderfully preserved that I entertained no fears on the subject,” answered Bates. “My great wish now is to fall in with these pirates and to take an active part in their capture.”

“We will keep a bright look-out for them at all events,” said Roger; “and if we can lay any of them aboard, I am sure you will do your part, and the Captain has every wish to give you an opportunity of distinguishing yourself.”

The Ruby had, however, been a week at sea without the pirates being seen. Roger and Bates were always on the look-out. They were afraid that they might have got an inkling of the Ruby’s whereabouts, and were keeping out of her way. She at last stood round the northern side of Jamaica, and the next day fell in with an English merchantman, the master of which reported that he had been chased by several strange sail; but, his vessel being a fast one, by setting all the canvas he could carry, he had made his escape. He reported that they were far from small craft; two or three were good-sized frigates, and the rest were of a considerable burden.

“So much the better,” said Captain Benbow. “It will induce them to attack us; we must do our best to send them to the bottom one after the other.”

The merchantman having proceeded on her course to the west, the Ruby continued standing on to the westward. It was Roger’s morning watch; the wind had been light during the latter part of the night. Soon after dawn broke the look-out shouted, “Two sail on the starboard bow.” Roger ran aloft to have a look at them. They were frigates, as far as he could judge at the distance they were off, and he hoped might prove to be part of the pirate squadron. Watching the strangers narrowly, he observed a third vessel,—then a fourth, some way farther off. This left him little doubt that they formed part of the piratical squadron of which the Ruby was in search. Having satisfied himself on this point, he came below and went to inform the Captain, who was quickly on deck.

“I am in great hopes that you are right, Willoughby,” he said, after he had taken a survey of the strangers. “We will make the Ruby look as much like a merchantman as possible, and perhaps draw them down upon us.”

This was easily done in a light wind; the vessel’s course was changed to the northward, the yards were irregularly braced. The strangers, whether they suspected the ruse or not, stood on, expecting, if they were pirates, probably to gain an easy victory over the lumbering merchantman. Captain Benbow now ordered his ship to be got ready for action; and, collecting his crew aft, told them that they were likely to have a pretty sharp encounter, and that much depended on the way they worked their guns and trimmed sails, as he might direct them. Three large vessels were seen approaching, while two more appeared in the distance; they were evidently not aware of the character of the Ruby, or they would have come on in very different fashion. It appeared as if the object of each of them was to be the first to get up to pillage her before the arrival of her consorts. When, however, the leading frigate got almost within range, it seemed to strike her captain that the Ruby was not altogether like a heavy merchantman. Instead of coming on, she suddenly hauled her tacks aboard and stood back towards her consorts. The Ruby on this made all sail in chase; the frigate, however, was a fast craft and kept well ahead. As they saw the Ruby coming, the strangers in succession hauled to the wind and steered to the westward, the frigate which had been leading making signals to the rest, till all five were collected together. At first they appeared as if they intended to try and make their escape, and Roger had begun to fear that they would get off altogether.

“Hurrah!” he cried out at length to Bates, “they intend to come up to the scratch after all;” and he pointed to the strangers, which had now formed in two divisions, the two larger frigates in one, the third and two smaller vessels in another. As they carried together more than twice as many guns as the Ruby, they might have had a fair hope of gaining the victory. Captain Benbow, on seeing this, steered for the two frigates. As soon as he came within range of the leading one, he opened the whole of his starboard broadside on her; then, standing on, regardless of her shot, which came whizzing on board, he gave the second frigate a similar dose. Meantime the three vessels of the second division, standing towards the Ruby, commenced firing at her. The fight now became fast and furious; the pirates, for such there could be no doubt they were, though they had showed no flags, keeping on the Ruby’s quarters, poured in a galling fire on her. Several of her men were killed, and others wounded; but her crew, labouring actively at her guns, ran them in and out, loading and firing with wonderful rapidity, effecting no small damage on their assailants. At length the pirates gave signs of having had the worst of it; the two smaller vessels once more hauled their tacks on board and stood away to the westward, and one of the frigates soon followed their example.

“Now, lads, we must capture one or two of the remainder,” cried Benbow; and steering for the leading vessel, he poured a well-directed broadside into her. The second frigate, trying to support her consort, was severely punished, her deck being strewn with the dead and wounded. She now set all sail, and stood out of the fight, leaving her consort to her fate. Still the pirate fought desperately, frequently firing high, in the hopes of knocking away some of the Ruby’s spars and reducing her to her own condition; but no great damage was done, and the Ruby, now sailing round and round the frigate, reduced her to a complete wreck. At length a man was seen to spring aft with a white flag, which he waved above his head, and then threw down on the deck as a token of surrender. The Ruby standing close to her, Captain Benbow ordered her to heave-to, and then, doing the same, lowered three boats with armed crews, sending Roger in command of one, Kemp of another, and Bates of a third.

“Remember that these pirates are treacherous fellows,” he observed. “Secure them as quickly as possible, and look to the magazines.”

The decks, as the British seamen clambered up the side, presented a fearful spectacle, covered as they were with dead and wounded, many dying without any attempt having been made to render them assistance. The rigging hung in festoons, the canvas shot through and through, yards and blocks scattered about the deck.

“Where is your captain?” asked Roger.

“We have no captain; he was killed early in the action,” answered one of the men.

“And your officers?”

“They are all killed. We fought as long as one remained alive.”

As several bodies looked like those of officers, Roger thought that this was probably the case. He and his companions, however, had first to obey the Captain’s orders and to secure the crew. They sulkily submitted to have their arms lashed behind them, and were ordered, as soon as this operation was performed, to stand on one side of the deck under charge of four of the seamen with loaded muskets, while Roger and Kemp took one party of their men forward to search for any of the crew who might have concealed themselves. Bates conducted another down below in the afterpart of the ship. He had just reached the Captain’s cabin when he detected a smell of brimstone. He rushed towards the spot from whence it proceeded, and discovered a slow match leading towards the principal magazine. Some of his men showed an inclination to rush up on deck.

“Come back, cowards!” he exclaimed. “We must put this out;” and, dashing forward, he cut the match for some way before the part which was burning, upon which setting his foot, he quickly stamped it out, crying to his men at the same time to cut the other end. It evidently had been a long time burning, and was probably ignited by one of the officers since killed. Ordering some buckets of water to be brought below, he searched round in the neighbourhood of the other magazine. An attempt had evidently been made to fire this one also, but the match had providentially gone out. The victors and vanquished would otherwise probably have been blown up together. Several pirates were discovered concealed in the after part of the ship. Roger did his best to ascertain if any of them were officers, but without success. As the pirate’s boats were knocked to pieces, Captain Benbow made a signal that one of the Ruby’s should remain on board, while the other returned with as many prisoners as they could carry. As he was eager to go in chase of the piratical squadron, Kemp was directed also to return, leaving Roger in command of the prize, with Bates as his lieutenant. They forthwith loaded the two boats with the prisoners, but still a considerable number remained.

“We can keep these fellows under, I should hope,” said Roger to his messmate; “but it will be necessary to have a watchful eye on them. If they can work us any mischief they are sure to do it.”

As soon as the two boats got alongside the Ruby, she made sail in the direction that the pirates had taken, while Roger set to work to repair some of the damage the prize had received, so that she might be in a fit state to encounter a strong breeze, should one spring up. He had been directed, having done this, to steer a certain course for Port Royal, Captain Benbow intending to follow and accompany her in with another prize or two. Roger collected all the remaining pirates in the hold, with their arms and legs lashed, three sentries with loaded muskets being placed over them. These were all he could spare, as the rest of his crew were required to get the ship into order. He and Bates exerted themselves to the utmost. Bates was now assisting in knotting and splicing, now hurrying below to see that the sentries were vigilant. He had looked to the priming of the pistols which he carried in his belt, and kept his sword by his side. He had from the first expressed his regret that so many prisoners had been left on board.

“I know the tricks of these fellows,” he remarked. “They are capable of freeing themselves from fetters, and they make nothing of slipping out of rope lashings, however apparently secure.”

“Well, let us get the yards across, and fresh sails bent, and the rigging set up, and we shall have more hands at liberty to watch them,” said Roger.

Working away, they took a frequent look at the Ruby, till she had run them out of sight. Short-handed as they were, much remained to be done. When the sun set, and darkness covered the ocean, the sea remained calm, so that the prize floated motionless. No sail had yet been set, as the crew, of course, after their exertions, required rest. Roger therefore divided the men into two watches, he taking charge of one and Bates of the other. Bates begged to take the first watch of serving, that Roger and his men might then, after rest, be more wide-awake to watch the pirates.

The prize had drifted considerably nearer the Cuba coast than when she had been captured. Bates, who was vigilant on every point, kept continually going below, while he turned his eye frequently towards the distant land. The watch was nearly out when, as he listened, he fancied he heard the sound of oars in the water. He well knew the sort of characters who inhabited the quays scattered about on that part of the coast of Cuba, and that if they had discovered the condition of the vessel they might have seen before sunset, they would be very likely to come out and try to capture her. He at once, therefore, sent down to call Roger, who was on deck in a moment.

“We must be prepared, at all events,” said Roger; and, the other watch being called, such of the pirate’s guns as remained undamaged were loaded and run out. The necessary preparations for the defence were quickly made. In a short time the sound of approaching boats became more clearly audible. Roger was of opinion that there were three of them, each pulling a good number of oars.

“We must not stand on any ceremony,” observed Roger. “They are certain not to be coming with any good intentions, and the sooner we send them to the right-about the better. We will therefore fire at them as soon as we can see them clearly enough to take a steady aim.” He gave the orders to his crew. Bates meantime had gone below to have a look at the prisoners; he found them considerably excited; they had overheard the remarks of the seamen, and knew that boats were approaching. They were probably too well aware of the character their crews. Bates had turned his lantern round on all the prisoners, and they appeared to be fast bound as before. He charged the sentries, however, to be very vigilant, suggesting to them that their lives would be the first to be sacrificed should the prisoners break loose. He then returned on deck, just in time to assist in firing the guns, as the strange boats came in sight. The guns must have been well aimed, for they could hear two of the shots strike, shrieks and cries rising from the boats, telling that several had been wounded. The third, however, came on, when Bates, who had carefully trained his gun, fired; almost the instant afterwards she had disappeared; the shot had gone through her. Crowded with men she must have sunk immediately. Whether any were saved it was impossible to say.

“They brought their fate upon themselves,” observed Roger. “We have to thank you, Bates, for discovering their approach, and for settling them afterwards.”

The other two boats had disappeared in the darkness, evidently finding that they had caught a Tartar, making their way as fast as they could to the shore. The British raised a hearty cheer; before the joyous ring had died away, shouts and cries rose from the hold, from whence a couple of shots were heard.

“Follow me, lads!” cried Bates, and he sprang below, taking care to carry a lantern which he had left in readiness. Nearly all the pirates had by some unaccountable means broken loose. He fired his pistols at two who appeared to be the most active, then drawing his sword rushed among the crowd. One of the sentries had been killed, but the others were defending themselves, after firing, with the butt-ends of their muskets.

“Down, all of you, or not one of you shall be allowed to live,” Bates shouted, in a voice which awed the pirates; for almost immediately they ceased struggling, and those who were trying to release their companions gave up the attempt. Several had been unable to free themselves. Had they succeeded in getting on deck, while the crew were engaged with the boats, a number of the British seamen might have been killed, even if the pirates had not ultimately gained their object.

“You have saved us a second time this night, Bates,” said Roger. “I must take care that Captain Benbow knows how you have behaved.”

In the struggle it was found that no less than five pirates had been killed; but still there were enough remaining to make it necessary to be as vigilant as ever. The moment daylight returned Roger and Bates again set to work with their crew to repair damages. At length they managed to make sufficient sail, a light breeze springing up, to send the vessel through the water at a good rate. As they were so far to the westward, they had been directed, should the wind be suitable, to go round the east end of Jamaica. They therefore hoped with a favourable breeze to get into Port Royal in five or six days. It was an anxious time, however, for both of the young officers. The prize had been sorely battered, and as she heeled over the water rushed in through numerous shot-holes which had only been imperfectly plugged. They did their best to remedy this, but had to keep the crew at the pumps for the best part of both watches. Roger proposed making the prisoners work at the pumps, but Bates thought the risk too great for the advantage they would have gained. Desperate fellows as they were, the pirates might suddenly rise, and with handspikes, or any weapons they could get hold of, attack them.

“We must keep all weapons out of their way, and tell them that we will shoot them through the head without scruple should they make any attempt of the sort,” answered Roger.

The crew, to whom the idea of making the prisoners work had occurred, at the same time asked why half a dozen should not be brought on deck and set to at the pumps? Bates, against his better judgment, consented. Six were accordingly brought up in order to turn to. They sulkily obeyed, but the boatswain’s mate, who acted as boatswain, stood by with the cat in hand ready to keep them at their work, while the same number of men remained on guard, armed with pistols and muskets, ready to shoot any who should show the slightest sign of mutiny. This kept the first gang in good order. Then, having laboured till they could labour no longer, they were exchanged for another party. By this means the crew were greatly relieved, and leisure was given to them to stop the leaks. At night all were confined below. At length Morant Point, at the east end of Jamaica, was sighted, and, the breeze being favourable, the prize ran along the southern side of the island till she came off the palisades that formed the southern side of Kingston harbour. They had to wait till the sea-breeze set in, then with flying sheets ran through the entrance and brought up off Port Royal. When it was known that the prize was a pirate captured by Captain Benbow, numbers came off to see her, and congratulated Roger and Bates on their success. Roger took care that it should be known what essential service his messmate had rendered in preserving the vessel, declaring that he believed without him they would have been retaken. Among the visitors on board were several merchants and planters, who expressed their thanks to Mr Bates.

“The capture of this vessel will make some amends for the loss of a shipload of slaves, fellows sent out in consequence of having joined Monmouth’s rebellion,” said one of them. “I had a list forwarded to me. I expected to get a good deal of work out of the fellows before Yellow Jack carried them off.”

“I should like to see it,” said Mr Bates. “Perhaps she is the vessel, the wreck of which we fell in with, nearly all her crew and passengers having died.”

The merchants promised to bring it off, and in the list Mr Bates read the name of Stephen Battiscombe. He returned it, remarking, “I have little doubt that your slaves have all long since gained their liberty by the only means they expected—death. We will do our best to capture the remainder of the pirates to make amends to you for your loss.”

Roger was glad to get rid of his prisoners, who were handed over to the authorities; he also obtained hands from Port Royal to refit the prize with all despatch, knowing that Captain Benbow would certainly employ her as the tender to the Ruby, to assist him in his search for the piratical squadron, should he have failed to catch them. Several days passed, and, the Ruby not appearing, Roger began to fear that some accident might have happened to her. At length, to his great satisfaction, the canvas of a large ship was seen over the palisades, and the Ruby made her signal. The sea-breeze soon afterwards setting in, she entered the harbour, and brought up near the prize. Roger immediately went on board. Captain Benbow had waited, he said, in vain for the pirates; they had run in among the Bahama Islands, and hid themselves away, while it was impossible to follow them without experienced pilots, who were not to be found.

“We must wait therefore another opportunity of discovering them,” he observed. “In the meantime we will refit the prize, to the command of which I intend to appoint you, Willoughby, with Bates as your lieutenant. I will send Charlie Ross to assist you, with several fresh hands.”

Several weeks passed, for the dockyard people in those days were not very rapid in their movements.

At length a merchant vessel came in, stating that she had been chased off Montego Bay, at the north-west end of the island, by several suspicious-looking craft, but that she had got into that harbour, and remained there till the pirates had disappeared.

“Then the rascals are once more afloat,” said Captain Benbow, when he heard of this. “We must go in search of them with the aid of your frigate. I hope we shall capture a few more, if not the whole of them.”

No time was lost in getting under way, Captain Benbow’s only regret being that he had not a larger number of small craft to ferret the pirates out of their holes. He had, however, the two boats, which were likely to be of use. The prize had been so transmogrified by the dockyard riggers at Port Royal that even her old friends would not have known her.

It should have been said that most of the pirates had been hung at Port Royal, as people in those days thought nothing of stringing up a couple of dozen of human beings at a time without any very strict examination as to their guilt. Two had escaped by turning King’s evidence, on condition of their acting as pilots to the squadron in search of their comrades, should they be required to do so.

Captain Benbow considered that he should be most likely to meet with the piratical fleet by sailing to the westward. Accordingly, the Ruby and Pearl stood in that direction, and, having a fair breeze, in a short time got round the western point, and entered the Channel between Jamaica and Cuba. They had a long cruise, however, without sighting the pirates, or falling in with any vessel which had escaped from them. The Captain began to fear that by some means they had heard of him, and were keeping out of his way. He determined, should he fall in with them, to sink all he could come up with, rather than allow the rest to escape. He had been at sea a month, when not far from the spot where the pirate fleet had before been, he sighted one evening, soon after dark, bright flames ascending from the ocean. Captain Benbow immediately made a signal to Roger to stand on in that direction as fast as sails could carry him, while the Ruby followed.

“What do you think those flames come from?” asked Roger of Bates.

“From a burning ship, most probably one set on fire by the pirates,” answered Bates. “They little thought we were so near them. We will summon the pilot, Jacques Tronson, and learn what he thinks about the matter. He knows that he is to be shot through the head if he misleads us. Besides which, I think he has seen the error of his ways, and wishes to be honest.”

Tronson was summoned, and acknowledged that he considered it the work of his late friends. Probably they were not far off, engaged in stowing away the cargo of the burning ship.

“Then we will try and get up alongside one of them before the Ruby appears, and they take to flight,” said Roger.

Tronson engaged, so far as he could, to enable them to do this. The Pearl stood on. Unfortunately the flames of the burning ship, falling on her white canvas, would betray her approach to the pirates, who at present, however, were not likely to have observed her. Suddenly, as the Pearl was about a couple of miles away, the flames were seen to rush upwards, and a loud explosion reached them. She had been blown into the air, and her burning masts and spars were seen coming down like rockets from the sky; then all was total darkness. The Pearl passed close to the spot where she had been. Not long after, the look-out, Charlie Ross, who was looking out forward, saw a large ship hove-to on the starboard bow. He hurried aft with the information to Roger. Tronson was summoned to give his opinion. He declared his belief that she was one of the pirate squadron.

“Then we will stand on and hail her. If she does not give a satisfactory answer we will run alongside and compel her to strike. The sound of our guns will soon lead the Ruby to the spot,” said Roger.

Roger, hoping to take the pirate by surprise, determined to board her, under the expectation that her crew might be either engaged in stowing the cargo of the captured vessel, or carousing after their victory. Bates was to lead the boarders over the quarter, while Charlie Ross was to guard the forecastle to prevent the Pearl being boarded in return. He considered it his duty to remain on board to direct operations. The Pearl drew nearer and nearer to the stranger. Upon getting close to her, Roger asked what ship she was. An unintelligible answer was returned. Accordingly, firing a double-shotted broadside into the stranger, he ordered the Pearl to be run alongside. Grappling-irons were thrown over her bulwarks and into her rigging. At the same moment Bates, leading nearly half the crew, sprang on board. Roger was not out in his calculations. The greater number of the officers and men were below, drinking hard and fast, as Tronson had thought likely. Some sprang to their arms, but many were cut down before they had time to do so. Some cried out for quarter, others fired up the hatchway. The British crew fired down in return. The deck in five minutes was swept clear of every human being. An attempt was made to blow up the ship, frustrated, happily, by Bates, and in ten minutes he and his handful of men had mastered the whole of the pirate crew. He and they shouted, “Victory! We have got full possession of her.”

“Well done, Bates!” cried Roger. “Lash the fellows’ arms behind as fast as you can, and send them aboard.” Just as he had said this, three sail were seen standing towards them. These were evidently more of the pirates intending to rescue their consort. Roger kept his prize fast, and ordered Bates, as soon as he had secured his prisoners, to work his starboard guns, while he commenced firing from his larboard broadside. There was a great probability of his being overpowered, for they all appeared to be large craft. When the Ruby hove in sight the Pearl’s crew uttered a cheer as they saw her, and she stood on towards their assailants, who, seeing her size, hauled her tacks aboard, and stood away to the north-east. Not to be delayed, the pirates were bundled crop and heel into the boats and conveyed on board the Ruby, while Bates, who was told to take command of the new prize, with the Pearl, stood in the direction they were supposed to have gone, the Ruby steering in the same direction. The pilot was of opinion that they had gone round Cape Maze, at the eastern end of Cuba, and were making for one of the Bahamas, among which they had every prospect of escaping.

“But what do you say, Tronson? Can you pilot us off the harbour where you suppose they have taken refuge?” asked Roger. “You will receive a handsome reward if you bring us in sight of the pirates; whether we take them or not must depend on our own exertions; we do not expect you to enable us to do that, you may be sure.”

Tronson did not answer for a minute; at last he said, “Trust me, sir, that I would not assist you to get sight of them, unless I thought you would succeed, as, should I fall into their hands I should be treated in a way I do not like to think about. I know the island well where they have gone to, and I can take you off the mouth of the harbour; but if the big ship accompanies us, we shall have to make a longer course than they have taken, as she cannot cross the Bahama banks. They, however, will not expect us, and if we can manage to reach the island some time after nightfall, we may take them by surprise, if you go in with your boats, and perhaps obtain an easy victory. I will draw you a map of the channel and the harbour, and give you such full directions that I do not think you can miss your way.”

Roger was fully satisfied that the plan Tronson proposed was the one to succeed, and was eager for the morning, to lay it before the Commodore. All night long the ship stood on without sighting any vessels ahead. At daylight, the wind having dropped, Roger made a signal to the Commodore that he desired to speak to him, and being ordered in return to come on board the Ruby, he lowered his boat and quickly reached her deck. Captain Benbow was well pleased with the plan Roger suggested, which exactly suited his spirit. As soon as they came off the island, the Ruby’s two large boats were to be lowered, with three other smaller ones, while the Pearl and the new prize should each send another. Thus they would have seven boats with well-armed crews, the two larger carrying guns in their bows. As the wind was light, several days were passed before the little squadron got clear of the passage and was able to steer in the direction of the island to which Tronson had agreed to carry them. As so large a number of the crews would be away in the boats, the prisoners were doubly secured, and reminded that they would be instantly shot should they show the slightest sign of insubordination. The weather was fine and sea smooth, though there was sufficient breeze to carry the ships through the water at the rate of five or six knots an hour. Navigation now became very intricate, but Tronson behaved with apparent fidelity, and skilfully piloted them amid the shoals and reefs; without him it was evident that they would have been unable to proceed. Just before darkness came on, he pointed out to Roger an island, or a collection of islands, with a few slight elevations rising blue and indistinct out of the calm water.

“That is the place to which the pirates have gone; if you manage as I advise you, you may trap the whole of them before to-morrow is many hours old.”

As the ships could not as yet be seen from the shore, and darkness was fast approaching, the Commodore stood on till, by Tronson’s advice, they brought up about a mile from the entrance of the harbour. As all lights were kept concealed, it was hoped that the pirates would not discover them. The crews who had been told off manned the boats, and were eager for the undertaking. Much to their satisfaction, the Commodore had selected only tarpaulins to command them, Kemp having one of the large boats, Roger the other, while Bates had charge of the one belonging to his prize, also of good size; the master, boatswain, and Charlie Ross commanded the other three. Roger and Bates were to lead, the Ruby’s three smaller boats to follow, and Kemp bring up the rear to assist where most required. An hour before dawn they shoved off. Roger, supposing Tronson had given him correct information, so thoroughly acquainted himself with the passage in the inner lagoon where the pirate vessels were said to lie at anchor, that he expected to have no difficulty in finding his way. The passage was soon gained, and with muffled oars the boats pulled on for a considerable distance; the cliffs formed the side of the channel, and had an enemy been aware of their coming, they would have found it trying work to get through. Not a sound, however, was heard, except when here and there birds rose from among the branches, roused by the appearance of the boats; in other places the shores were covered thickly with trees, the channel now turning in one direction, now in another. At length Roger saw before him a wide lagoon, on the shores of which appeared a few buildings. His attention was occupied chiefly by seeing four vessels anchored almost in the centre; one of them a frigate, the other three of smaller size, but still somewhat formidable craft. Roger determined to attack the frigate, Bates having before agreed to board the same vessel, while the other boats he knew would attack the remainder of the pirate’s squadron. That they were the vessels they were in search of there could be no doubt. The pirates, following their usual custom in harbour, had either been carousing on board, or had gone on shore, and, trusting to their secure position, were not even keeping an anchor watch. The British boats were up to them and alongside before the alarm was given; Roger boarded on one quarter, Bates on the bow; but, as they climbed up the side, the pirates came swarming from below. The officers turned out of their cabins, shouting to their men to drive back their assailants. Some ran to the guns, others got hold of their hangers and small-arms. Roger found a strong party collecting to oppose him. Twice he had gained the bulwarks, when he and his men were driven back; the third time, he had gained the bulwarks, and was about to leap down on deck, when a thrust of a pike sent him back wounded into his boat. His men, however, fought their way up the side, and succeeded in gaining a footing, driving back the pirates, who were attempting to defend the after part of the ship. Bates in the meantime had been more successful; he and the whole of his men having got on board, and furiously attacking the pirates had driven them off the forecastle, when with flashing hangers they beat them back aft foot by foot till they were joined by Roger’s crew. For some time Bates did not discover Roger’s absence; at length he became anxious when he failed to hear his friend’s well-known voice. He had no opportunity of asking questions; and shouting to the men of both the boats to keep together, he attacked the pirates, who had rallied on the starboard quarter under their officers, and threatened to make a desperate attack to try and drive back their assailants. Bates, however, shouted to his men to follow, and dashed forward and attacked the officer whom he had discovered to be the leader of the party. Bates was an unusually good swordsman; in a moment the pirate’s sword was whirled out of his hand, the second blow stretching him on the deck. Their leader’s fall somewhat disconcerted the rest; but they were desperate fellows, and again and again made attempts to break through the British; but several fell, and they had not advanced an inch. In the meantime the great guns from the other vessels were thundering away, and the pistol-shots and the clashing of hangers were heard amidst the cries and shrieks of the combatants. The issue of the contest seemed doubtful even to Bates; for he saw some of the pirates slipping down the after hatchway, and he knew too well that their intention was either to blow up the ship, or to get forward and attack him in the rear. Still, shouting to his men, he made a desperate effort to drive those before him overboard. Just at this juncture he heard a hearty British cheer, and old Kemp’s voice shouting: “Come on, come on, my lads; we’ll settle the scoundrels in quarter less than no time.”

The pirates, seeing this addition to their opponents, began to give way; some cried for quarter, others, panic-stricken, leaped over the sides; several tried to escape below, a few only fighting to the last; but Kemp coming up, they were quickly overpowered, most of them being killed, except those who had asked for quarter.

“Look below!” cried Bates. “They may mean mischief.” Kemp, taking the hint, followed those who had disappeared down the hatchway, while Bates and his men secured the prisoners. In a short time old Kemp returned. “Was not a moment too soon to stop these fellows blowing up the ship,” he exclaimed. “But the rascals, though they had the mind, wanted the heart to fire the train.”

“And where is your captain?” asked Bates of one of the prisoners.

“There he lies,” answered the man, pointing to the gaily-dressed person whom Bates had cut down. It was often very difficult to distinguish the officers from the men by their dress; and as far as Bates and Kemp could ascertain, the whole of the former had been killed, they having fought to the last, well knowing, should they be captured, a rope’s-end and the yard-arm would be their doom. The moment the last of the prisoners had been secured, Bates anxiously inquired for Roger Willoughby, his mind misgiving him lest he should have been killed. Some of his men answered that the last they had seen of him was falling back into the boat. Bates on this sprang down the side.

“Thank Heaven you won!—hurrah, hurrah!” exclaimed a voice; it was that of Roger, who lay at the bottom, unable to move owing to his wound.

“I am thankful, my dear fellow, that you are alive; we must have you up on deck and look to your hurts,” said Bates.

“Let them be looked to here,” said Roger. “I do not think they are very bad. Lend me a hand-kerchief to bind up this scratch in my side, and send a hand down here to place me in a more comfortable position than I am in at present.”

Bates, having attended to his friend, had to return on board, while he sent a couple of men, who had been accustomed to look after the sick, down to assist him. In the meantime the three other vessels had been captured in succession by the boats of the squadron, Kemp having assisted with his crew in overpowering them. The next question was the possibility of carrying them out, as a proof to the merchants of Jamaica that the pirate horde had been destroyed. The chief difficulty was to effectually secure the prisoners. Old Kemp suggested that the shortest way would be to hang them up at once, or shoot them, but to this Bates would not agree.

“No, no; they are human beings, and it is our duty to give them time for repentance,” he answered. “We must carry them to Jamaica, and leave them to be dealt with according to law.”

They were therefore all brought on board the frigate and secured in the hold, with a strong guard placed over them.

“Now,” observed Kemp, “at all events we will burn down their storehouses on shore, so that not a trace may be left of the pirates’ stronghold.”

Three of the boats, under the command of Charlie Ross, were accordingly sent to effect this; and in a few minutes flames were seen bursting up from various points along the shore, the buildings, owing to the combustible materials which they contained, burning furiously: not one remained standing. When Ross returned, he acknowledged that he had fallen in with a number of women and children, but as he had not the heart to injure them,—he had received no orders to do so,—he had allowed them to escape up the country. Roger had by this time recovered sufficiently to be lifted on board, and desired to be carried forward to assist in piloting out the vessels. Sail was immediately made on all the ships, the frigate leading, with the boats keeping ahead in readiness to tow her round should there come a squall of wind. They stood out towards the entrance of the harbour, intricate as was the passage; and though it seemed on two or three occasions that the frigate must drive on shore, yet she escaped clear, and the whole squadron got through in safety and stood towards the Ruby and her consorts. She and they were seen preparing for action, Captain Benbow evidently fearing that his boats had been overpowered, and that the pirates were coming out to attack him. The British flag run up at the peak soon pleasantly undeceived him, and the hearty cheers which rose from the decks of the prizes, replied to from the scanty crews of the Ruby and Pearl, showed him that his gallant fellows had gained the victory. Old Kemp at once returned to the Ruby to receive the Captain’s orders, and signal was soon afterwards made for Bates to come on board. Captain Benbow, shaking him by the hand in the presence of all the officers and crew, complimented him highly on the gallant way in which he had captured the pirate frigate, and assured him that it would be a great satisfaction to recommend him for immediate promotion. Roger had in the meantime been conveyed on board, to be attended to by the surgeon, with several other men who had been wounded, though, strange to say, desperately as the pirates had fought, not one of the British crew had been killed. Bates took charge of the Pearl, and old Kemp of the largest of the prizes, while other officers were appointed to the remainder, Charlie Ross among them. The whole squadron, piloted by Tronson, who had gained high credit for his faithfulness, made sail for Jamaica. Each carried the British ensign, and a certain number of prisoners on board. They arrived in safety, and were greeted by salvos of artillery from the forts, flags flying from all the redoubts on shore, and ships in the harbour. The merchants declared that a most important action had been performed, as at one blow the most powerful collection of pirates in those seas had been annihilated. The officers were received on shore and treated with festivities of all sorts. Next to the Commodore, Captain Simon Bates—as he was now called, being commander of a frigate—received the most honour. Being often on shore, he made inquiries about the unfortunate ship sent out some years before on account of Monmouth’s rebellion, and he could hear of very few survivors. Several had succumbed to the climate, and others had been sent to the different estates in the interior, of whom he could gain no further tidings. He was the means, however, of rescuing his old acquaintance, Simon Stubbs, and helping two or three others. Simon’s owner was very unwilling to part with him, and Bates had to pay a large amount to obtain his liberty. Although the exploit which has been described was among the most important performed at that period, Captain Benbow and his subordinates employed themselves in putting down piracy for the remainder of their stay in the West Indies.

At length, to the infinite satisfaction of the British crews, the order was received to return home.

Chapter Fourteen.

Commodore Benbow’s squadron met with tolerably severe weather on its passage to Old England. Not that the Commodore was much given to think about foul weather or fine; blow high or blow low, it was all the same to him; but as the gales were from the eastward, the squadron was considerably delayed, and at length, being in want of water, the Commodore put into Plymouth. Among the first who went on shore was Simon Bates, who was anxious once more to visit his native land. Roger Willoughby accompanied him.

“I congratulate you, my dear fellow,” said Roger, “on being once more a free man, with no one to suspect, except your own immediate relatives, the errant Captain Bates.”

They heard a great deal of talking going round, people speaking in an excited manner, and just then arrived at an inn, from the sign-board of which the countenance of the Prince of Orange was portrayed. They instantly made inquiries.

“Have you not heard? On the 5th of November last the Dutch William, sailing from Holland with a fleet of six hundred vessels, landed at Brixham, and marched with an army of cavalry, artillery, and infantry on to Exeter, while he has since been joined by numerous noblemen and gentlemen of influence.”

“This is indeed glorious news!” exclaimed Captain Bates, or rather Stephen Battiscombe.

“Yes, it is a very different affair from the landing of the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth and his handful of men,” answered his friend. “This time we shall gain the victory, and drive James Stuart from his throne.”

The Governor of Plymouth had sent word to the Prince that the garrison he commanded, and most of the inhabitants of the city, were ready to join him. The Prince was advancing towards London.

The captains returned to their ships, and Benbow resolved to remain on board his vessel till he could ascertain what side the rest of the fleet were likely to take. On his saying that he would sail eastward to look after the British fleet in the Medway, the men of all the ships came aft to their respective captains.

“We were forced aboard these ships you see, Captain,” said the principal speaker, “but we did not come to fight for King James. We came to serve our country, and now we find that there is a good chance of our getting a Protestant King. We have made up our minds to join him, whatever the rest of the fleet may do.”

“I am not the man to say you nay,” answered Stephen Battiscombe. “I obtained my liberty without having to thank King James for it, and I am bound, therefore, neither by honour nor principle to serve him. Moreover, I am pretty confident that such will be the principles exhibited by the remainder of the fleet.”

Captain Benbow replied that his object was the same as that of his men,—to serve his country.

They had not long to wait. On the 11th of December the reign of James ended, when he secretly left Whitehall, throwing his signet-ring into the Thames. That of William and Mary commenced on the 13th February, on which day they accepted the crown of England. Now, neither Benbow nor Roger hesitated to offer his allegiance to William and Mary. Battiscombe had long been anxious to go home and comfort his father, and he easily obtained leave from the Commodore to take his frigate round to Lyme, and Roger obtained leave to go with him. With joyous hearts they made sail. Roger led in the Pearl, and Stephen followed. From the fact of his having kept to his adopted name, Mr Battiscombe was not aware of his arrival, though the Colonel and Mr Willoughby were eagerly looking out for Roger. They hired horses at Lyme, and set off, accompanied by Charlie Ross. The day was advancing when they came in sight of the Manor House. As they got near the house, they saw a young lady walking at a brisk pace along the road, for the evening was cold. She first gazed at Roger, and then at Charlie, who was a tall fair youth, very like what Stephen had been. Turning round, she sprang towards him, recognising in a moment her betrothed lover, still loved by her. Throwing himself from his horse, their hands were clasped, and it was some minutes before she thought of greeting her old playmate, Roger Willoughby.

“It is but natural,” he answered. “And right glad I am to bring honest Stephen back to you, and I am sure the Colonel will be as glad as my father.”

Roger was not mistaken. A hearty greeting was given them by Madam Pauline.

His duty to his father compelled Stephen, however, to set off for Langton Hall sooner than he otherwise would have wished. Roger declared that he must go with him. It was a mournful yet a joyous meeting: mournful, as it recalled the death of poor Andrew; and joyful, not only as he came back a free man, but having gained credit, honour, and a considerable amount of prize-money. Stephen had no wish to continue in the navy, for Captain Benbow had impressed upon him the fact that, if he did, he must make his ship his wife, and he cherished the hope that he might ere long recompense Alice, as far as he had the power, for her long and devoted attachment to him. He had obtained permission from the Commodore to leave his ship under the command of Charlie Ross. He knew that she would be well looked after during his absence.

Among the captains who remained faithful to James was Captain Benbow, although his crew, as well as those of most others, desired at once to join William of Orange; but as soon as William and Mary had been declared Sovereigns of England, he and many others, to the great satisfaction of their crews, sailed up the Thames to offer their allegiance. Shortly after this, Stephen and Roger received a summons from their old captain to come up to London. They had there the honour of being introduced to the King, who complimented them on their gallantry, and confirmed them both in their rank, at he did also with others who had followed Benbow, while he himself was permanently made a Commodore. Stephen, however, thanking His Majesty for his kindness, begged leave to retire from the service, while expressing his desire at the same time to serve him on shore in whatever capacity the King might think fit to employ him.

Roger returned with Stephen to the country, and was best man at his marriage with Mistress Alice.

Roger stuck to his ship, and took an active part afterwards in the relief of Derry. There was soon plenty to do, as the French at once declared war against England, with the intention of replacing James Stuart on the throne,—an event by God’s Providence happily prevented. There was one short adventure which took place early in Roger’s career that reminded him of his first meeting with an individual who afterwards gained a name and fame in history. He was standing up channel in the Pearl, when he fell in with a ship which mounted thirty-six guns. Hoisting the British colours, he soon made out her number as the Nonsuch. She had two other ships in tow, apparently her prizes, and both considerably damaged. A signal was made for assistance, and the Pearl being hove-to, Roger went on board. He found that she had been commanded by Captain Coyle, who had engaged two French ships off the island of Guernsey, one mounting thirty, the other twenty-two guns, the first being commanded by Captain Jean Bart and the other by Forbin. Captain Coyle and the master, both brave officers, had been killed early in the action, and there being no lieutenants on board, the command devolved on the boatswain, Robert Simcock, who continued the fight. The two French captains, who were very much out of spirits at being made prisoners, were on board, and complained bitterly of the way in which they were treated. Roger, introducing himself, spoke to Mr Simcock, and invited his old acquaintance to come on board his ship, and accompany him to Plymouth, to which port they were bound. Captain Bart willingly agreed, provided his friend Captain Forbin had the same advantage. “For, to tell the truth,” he said, “our captor, though a very gallant fellow, does not quite understand how to treat gentlemen.”

They were not long in reaching Plymouth, when the Governor and other officials received the two French captains with all courtesy, but, of course, had to watch them carefully, and at night they and the doctor of one of their ships were imprisoned in a strong room with iron-barred windows. Of course Simcock was highly applauded for his gallantry. Directly the news was received at the Admiralty, he was made a captain, and appointed to the command of the ship in which he had so bravely fought. Meantime the two gallant French captains were supposed to be safely shut up in prison, though treated all the time with every consideration. On the morning they were to have been carried up to London, it was found that the whole of the trapped birds had escaped, with exception of the stout lieutenant, who had a wounded leg, but had been so fast asleep that he had not the slightest conception of what had occurred.

“We shall meet again, my friend, some day,” said Commodore Benbow when he heard of it.

They did meet, for the Commodore was employed for several years afterwards in blockading Dunkerque. The Frenchman frequently, notwithstanding, managed to get out, and commit no small amount of damage on English shipping; in truth, he fully merited the name he obtained among his countrymen.

Benbow, now an Admiral, was frequently sent to the West Indies, when he beat the enemy, and did much for English commerce. He set out on his last expedition in September 1701, accompanied by his old and faithful follower, Roger Willoughby. The manner in which several of his captains cowardly betrayed him when he had the French in his power, is too well known to be repeated. The French Admiral, Du Casse, though fully expecting to be captured, for he was well aware of the cause, wrote to Admiral Benbow a pithy letter, saying that he had indeed thought that night to have supped in the Englishman’s cabin, but as he had escaped through the cowardice of some of his enemy’s captains, he advised him to hang them up forthwith. The Admiral, being badly wounded during the fierce engagement which took place, directed himself to be placed in a cradle while he remained on deck directing the operations till the battle was over, when the fleet returned to Jamaica. Roger Willoughby remained by his beloved chief during the court-martial which sat upon the pusillanimous captains, and for a month afterwards, when the Admiral sank under his wounds. After the Admiral’s death, Roger Willoughby returned to England, and among the first items of news he heard was that the brave French Admiral, who had been born the same day as Benbow, had also paid the debt of Nature. After this he served his country nobly for several years, when at length, returning to Eversden Manor, he took up his abode there, his father and uncle being dead, and Madam Pauline, who had a life-interest in it, being its sole occupant.

Although the times of Benbow present subjects of great interest to those who are fond of historical tales, the author has been unable to do more than introduce a few of those he intended when he designed the work. He hopes, notwithstanding, that his readers will not find it less interesting than its many predecessors.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Ronald Morton, or the Fire Ships"

Chapter One.

The Spanish Man-of-war off Shetland—A Calm—The “Saint Cecilia” in Danger—The Pilot—Brassay Sound.

“Land! land on the larboard bow!” The cry was uttered in a foreign tongue from the masthead of a corvette of twenty guns, a beautiful long, low, flush-decked craft with dark hull, taunt raking masts, and square yards, which, under all the sails she could carry with a southerly breeze right aft, was gliding rapidly over the now smooth surface of the northern ocean. The haughty flag of old Spain, and the language spoken on board, showed that she belonged to that nation. The crew sat clustered about on the forecastle with their arms folded in a listless, inactive way—some asleep—others smoking cigarillos or playing games of chance between the guns, while a few were disputing on some trivial points with a vehemence which proved the fiery tempers hidden under those calm exteriors. The officers lolled against the bulwarks, sat on the guns, or paced slowly backwards and forwards; but rather more etiquette was kept up on the quarter deck than appeared to be the case among the men forward. The captain walked backwards and forwards with his first lieutenant on the starboard side; they crossed occasionally, and lifted their hands to their eyes to watch the land just sighted as the ship approached and glided by it at the distance of two or three miles. The captain’s appearance was in his favour. He was tall and graceful, with the clear olive-complexion, the pointed beard, the thin moustache, and the large pensive eyes, so frequently seen in portraits of high-born Spaniards. Still, though his features were handsome and very intelligent, there was an expression in them not altogether satisfactory. His companion was a short, thick-set man, dark and bearded, with a daring look in his countenance and a firmness in his month which might raise a suspicion that in cases of emergency he would be likely to take the command in the place of his superior.

“That land out there should be of some interest to us, Alvarez,” said the captain, pointing to the little conical-shaped islets the ship was passing. “It was there, so history tells us, that one of the grandees of Spain, the great Duke of Medina Sidonia, was wrecked when he sailed in command of that mighty Armada which would have assuredly crushed the power of England had it not been so completely baffled by the wonderful opposition of the elements. Many of his crew after being saved from the fury of the tempest were cruelly murdered by the barbarous inhabitants, and he and a small remnant only escaped to the main island of Shetland, whither we are bound.”

“Ah! I have heard say that the people in those parts are little better than cannibals,” answered the lieutenant; “we may as well, at all events, keep our guns run out and double-shotted while we lie here, that we may be prepared for them should they attempt to play us any tricks.”

“Oh! they are tolerably civilised now, I fancy,” answered the captain. “I myself have some Shetland blood in my veins, so I have been told, though it must be tolerably diluted by this time.”

“You sir! I thought that in your veins flowed none but the purest of Castilian streams,” answered the lieutenant, with a slight sneer in his tone. It was so slight, however, that his captain did not perceive it. “How came that about, Don Hernan?”

“I will tell you,” answered the captain: “an ancestor of mine—in our family tree he appears quite a modern one—commanded one of the ships of the holy Armada. She, like that of the Admiral, was driven north, and ultimately wrecked and totally lost on the land we shall soon make to the northward, called Shetland. He and his crew were kindly treated by the chief of the little island on which they were driven. The crew built a chapel to show their gratitude, and having nearly produced a famine in the district, were conveyed home with honour; while he, to prove his, married the old Udaller’s daughter, and thinking it likely that his head might be chopped off as a sacrifice to assuage the rage of our pious monarch Philip, settled on the island, and did not return home till towards the end of a long life. His son, who accompanied him, having recovered his ancestral estates, remained in Spain; but he, when advanced in years, in consequence of being implicated in some political plot, fled the country, and naturally took refuge in that of his mother, where he was cordially welcomed. He was afterwards joined by his son, who, curiously enough, married a Shetland lady, and thus, even in the days of my father, who was his grandson, a constant communication was kept up with our Norse connections. I, also, have more than once heard of them since my father’s death, and have determined to become more intimately acquainted with my relatives during this northern voyage of ours. But where are we getting to? What with the strong tide, and the favourable breeze, we positively fly by the land. Send for the chart on deck, Alvarez, and let me have a look at its bearings.”

The first lieutenant beckoned to a midshipman, who soon returned with a large sea-chart, which the captain spread out on the capstan head.

“Ah! here we have this small rock—Fate Island, I see the natives call it—away to the south-west; and that lofty bluff headland, north by west, now shining so white, as if formed of marble, is Fitfiel Head, or the White Mountain, I see by a note—not an unfit name either; and that high point to the south-east again is Sumburgh Head. What bleak and barren hills appear to the northward again! What a dreadful coast to make during the long nights of winter!” The captain shuddered. “Unless we find the interior more attractive, I shall wonder how my ancestors could have had so much partiality for such a country.”

“Summer or winter, in stormy weather it is not a coast a seaman would wish to hug too closely,” observed Lieutenant Alvarez; “the crews of the ships of our great Armada found that to their cost. However, there appear to be some good roadsteads, where, should bad weather come on, we may be secure.”

“Numbers. See what a curious shape has the mainland,” observed the captain, pointing to the chart. “It is fully twenty leagues long, and yet there does not appear to be a point where it is more than a league across from sea to sea. Those voes run up for a league or more, and make it appear like some huge insect. Then what innumerable islands of all shapes and sizes! The people should be amphibious, who live here, to enable them to visit their neighbours: in a southern clime what a delightful spot it might be! but in this hyperborean region, existence must be a penalty.”

“As to that, my fancy is for a southern clime,” answered the lieutenant, who, by-the-by, did not clearly comprehend all his captain’s remarks; “but I suppose as there are some animals, polar bears and arctic foxes, who delight in snow and frost, so there are human beings who are content to live on in this cheerless region.”

“Not a bad notion, Alvarez,” observed the captain, who continued walking the deck, and talking much in the same strain with his officer. The contrast between the two was very considerable. The captain, Don Hernan Escalante, was a refined, highly-educated man. His knowledge on most matters was extensive, if not profound; he spoke several languages, and among them English, with a fluency few Spaniards attain. Few Spaniards indeed of that day were equally accomplished. His first lieutenant, Pedro Alvarez, was every inch a seaman, and like many seamen despised all who were not so. Again the captain stopped before the chart, and placing his finger on it, observed: “Here I hope we may anchor to-night, opposite the capital, Lerwick. See, there is a long wide sound marked with good anchorage, called Brassay Sound, formed by the mainland and the island of Brassay. I wonder what sort of a city is Lerwick! It of course has theatres, hotels, billiard-rooms, and balls; these northern people are fond of dancing, I have read. We shall have ample amusement with the fair islanders.”

“The dances will be something like those of the North American Indians, I suspect,” answered the lieutenant, who might have thought that his captain was laughing at him, when he talked of such amusements in a country he believed so barbarous.

The corvette had got close in with Sumburgh Head, when her sails gave several loud flaps against the masts, bulged out, then again collapsed, and she speedily lost all steerage way. The head of the vessel, instead of pointing, as heretofore, towards the north, now began slowly to turn round west, and south, and east, and then, as if some secret power had seized her keel, away she was whirled, now to the westward, and then to the north in the direction of the towering heights of Fitfiel Head.

As the ship lay rocking to and fro under this lofty headland, which they at length arrived at, the sea-birds flew forth in myriads from the ledges and caverns, where, for ages past, in storm and sunshine, in winter and summer, they have roosted undisturbed, wheeling and circling with discordant cries round the stranger, as if to inquire why she had thus come to intrude on their domain. The Spanish seamen, accustomed chiefly to southern climes, gazed with superstitious wonder at the frowning cliff and the screeching birds, and fully believed that those winged denizens of the wild sea-coast were evil spirits sent out by the witches of the country to trick and torment them, and perchance to lead them to destruction.

“Shall we anchor, Alvarez?” asked the captain, anxiously looking around seaward, and then at the frowning height above their heads.

“Anchor!” exclaimed the lieutenant, “as well anchor in the middle of the Bay of Biscay as in the Roust of Sumburgh with such a current as this, even if the depth would allow. We might get the boats out and tow, and perchance, by gaining time, obtain a breeze to carry us free.”

“By all means do so,” was the answer. The boats were lowered, and their crews were soon lustily tugging at their oars with the head of the corvette to the westward, while long sweeps were got out and run through the ports to impel her yet more rapidly through the water. Suddenly, however, she seemed to be once more seized upon and carried completely out of their control. Her head was to the westward, but she herself was swept away as fast as before to the southward; while so tumbling and breaking was the sea, that it was not without danger of being swamped that the boats were again hoisted in. The crew cast frowning glances towards the shore.

“What are we to do, Alvarez?” asked the captain, not at all liking the condition of his ship.

“Let her drive backwards and forwards till a breeze springs up, I suppose,” answered the lieutenant. “Should a westerly gale catch us before we again get to the southward of Sumburgh Head, and should we fail to weather some of those ugly-looking points, I doubt much whether Saint Cecilia herself, after whom our pretty craft is called, could prevent every one of us from sharing the fate which has befallen many a bold seaman before us. However, we’ll hope for the best.”

“You do not seem to like the prospects of this northern cruise of ours, Alvarez,” observed the captain. “You have not been in good humour since we entered the British Channel, and have done nothing but predict disaster.”

“Pardon me, captain,” answered the lieutenant, “I am not now predicting disaster—though it requires no seer to foretell the fate of the ship, if not of our lives, should certain not unlikely contingencies occur. However, here comes a breeze, I verily believe from the westward too, and if it will but fill our sails for a short half-hour, we may double yon ugly-looking Sumburgh Head, and getting out of the Roust, the tide will carry us along to our anchorage.”

The boats being once more lowered, towed the head of the corvette round to the westward, though all the time several hands were bailing to keep them free of the water, which bubbled and tumbled hissing into them over the sides. The breeze which Pedro Alvarez had observed playing on the surface in the distance, at length filled her sails, and stemming the current, she again got into smooth water and the influence of the tide, making to the northward. The wind also drew round to the southward, and all sails being made, the corvette, with her wide spread of canvas, glided on as smoothly and majestically as before, till the island of Mousa, with its Pictie tower, bore west on her larboard beam. A signal was flying for a pilot, and a long, light boat, pulling six oars, was seen coming off from Fladbister, a town—in reality a little fishing village—on the shore. The heads of her crew were visible a long way off, by the bright hues of their long pendant worsted caps. They wore large sheepskin coats, coming down to the knee over their worsted shirts, and high boots of yellow untanned leather. The corvette was about to shorten sail, but they making signals that that was unnecessary, the boat shot alongside, and two of them sprang on board.

“Those fellows would be unpleasant customers if they came as enemies to attack our ship, from the active way in which they leaped up our sides,” observed the captain. “They would be as difficult to keep out as wild cats.”

One of the two pilots was a man advanced in life, the other was very much younger, and habited in the quaint costume which has been described; his dress, though rough, differed much from the rest, while his easy, unembarrassed manner showed that he was an officer rather than an ordinary seaman. With a brisk step the men came aft, inquiring, as they did so, of the officers if any of them could speak English. They were referred to Don Hernan, who politely returned the salute as they touched their hats to him.

“Well, my men,” said he, “will you take charge of the ship, and bring her to an anchor in Brassay Sound to-night?”

“That will we, captain, right gladly,” answered the younger of the two, glancing aloft with the eye of a seaman. “She is as pretty a craft as any one has ever seen in these waters, and well worth taking care of. What is her name? where are you from? and whither are you bound, captain? Pardon me for asking, but it is my duty so to do. They are the questions we always put in these waters.”

“As to that, of course you are perfectly right,” answered the captain. “Her name is the ‘Saint Cecilia,’ her commander Don Hernan de Escalante, and she carries, as you see, twenty guns. We sailed from Cadiz, and have touched at two or three French ports, and the British port of Plymouth; after visiting Lerwick, we are bound round the north of your island, into the Atlantic again. You see that we have nothing to conceal. The character of this ship is above all suspicion; and you will find, my friend, that you have lost nothing by navigating her in safety wherever we may wish to go.”

“Very likely, captain,” answered the pilot, looking up into the captain’s countenance. “I entertain no doubt about the matter, and if the provost and bailies of Lerwick are satisfied, I am sure that I shall be: keep her as she goes now for the Bard of Brassay. The tide will shoot her into the sound rapidly enough as we draw near it.”

When in a short time the corvette was off the Bard or Beard of Brassay, as the ragged-looking southern end of that island is called, a turn of the helm to starboard sent the vessel into the Sound, and up she flew with smooth green heights on either side, here and there a few white buildings showing, and numerous rocks visible, till the pilot warned the captain that it was time to shorten sail. At a word the sailors were seen swarming aloft; studding-sails came in as if by magic, royals and top-gallant sails were handed, topsails clewed up, and with her taunt tapering masts and square yards alone, surrounded by the intricate tracery of their rigging, the beautiful fabric glided up to an anchorage off the town of Lerwick.

“Friend, you brought the ship to an anchor in true seamanlike style,” said Captain Don Hernan, touching the young pilot on the shoulder. “You have not been a simple pilot all your life.”

“No, indeed, captain,” answered the pilot, “I have been afloat since my earliest days in southern seas, as well as engaged in the Greenland fishery. Lately I have been mate of a whaler, and maybe my next voyage I shall have charge of a ship as master. You have hit the right nail on the head—this is the first summer that I ever spent on shore.”

“Can I trust you, then, to take charge of the ship round the coast?” asked the captain. “Perhaps, however, you are not well acquainted with that?”

The pilot smiled. “There is not a point or headland, a rock, or shoal, or island, which I have not as clearly mapped down in my memory, as are the hues on yonder chart, and more correctly, too, I doubt not.”

“That will do—I will trust you,” said Don Hernan. “What is your name, friend, that I may send for you when you are wanted?”

“Rolf Morton,” was the answer; “but my home is some way to the northward, on the island of Whalsey. There you have it on your chart. Those who live on it boast that it is the finest of the outlying islands; and well I know that such a castle as we have is not to be found in all Shetland.”

“Ah, it is your native place,” observed the captain. “You therefore think so highly of it.”

“Not exactly, though I remember no other spot of earth before I put eyes on Whalsey. I was, so I have been told, picked up, when a child, from a wreck at sea; and the men I was with called me Rolf Morton, the name which has stuck to me for want of a better. I know nothing more of my history; but I am prating of myself, and shall weary you, captain.”

“Far from it, friend; I delight in a little romance,” answered the captain. “How comes it, though, that you remained on shore this summer?—but I need not ask—one of your fair islanders, of whom I have heard so much, was your attraction.”

“Yes, in truth,” said the pilot, laughing; “she has become my wife, though; and as I could not bring myself to quit her, I bethought me I would try to gain my livelihood by turning pilot. Yours is one of the first ships I have taken charge of. There—I have been frank with you, captain, and told you all my history from beginning to end.”

“And I thank you for it. I saw at a glance that you were above the ordinary style of a pilot. I wanted to find a man like yourself, who would give me the information I require about the country, the habits and customs of the people. I would wish to win their regard. But you have, I suppose, few good families here?”

Don Hernan well knew that the islander’s pride would tempt him to launch out in a full description of all the families of consequence in the group, and that he should thus easily obtain, without apparently seeking for it, all the information of that description which he required.

Morton unsuspectingly answered exactly in the tone for which he was prepared.

“Indeed, captain, you are out of your latitude. We have the Edmonstones of Unst, and the Lord Dundas, and the Mouats, and the Ogilvys, and Scott of Scalloway, and Braces of Sandwick, and also of Symbister; and Spences, and Duncans, and the Nicolson family; baronets of old date, all honourable men, and of ancient lineage; besides many others I have not named, standing equally well in the estimation of the country; and then there is the Lunnasting family of Lunnasting Castle, of which I spoke to you. The owner is Sir Marcus Wardhill, who succeeded to his property by right of his wife, the Lady Margaret Brindister; one of the most ancient of our Shetland families, descended, so it is said, from one of the former chiefs, the Udallers of old. They are very great and important people, at all events when in their own castle, and of course have little communication with a man of my humble rank. Maybe I hear more of them than do others, because my wife’s mother was for long the companion of the Lady Margaret, and the nurse to her children. I believe she loved them as her own. Indeed, although but called a nurse in the family, she is nearly akin to the Lady Margaret. But these are matters about which a stranger can have no interest.”

“A stranger might not, but I must not be considered in that light,” answered the captain. “Strange as it may appear to you, I am connected with that very family of which you are speaking. An ancestress of mine was a Brindister. I must claim relationship with the occupants of Lunnasting. It will, in truth, be pleasant in this remote region to find friends so nearly related to me.”

The reserve which the pilot had hitherto maintained seemed to vanish on hearing the assertion made by Don Hernan.

“I have no doubt, captain, that they would have given you a warm northern welcome,” he answered. “But Sir Marcus Wardhill himself, and his second daughter, are in the south, travelling, I have heard, among French and Germans, and it is said that they purpose remaining some time in the big city of London, a place among all my wanderings I have never seen.”

“The Lady Margaret, of whom you speak, and her elder daughter are there, I hope; or is the castle shut up?” asked Don Hernan.

“The Lady Margaret, as we called her, Lady Wardhill, is dead, but her elder daughter, Miss Hilda Wardhill, lives at Lunnasting, and manages the Shetland estates, they say as well as any man would do.”

“Ho, ho! I should like to become acquainted with this talented cousin of mine,” said Don Hernan. “Is she handsome as well as clever?”

Thus appealed to, Morton replied with even more hesitation than before. “As to an eye for the look of a ship aloft, or for her build or trim, I’ll yield to no man; and maybe I like the faces of some women more than others. This I’ll say, sir; it’s my belief that there are not many in this world like the Lady Hilda.”

“You have probably heard of the Spanish connection of the family.”

“Yes, once or twice, maybe,” answered Morton; “my wife’s mother often speaks of them. In her father’s time they constantly corresponded, and exchanged presents—Shetland shawls and stockings for Spanish silks and brocades. It was said that, during his travels, Sir Marcus thought of visiting his connections in Spain.”

After some further conversation, the captain observed, “I would pay my respects to the governor or authorities of the town. As you have proved so good a pilot afloat, you shall accompany me as my guide on shore.”

Chapter Two.

Lunnasting Castle—The Stranger Ship—Sandy Redland, The Factor—Archy Eagleshay—Miss Wardhill’s Visitors—The Disappearance of the Heir.

Lunnasting Castle stood on a high rocky promontory, washed by the ocean on the south and east, and by a voe which ran up some way inland on the west. It was a somewhat extensive building; but though of a castellated style of architecture it was not really a fortress further than the naturally inaccessible nature of the ground on which it stood made it so. It stood on the site, and was formed partly of such materials as time had left of an old castle of the earls or ancient Udal lords of Shetland, and had been very much increased in size, and ornamented, as well as rendered a more commodious habitation by the present owner, Sir Marcus Wardhill. The dwelling-house consisted but of two stories, and standing, as it did, elevated some way above the sea, looked lower than it really was. It was surrounded on the north, east, and west, by a high castellated wall, flanked with towers, which, if not capable of keeping out a mortal enemy, served the purpose for which it was built,—to guard the mansion from the assaults of the wintry blasts of the icy ocean. In front, on the south side, that the inhabitants might enjoy the sea view, and that the warm rays of the sun might be admitted, the wall sunk down to the height of a mere ornamental parapet, the round towers at either end giving it some right to claim the title bestowed on it; especially as on the summit of either tower Sir Marcus had mounted a couple of long six-pounders, capable of considerably annoying any hostile vessel of a size at all likely to venture near that part of a coast so full of dangers that no large ship would willingly approach it. The muzzles of some smaller guns appeared through the embrasure of the parapet wall, which was also flanked by a buttress, or rather a circular outwork at either end at the foot of the towers, where pivot guns were placed, so that the one on the west could fire directly up the voe or gulf, and served to flank the western wall. The two principal front towers were connected with the dwelling-house, and had small chambers in them, one above the other, which had been fitted up as sitting-rooms or dormitories.

In a deep window recess, in the highest chamber of the western tower of Lunnasting Castle, sat Miss Wardhill, Sir Marcus Wardhill’s eldest child. Although the window matched in appearance the others in that and the opposite tower, which were mere high, narrow, glazed loop-holes, by an ingenious contrivance a huge stone was made to turn on an iron axle, and by pressing a spring, it slid in sufficiently to allow the inmate of the room to gaze out conveniently on the surrounding scene.

Few scenes, to a romantic temperament, could have been more attractive. The subdued twilight of that northern clime reigned over the face of nature, softening and mellowing all objects, but in no way obscuring them. The light was not so bright as that of the day, and yet it partook in no way of the characteristics of night. It was more like the warm light of the dawn of a summer day in the south, just before the sun rises up from below the horizon in refulgent glory. The water near the land was perfectly smooth, though a breeze could be seen rippling the surface in the offing, the ripple being increased probably by the strong current which nearly at all times sets one way or the other round the islands.

Before the castle, on the right, rose the rocky heights and green swelling undulations of the mainland—the Noup of Nesting Kirkbuster, Brough and Moul of Eswick, while the highlands above Lerwick, and the heights of Brassy and Noss, appeared blue and indistinct in the far distance.

To the east, several green islands, or rather islets, known as Grief Skerries, Rumble, Eastling, and other equally euphonious names, ran out of the dark-blue ocean. The last-named being a mile and a half in length, formed with the main island, along the shore of which it ran parallel, and from which it was little more than a quarter of a mile distant, a sound of some extent, where vessels in all but north-easterly winds could ride safely at anchor. Even in these winds the force of the sea was considerably broken by the small island or holm of Isbuster, which lay in the very centre of the northern entrance.

Looking eastward, and north from the towers of Lunnasting, the view extended nearly up the Sound, and commanded the whole island of Eastling, which perhaps obtained its name from lying east of the chief habitation of the lords of the domain, Eastling being a corruption of Eastlying. Such was the view on which Hilda Wardhill was occasionally turning her gaze, though her eyes were more frequently fixed on the pages of a large volume lying open on a dark oak reading desk fixed in the recess, and so placed that the last rays of that precious sunlight which so soon departs in the long winter season of the North, might fall full upon it. The room was of an octagon shape, with dark oak wainscoting and ceiling; the chairs were of a suitable character, mostly with high upright backs, rudely carved, as were some book-shelves, which occupied two of the sides, while a massive table, supported by sea monsters, or at all events by creatures of fish-like form, stood in the centre; another table of similar character stood against the side of the room with writing materials on it, and there was a sofa of antique form, and two large chests of some dark wood, with brass clasps and plates on the lids and sides, so tarnished however by the sea air, as scarcely to be discerned as brass. A second high narrow window, with a lattice, faced towards the west and north, so that persons standing at it could, by leaning forward, look completely up the voe. Thus, from this turret chamber, a view could be obtained on every side, except on that looking inland, or rather over the island.

On one of the eight sides there was, however, a small door in the panelling, which opened on a spiral staircase leading to the very summit of the tower, where, as has been said, a gun was placed, and whence a complete view was obtained over every portion of the island, extending far away over the sea beyond, to the Out Skerries, a rocky group so called; and the distant shores of the large island of Yell. As the roof could only be reached by passing through the chamber below, it was completely private to the fair occupant as long as she chose to close the ingress to her own room.

Seldom has a more beautiful picture been portrayed to the mind’s eye of the most imaginative of painters, than that which Hilda Wardhill presented as she sat at the window of her turret chamber, either leaning over the volume which occupied her attention, or gazing out on the calm ocean, her thoughts evidently still engaged in the subject of her studies.

At length she rose, and was about to close the window, when her eye fell on a vast towering mass of white, gliding slowly from the northward down Eastling Sound. She looked more than once, mistrusting her senses, and inclined to believe that it was some phantom of the deep, described in wild romances, often her study, which she beheld, till another glance assured her, as the object drew nearer that it was a large ship far larger than had ever been known during her recollection to anchor in the Sound. With speed which seemed like magic, the white canvas disappeared, and the tall masts and the yards and the light tracery of the rigging could only dimly be traced against the clear sky.

Whence the stranger had come, or for what object, Hilda could not tell, but still she had a feeling—how communicated she did not inquire—that the event portended some great change in her own fate. Painful forebodings of evil came crowding like mocking phantoms around her. She tried with the exercise of her own strong will to banish them. In vain she strove—the more they seemed to mock her power. She felt as if she could almost have shrieked out in the agony of her mortal struggle, till her proud spirit quailed and trembled with unwonted fears. Again the clock tolled forth a solitary sound, which vibrated strangely on her overwrought nerves, and seemed more sonorous than usual. She pressed her hand upon her brow, then by an effort she seemed by a single gasp to recover herself, and, closing the window, retired to her sleeping chamber in that part of the house in the immediate neighbourhood of her favourite tower.

At an early hour the lady of the castle was on foot. She at once ascended to the summit of her tower, and gazed eagerly up the Sound, half expecting to find that she had been deceived by her imagination on the previous night, and that the ship she had seen was but a creation of the brain. There, however, floated the beautiful fabric, but there was not the slightest movement or sign of life on board. At all events, it seemed improbable that she would soon move from her present position. At length she descended to her boudoir below, where, as usual, her light and frugal meal was brought to her by her own attendant, Nanny Clousta.

Her meal, at which Nanny stood ready to help her to anything she required, being quickly concluded, Miss Wardhill descended to the large hall on the ground-floor, in the centre of the castle. It was a handsome room, with an arched ceiling of dark oak, supported by pillars round the wall. A long table ran down the centre, at one end of which, on a raised platform or daïs, she took her seat. Several tenants of the Lunnasting estate came in to make complaints, to beg for the redress of grievances, to report on the state of the farms, or fisheries, or kelp-collecting; to all of which the lady listened with the most perfect attention, making notes in a book placed before her. Two or three were told to wait till she had seen the factor, that she might hear his reports before deciding on their claims. She looked round as if the audience was over; and inquired why Alexander, or Sandy Redland, as he was called, the factor, did not make his appearance, when an old man, leaning on a stick, hobbled into the hall.

“I come for justice, my lady. Oh, hear me, hear me!” he exclaimed; as if before entering the hall he had worked himself up to address her; “I am just auld Archy Eagleshay, and as ye ken weel, my leddie, my only son has long gane been awa to sea, and I’ve been left to struggle on fra ane year to another, till now that I am grown too weak to toil, and the factor, Sandy Redland, comes down upon me, and makes awfu’ threats to distrain and turn me out of my sma’ holding if I dinna pay; and pay I canna’, that is truth, my leddie. Have mercy, have pity, my leddie. Ye love justice whatever else ye love.”

“Justice might induce me to expel you from your holding, if you cannot pay your rent, old man,” said Miss Wardhill, in a cold severe tone. “However I will listen to what Sandy Redland, the factor, has to say. Ha! here he comes. You are late Mr Redland, in your attendance. What has kept you?”

The man who entered was a tall, thin person, habited in the grey shepherd’s plaid of the north. His features were coarse. He possessed a sharp nose, high cheek bones, and small and grey unpleasantly twinkling eyes. He bowed low, and in a voice which was intended to be soft and insinuating, replied—

“It is no fault o’ mine when your orders are na implicitly obeyed, Miss Wardhill; but circumstances militate against the best intentions, as may be clear to you oftentimes, I doubt not. I was delayed by having to make inquiries respecting a strange ship, which anchored, it appears, a few hours back, in the Sound of Eastling, and which, as I opine, is within your leddyship’s jurisdiction, I deemed it incumbent on me to ascertain the object of her coming, and the time it might be proposed for her to stay. As she is a foreigner, it struck me that charge might be made for harbour and light dues, and the chances are that it would not be disputed. Ye see, Miss Wardhill, that I have always your honoured father’s interests at heart.”

The lady gave a glance towards the factor, which bespoke the most perfect contempt—too cold and confirmed to cause much change in her features.

“And what have you learned respecting this stranger ship?” she asked.

“Nathing, my leddie, nathing,” answered Sandy, shuddering. “What could I tell but that she might be a pirate or an enemy in disguise, or some ill-doer, and that if I, the factor of Lunnasting, was entrapped on board, I might be retained as a hostage in durance vile, till sic times as a heavy sum might be collected for my ransom.”

A gleam flitted across Miss Wardhill’s countenance, as she replied: “You estimate yourself somewhat highly, factor. Then, in truth, you know nothing of the ship which has anchored in the Sound?”

“Nathing whatever, my leddie,” was the answer. “But I await the return of Jock Busta’s boat which I despatched as soon as I reached Whalsey this morning from the mainland.”

“Bring me the information as soon as you obtain it,” said Miss Wardhill. “In the meantime let me hear what answer you have to make to a complaint old Archy Eagleshay brings against you.”

The factor gave a variety of reasons for his conduct, to which she listened without replying, and then called up the old man to her end of the table.

“Go home Archy Eagleshay,” she said, in a voice totally different to that in which she had spoken to the factor. “Best quiet in your hut. The old and infirm must be sheltered and fed; of that there is no doubt; but let the evil-doer and idle beware. On them I shall have no mercy. Sandy Redland, mark me: I will have no cruelty or oppression—remember that. The instant you receive information respecting the strange ship, let me know through Nanny Clousta.”

There was a cowed look on the countenance of Sandy Redland as he bowed, while his young mistress rose to retire.

Old Archy lifted up his hands, as if about to address her once more, then he turned slowly round. “Ha, ha!” he muttered; “if she had yielded to you, cruel factor, I’d have told her all I know, and made e’en her proud spirit tremble; but she’s been good and kind to an auld man, and I’ll say nothing.”

On leaving the hall, Hilda Wardhill went at once to the turret chamber, and from thence mounted to the platform on the summit of the tower. Her first glance was up the Sound, where lay the stranger ship. The sails were still closely furled; the boats were hoisted up; not a movement of any sort appeared to be taking, place. The only object stirring was a small boat, which just then was gliding rapidly close under the headland on which the castle stood. A single rower sat in it, who managed his oars with the skill which long practice gives. He looked up, and seeing Miss Wardhill, flourished his oar as a salute, which she returned with the slightest possible inclination of her head, and then continued pacing up and down, while he pursued his course till he entered the voe, and reached the castle landing-place, where he was hid from view. Miss Wardhill continued her circumscribed walk backwards and forwards across the top of the tower, now stopping to look up the Sound at the ship, now casting her glance round the horizon, speaking frequently to herself, and more than once sighing deeply, as if there was some weight at her heart of which she longed to be relieved.

She had again stopped, and was looking at the beautiful ship in the distance, when she started on hearing herself addressed—

“Good morrow, cousin Hilda,” said the intruder, who had that instant come up from the room below. “Engaged, as I expected, or you would not be a woman, gazing with curiosity at the strange ship in the Sound, wondering whence she came, and all about her.”

She turned as he spoke, when he lifted a little gold-laced, three-cornered hat from his head, and saluted her with a profound bow, which might have appeared respectful in the extreme, had he not at the same time indulged in a low chuckling laugh, the usual conclusion, it seemed, of most of his sentences. His manner and appearance were peculiar in the extreme: he was broad and large boned, but thin; and a suit of brown cloth, with huge silver buttons, hung loosely about his body; a wide shirt-frill stuck out in front, and his shirt collars reached up to his ears. His gait was shuffling and shambling; he wore knee-breeches and grey homespun stockings, and his shoes, which were ornamented with silver buckles, were far too large for him, and of course, even had he not had the propensity to do so, would have made him shuffle his feet over the ground, his eyes were unusually large, grey, and staring; and his hair, which was already so grey that its original colour could scarcely be perceived, was cut short, and stood up on end, all over his head like the quills of the porcupine; his forehead was somewhat narrow, but his features were neither plain nor coarse; there was, however, a startled, frightened look about them, and an otherwise painful and indescribable expression, which told too plainly that the ruling power of the intellect had been overthrown, and that the living machine could no longer be altogether held responsible for its acts. Such, in appearance, was Lawrence Brindister: had he been of sane mind, he would have been the lord of Lunnasting and the broad acres of several estates, both on the mainland of Shetland and in the north of Scotland; but as he had, long before coming of age, given undoubted signs of being totally incapable of managing his affairs, his claims had been set aside in favour of his cousin, Margaret Brindister, the next heir, married to Sir Marcus Wardhill. There had been, when Sir Marcus married, three other heirs besides Lawrence, before Margaret Brindister could succeed to the property: the same fever within a few days carried off two of them; and then, and perhaps not till then, a longing desire seized Sir Marcus to obtain the estates. The possessor was an old man—a bachelor. Sir Marcus was not a man—that was well known—who allowed obstacles to stand in his way; in the most unaccountable manner, the next heir, a boy, disappeared: he was supposed, with his nurse, to have fallen over a cliff, or to have been on the beach when a sea came in and swept them both away—either occurrences too likely to happen to allow suspicion justly to rest on any one. A handkerchief of the nurse’s, and a plaything of the child’s, were found dropped on the road they had taken. Their bodies were searched for in every direction in vain; the old man mourned for the child, of whom he was very fond, and died shortly after. Sir Marcus, too, mourned for the loss of his young kinsman, but instantly commenced a suit which terminated by making poor Lawrence Brindister his ward. There were certain conditions attached, that Lunnasting should be his abode, and that he should be kindly treated and well looked after, and supplied with anything he might in reason require for his amusement: Lawrence himself, so far from opposing, seemed perfectly contented with the arrangement; and while Lady Wardhill, to whom he was much attached, lived, he was always cheerful and good-tempered, though he afterwards exhibited so much extravagance of behaviour that he required to be carefully watched, and his actions more curbed than he liked. He had at first much resented this mode of proceeding with him, but of late years he had become apparently so perfectly harmless, that he was allowed to do exactly as he pleased. Such was the eccentric being who now stood before Miss Wardhill.

“Yes, Lawrence, I have been looking at the ship,” she answered, with so peculiar a calmness, that it appeared to be produced by an effort. “You have, I conclude, visited her, and can give me some information about the stranger.”

“Ah! that can I, fair cousin,” he answered, with his usual painful chuckle. “I have been on board the ship, and introduced myself to her captain, and, what is more, invited him to the castle. He has a right to claim our hospitality, for who, think you, is he?—no other than one of those Spanish cousins we have heard often spoken about by her who lies sleeping in yonder churchyard out there—ah’s me!—and others. Nurse Bertha will know all about them; we must get her to tell us before he comes: he will be here soon, though. I told him that he must let me go on ahead, to give due notice of his coming, or he would have arrived, and taken you by surprise. He is a gallant-looking knight; a true don of the old school. But I say, Hilda, don’t treat him to the scornful glances you cast at me, or he will not like it.”

Miss Wardhill took no notice of the last remark. “Since you have invited these strangers to the castle, whether they are really our relations or not, we must be prepared to receive them. Go, look for Sandy Redland; he has not left the island yet: he must go round and collect an ample store of provisions, that we may not be looked on as niggards in our hospitality, in this island home of ours. Send Bertha Eswick to me; she knows, better than any other person here, what arrangements should be made to do honour to strangers; it is so long since any one came here, that I cannot hope to remember what preparations are required. Go, Lawrence, and do you remember not to bring discredit on the family by any pranks or strange vagaries you may wish to play.”

Chapter Three.

Lawrence Brindister visits the Spanish Ship—Don Hernan invited to the Castle—Surly Grind, Lawrence’s Dog.

The accounts which Don Hernan had received from various quarters while on shore at Lerwick about the inhabitants of Lunnasting Castle had excited his curiosity and interest to the highest pitch. Though fully intending to return shortly to Lerwick, he had an object in suddenly leaving Brassay Sound. He also wished to arrive unexpectedly in the neighbourhood of Lunnasting.

Rolf Morton came at his summons; and understanding the “Saint Cecilia” was shortly to return to Lerwick, not having reason to suspect fraud of any description, he, without hesitation, took the ship on to Eastling Sound. She had not been long at anchor before Lawrence Brindister—who, as was his custom, had been at an early hour of the morning out fishing—espied her, and very soon made his appearance on board. Lawrence walked about the deck admiring the guns and the carved and gilt work with which the ship was adorned; for it was the custom, especially in the Spanish navy, in those days to ornament ships of war far more profusely than at present. At length Don Hernan came on deck. He observed the skiff alongside; and his eye falling on Lawrence, he very naturally at first took him to be some poor fisherman habited in the cast-off finery of a gentleman. Lawrence, however, guessed who he was from his uniform, and, shuffling along the deck, made him one of his profoundest bows, which Don Hernan returned with one in the same style.

As it had not been, impressed on Lawrence’s mind that there existed numerous nations speaking different tongues, he at once addressed the Spanish captain in English.

“Your people, good sir, have been very silent: not one has spoken to me since I stepped on board this trim craft of yours; for you have, I conclude, the happiness of being her captain, and you have, I hope, a tongue with which to hold pleasant and profitable converse.”

“I command this ship, and I am able to converse in English,” answered Don Hernan, wondering who his strange visitor could be. “May I ask in return whom I have the honour of addressing?”

“No less a person than Lawrence Brindister, Lord of Lunnasting Castle and the lands adjacent,” answered Lawrence, drawing himself up—“that is to say, who would be, and should be, and ought to be, had not certain traitorous and vile persons, who shall be nameless, interfered with his just rights, and ousted him from his property. But say not a word about that, most noble stranger. ‘A guid time is coming—a guid time is coming.’ ‘The prince shall have his ain again!’”

Don Hernan at once perceived his visitor’s state of mind.

“I had thought that Sir Marcus Wardhill was Lord of Lunnasting, though I am aware that, from times immemorial, it has been held by Brindisters, of whom I conclude you are one,” remarked the captain.

“Ay, there’s the rub,” said Lawrence. “You see, most noble captain, I’ve a difficulty in steering my craft; I never can keep her in good trim. Sometimes she luffs up, and sometimes she falls off; so as to holding a steady course, I find that out of the question. Ah, now I know all about it. I have come, most noble captain, feeling assured that you are of gentle birth and a man of honour, to invite you and your officers to visit Lunnasting Castle. My cousin and I will do our best to receive you as becomes your rank.”

Don Hernan, who believed that Miss Wardhill had really sent this strange being to invite him to the castle, replied, in suitable terms, that he should have great happiness in paying his respects to her. He also explained his connection with the Brindister family, and begged Lawrence to say that he hoped to visit Lunnasting in the character of a kinsman.

Lawrence was about to step into his boat when he saw Rolf Morton, who, hearing that a boat was alongside, had just come on deck with the intention of going on shore. He and Rolf were always on very good terms; so, when the latter begged for a cast on shore, he gladly undertook to land him wherever he wished.

“Abreast of the ship will suit me, for in half an hour I can be at home,” answered Morton. “Good-bye, Don Hernan; should the wind shift, I will be on board in a trice; or should you want me, send. We have not so many houses in Whalsey that mine cannot be found without difficulty.”

Saying this, he was following Lawrence into the skiff, when the latter cried out, “Hold fast! you are stepping on Surly Grind, Morton; he’ll not like it, let me tell you. He’s apt to treat with scant ceremony those who offend him.”

Morton looked down, and saw, coiled away at the bottom of the skiff, where Lawrence had taught him to lie, a huge black dog, with an unusually ferocious expression of countenance, though from his coat he had evidently much of the Newfoundland breed in him, but his face showed that he had also much of that of the mastiff and bloodhound, probably.

“Lie down, Surly Grind, and treat my visitors with respect,” said Lawrence; and the dog, which had lifted up his head and begun to growl and snarl, crouched down as before.

“Now, take your seat, man, and I’ll show you how a true Shetlander can pull,” said Lawrence, taking his place at the oars and giving several rapid strokes.

“But I deem that I have a right to hail from Shetland also, Master Lawrence,” answered Morton. “There is no other land owns me, and it is hard for a man to be without a country or a home.”

“Ay, true; you have a Shetland look and a Shetland tongue, and I believe that you have a Shetland heart also, Morton. ‘The prince shall hae his ain again, his ain again!’ That’s a curious old Scotch song; it’s always running in my head. ‘The prince shall hae his ain again!’ Well, but, you know, Morton, he didn’t get his ain again; so I’ve heard nurse Bertha say. She’s a wise woman, your mother-in-law, and my good cousin, too. Well, well; there are ups and downs in this life. All don’t get their ain, that’s poz; if they did, another’d be sitting on George’s throne; but that’s treason, ye ken; and another’d be ruling in Wardhill’s room, but that’s treason, too; so I’d better be holding my tongue, or all the cats I’ve got in my bag will be jumping out and playing more pranks than either you or I, or Sir Marcus Wardhill to boot, will be able to stay.”

Rolf Morton was too well aware of poor Lawrence’s state of mind to listen with much attention to what he said; but his curiosity was sufficiently awakened by some of the remarks he let fall to make him resolve to learn more about the matter from Bertha Eswick as soon as he could meet her.

Chapter Four.

Hilda’s first meeting with Don Hernan—Hilda on board the Corvette—Rolf Morton pilots the ship—Cruise in the “Saint Cecilia.”—Hilda accepts Don Hernan.

The heiress of Lunnasting was high-minded, unconscious of evil, confident of her own strength and resolution, and utterly ignorant of the world and of its deceits and wickedness. She had for long lived in one of her own creation, which she fancied was like the real world of other mortals. She met Don Hernan Escalante, and at once clothed him with all the attributes and perfections with which a romantic girl could endow the object of her fancy. He, too, at the moment he entered the hall, and found her seated in courtly style to receive him, was struck by her rare and exquisite beauty. He had never seen any being so lovely, and, man of the world as he thought himself, he at once yielded to the influence of that beauty. She herself was scarcely aware of the power she might have exerted over him, but gave herself up to the full enjoyment of the new sensations she experienced.

Hilda occasionally heard from her father and sister, but not very frequently, and their letters contained little more than an outline of their progress, the names of the places they had visited, and the length of their stay at each. Sir Marcus now and then added a few directions as to the management of the estate, but generally wound up by saying, that as he felt sure everything necessary would be done, he would not interfere with any arrangements she might have seen fit to make. Hitherto all had gone well. Hilda had, by a wonderful exertion of resolution, so successfully combated the dreadful malady which, like some monster bird of prey, hung hovering above her, ready to pounce down and dethrone her intellect from its sway, that few, although in constant communication with her, had any suspicion of the real state of the case. Probably at that time only two people in the world had discovered the unstable character of Hilda’s mind, and they themselves were the two most opposite in all respects connected with her—her nurse Bertha and her cousin Lawrence; but while the latter had more than once betrayed his knowledge to her, the former had never by word or look allowed her to suspect that she had an idea of the truth.

The Spanish corvette had been nearly a week at anchor in Eastling Sound, and on each day her captain had appeared at Lunnasting, his visits increasing gradually in length as he found them more and more acceptable. Hilda had at first received him in the great hall, into which, as not only the members of the household, but all visitors, had access, their intercourse was too public and restrained to suit the feelings which were springing up in their hearts.

“Lady, the view from the summit of the tower where I first beheld you must be lovely,” said Don Hernan, adding in a lower tone some words which made the colour mantle into Hilda’s cheeks. An invitation to visit the tower was the consequence of the remark; but before going there a ramble was taken over the chief part of the castle, to which Don Hernan had not yet been introduced. There was a private entrance to the highest floor of the tower; but as that led through the lady’s apartments, they had to descend to mount the more public stair. That was, however, narrow and winding, and somewhat inconvenient; at the foot of it they encountered Lawrence.

“Ah, my brave Don Hernan, so our cousin Hilda is about to show you the secrets of her prison tower,” he exclaimed, in a facetious tone. “Take care that she does not shut you up, as enchantresses of old were wont to do their captive knights, and never again set you free. However, to prevent such a catastrophe, I’ll accompany you. Let me mount first, and show you the way, or you might chance to knock your head against some of the iron-plated gates, which bar the approach to the summit.”

In what direction Don Hernan might just then have wished poor Lawrence, it need not be said. No means of getting rid of him occurred to his mind. Had he been on the top of the tower, he might have felt inclined to throw him over; but as it was, he had to submit to his company with as good a grace as he could command.

“I fear that you may not consider my cousin the best of guides on all occasions; but he can lead the way to the top of our tower as well as a wiser man,” said Hilda, observing the Spaniard’s look of anger, and at the same time, from maiden bashfulness, not sorry to have Lawrence as an escort. Up they went, therefore, till they reached Hilda’s sitting-room.

“This, you see, Don Hernan, is my fair kinswoman’s bower—her boudoir, her retiring-room, or whatever else you like to call it—where she sits brooding in silence, watching the stars and the moon sometimes, ye ken, or reading romances and works on philosophy, metaphysics, astrology, and other subjects far too deep for my poor brain,” said Lawrence, as he entered the apartment.

Don Hernan glanced round with an eye of curiosity and surprise. “It is indeed a delightful spot for retirement and contemplation,” he remarked, turning to Hilda, as he offered her his hand to assist her up the last step of the stair. “I would gladly give up my roving life to inhabit it.”

“How strange! for though I love it dearly, I can fancy nothing so delightful as being able to wander here and there to new and far-off lands,” answered Hilda, smiling.

Don Hernan whispered a few words, which Lawrence could not hear. “You have now shown me your home on the shore, let me have the opportunity of showing you mine on the water,” he added, taking her hand, with an expression which called forth a deep blush on her cheek; yet her hand was not withdrawn. “You can, I doubt not, persuade your cousin and good housekeeper to accompany you, and any other escort you may deem advisable. I will send for our pilot, and we will take a short cruise round some of the neighbouring islets.”

Hilda, after a moment’s hesitation, consented to the proposal. Lawrence was delighted at the idea of a sail in the big ship.

The summer days of Shetland are few, but they are perfect while they last, and long enough to satisfy the most enthusiastic admirer of out-door amusements. Such was the day Hilda had selected for paying a visit to the corvette. At an early hour the state barge of Lunnasting was in attendance at the landing-place, manned by a sturdy crew of eight of her tenants, whilst Lawrence claimed the privilege of acting as coxswain—a post for which, from his practical knowledge of seamanship, he was perfectly well fitted.

The Spanish captain had wished to send a boat from the corvette, but the offer had been declined, as Hilda knew that it would be considered undignified unless she went in her own. Besides the crew and Lawrence Brindister, her only escort consisted of Bertha Eswick, Nanny Clousta, her own attendant, and her factor, Sandy Redland.

As they got alongside, the crew sprang aloft and manned yards, but instead of cheering they waved their hats above their heads; a salute was at the same moment fired from the guns, and the captain himself descended the side ladder to assist Miss Wardhill on deck. He pressed her hand as he did so, and the glance she gave him showed the pleasure she felt in visiting his ocean home. They said but little, for they already understood each other too well to feel inclined to interchange many words in public. The first lieutenant, Pedro Alvarez, took charge of Bertha Eswick, and one of the junior officers devoted himself to Nanny Clousta, very little caring what was her position in the family. Lawrence, who had constantly been on board the corvette, seemed on intimate terms with every one, while Sandy Redland, the factor, stalked about wondering at the sights he beheld, and not attempting to exchange words with any one. As soon as the last of the party were out of the Lunnasting barge, she was sent back to the castle, with directions to pull off to the ship when a signal should be made; at the same moment the boatswain’s shrill whistle was heard, the topsails were let fall, the capstan bars were shipped, and the men tramped round to the sound of fife and fiddle. The wide extending courses next dropped from the brails, the topgallant sails and royals were set, and the ship under all her canvas stood out with the wind on her larboard quarter by the northern passage from Eastling Sound. As she began to move on, Rolf Morton, who had been on the forecastle superintending getting up the anchor, came aft to the wheel to direct her course. He bowed distantly to Hilda, while with affectionate warmth he pressed Bertha Eswick’s hand to his lips; Lawrence shook him cordially by his hand, saying as he did so—

“I am glad, cousin, that you have charge of so fine a ship. I hope it will be as profitable as a voyage to Greenland. We are all cousins here, you see, captain—that is to say, all of true Norse blood; and, moreover, are not ashamed of our connections. Here we have Rolf Morton, as pretty a man as you may wish to see, though not Shetland born, as far as we know, married to young Bertha Eswick, daughter to our good cousin Dame Eswick, at present governess, manager, or housekeeper of Lunnasting Castle. Thus, you understand, Rolf Morton is our cousin by marriage; and who would disown him because he is at present but an humble pilot! A finer fellow or a truer seaman does not step, though I say it to his face.”

Morton had not listened to these remarks; but Don Hernan had heard sufficient to understand their tenor, and to make him feel that he was not wrong in placing perfect reliance on his pilot’s seamanship and knowledge of the coast. Hilda, who had never before been on board a large ship, was delighted with the sight as she gazed upwards on the towering mass of canvas which seemed to rise into the very blue sky itself; then around on the rich carving and gilt work; on the polished brass, of which several of the guns were formed; on the fresh, bright painting, and the various other embellishments of the ship.

Directed by Morton, the “Saint Cecilia” soon glided out through the narrow entrance to the Sound, so close to the black rocks on one side that a good leaper could almost have sprung on shore. The officers turned their eyes now and anon from the rocks, which threatened destruction to their beautiful ship, to the pilot, but his calm, self-confident look assured them that there was no danger, and soon she was rising and falling to the undulations of the open sea, while Whalsey and the other outlying islands blended rapidly into one, and soon could not be distinguished from the main land.

“This is indeed truly enchanting!” exclaimed Hilda. “Though I have frequently been at sea, it has always been on board some slow-sailing trader or packet, where sights and sounds and associations were all unpleasant together. In a ship like this, how delightful to sail round the world! I should never weary of such a life.”

“Then share it with me, Hilda,” was the natural though unexpected rejoinder of the Spanish captain, spoken in a low voice. “Oh do not raise hopes and thoughts and aspirations, only to hurl them overboard! We rovers of the sea have but little time to give to wooing. Be mine now and for ever.”

Hilda’s countenance betrayed the agitation, doubt, and astonishment which filled her bosom.

“Dearest lady! I would not thus hurriedly press my suit, but any post may bring me orders to leave the coast, never again to return. Your own words betrayed me into uttering a prayer I might not otherwise have ventured so soon to urge; but now it has been made, do not compel me to retract it.”

He stopped a moment to allow his words to take effect. Two or three of his own officers and men only were within hearing, and his calm attitude and manner did not betray the subject of their conversation. Her countenance would have done so to Bertha or Morton, but she turned her head towards the side, apparently watching the ship’s course through the water. No one valued her own position more than did Hilda; she had long been taught the importance of keeping her feelings and words under control, from the very reason that she was well aware should she once give them rein they would run wildly off beyond her power. Her thoughts, unhappily, she had never been able to command; and now she found her feelings for this stranger—for stranger he was, though he came in the guise of a kinsman—too powerful for her to conquer. Don Hernan stood gazing into her countenance with as great anxiety, apparently, as if his life hung on her decision. The struggle within her—and a violent one it was—continued till it well-nigh overcame her. She had to hold on to the bulwarks to support herself. Don Hernan began to fear that she would decide against him.

“Speak, Hilda—relieve me from the misery of this suspense!” he exclaimed in a low voice, which could but just reach her ear.

She looked up, and gasped faintly forth—“I am yours, now and for ever.”

Don Hernan poured forth, with all the vehemence of a Spaniard, his expressions of gratitude and joy.

“Happily, there exists no impediment to our immediate union,” he added. “I have, as you know, a priest of my own faith on board, and he tells me that there exists on your island a chapel built by some of the seamen of the holy Armada under the direction of my ancestor, and that, although decaying, it is still in a sufficient state of preservation to allow the ceremonies of our religion to be performed in it. Under his directions some of my crew shall be employed, with your permission, in restoring it sufficiently to enable our nuptials to take place there, and your own minister shall afterwards perform the marriage ceremony according to the rites of your church. We will deposit the documents with trustworthy persons, so that no one may afterwards cast discredit on my honour, or utter a word against your fair fame.”

“You have been thoughtfully careful of my interests and happiness, Don Hernan,” answered Hilda. “I feel that both are safe in your hands.”

It did not occur to her that Don Hernan must have felt tolerably sure of success, to have made all the arrangements of which he spoke.

Calm and collected as the two lovers believed themselves, many eyes on board had been watching their proceedings. Their conversation was interrupted by Rolf Morton coming aft to the captain and inquiring in what direction he would prefer standing.

It was late in the day before the corvette, on her return, approached the Sound. The wind had got round so much to the northward, that Morton determined on taking the corvette into the Sound by the same narrow passage through which she had passed in the morning. Don Hernan consented to his proposal; but when Pedro Alvarez saw the course that was being steered, he showed every disposition to mutiny.

“Because our captain wishes to suit the convenience of a fair lady, and his own pleasure, he will run the risk of casting away our gallant ship. Why not run for Brassy Sound, which is open before us, with a safe entrance?”

These remarks were made to some of his messmates, who were generally ready to assent to his proposals. However, guided by Morton, the corvette stood on, though even Hilda, who had the most perfect confidence in the pilot, as she saw the fierce, foaming waves dashing high up with a loud roar over the rocks to the very summit of the cliffs, could scarcely persuade herself that the ship was not rushing on destruction. The captain stood by the helmsman’s side to repeat the pilot’s orders. Now nothing but a wall of rocks and foam appeared before them.

“Steady!” cried Morton, “starboard a little. Steady!” he again cried.

The captain echoed his cry; the passage opened before them; in an instant the ship flew past the rocks; even the oldest sailor breathed more freely when she glided on inside the Sound.

The sails were furled, the anchor was dropped, as she reached the spot from which she had weighed in the morning. The captain insisted on escorting Hilda and her companions on shore.

“In three days, then, at midnight, all will be ready,” he whispered, as he parted from her at the castle landing-place.

Chapter Five.

Lawrence’s expedition—Hilda’s marriage in the old Chapel—A Storm.

Although the sun during the middle of the Shetland summer scarcely ceases to shine, the inhabitants of these isles, like other mortals, require sleep, and take it at the usual time. Soon after the sea trip Miss Wardhill had taken on board the “Saint Cecilia,” Lawrence Brindister was seen one afternoon to descend from his room, booted and spurred, as if for a distant excursion, Hilda, who had her reasons for so doing, watched him anxiously. He stamped about the house, clattering his spurs, and muttering to himself, as was his custom, when anything out of the usual course occupied his mind. At last, going to Surly Grind’s kennel, he loosed the dog, and entering his skiff, crossed the voe, as if about to proceed to the mainland. Hilda breathed more freely when he had gone, but seldom had she appeared so distracted, and little at her ease, as she did till the usual hour of closing the castle gates. The keys were brought to her, as was the custom, by David Cheyne, the old butler, or Major Domo. As he made his bow, he cast a hurried glance at her countenance, and on his way down stairs he shook his head, muttering to himself, “This foreign gallant will bring no good to the house of Lunnasting—that I see too well; and the sooner the islands are quit of him and his ship—for all he looks so brave and so bonnie—the better it will be for the young mistress.”

Hilda, instead of retiring to rest, went to her tower; there she remained for some time, pacing up and down the room, now glancing out on the wide ocean, now clasping her hands in a manner expressive of doubt and indecision.

“It is too late to retract,” she exclaimed, at length; “why should I think of it? What right has my father to complain? He leaves me here without compunction, and am I to await his tardy permission to act, as I have a full right to do, without it? No, that point is settled. Then Bertha suggests that the world will call me unmaidenly, more than indiscreet, and will say that I have been ready to throw myself into the arms of the first stranger I have met; but what care I for this little world of Shetland? I stand on my own rectitude. I shall be far away, and can afford to despise all such insinuations. But the greatest doubt Bertha, in her over-anxious love, has raised up before me, is that regarding Hernan himself. Still I feel sure that he is all that is honourable and noble. He has given me numberless assurances, undoubted, that he is what he represents himself. The proofs he offers are so clear, can I for a moment doubt him? His I have promised to be: his I will be. I should be unworthy of the name of woman were I now to discard him.”

Such was the style of argument with which Hilda Wardhill persuaded herself that she was right in the course she had resolved to adopt.

The marriage was duly solemnised according to the terms of the Roman Catholic Church by Father Mendez. Hilda and Don Hernan signed their names on a parchment placed before them, Bertha and Nanny Clousta signing as witnesses, while Rolf Morton stepped forward and added his name.

Two of Don Hernan’s officers, Pedro Alvarez and another, signed their names to the document as witnesses; whilst Lawrence protested against the marriage, as being without the consent or knowledge of Hilda’s father, and, therefore, according to Shetland law, invalid. This protest he made with an air of dignity wholly different from his usual manner.

The midnight wedding ceremony at the old chapel terminated in a most terrific hurricane, and the new married couple were compelled to take refuge from the storm in the house of Bertha Morton.

Chapter Six.

Rolf Morton’s history—Don Hernan and Hilda in the Morton’s house—Morton dispatched to the corvette.

Bertha Morton had been considered not only one of the prettiest girls in that part of Shetland where she was known, but as good and modest as she was pretty, which is saying much in her favour, where beauty, modesty, and kindness of heart are the characteristics of the people. Her cottage, which was one of the largest in the island, was fitted up with more taste and comfort than was usually found in others, and everything about it bore the marks of competency and good taste. She had but lately married Rolf Morton, who had, a year or two before, been left a small property by his friend and guardian, Captain Andrew Scarsdale. Rolf Morton’s own history was somewhat romantic.

Captain Scarsdale, a Shetlander by birth, commanded one of the many Greenland whalers belonging to Hull, Aberdeen, and other northern parts, which touched at Lerwick on their outward and homeward voyages. At length, however, having fallen into ill-health, he was advised to try the effects of a southern clime; and having in his youth made two or three voyages to the South Seas, he was induced to take the command of a South-Sea whaler, which would keep him out three years, or probably more: having no family to bind his affections to England, this was of little consequence.

On his outward voyage, when nearly half way across the Atlantic, he fell in with a raft, on which were three men and a young boy. The men stated that the ship to which they belonged had foundered, and that the boy, whose name they stated was Rolf Morton, belonged to a lady and gentleman among the passengers on board. The rest of the people had perished, and they, with no little exertion, had contrived to save the child.

Captain Scarsdale had, from the first, rather doubted the correctness of their statement, and on his cross-questioning the men separately, his suspicions that there was some mystery in the matter were further confirmed. However, they suspected his object, and he was unable to elicit what he could suppose to be the truth from them. He would have remained altogether in ignorance had not one of them been seized with an illness, and believing himself to be dying, sent for the captain, and made what he asserted to be a full confession of all he knew about the boy.

Captain Scarsdale, who was a cautious man, wrote down all that was told him, and induced the man to sign it. He then instantly sent for the other two men, and telling them what he knew, induced them to confess the truth, and, partly by threats, and partly by persuasions, made them sign the same document. He then carefully locked it up in his chest, and being an upright and kind-hearted man, it was with great satisfaction that he believed he had it in his power to right the wronged.

“Man proposes, God disposes,” is a proverb, day after day proved to be true in the lives of every man. The sick seaman recovered, and he and his comrades, after serving some months on board deserted the ship; and although Captain Scarsdale hunted everywhere, he could gain no further tidings of them.

The child thus strangely found became a fine intelligent boy, and attached himself warmly to him. His recollections, faint though they were, all tended to corroborate the account the seamen had given. Captain Scarsdale would have sent home the information he had received, and placed the cause of the boy in proper hands; but the men having disappeared, he was afraid to trust the document to a stranger, with the numberless chances of a long sea voyage, against its ever reaching its destination. Unexpected events, however, kept him out in the South Seas far longer than he had anticipated. He did not object to this, for he had the boy as his companion, and he devoted himself to his education. Young Rolf did not show any great talent, but he gave every promise of becoming a fine, manly, true-hearted sailor, and with that his kind patron was amply satisfied.

At length, just as the ship had nearly completed her cargo of sperm oil, and was about to return home, she was overtaken by a hurricane, and driven on shore and lost; the crew were saved, and so was the captain’s chest. Most of Captain Scarsdale’s hard-earned gains were swallowed up; and the command of another whaler, whose master had died, being offered him, he gladly accepted it, in the hopes that, by remaining out a few years longer, he should be able to retrieve his fortunes; and what was still nearer his heart, of obtaining the means for, as he told his acquaintance, of establishing young Morton’s rights. What he considered those rights to be he wisely told no one.

“No, no,” he replied, when asked; “no one but a fool sounds a trumpet before him to give notice of his approach, that the enemy may be prepared to receive him.”

Rolf Morton had by this time become all that his friend anticipated; but though well-informed for his age, his knowledge of the world and its ways, it must be owned, was not extensive.

The ship was bound to Liverpool, but being dismasted in a terrific gale, she was driven past the entrance to the Channel, and up the west coast of Ireland. Land was made at last on the starboard bow, and hopes were entertained that she might be brought round so as to enter the Irish Channel by the northern passage. Captain Scarsdale himself lay in his hammock, disabled by a falling spar.

Scarcely an hour had passed after the land was seen before the ship struck. It was ascertained that it was on the extreme point of a reef, and the first mate hoped that by lightening the ship she might beat over it. The captain acquiesced, and every article that could be got at was, as soon as possible, committed to the sea.

“Yes, heave away—heave away everything you can lay your hands on, lads!” was the order. “It will matter but little, I suspect, after all.”

Among other things thrown overboard was the captain’s chest; the mate saw it just as it reached the foaming sea, too late to save it. He said nothing to the captain: he believed that the ship herself would be lost, but his prognostications proved wrong; the good ship drove over the bank, weathered out the gale, jury-masts were got up, and she not only got into the Irish Channel, but safe up the Mersey, without any help whatever.

Great was the grief of good Captain Scarsdale, when, on recovering from his hurts, he discovered that his chest and its valuable contents had been hove overboard. As has been said, he was a mild-tempered man, so he did not storm and rage, but as the profits of the voyage had been considerable, he resolved to devote them to establishing the claims of the young foundling. He had never told Rolf Morton what those claims were. He knew that they would only tend to unsettle the mind of the boy, and make him less contented with his lot, should he fail to obtain his rights. Rolf had no more notion, therefore, than the world in general, who he was, and he believed the story which had at first been told by the men, that he was the son of a gentleman and lady who had perished on board a ship which had foundered on its way to South America.

As soon as Captain Scarsdale had settled his affairs in Liverpool, he hastened to Edinburgh, where he had a relative, a writer to the “Signet.” He laid the boy’s case before him.

“My good Andrew, don’t waste your money in making the attempt till you have surer grounds to go on than you now have,” was the answer. “Possession is nine parts of the law. I have no more doubt than you have as to the claims of this boy; but can you prove them without documents or evidence of any sort? Can you expect to overcome a powerful and unscrupulous opponent? You have perfect trust in Providence, Andrew—so have I, lawyer though I am; and be assured that in God’s good time justice will be awarded to all parties concerned.”

This was not exactly like legal advice in general; but Andrew Scarsdale at once saw its wisdom, and agreed to abide by it. Proceeding to Aberdeen, he was at once offered the charge of a Greenland whaler. He accepted the offer, taking Rolf Morton with him. He touched at Lerwick both on his outward and homeward voyage. While on shore on the first occasion, he heard that a small property was for sale in the island of Whalsey, nearly the only portion of the whole island which did not belong to the Lunnasting family. He at once authorised the principal legal man in the island to purchase it for him at any cost.

“I have a mind to have it,” he observed; “remember my ancestors came from Whalsey, and I should like, perchance, to end my latter days there.”

Great was his satisfaction, on his return, to find that the property was his. “That is well,” he remarked; “and now, in case of my death, I wish to settle it on my young friend Rolf Morton. You can get the necessary documents drawn up, I hope, before I sail: we seamen learn one piece of wisdom, at all events—the uncertainty of life—however slow we may be to pick up others; and, therefore, when we sail, leave our last will and testament behind us. You’ll take care of this for me, and act upon it, should I never return to desire it altered.”

The lawyer promised to see his friend’s bequest attended to, but many years passed before he was called on to act in the matter. Not only did Captain Scarsdale come back, but with young Rolf Morton as his companion, he took up his abode for several years, during the winter, in a farm-house which he had considerably improved on his newly purchased property; he claimed relationship, which was fully acknowledged, with the Brindister family, and he and Lawrence, who took also very speedily to Rolf, soon became fast friends. He was invited also to become a frequent guest at Lunnasting Castle, though he showed but little inclination to accept the hospitality of its inmates.

Andrew Scarsdale, however, did not give up the sea. Though possessed of a moderate independence he did not wish to lead an idle life, but every summer he sailed to Greenland in command of a whaler, and most years took Rolf with him: wishing at the same time that his young ward should have the advantages of a liberal education, he sent him for two years to Aberdeen, that he might acquire some knowledge in those branches in which he was himself unable to afford him instruction. Rolf made up by perseverance for what he wanted in talent, and thus, with Captain Scarsdale’s help, he obtained not only a necessary knowledge of nautical affairs, but as large an amount of general information as most seafaring men of his position at that time possessed. It might have been better if the good captain, who was now advancing in years, had remained at home; but anxious to increase his means for the sake of the object he had nearest at heart, he took a larger share than before in a whaler, and sailed once more, with Rolf in his company, for Greenland. Eager in the pursuit of the oil-giving whale, he proceeded further north than usual, his ship got nipped in the ice, crushed into a thousand fragments, and Rolf Morton, and six of the crew only escaped with their lives.

Sorrowing deeply for the loss of his kind friend and protector, and caring very little for that of his fortune, Rolf at length returned home to find himself the possessor of the small farm and house on Whalsey, and very little else in the world. He was not in the slightest degree cast down, however; he made another voyage to Greenland as mate, and having been very successful, came home and married young Bertha Eswick, to whom he had before sailing engaged himself.

Bertha Morton, like the rest of her countrywomen, accepted her lot, and notwithstanding the fate to which so many others were subjected, she hoped to enjoy years of happiness with her brave, fine-hearted husband. There was not in all Scotland, just then, a blither or happier woman than Bertha Morton. Her husband had told her that he expected to be at home soon after midnight, and she was sitting up to receive him. As the fury of the storm had not broke till some time after she hoped her husband would be safe on shore, she was not particularly anxious about his safety; still, as time wore on, her keen ear became more and more alive to approaching sounds: at length she heard footsteps. Her husband’s voice called to her, and in he rushed with her mother and Nanny Clousta, followed by Don Hernan and Hilda. Her astonishment at seeing them was very great, but without losing time in asking unnecessary questions, she set to work to remedy, as far as she had the power, the effects of the pelting rain to which her guests had been exposed. Fresh fuel was added to the already hot peat fire on the hearth, that the foreign captain and her husband might dry their clothes while she retired with her female visitors, that they might change theirs for such as her own ample wardrobe could supply. Her best Sunday gown well became Hilda, for except in height they differed but little in figure; indeed, dressed as they now were, in the same homely garb, there was a remarkable likeness between them. Nanny soon came back to place certain pots and kettles on the fire to prepare supper, which by the time all the party were ready to partake of it, was placed on the table.

Bertha Eswick’s position in the family fully entitled her to sit at table with her mistress, and of course her daughter and son-in-law took their seats at their own table, but nothing could induce Nanny so to intrude herself, and she requested that she might be allowed to carry her plate to a large chest at one side of the room where she might eat her food by herself. Morton and Don Hernan could not help glancing a look at each other, as they observed the similarity of feature, but the tranquil, contented look which those of Bertha wore offered a strong contrast to the agitated unsettled expression of Hilda’s. Bertha and her mother did their utmost to tranquillise her mind, and by lively conversation to counteract the effect which the strange scene she had just gone through had produced. The beating of the rain and the roaring and howling of the wind were alone sufficient to baffle all their efforts. The storm continued with unabated fury, and gave every sign of being one of those which last for three or four days.

Hilda having expressed her annoyance at the surmises to which her absence would give rise in the castle, Rolf volunteered to go and inform the household that she had taken refuge in his house, and would return as soon as the weather permitted her to do so, while Don Hernan further commissioned him to proceed on along the shore of the Sound to ascertain that the “Saint Cecilia” was in safety, and whether his officers and men had escaped injury, and had returned on board.

“I ought to go myself, Mr Morton, I am well aware of that, but here is my excuse,” he observed, pointing to Hilda: “my officers are true Spaniards, and will receive it as a valid one.”

“An English officer would consider that his first duty was to look after his ship, whatever else might interfere, and there lies the difference between us,” muttered Morton, as facing the pelting rain and furious wind, he took his departure from his comfortable home.

Chapter Seven.

Don Hernan and Hilda at the Castle—The Spanish Officers on Shore—Don Hernan ordered to quit Shetland.

“To my mind it wad ha’ been better for one and a’ of us, if Miss Hilda had gone and wed with a true, honest-hearted Shetlander, instead of this new-found foreigner, for all his fine clothes, and fine airs, and silk purse; it’s few times I have seen the inside of it.” This was said by old Davie Cheyne to Nanny Clousta, about two weeks after Hilda and her husband had taken up their abode at the castle. “What Sir Marcus will say about the matter, it makes me tremble to think of. It’s my belief he’ll be inclined to pull the house down about our ears, or to send us and it flying up into the sky together. I wad ha’ thought she might ha’ found a young Mouat, or a Gifford, or a Bruce, or Nicolson. There are mony likely lads among them far better than this captain, now; I can no like him better than does Mr Lawrence, and that’s a sma’ portion indeed.”

“You’re too hard, Mr Cheyne, on our new master,” answered Nanny; “if ye had seen the gold piece he gave me the day we came back to the castle, and the beautiful silver one which he put into my hand only yesterday, with the two pillars on it, you wad no say a’ that against him. No, no, Mr Cheyne, he’s a fine gentleman, and a right fit husband for our young mistress.”

For more than a fortnight Don Hernan had not set his foot on board the “Saint Cecilia.” Both officers and crew had, however, begun to complain at being left so long in so uninteresting a spot in perfect inactivity; Don Hernan accordingly ordered the ship back to Brassay Sound under charge of Pedro Alvarez.

Strange as it may seem, the news of Don Hernan’s marriage with Miss Wardhill had not yet reached Lerwick. There was at no time any very regular intercourse kept up between the islands, and that which was usual had been interrupted by the bad weather.

Rolf Morton, like a wise man, resolved to keep his knowledge of the matter to himself, and to say nothing, while Father Mendez, the only person belonging to the ship who, from being able to speak English, could have communicated it, was not likely to say a word about the matter, unless he had some object in doing so. Bailie Sanderson of Lerwick was a staunch Presbyterian, and a warm hater of Episcopacy and Popery; and it was a sore struggle in his mind how far he was justified in having any dealings with the only representative of the latter power, who had for many a long year ventured to set foot on the soil of Shetland; in vain he tried to make the purser understand him. Stores for the ship of all sorts were wanted, but no arrangements could be made, and at length Father Mendez was called to their councils. The bailie believed himself so fully guarded against any of the doctrines held by the priest, that he had no fear as to any attempts he might make to change his own opinions; but the truth was, that Father Mendez understood him far better than he understood Father Mendez, who, had he thought it worth his while, would not have made his approaches in a mode the bailie was at all likely to discover till the foundations of his fortress had been sapped and undermined. The priest, however, had not the slightest intention of making an attack on the bailie’s religious principles, whatever might have been his mission to those northern regions. There were some who did not fail to assert that he had ulterior views; but he made himself generally so very popular, that the greater number considered him a very well-behaved, harmless, kind gentleman, who was ready to smile at all their amusements, even though he might not partake in them, and was conversable and affable with every one.

For nearly three weeks or more the “Saint Cecilia” remained at Lerwick, and while her officers were busy gaining golden opinions from the people, they spent a good many golden pieces among them.

“And after a’ the real goud is the best thing o’ the twa,” as Bailie Sanderson observed. “The one, unless, maybe, it’s the deil’s pay, will rest in the purse, or bring something substantial in return, and is muckle like the snow in the spring time; it looks very white and glittering, but quickly vanishes awa.”

At length Rolf Morton arrived from Whalsey with an order from Don Hernan to Pedro Alvarez to carry the ship back to Eastling Sound. The corvette was instantly got under weigh, and tide and wind suiting, she stood back towards Lunnasting Castle. The inhabitants of Lerwick saw her departure with no little astonishment, as not a word had been said to lead them to suppose she was going. Some had their misgivings on certain material points. Bailie Sanderson, especially, was very uncomfortable; he had furnished a large amount of stores—far more than any one else had done; but though he had got in his hands several bills, in the shape of long bits of paper, accepted by Don Diogo Ponti, purser of His most Catholic Majesty’s ship, the “Saint Cecilia,” and by Don Hernan de Escalante, captain of the said ship, he had received very little hard cash, and several of his friends, when they had looked at those strips of paper, and turned and twisted them about, in a variety of ways, with an expression in their countenances which betokened commiseration, hoped that he might, by the mercy of Providence, get the siller for them, but that it would be next a miracle if he did. In a moment all his airy castles and the delightful profits he had anticipated were scattered to the wind, while no one to whom he applied could afford him the slightest consolation.

The most trying time in Hilda’s existence had arrived. She had given her heart to Don Hernan, and she had married him; but she had never dared to reflect on the consequences of her doing so. When at length he told her that the last packet from the south had brought him peremptory orders to proceed on his voyage, the news came on her like a sudden thunder-clap. No longer had she the power of acting, as of yore, according to her own untrammelled will. She had discovered that already. What would he determine? To let him go from her, and leave her alone, were worse than death. When might he return? Would he ever come back? What numberless chances might intervene to prevent him. Yet the thought of leaving the castle, placed under her charge, was naturally revolting to her feelings. Her father had intrusted her with his property. Could she betray that trust without meriting his just censure? Yet had she not already done enough to make him discard her altogether?

“Yes, I have,” she exclaimed, with some degree of bitterness. “How can I stand the storm of rage, and then the scornful sneers with which he will assail me? Accompany Hernan, I will, come what may of it. If he refuses he shall not leave behind a living bride. Scorn, pity, or anger, would be insufferable, and to all shall I be exposed if I remain.”

To such a resolution it might have been expected that a woman of ardent temperament and untrained mind, like Hilda, would have arrived, whatever course of doubt and hesitation she might have first gone through.

Don Hernan returned with a clouded brow from his first visit to his ship. He found Hilda seated in her turret-chamber. He threw himself on a sofa by her side.

“There has been discontent and well-nigh mutiny among my people,” he exclaimed in an angry tone. “I might have known that it would have been so; idleness does not suit the fellows—I must take care that they have no more of it; they will have plenty to do in future. Well, Hilda, our happy days here must now come to an end. They have flitted by faster than I could have expected.” Hilda gazed in his face, trembling to hear what might follow. He spoke calmly: “Yes, a few short weeks seem not longer than as many hours; and now I fear, dearest, we must part, though it may be but for a short period. I may obtain leave to return with the ‘Saint Cecilia,’ or you must travel south by a shorter route through England, and thence on to Spain. I cannot shield you, I fear, from some of the inconveniences to which sailors’ wives are exposed.”

“Leave me! Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Hilda, passionately. “Take me with you. I cannot be parted from you! You tell me you love me: it would be but cruel love to kill me; and I tell you I could not survive our separation. I speak the truth—oh, believe me, Hernan,—I do!”

The Spanish captain looked at her as if he doubted her assertion; but he would indeed have been a sceptic as to the depth of the power of woman’s affection had he longer continued to doubt when he saw her beseeching and almost agonised countenance turned on him, waiting for his decision.

“But can you, Hilda, endure all the hardships and dangers we may have to go through?” he asked. “We may be exposed to furious tempests, and perhaps have to fight more than one battle, before we reach a Spanish port.”

“Yes, yes, I can endure everything you have to suffer,” she answered, taking his hand in one of hers, while she placed the other on his shoulder, and looked up into his face as if she would read his inward soul. “Why should I fear the tempest when you are on board, or the battle, while I can stand by your side? Take me with you, Hernan. Prove me, and I shall not be found wanting.”

“Hilda, you are a brave woman—you have conquered my resolution. We will go together,” he exclaimed, clasping her to his heart.

The shriek of joy she gave showed the intensity of her anxiety, and how it had been relieved by this announcement.

Still Don Hernan lingered. Was it that he was unwilling to tear himself away from a spot where he had spent some of the brightest moments of his existence? Had he other less ostensible motives for delay?

Hilda’s announcement of her intended departure was received in silence by Sandy Redland, the factor, and David Cheyne, the old butler. The former, perhaps, was not ill-content to have the entire management of the estate left in his hands. Nanny Clousta, without hesitation, agreed to accompany her mistress, and thus the only person who really grieved for Hilda’s departure was Bertha Eswick. She walked about the castle in a state of bewilderment very different to her usual collected manner, and was continually asking herself if she could not have prevented the result for which she mourned. The only person who seemed totally unconscious that any unusual event was about to occur was Lawrence Brindister. He treated his cousin and Don Hernan with a mock courtesy which was excessively annoying, the more especially as it was utterly impossible to resent it.

The hour of her departure arrived. Hilda had made every preparation for it in her power; still the utter want of propriety in the step she was taking pressed heavily on her spirits. Except her own garments and a few of her books, she took nothing with her. “It shall not be said that I am spoiling my father’s house,” she exclaimed, with some bitterness, as she showed Bertha everything she wished packed up.

Don Hernan’s barge was in readiness at the landing-place, where Sandy Redland stood ready to receive the keys. As she left the castle, she looked, as old Davie Cheyne afterwards remarked, “more like Mary Queen of Scots, or some other great lady, going to execution, than a bride accompanying her husband to his home.” As she was about to step into the boat she took Bertha’s hand.

“Dear nurse and cousin,” she whispered, “you know I loved you more than any other human being, but I dare not show it lest my feelings should run riot with me. Farewell! The future is all obscure and uncertain. I dare not talk of when we may meet again.”

Don Hernan took her hand and helped her into the boat. The word was given to shove off—the oars were dipped into the water—when down from the castle gate rushed Lawrence Brindister, followed closely by Surly Grind.

“Ha! ha!” he exclaimed, in a hoarse, angry voice. “Fare-thee-well, cousin Hilda—fare-thee-well! though you would leave your kinsman without saying as much to him. And you, Don Hernan, fare-thee-well, too. You think you have wedded with the heiress of Lunnasting. It’s a pleasant dream to believe that you will some day be master of those lordly towers. Dream on as you please, but know the truth: ‘The prince will hae his ain again! the prince will hae his ain again!’”

These words he continued singing at the top of his voice, pointing derisively at the boat as long as she continued in sight.

Don Hernan urged the crew to give way, and with lusty strokes they sent the boat flying through the water, till she was far out of hearing of Lawrence’s voice. Hilda sank back in her husband’s arms, and hid her eyes while she was passing under the walls of the dwelling she believed that she was leaving for ever. With shouts of welcome the Spanish crew received their captain’s bride. Scarcely had she stepped on board than the anchor, which had been hove short, was run up to the bows, the sails were let fall, and, with a light breeze from the westward, the corvette stood out of Eastling Sound.

Rolf Morton was on board as pilot. He bowed to Hilda, but his duty in attending to the steering of the ship prevented his speaking. As she looked at him, she felt that he was the last link which yet united her with the past, and she almost dreaded the moment that he would have to leave the ship. “Yet, after all, from what do I sever myself?” she thought. “From associations only. Begone all such recollections. Let me enjoy the delightful present, and the no less happy future I trust.”

No day could have been more beautiful in any latitude than that on which the “Saint Cecilia” sailed from Shetland. The sea was smooth, just broken with a slight ripple, which glittered brightly in the rays of the sun as the ship slipped quickly through it with a gentle breeze abeam. The arrangements, also, which Hilda’s husband had made below for her accommodation were perfect. He, too, was kind and courteous in the extreme; and had she been a princess, the officers could not have treated her with greater respect. Over and over again she said to herself, “I should indeed be ungrateful if I am not happy.”

Having given a good offing to the Out Skerries, so as to avoid the dangers near Feltar, the corvette stood to the northward, it being the intention of the captain to round the northern end of Shetland, and by that course to enter the Atlantic. Rolf Morton’s boat was towing astern, and he agreed to remain on board to see the ship clear of the land. The weather was beautiful, the sea was smooth, the wind was light, and there was every prospect of a pleasant commencement of a voyage, as he finally wished her God-speed.

Soon after Rolf Morton had left the corvette, the wind, after veering about for a short time, had got round to the southward, so that she was able to haul up to the southward of west. This appeared a great advantage gained, as it enabled her to keep exactly on her proper course. How short-sighted truly are mortals in discovering what is really to their advantage! The sun sunk in an angry glow of ruddy hue which suffused the whole eastern sky, and cast an ensanguined tint on the foaming crests of the fast-rising waves. Then, as if it had gone to hurry on the storm, there rushed up from the dark bank of clouds numerous detached masses, which flew rapidly across the sky, one chasing the other in their headlong speed.

Don Hernan and his officers saw the storm coming, but they were anxious to get as good an offing as possible before it had time to burst on them, and therefore kept the ship under all the canvas she could carry. On she flew, right into the eye of the rising tempest, so it seemed, though as yet the wind held to the southward. The topgallant masts bent and twisted like wands; still the captain would not allow the sails to be taken in. The wind whistled more and more shrilly through the rigging; each sea that rose seemed to increase in height, and to strike the bows with greater force as the ship, frantically it seemed, forced her onward way, while white driving foam flew in dense masses over her forecastle, and sprinkled with its lighter showers the greater part of the deck. A few stars came out and shone brightly overhead, but they were quickly obscured by the gathering clouds; the darkness increased, till nothing could be seen on either hand but the dark, tumbling seas with their white foaming crests.

Pedro Alvarez had been watching the signs of the weather with anything but a satisfied look. “We shall have it down upon us, Don Hernan, before long,” he remarked, going up to the captain. “If it catches us with all this canvas spread, some of our masts will go, I fear.”

“We may hold on yet for some time, I hope,” was the answer. “I have not forgotten yet the look of that rocky coast.”

“Nor I either; and I therefore would try to keep my sticks to beat it off,” muttered the first lieutenant, as he turned away. It appeared, however, that he was over-cautious; for some time longer there was no alteration in the weather.

“After all, I am in hopes that the squall will pass over, and by the time we have made good our westing we may get a favourable change of wind,” observed the captain, as the first lieutenant approached him. “I am going below; call me, should anything occur.”

“You will not have long to wait,” said Pedro Alvarez, bluntly.

He was right. The captain’s head was scarcely below the companion hatch, when the ship, which had been heeling over to starboard till the scuppers were under water, righted suddenly, and her sails flapped loudly against the masts.

“Hands aloft, shorten sail!” shouted the first lieutenant, with an energy that made every one start to obey the order. “Let fly topgallant sheets! Be smart, my men.”

The sails were being quickly handed. The officer had ordered topgallant-yards to be sent down, and topgallant-masts struck, when a vivid flash of forked lightning darted close ahead, across the ship’s course, followed by a terrific crash of thunder, which startled all on board. Many thought the electric fluid had struck the ship. The captain sprang on deck. He was just in time to see the ship taken aback by the long threatening gale, which came down with greater fury from its continued delay. Stern first she drove, the rising seas threatening to engulph her. Pedro Alvarez was shouting out the necessary orders to bring her round, so as once more to get headway on her. But the men were aloft endeavouring to execute the previous order issued to them, and some were obeying one order, some another. In vain Don Hernan endeavoured to aid in restoring order. The object was to reduce the after sails, so that those ahead might have greater influence. All the masts were crowded with the labouring crew; fiercer blew the tempest; there was a crash; wild shrieks, rising high above the howling of the storm, rent the air. The mizenmast had gone by the board, and falling over the starboard side had carried all those upon it into the boiling ocean.

There was a second crash; the mainyard had gone, and it seemed likely, from the way in which the mainmast bent and quivered that that also would go. In vain many of the poor fellows cast from the mizen-mast struggled for life; their shipmates were too busily occupied to afford them assistance. Some had clung desperately to the rigging, and had managed to regain it, and were endeavouring to haul themselves on board again. Now one succeeded; now another, with a cry of despair, was washed off, as the seas dashed furiously up against the corvette’s quarter, threatening to drive in her counter, or to carry away her taffrail.

All the time the butt end of the mizen-mast was striking like a battering-ram against the side of the ship, with every chance of speedily making a hole in it. The main-yard, too, had fallen across the deck, still held by lifts and braces from going overboard, more dangerous in that position than if it had done so. The sudden blast which had caused the destruction was only the first of the tempest. Stronger and stronger it grew. It would be difficult truly to picture the scene of tumult and confusion which the deck of the corvette presented, all the time driving stern first at a fearful rate, now lifted high up by the sea, now rushing downward into the watery gulf, the opposite sea looking as if it would overwhelm her. The officers, with loud shouts, were issuing orders in different parts of the ship; the men, called off from their regular stations, rushing here and there, not knowing which to obey, but still seeing clearly that each order imperatively demanded to be instantly executed. In vain Don Hernan, speaking-trumpet in hand, endeavoured to reduce the confusion into order. At this juncture a flash of lightning revealed a tall figure, with flowing white drapery, standing near the companion-hatch. He shuddered with a superstitious feeling of dread. The next instant he saw that it was his wife; he hurried up to her to entreat her to go below. The darkness concealed the look of astonishment and dismay with which she regarded the scene around her. In a moment Don Hernan was by her side—

“Hilda, my beloved, this is no place for you. Oh, go below, I entreat you, I command you. Any moment your life may be sacrificed.”

“Why should I shun dangers, Hernan, to which you must be exposed?” she exclaimed. “But what does this mean—what has happened?”

“A mere accident, to which all ships are liable,” he answered. “There is nothing to fear, if you will remain calmly in your cabin.”

“But shrieks and cries for help reached my ears, and terrific blows,” said Hilda. “Oh! do not deceive me, Hernan; surely some sad calamity has occurred.”

The captain saw that he could not deceive her, and not till he had explained how matters really stood, could he induce her to return to her cabin. Meantime Pedro Alvarez had succeeded in bracing round the head yards and furling all the after sails. Slowly the ship answered her helm and fell off; but as she did so, two seas in quick succession struck her abeam, dashing across her deck, and carrying away the boats stowed on the boom, and part of the lee bulwarks. Again shrieks for help were heard; but the darkness prevented it being seen from whence they came, though there was too much reason to fear that the same seas which had washed away the boats, had carried off more of their unfortunate shipmates. Once more the ship went ahead, but it was before the wind, and she was flying back towards that iron-bound coast of Shetland, from which all on board had been so eager to escape. Every effort was now made to bring the ship on a wind either to heave her to, or to stand to the northward or southward, so that, should the gale continue, she might weather one end or the other of the islands. After a time it was decided to haul up on the port or larboard tack, as it was believed that she had made but little southing, and was in consequence, nearer the northern than the southern end of Shetland.

On ploughed the “Saint Cecilia” through the darkness, and many a heart on board dreaded the sight which daylight would reveal to them.

Chapter Eight.

Rolf Morton’s Expedition—Watches the corvette—Hilda’s marriage discussed—The storm—A ship seen driving towards shore.

After Rolf Morton had left the “Saint Cecilia,” and was steering for Yell Sound, he recollected that a long time had passed since he had paid a visit to an old friend, who had been Captain Scarsdale’s first mate on several voyages, but who had now retired from sea life, and settled at Hillswick, in the southern part of that peculiarly shaped peninsula of Shetland, called North Maven. There were two ways of getting there. The most speedy was to haul up to the southward at once, and to steer for Saint Magnus’s Bay, so as to round the southern point of North Maven, called Esha Ness; but then, when he wished to return to Whalsey, he would have had to retrace his course along the whole western coast of the peninsula before he could enter Yell Sound. Should the weather continue fine, this would be of little consequence; but in bad weather the voyage would be one of great danger, as standing out as do its lofty cliffs, to brave the whole roll of the Western Ocean, on no part of the coast does the sea break with more terrific fury. The other course was to run up Yell Sound as he had intended; but, instead of passing through it, to land on the southern shore, in one of the many small voes or inlets, to be found there, so that a walk of a mile or so would enable him to reach the house of his friend Angus Maitland. Before determining what to do, he cast his eye seaward round the horizon. The low bank of clouds he there observed, just rising, as it were, out of the water, made him keep the boat on the course he had before been steering. Before many minutes had passed the increasing wind showed the wisdom of his determination. Away bounded the boat over the rising seas; but no sooner had she entered the Sound than she glided smoothly along over its calm water, and soon reached the point where Morton proposed landing. All the crew, however, had some excuse for visiting Hillswick. Angus Maitland’s abode was known for its hospitality, and no one ever came there who did not receive a hearty welcome, and the best accommodation he could afford, suited to their rank and position. The boat was left securely moored in a little voe, where not the fiercest of storms from without could reach her.

Honesty is a characteristic of the Shetlanders, and Morton and his crew knew well that should she by chance be discovered, not a rope-yarn would be taken away. A high heather-covered hill lay between the spot where they landed and Hillswick. Morton stopped when he reached the top, and took a glance along the whole western horizon, which lay open to view. The corvette was already hull down, standing on close-hauled to the southward of west, in which direction the bank of clouds he had before remarked had greatly increased in height and denseness.

“She is making a good offing, and the Spaniards will have reason enough to be glad they have done so,” observed Morton. “The squall brewing out there will be down upon them before long, hot and strong; but if they heave the ship to at once, it will have blown itself out before they have time to drift back near enough to our coast to come to any harm.”

The men assented to the correctness of Morton’s remark. Perhaps they did not as warmly wish for the safety of the corvette as he did. Formerly, probably, they would have prayed that Providence would mercifully drive her back, and wreck her in some convenient spot among the rocks, where, though the crew might be lost, whatever was of value in her might be cast on shore for the benefit of the people.

Angus Maitland spied Morton coming down the hill, and, his portly figure clad in a suit of grey shepherd’s plaid, and a stout stick in his hand, he sallied forth to meet him. His greeting was warm and hearty.

“Come along, Rolf—come along, man; now I’ve got you I’ll keep you,” he exclaimed, when Morton had told him how it was he had come to North Maven. “Your guid wife will spare ye for a day, and she’ll guess that you would not pass within hail of our shores without coming to see me.”

Morton, however, urged that Bertha was not aware that he had come round to the west coast; that she would be expecting him, and would be anxious if he did not appear.

“Stay, though,” exclaimed his host. “There is Sandy McNab will be crossing the mainland with his pack, and he will send over a message for you to Whalsey; there will be no lack of opportunities.”

Morton promised to stay away this night, should he be able to send a message to his wife, to the effect that he was doing so. Sandy McNab, the packman, was found on the point of starting, with his two half-starved shelties, scarcely the size of ordinary donkeys, but with wonderful strength of limb and power of endurance. He undertook that Morton’s note to his wife should be delivered without fail; and this matter being settled, Rolf, in no way loath, accepted his friend’s invitation. There was good cheer for all hands, though dried fish, oat-cakes, and whisky formed the staple articles of the feast.

Maitland of course wished to hear all about the extraordinary marriage of the heiress of Lunnasting with the Spanish captain, for strange stories had got about, and, as he observed, it was hard to know what to believe and what to discredit.

“There’s nothing so unnatural-like in the proceeding,” observed the old gentleman, after Rolf had given him a true, unvarnished account of the affair. “He’s a handsome gallant, and she’s a very fine lassie, there’s no denying that; but at the same time, God’s blessing does not alight on marriages contracted without the parent’s consent; and it’s my opinion that Miss Wardhill should have waited till Sir Marcus came home before entering into a contract.”

Rolf hinted that Sir Marcus’s whole conduct was not such as to secure the love and obedience of his daughter.

“That may be,” answered Maitland; “he might not have gained her love, but her obedience still was due to him. He left her, too, in charge of the castle, and now she has fled from her post like a deserter. Poor lassie, I would not be hard on her, though; and I doubt not by this time she is wishing herself on shore again, for the gallant ship she thought so brave must be pitching and rolling pretty heavily by this time.”

The friends were at supper, and while they were discussing their food and this same knotty subject, the loud barking of two Newfoundland dogs which roamed round the premises was heard, answered by the fierce growl of another of the canine race, which seemed to come from some little distance off.

“This is a late time o’ night for a visitor to come, but whoever he may be he is welcome,” said Maitland. “Here’s to you, Rolf; we’ll just finish this glass, that we may have a fresh brew of toddy for him when he comes.”

Again the deep bark and growl of the stranger’s dog was heard.

“There is but one creature in Shetland which barks like that,” observed Morton. “I should know his voice anywhere; it is Lawrence Brindister’s dog, Surly Grind. What can have brought him here?”

“He’ll answer for himself, for here he comes,” replied Maitland, looking out of the window, whence the person in question was seen approaching the house, mounted on the smallest and shaggiest of Shetland ponies, and his legs, encased in top-boots, almost dragging along the ground, though he managed, by a succession of sudden jerks, to lift them up so as to avoid the numerous inequalities of the way. His odd appearance was increased by his wearing a broad-brimmed hat and feather, and a long-waisted coat, part of an old court-suit. When he came to the door of the house, all he did was to stand upright, and to let his steed pass from under him. He threw the bridle to Surly Grind, who took it in his mouth, and lying down held it fast, the pony agreeing quietly in that novel mode of being tethered. Just as Captain Maitland had risen to receive him, he shuffled into the room, making a bow worthy of a Frenchman of the old school.

“Welcome to Hillswick, Mr Lawrence,” said Captain Maitland; “it is not often that we have had the pleasure of your company of late. Come, sit down and take your supper; it’s a long journey you have made to-day, and the air on the top of Ronas Hill is well calculated to give a man an appetite.”

“Not a bad notion, friend Maitland,” answered poor Lawrence. “By the same token, too, little Neogle and Surly Grind will be beholden to your hospitality, for it is but a small allowance of food they have had since we left Whalsey this morning. A bone for the dog, and a handful of meal for Neogle, is all I’ll ask. The pony will easily pick up enough by himself to finish his supper.”

Captain Maitland gave the necessary orders to an old man who acted as his servant-of-all-work, but Surly Grind would not be induced to let go the bridle, even though a savoury mess besides the bone was placed before his nose, till his master had called to him from the window and released him from his office. The pony, as soon as he had had his basin of brose, and his bridle and saddle were taken off him, trotted off to the plot of greenest grass in the neighbourhood.

“That is a curious name you have given your pony, Mr Lawrence,” observed Maitland, when his guest was comfortably seated at supper. “It is what would be called in Scotland a water kelpie. Is there anything of the nature of a Trow in your little animal?”

“More, perhaps, than you think of, friend,” answered Lawrence, gravely. “Neogle can do everything but speak; whatever I tell him he does it immediately. He follows me like my dog; he’ll step into my boat and lie down at the bottom of it, as readily as Surly Grind himself, or if I order him to swim astern, he jumps in forthwith; and if I was to take a cruise round the mainland, he would come after me as long as he had strength to swim.”

“He may do all that and not be a trow,” observed Morton, laughing; for he, as well as Captain Maitland, was anxious to prevent Lawrence’s thoughts running upon the recent events.

“Right, cousin Morton, right,” answered Lawrence. “I came honestly by him by purchase, and called him Neogle on account of his strength, and sagacity, and docility. The country people gave the name of the Neogle to a wicked sort of trow, whom they believe lives in the water, and whose great aim is to carry off people to destroy them. On that account he appears in the shape of a pretty pony, bridled and saddled, and all ready for a pleasant gallop across the country. He has a great fancy for carrying off millers. To do this he stops the wheel of the mill. That makes the miller come out of the house to learn what is the matter. On goes the mill once more, and when he looks about he sees the pony. If he is a young miller, and has not heard about the Neogle, or doesn’t believe in it, or forgets about it—‘Ho, ho!’ says he, ‘the mill is going on all smooth and pleasantly, so I’ll just take a gallop, and be back before it’s time to put in more grist.’ On that he leaps on the seeming pony, when off goes the trow, fleet as the winds. Away, away he goes. In vain the poor miller tries to throw himself off: a broken leg or an arm would be far, far better than the fate awaiting him. He is though, he finds, glued, as it were, to the saddle. On gallops the Neogle over hill and down, and bog, and loch, and stream, and voe; nothing stops him till the sea is reached, and then across it he flies till he is over the deep water, when down he dives in a mass of flame, with loud shrieks of mocking laughter, and never again is the poor miller heard of.”

“That’s a curious notion, Mr Lawrence,” observed Captain Maitland. “I never heard it before; but do you say the people believe in it?”

“Troth do I; and why should they not?” answered Lawrence, blinking his eyes. “There are many things which you have seen in your voyages, and which would seem very strange to our people, if you were to tell of them. As to the Neogle, I never saw one that I know of, but I should be very cautious about mounting him if I did.”

The evening was now drawing on, the storm which had for some time been threatening had nearly reached the island; vivid flashes of lightning darted from the sky, and loud thunder claps rolled almost overhead. A sharp neigh was heard, and Lawrence Brindister started up.

“Ah, Neogle is aware of what is coming, and has trotted up to ask for shelter,” he observed, going to the window. “You’ll let him have a corner in your stable, captain, I dare say?”

The request was at once complied with, and scarcely was the pony under shelter than down came the storm, the wind blowing furiously, with torrents of rain, while the lightning flashed faster and brighter, and the thunder broke in louder and more crashing peals. The rain kept the party close prisoners in the house till it was time for them to retire to bed. All night the storm raged. At an early hour Lawrence Brindister was on foot, the rain had ceased, but the wind blew as furiously as ever. Lawrence was seen to put on his boots, then hurrying to the stable he mounted Neogle, and followed by Surly Grind, he was trotting off, when Captain Maitland hailed him, and inquired where he was going.

“To Navie Grind, Captain,” was his answer. “I have a fancy for watching the sea breaking over those cliffs, as it will be doing this morning, and maybe I shall get a glimpse of the Spanish ship, for she is not so far off our shores as some of you may think, and as those on board would pray they might be.”

“Heaven forbid that the Spaniard, or any other craft, is near our cliffs at this time,” said Morton. “There are good seamen on board her, and she must have got a good offing before she met the gale.”

“Still, we’ll take a stroll across to Navie Grind, and have a look at the Western Ocean,” observed Maitland. “I love to watch it at all times, in storm or sunshine; but, as my days of romance are over, we’ll have breakfast first. Morton, you’ll agree to that? Mr Lawrence, you’ll join us? The sea will not go down before you have had time to break your fast, nor will, I trust, the Spanish ship heave in sight.”

Notwithstanding, however, all the hospitable old sailor’s persuasions, Lawrence would only be persuaded to take a handful of oatcake and a draught of milk; and then away he trotted on Neogle, followed by Surly Grind, towards the west. Morton and their host took their time in discussing a far more substantial breakfast, consisting of salted and dried haddocks, pickled pork, oaten cakes, and other substantial articles of food, sufficient to astonish a southern stomach. The captain then lighted his pipe, inviting Rolf to join him, and they smoked away in that deliberate manner which showed that they considered it a far pleasanter pastime than battling with the fierce gale outside. Captain Maitland at length shook the ashes out of his pipe, and was considering whether he should light another, when Lawrence Brindister’s voice was heard from below the window, shouting—

“The spirits of the storm have not failed in their duty; the proud Spaniards will meet with their deserts. I knew it would be so. Hurra! hurra! but I’m off again. I wouldn’t miss the sight to be made Earl of Zetland.”

The two friends hurried to the window, and inquired what was the matter.

“Matter!” exclaimed Lawrence. “Why, that the Spanish corvette is driving ashore, and that ere many minutes are over she and all on board will be hurled to destruction. I would save poor Hilda if I could, in spite of her pride and haughtiness, but that is beyond human power to accomplish.”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Captain Maitland. “The poor young lady, we must at all events try to save her and those with her.”

“Are you certain, Mr Lawrence, that it is the Spanish ship you have seen?” shouted Morton; but he received no answer, for Lawrence had turned Neogle’s head, and was galloping off as hard as the little creature could lay hoof to the ground.

“Whether Spanish or any other ship, we’ll try what brave hearts and stout hands can do to help the unfortunates on board her,” said the fine old seaman, Captain Maitland, as he hurried out of the house. “Here, Sandy Neill, Davie Borthwick,—here, lads!” he shouted, and two stout seafaring-looking men employed on his farm came running up. “There’s a ship ashore, or likely soon to be, and you’ll be ready to follow me, not to wreck and to plunder, but to save life, if so we can.”

Both Sandy and Davie agreed to do whatever the captain wished, and Morton’s own crew were also quickly collected. Before setting out they provided themselves with such coils of rope and long spars as the captain’s store could provide. Morton and his friend, armed with stout sticks and coats buttoned up, followed by their men, set out with the fierce gale blowing in their teeth, on their errand of mercy.

Chapter Nine.

Navie Grind described—The Wreck on shore—The Ship Dashed to Pieces—The Rescued.

Navis Grind, or Navie Grind, the point towards which Morton and his friend directed their steps, is a high cliff forming the extreme western point of that part of Shetland called North Maven, and thus stands out prominently into the Atlantic Ocean, some way to the south of Ronas Hill. A short way off from it, due west, like the advanced sentry of an outpost, is the small rocky islet of Ossa Skerry, but this in no way breaks the force of the seas as they rush impetuously onward from far far away across the ocean. It seems, on the contrary, to have the effect of uniting the strength of two seas in one, and of impelling them with double vehemence against the bold cliff which confronts their fury. Solid as is the rock of which the cliff is composed, it has in the course of ages been rent away, quarried out as it were; huge blocks, many of several tons weight, being cast far away inland, while the whole ground, for two or three hundred yards from the edge of the cliff, is strewed with fragments of lesser size, so that the rocks present more the appearance of the ruins of some vast edifice, than, as they really are, masses hove there by the operation of one of nature’s most potent agents. At length the sea has worked a deep chasm in the cliff, and each successive storm seems to dig out and force upward a fresh layer of rock. As the party approached this spot, so wild and desolate at all times, but doubly so now, the seas, dark, towering, and topped with crests of foam, came rolling onward in quick succession, with a fierceness which seemed irresistible, till, meeting the cliff, they rushed upwards in dense masses, making the very ground shake with the concussion. Now a sea, fiercer than its forerunners, would tear away a huge fragment of rock, and throw it into the air as if it had been projected from the mouth of a volcano, or send it rolling along the down, making it dangerous to approach the spot; and, while dense sheets of spray obscured the view seaward, the great body of water was thrown back in a continuous cascade, increasing the tumult of the foaming caldron which raged below.

“It was near this wild place that Lawrence Brindister obtained that strange dog of his,” said Captain Maitland to Morton. “It was the only living creature washed ashore from the wreck of a large ship—a foreigner, we could not ascertain of what nation. While others were engaged in picking up the treasures they could find, he, at no little risk to his own life, assisted the poor animal, who was sadly battered by the fragments of wreck, and exhausted by swimming to land. The creature looked up into his face, licked his hand, and, from that moment, claimed him as his master, and would follow no one else. See, there he stands; I fear he is to-day in one of his maddest fits.”

The captain pointed, as he spoke, to the top of a high rocky mount which overlooked the sea. Lawrence Brindister, with his two dumb animals by his side, was there seen gesticulating wildly, waving his hand towards the ocean, and shouting apparently with his utmost strength. The roar of the waters, however, as they were hurled against the cliff, added to the howling of the tempest, created a noise so deafening that even the two seamen, accustomed even in the hurricane to make their voices heard, could with difficulty hear each other speak.

Their first glance, as they came in sight of the sea, was in search of the ship of which Lawrence had told them.

“Too true, there she is,” exclaimed Morton, while a sickening feeling came over his heart.

Morton and his friend lifted their glasses to their eyes mechanically, for they could scarcely have expected to have discovered more than their unaided sight would have told them.

“She is the Spanish corvette, there’s no doubt about it,” shouted Morton to his companion, who, however, could scarcely hear what else he said, as he added: “All the poor fellows on board can hope to do is to put off this fatal moment, though I doubt not they have some notion of making Yell Sound; but the sight of Ronas Hill must, if they look at their charts, show them that they cannot fail to drive on shore long before they could reach it.”

“Even now that ship might be saved, or, at all events, the lives of her people, if she had a pilot on board to carry her into Yell Sound,” shouted Captain Maitland. “What say you, Rolf?”

“That if mortal power could carry a man on board her, I would go,” answered Morton. “But what boat could live in such a sea as that?”

“If a boat built and manned by human hands can live in this sea, there is one this moment in Hamna Voe as well able to do so as any which floats on water,” answered Maitland. “Some of her crew may be at their hut even now, though the gale will have given those who live nearest a holiday, and they probably have gone to their houses.”

The voe alluded to was a small but deep one, forming a good harbour on the north side of Navie Grind. High rugged rocks formed the sides, but there was a pathway down them to the water. Towards the inner end there was a piece of level ground, sloping up from the beach; here the fishermen had built a shed, which served them as a dwelling during the fishing season. It was a long, low edifice, composed both of mud and blocks of rock, but chiefly of timber, fragments of wreck cast up on the beach. The doorway was the only aperture, and this served not only for the ingress and egress of the inhabitants, but to admit light, and to allow such part of the smoke from the fire in the centre as ever found its way into the open air to escape; a considerable portion, it appeared clinging to the walls and rafters, which were thoroughly blackened by it, giving it a somewhat gloomy aspect. On one side were piled up masts, and spars, and oars; and sails, and nets, and coils of rope were hung against the walls or on the beams overhead; while, on the other, were a row of bunks or standing bed places, formed out of fragments of wreck-wood. Three or four men, seated on casks or three-legged stools, were busily plying their netting-needles, while several others were fast asleep on the bunks. The pathway, down which Morton and his companions hurried, led close down to the shed. His announcement, as he entered, that there was a ship in sight, partly dismasted, made all hands, the sleepers as well as the workers, spring to their feet. They looked rather blank, however, when Captain Maitland, who entered directly after, added:

“Remember, lads, we must have none of the old customs of the island put in practice, understand that. We want to save the ship if we can, or the lives of those on board. Come, lads, they are fellow-creatures—seamen like ourselves, in distress. Where is the faint-hearted coward who would leave them to perish without lifting a hand to save them. Such a fellow is not to be found among Shetlanders, I hope.”

This appeal had an instant effect. When the men heard that Captain Maitland and Rolf Morton proposed going out in their boat to assist the disabled ship, they agreed to lend her, and to accompany them, the captain undertaking to make good any damage which might accrue, even to the loss of the boat herself.

The boat, the largest of the class used for fishing on that coast, pulled twelve oars, and, what with the men belonging to her, and those who had come from Hillswick, as fine a crew as ever manned a boat was collected. The oars and other gear being placed in her, the next thing to be done was to launch her; and while this operation was taking place, Morton and his friend ascended the cliff, to ascertain the position of the corvette, and what prospect there was of getting on board her. As they climbed up the path they observed that the wind had somewhat abated, and this gave them greater hopes of getting to sea. A moment’s glance, however, told them, when they reached the top of the cliff, that all hope of saving the ship must be abandoned. Perhaps the Spaniards, mistaking Saint Magnus’s Bay for the entrance of Yell Sound, she had been kept away and then hauled up again; but there she was drifting bodily down towards the terrific headland on which they stood.

Callous and cold-hearted indeed must be the man who can witness with indifference a scene such as that at which the two seamen now gazed—the proud ship, which but the day before had left the shore in such gallant trim, now shattered and crippled, struggling on amid the giant seas which were about, in a few short moments, to hurl her to destruction.

“Nothing can save her, I fear,” cried Morton, his generous heart wrung with sorrow.

“Nothing,” answered his older companion; “still, by the will of Providence, we may be able to save the lives of some of the people on board; but we must wait and see where she strikes: if we were to attempt to get out to her now we should only involve ourselves in her fate.”

“If she fails to weather Ossa Skerry she will drift right down on Navie Grind, and then Heaven have mercy on their souls, for no human being on board can escape,” said Captain Maitland. “A few minutes must settle the point.”

“Luff, luff all you can, men,” he exclaimed, as if those on board could hear him. Probably they had caught sight of the terrific sea breaking over the cliffs, and still hoped to weather the little island under their lee bow.

All this time Lawrence Brindister kept his post, with his pony and dog by his side, waving his arms towards the ship, and apparently shouting out as before.

“She will weather the Skerry even now,” cried Morton, but at that instant a squall—one of the last blasts of the tempest—struck her. Over went her mainmast, her head fell off from the sea, on she flew amid showers of foam, and in another minute she was hid to view by the rocky island before them. In vain they hoped against hope to see her appear on the other side. Her fate was indeed sealed. There was only one spot where even in moderate weather a landing could be without difficulty effected on Ossa Skerry. Still Morton and his friend resolved to attempt it. There was not a moment to be lost, already, probably, numbers of the hapless crew were being swept to destruction. They hurried down the cliff, sprang on board the boat, and shoved off. Morton steered: with rapid strokes they pulled down the remainder of the voe; even there heavy waves rolled in and showed the crew the sort of sea with which they would have to contend when they got outside. Few but Shetlanders would have attempted to face such a sea, and the finest of boats alone could have lived in it. They reached the mouth of the voe; their passage through the mouth was the first danger they had to encounter; a huge sea came thundering in.

“Back off all,” cried Morton; and instead of forcing the boat onward, she slowly receded before the wave, which broke in a loud crash directly before her, the foam flying over her bows and deluging her fore and aft. “Now, lads, give way,” shouted Morton again, and before the next sea broke, the boat had got into deep water. They now encountered the full force of the gale; and none but a boat admirably manned, as was theirs, could have made headway against it, nor could she have escaped being instantly swamped, unless steered with the greatest caution and judgment. Now she rose on the top of a sea surrounded with foam, now she plunged down into the trough, and those standing on the rocks, at the mouth of the voe, feared more than once that she had sunk for ever. Again she rose on the side of the opposite sea; the summit was reached; but once more she disappeared beyond it. At times it seemed as if scarcely any way was made, but still the bold seamen persevered; the lives of some of their fellow-creatures depended on their exertions—how many it was impossible to say, till they had ascertained where the ship had gone on shore. They knew that in all probability in a few minutes, even should the ship hold together, numbers must be swept off from the decks.

Morton’s object was to get sufficiently out to sea to ascertain the position of the ship. The rapid diminution of the strength of the wind enabled him to do this with greater ease than had at first appeared possible; still the sea came rolling in as fiercely as before, and rendered the greatest caution necessary to prevent the boat being swamped. At last they got sufficiently to the westward to look along the outer side of Ossa Skerry. No ship was to be seen. Had she foundered, or was it possible that in so short a time she had so completely gone to pieces that not a particle of the wreck was to be seen? If so, not a soul on board could have escaped.

“Poor girl!” thought Morton; “it will break the heart of Bertha Eswick to hear of it; and my wife, too—it will make her very sad.”

“We will pull out a little further, Rolf,” said Captain Maitland. “There is a little bay, or bight, nearly at the south-east of the rock—if the ship by chance drove in there we should not see her from hence.”

“Give way, lads!” shouted Morton, with hope revived by his friend’s remark.

In a short time they opened the little bay of which Captain Maitland spoke. There lay the ship almost broadside on with the shore, her stern apparently under an overhanging cliff, while her bow, over which the sea made a clean breach, seemed to hang on a rock, and was thus prevented from being driven further in. Her masts and bowsprit were gone by the board: and from the force with which the sea was breaking over her, it seemed scarcely possible that she could herself keep much longer together. An attempt to approach her from the seaside would have proved the destruction of the boat. The only chance of rendering assistance was to land on the east side of the island. Hitherto the boat’s head had been kept directly towards the seas as they came rolling in. It was far more dangerous work crossing them as they had now to do, to reach the inner side of the island. Often Morton and his friend watched the foaming masses of water, as they came roaring towards them, with no little anxiety; but by pulling round to face the larger ones, and by then rapidly giving way, the boat at length got under the lee of the islet. To obtain footing on the slippery rock was a work of considerable difficulty, and still greater was it to climb to the summit and to convey them the ropes and spars which they had brought with them. Some of the men remained to take care of the boat, for that alone was not an easy task, as had she been carried away by the sea, the whole party might have been starved before assistance could have come to them. The remainder proceeded, as rapidly as they could, across the island. With more anxiety than they had often felt, Morton and the captain hurried towards the edge of the cliff. Before even reaching it the appearance which the foaming water presented, even some way from the shore, told them too plainly the destruction which had already occurred; while the fearful shrieks, which even through the roar of the angry waters came up from below, warned them that every instant fresh victims were being added to those who had already fallen a sacrifice to the tempest.

Among fragments of masts, and spars, and planks, and other parts of the ship, were seen the forms of numerous human beings, some yet struggling, but struggling in vain, for life; others floating helplessly among the pieces of wreck, or clinging to them with a convulsive clutch, while many, already lifeless, were tossed to and fro in the boiling caldron, happier than those who were seen every now and then, as they were swept off, to throw up their arms, and then, with a fearful shriek of despair, to sink from sight.

On gaining the edge of the cliff, Morton and Captain Mainland threw themselves on the ground and looked over. The fore part of the vessel had already been knocked to pieces. A few men still clung to part of the bulwarks in the waist; but the sea was making a clean breach over it, and one by one they were torn from their treacherous hold and carried off by the waves. The only part of the wreck which yet afforded a precarious shelter was the poop. The mainmast, in falling, had been washed across it, and the end jamming against the cliff, it formed a breakwater, within which a group of people yet stood, almost paralysed with terror and despair, for the precipitous cliff above them afforded not the slightest prospect of escape, while the violent shaking of the wreck, and the rapid advances of the waves, showed them that in a few minutes even that uncertain foothold would be carried from beneath them.

Morton and his friend beckoned to their companions to bring on the ropes. It was the work of a few seconds to uncoil them and to make one end fast to the spars they had brought. These they fixed in the ground, two of them holding on at the same time to the upper part of the spars.

Not till all the preparations were made did Morton shout to those below to let them know that aid was at hand. In the centre of the group was a female form—that it was Hilda there could be little doubt. The rope was lowered with a pair of slings at the end of it. How anxiously did those both above and below watch its descent! The end dropped some way from the stern of the ship; it seemed a question whether it was within reach of those whose existence depended on clutching it. A seaman sprang towards it as it swung backwards and forwards in the gale, but he missed his aim, and fell headlong into the seething water, which soon silenced his death shriek. Another, an officer apparently, made the attempt; he had secured a line round his body, he clutched the rope and dragged it inboard. Even at that moment Spanish gallantry was maintained; no undue haste was shown by any to secure their own lives. The first care of the men was to secure Hilda in the slings; this was speedily done, but it was soon seen that if she was hauled up by herself she would run great risk of being thrown against the side of the cliff and severely injured. The officer who had hauled in the rope accordingly secured himself to it, and made a sign to those above to hoist away. The fearful rocking of the ship made them do this with all the speed of which they were capable. At any moment the ship might go to pieces; Morton stood nearest the edge. At length the head of Pedro Alvarez appeared, and while with one arm he kept the end of the rope from dashing against the cliff, with the other he supported the almost inanimate form of Hilda Wardhill. She was speedily released from the rope, which was again lowered, while Captain Maitland and one of the men carried her to a hollow in the downs, which afforded some shelter from the wind. The brave lieutenant made signs that he was going to descend again, but Morton, who saw that it would be useless, refused to allow him. The rope was lowered; “Haul away!” he shouted, and in a little time the priest, Father Mendez, appeared. He was unloosed also, more dead than alive; the rope was lowered, but scarcely had it reached the deck when a raging sea came roaring up—fearful shrieks were heard—the mast was torn away from its hold in the rock—a rush was made at the rope; one man grasped it, but others in their haste dragged him off, and the next instant the remainder of the wreck which hung together was dashed into numberless fragments, while all who had clung to it were hurled amidst them, one after the other rapidly disappearing beneath the foaming waters.

Morton and the Shetlanders looked anxiously over the cliff. It was too evident that not another human being had escaped from the wreck of the “Saint Cecilia.”

“There goes the brave ship, and there go my gallant captain and worthy comrades,” cried Pedro Alvarez, wringing his hands and pulling away at his moustachios in the excess of his grief, as he looked over the cliff and watched the utter destruction of the corvette. The priest, when he had sufficiently recovered to understand what had occurred, knelt down, and those who watched him supposed, as he lifted up his hands over the ocean, that he was uttering prayers for the souls of his departing shipmates. Meantime Captain Maitland was kneeling by the almost inanimate form of Hilda, and endeavouring by every means which his experience could suggest to restore her to consciousness. At length he was joined by Father Mendez. “Let her continue thus, kind sir,” he said. “It is better that she should not be aware of the calamity which has overtaken her.”

Morton also, followed by the Spanish lieutenant, came up. “We can render no further assistance to the crew of the unfortunate ship,” he observed; “not another person who was on board her remains alive but those we have here.”

With the most gentle care poor Hilda was conveyed to the boat, which pulled back towards Hamna Voe.

The priest shuddered as he saw the seas from which he had so lately escaped come rolling up on the boat’s quarter, but his compressed lips showed that he was resolved not to give way to his feelings in words. Sea followed sea in quick succession, and Morton’s utmost care was required to save the boat from being swamped. All breathed more freely when the entrance of the voe was safely reached. As they pulled up it, Morton heard some shouts. On raising his head, he saw Lawrence Brindister standing on a height overlooking the voe. He was whirling his arms wildly about as before, and peering down to ascertain who was in the boat. When he discovered a female, he apparently guessed that she was his cousin Hilda; and striking little Neogle, he turned the pony’s head, and rode off as fast as the creature could gallop. The boat continued her course to the head of the voe.

A rough litter being formed, Hilda was conveyed to Captain Maitland’s house; but as she continued plunged in a state of stupor, Father Mendez advised that she should at once be taken to her home. His advice seemed so judicious, that Morton offered to carry her there in his boat. Captain Maitland also expressed a wish to be of the party, and the next morning, accompanied by Pedro Alvarez and Father Mendez, they embarked for Lunnasting. The only person who appeared on the landing-place was Lawrence Brindister. He stood, hat in hand, with a mocking expression on his countenance, and he was beginning to address the party when his eye fell on Hilda. Her appearance seemed to touch his heart, for he said nothing, but, turning round, walked slowly back before them to the castle.

It is needless to describe the dismay and astonishment which poor Hilda’s return excited in the establishment. Lawrence had evidently in no way warned them of what had occurred. Bertha Eswick had need of all her self-possession and presence of mind to perform her duty. It was many days before Hilda returned to a state of consciousness! In the meantime, Father Mendez took up his abode in the castle; and, from the way in which Pedro Alvarez settled himself in his apartment, it looked as if he also intended to be a permanent guest at Lunnasting.

Chapter Ten.

Guests at the Castle—The Heir of Lunnasting—Lawrence Brindister’s Cave.

For a long time after Hilda’s return to Lunnasting, Bertha Eswick feared that the mind of her young mistress had gone for ever. All the aid which medical skill could afford appeared to be of no avail; the only person who had in the slightest degree the power of arousing her sufficiently to speak was Father Mendez—the means he employed no one could discover. He would sit with her in a turret chamber for hours together; and after several weeks had passed, she was heard talking fluently and rapidly with him; but as soon as she entered the hall, where she took her seat as usual, she relapsed into the most perfect silence. When, however, the priest addressed her, she answered him readily, though briefly, but seemed to be totally unconscious of the presence of any one else. The condition of the unfortunate lady was a sufficient reason for Father Mendez remaining at Lunnasting; indeed, he remarked that he should consider himself guilty of the greatest cruelty should he take his departure till the return of her father and sister. There was no one besides Hilda of sufficient authority in the castle to request him to go, so he remained on. No news had been received of Sir Marcus Wardhill and his daughter, and it was supposed that they were entirely ignorant of the strange occurrences which had taken place. Pedro Alvarez likewise continued to live on at the castle; when he had learned enough English to express himself, he offered several excellent reasons for remaining. In the first place, he said that Don Hernan had confided his wife to his charge, as with a prescience of what was to occur, just before the shipwreck; and that at that awful moment he had vowed to devote himself to her interests as long as his life should last. He also frankly confessed that he had no means of returning home; he had written to Spain for a remittance, as well as to announce the loss of the corvette, and till his cash arrived he could not go away, even if he wished to do so. Father Mendez also stated that it was the wish of his late captain’s widow that the lieutenant should continue a guest at the castle, as long as he found it convenient to remain.

Pedro Alvarez and Lawrence after a time became very great friends. They boated, and fished, and shot together; and Lawrence assisted him very much in learning English. When, however, the days grew shorter, and the nights longer and colder, he shrugged his shoulders, and complained that the time was very dull. He had, however, by his frank, open, and unpretending manners, and quiet habits, won very much upon the good opinion of Bertha Eswick, who declared that she would far rather have his society at the castle than that of Father Mendez, whose ways and notions she could by no means understand, although she owned that he spoke far better English, and that no fault could be found with the courtesy and gentleness of his manners. Neither of them gave any trouble. Father Mendez especially was satisfied with the simplest fare. Plain water formed his beverage, eggs and fish his principal food. Pedro Alvarez preferred as great a variety as he could get, and several times descended to the kitchen to instruct Moggie Druster, the cook, in the art of concocting dishes in the Spanish fashion, of which oil (and of that there was an ample supply in Shetland) formed one of the chief ingredients. He was made perfectly happy too with a package of tobacco, which Rolf Morton obtained for him from Lerwick, and which he employed his leisure moments in converting into cigarettes. Lawrence Brindister also still further added to his satisfaction, by putting into his hands five goodly volumes, on opening which he found to be Spanish; travels, histories, and a romance—subjects exactly suited to the worthy Pedro’s tastes. They were strangely battered, and stained as with salt water. How he had obtained them Lawrence would not say. The priest saw the books, but turned away from them with a disdainful glance, as if he could take no interest in subjects of a character so trivial. The contrast between the two strangers was very great. Pedro Alvarez was in figure more like an English sailor than a Spaniard. He was somewhat short, and broad-shouldered, and stout, with a frank, open, and ruddy, though sunburnt countenance; his large black sparkling eyes, beaming with good humour, spoke of the southern clime which gave him birth, as did his black curling moustache, and hair of the same hue. Father Mendez, on the other hand, was thin in the extreme, with sallow complexion, and sharp features, but his countenance showed that he possessed a peculiarly intelligent and acute intellect. It could not be said that there was anything unpleasing in the expression of his features; it was rather the total want of expression which they mechanically assumed when he was conversing, or when he was aware that he was observed, of which any one would complain. It was not a stolid look which he put on, but rather that of a person totally unconscious of what was passing around; indeed, so perfect was the composure of every muscle of his face, that it looked completely like a mask with a pair of bright eyes gleaming through it. Though he kept those eyes perfectly fixed, he had not succeeded in obscuring at pleasure their brightness. Nothing could surpass the subdued gentleness of the tone of voice in which he generally spoke, though he could at will raise it in a way to astonish his hearers.

The long winter of Shetland was passing slowly by, without any events of interest occurring in the neighbourhood of Lunnasting; the time was drawing on when it would be necessary for Rolf Morton to go south to look out for a ship, unless he would altogether give up his profession and chance of promotion; but he was naturally unwilling to leave home till his wife had made him a father, which she expected in a very short time to do. It was also generally understood that the unhappy Hilda would shortly become a mother, and already a very general feeling of compassion was expressed for the poor little fatherless babe which was about to be born. How would the poor lady get through her trials? Was she likely to live? If the child lived, would it be the heir of Lunnasting? Or should its father have been heir to estates, and a title in Spain, as it had been said he was, would it succeed instead of him?

These and numerous other questions of a similar character were asked over and over again, but were never satisfactorily answered. Letters had been received from Sir Marcus, but he fixed no time for his return home, and it was very evident from the tenor of his remarks that he believed everything was going on in his castle as he had left it. He might possibly have been rather astonished had he heard what had occurred. The truth was, that neither had his factor Sandy Redland, nor any one else, ventured to write to him, and very naturally Hilda had not done so; Sandy was a man who liked to live a peaceable life, and to have matters his own way, and he knew very well that, should Sir Marcus be hurried back, not only would all peace and quiet be banished from Lunnasting, but he would most certainly for the future have nothing whatever his own way. It is possible that Sir Marcus was not the only head of a family who might have cause to be astonished at the doings of his household during his absence. At length a packet of letters arrived from Spain. It contained some for Don Hernan, as well as for other deceased officers of the “Saint Cecilia;” one was for Pedro Alvarez, and several were addressed to Father Mendez, who likewise took possession of all the rest. The lieutenant read his despatch with a great deal of interest.

“And so our poor captain would have been a marquis,” he exclaimed to himself, “the Marquis de Medea, and owner of those magnificent estates. Well, truly he had something to live for, and yet he was cut off—while I who have not a peco beyond my pay, and little enough of that, have been allowed to remain in existence. I cannot understand these matters—it is very strange; still, I will not forget my vow. I promised that poor fellow to look after his widow, and if she has a son, I will, to the best of my humble power, see that his interests are not neglected. Now I wonder what information Father Mendez has received. He must have heard that Don Hernan, had he lived, would have succeeded to this title and these estates. The letters to the captain, which he has opened, cannot fail of speaking of the matter. Probably they are written expressly to give the information. I wonder, now, whether the father will say anything about it. Well, he does not love me, and I do not trust him, and I will watch him narrowly, and see if I cannot be as close as he can. Bah! if all men would be honest it would save a great deal of trouble. If Donna Hilda’s child should be a girl there will be very little for me to do in the affair; she cannot, I suspect, inherit either the title or estates. If the child is a boy he will be the rightful heir, there is no doubt about that; but then he will find a mortal enemy in Don Hernan’s cousin, Don Anibal Villavicencio, who will stir heaven and earth to keep the boy out of his rights; the moment he hears of Don Hernan’s death he will take possession of the property and assume the title. I must find out what tack Father Mendez is sailing on. Is he in the interest of the living marquis, or of the unborn baby? He is never happy unless he is playing some deep game or other. I suspect that he is waiting to see how things turn out. At all events, though he beats me hollow in an argument, I’ll try whether in a good cause I cannot outmanoeuvre him. He does not want for money, that I know. He has his belt stuffed full of gold pieces even now, so the want of means to go away does not keep him here. Why he does not offer some to me to get me away I do not know. Probably he looks on me as a rough, untutored sailor, and despises me too much to dread my interference with his plans. Perhaps he intends to buy me over, and to make use of me to aid him. He knows himself pretty well, and thinks all men are likewise rogues. He will be rather astonished if he finds that he has been outwitted by a straightforward, honest sailor.”

At length the event for some time looked for, both at the castle and the cottage, occurred. Bertha Morton presented her husband with a fine boy, and scarcely had the young gentleman—Ronald Morton he was to be called—given notice of his arrival in the world by a lusty fit of crying, and had been exhibited in due form to his father, than the wise woman who attended on such occasions was now moving in hot haste to the castle of Lunnasting, to afford her aid to Donna Hilda, who was, it is said, in sore pain and distress. Alas! she had no fond husband to cheer and console her; no one to whom she could show with pride and joy the little creature about to be born into the world. Bertha Eswick had expressed her hopes that the child would be a girl. A lassie, she observed, would be a comfort and a companion to the poor lady, who would herself be able to instruct her, and would ever keep her by her side; whereas a boy must be sent away to school, and would then have to go into the world, where he would again see little or nothing of his poor mother.

Father Mendez and Pedro Alvarez were walking up and down, but not together, on the sunny side of the court-yard. It was the only spot, they declared, in the whole island where they could be sheltered from the biting keenness of the wind, and feel any of the warmth to which they were accustomed in their own country. Both were anxious to hear whether a son or daughter was born to the lady of the mansion. Pedro Alvarez was certainly the least anxious.

While the two foreigners were thus engaged, Moggie Druster, the cook, put her head out of a window and shouted—

“It’s a braw laddie, sirs—a fine strapping bairn. It’s like to do weel, and so is it’s mother, poor lady.”

“A what do you say it is, Mistress Moggie?” asked Father Mendez.

“A braw laddie; a big bouncing boy, ye would ca’ him in English,” answered Moggie, with a slight touch of scorn in her tone.

“A boy!” exclaimed the priest and the lieutenant almost at the same moment.

The priest took several rapid turns up and down the courtyard with compressed lips and knitted brow, but said nothing.

“And how goes the poor lady?” inquired Pedro Alvarez. “And good Mistress Moggie,” he continued, going up to her and whispering, “I tell her that her husband’s warmest friend is ready and at hand to assist and comfort her, as far as he has the power.”

“Ay, that will I, Mr Pedro; ye are a kind-hearted gentleman, that ye are,” answered Moggie, whose heart the honest lieutenant had completely won, in return for the culinary instruction he had afforded her.

Poor Bertha Eswick was nearly worn to death from hurrying between her daughter’s cottage and the castle, though her young mistress required, and certainly obtained, by far the greatest share of her care. Healthy, however, as Bertha Morton had always appeared, soon after the birth of her child she caught a cold, and this produced an illness which made her mother and husband very anxious about her, and it became too evident, before long, to the anxious eyes of affection, that she held her life on a most precarious tenure. Hilda, on the contrary, seemed completely restored to health, both of body and mind. She had now a deeply interesting object in existence, and all her thoughts and attention were devoted to her infant.

Lawrence Brindister did not return to the castle till late in the day on which Hilda’s child was born. He received the announcement with a look of incredulity on his countenance.

“And so you tell me that an heir to Lunnasting is born,” he exclaimed to Bertha Eswick, whom he met as she was hurrying down for the first time from her mistress’s chamber. “Ha, ha, ha! how many heirs to Lunnasting are there, think ye? Never mind, good Bertha, ‘The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!’ Who is the prince, think ye, Bertha? Ye little ken, but I do; the fool knows more than the wise man, or the wise woman either ha, ha, ha!”

These remarks sorely puzzled Bertha Eswick, and made her think a great deal; she knew Lawrence Brindister thoroughly, and seldom failed to distinguish between the mere hallucinations which occasionally took possession of his mind, and the ideas which originated from facts. “If Marcus Wardhill is not the rightful possessor of Lunnasting, who can be the owner?” she asked herself, over and over again.

Several weeks passed by, and young Don Hernan, for so Hilda’s new-born babe was called, gave every promise of being a remarkably healthy and robust child. Father Mendez seemed deeply interested in it, and took every opportunity of watching its progress, and examining it to ascertain that it was a thoroughly well-made healthy child.

At length the father gave notice that he was going to Lerwick: he went, and some of the household declared that they breathed far more freely than they had done for a very long time. Pedro Alvarez walked about with a more self-confident air than usual, and Lawrence sang and laughed and rattled away as had been his custom in former days; even Hilda looked as if she had been relieved of an incubus which had depressed her spirits. She said nothing; she did not even mention the name of Father Mendez, but if by chance she heard it, she gave a slight shudder, while the frown which grew on her brow showed that whatever the influence he had gained over her, it was not of a nature to which she willingly submitted. He had announced that he should not be absent more than three or four days; but more than a week elapsed and he did not return. As no one wished him back, this caused more surprise than regret. Ten days, then a fortnight, passed by, and the priest did not appear. At last Pedro Alvarez whispered his suspicions to Lawrence Brindister that the reverend father had played them a slippery trick, and left Shetland altogether; this idea was found to be correct, when Sandy McNab, the pedlar and great news-monger of the district, paid his next visit to Whalsey. A foreigner who, though somewhat disguised, was recognised as the Spanish priest, Father Mendez, had been observed going on board a ship bound for the south, and he had not since then been seen in Lerwick. The lieutenant was more than usually agitated when he heard this. “There is some mischief brewing,” he observed, the first moment he found Lawrence alone. “You and I must try to fathom it, if we can. You can be secret, Mr Lawrence, and with such a man as that cunning priest to contend, with, we need all the caution we can exercise.”

“Mum’s the word with me,” answered Lawrence, looking very sagacious; “I love not the priest more than you do, for I believe he would not scruple to stick a dagger in the back of his brother if that brother stood in the way of any object he wished to attain. What he aims at I do not know: whether or not he wishes to advance the interests of Hilda’s child, is what I want to discover.”

Pedro shook his head. “Not he, Mr Lawrence,” he answered: “he cares not for the fatherless or the widow. I have watched him narrowly: his aim was to get Donna Hilda completely under his thumb, so that he might rule her and her child. While he thought that there was a prospect of success he remained on here, but when he at length discovered that he had totally failed, or that he could not depend for an instant on maintaining his influence, he at once altered his whole plan. You must understand that when we left Spain there were three persons in existence who would by law succeed to the title and estates of the Marquis of Medea before Don Hernan de Escalante. He often told me that he himself never expected to inherit the property, and that he must find some other means of improving his fortunes. It is my belief, however, that Father Mendez, by some of the wonderful means at his disposal, knew that these three persons would die before our return, and that he accompanied us for the very purpose of obtaining an influence over Don Hernan, that his order might thus benefit by the wealth which would be at his disposal. He knew Don Hernan sufficiently to believe that he should obtain that influence, and he probably would have succeeded. Now, however, he is playing another game; he can have no sure hold over a person of so uncertain a mind as Donna Hilda, and he has now returned to Spain that he may be able to make his bargain with Don Anibal Villavicencio, who has already succeeded to the property. Just consider the immense influence he will have over him when he is able to prove that there is an heir alive, who, if produced, will turn him out of the estates and title. What do you say to the question, Mr Lawrence? Do you think I am right in my suspicions?”

“Ay, that I do, most sagacious mariner,” answered Lawrence, who had really comprehended the tenor of these remarks; they were of course made in much more broken English than has been used. “The priest may be an honest priest, as he is undoubtedly a most polite gentleman; and his ways may be good ways, in his own sight, though they are not my ways; but that he is not labouring for the good of the poor little fatherless child up there, I am clearly of opinion.”

“So far we are agreed, my friend,” said the lieutenant; “but when the boy succeeds his grandfather, and becomes the owner of the property, he will be able with his own right arm, or rather with his well-filled purse, which is better than a strong arm to him, to establish his rights to his Spanish estates and proper rank.”

“Ah, there a fool may by chance know more than a wise man, friend Pedro,” observed Lawrence, rubbing the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Come along with me, most worthy lieutenant, and I will show you matters which will astonish you.”

Pedro Alvarez accepted the invitation, and the two oddly-matched friends set out together, towards the east end of the island. Lawrence turned several times to observe if they were watched, and then continued his course across heathery moorland, and valley, and swamp, as rapidly as before.

“I know this spot, surely,” observed Pedro Alvarez; “it is where the Catholic chapel stands.”

“The same, friend mariner,” answered Lawrence; “but we have nothing to do with the chapel just now: keep close at my heels, or rather step exactly where I step, or you may chance to have a tumble to the bottom of the cliff, with a broken neck as the consequence.”

Lawrence, as he spoke, reached the brow of the cliff; he slid over it, and dropped himself down on a narrow ledge which appeared to afford scarcely room for his feet to rest. He went on, leaning against the side of the cliff for a short distance, and then let himself down in the same manner that he had before done. The Spanish officer at first hesitated to follow, but a laugh from Lawrence made him ashamed of himself, and when he reached the first ledge, he perceived that there were rings let into the rock, and of the same colour, which made the operation less difficult than it had at first appeared. Three or four ledges were thus reached in succession, and then there was a very narrow winding path cut in the face of the cliff which led down to the very edge of the water. Before, however, Lawrence reached the bottom, he turned off along another ledge, when Pedro entirely lost sight of him.

Following in the same direction, however, he found himself in front of a cave; the entrance was so small, that at a distance it could scarcely be perceived, but on looking in he saw that it expanded into a chamber of considerable dimensions.

“Come in, friend mariner, and survey my marine abode,” exclaimed Lawrence from within.

A few rough steps enabled him to enter, and he discovered that the cave was not only large, but that it contained a bed and table, some stools and several chests, and casks, and bales, besides sails and coils of rope, and spars, and pieces of wreck; indeed, it had somewhat the appearance of a marine store, so various were the articles collected in it.

As he entered he was saluted by a low, fierce growl, and he saw in rather unpleasant proximity to his legs the savage jaws of Surly Grind, wide expanded in readiness to seize him. A word, however, from his master, sent him growling back to his couch at the further end of the cave.

“Never fear the dog; he is the guardian genius of the place, and is in duty bound to defend it against the approach of animated visitors,” said Lawrence. “But sit down, worthy mariner, and feel that you are in the abode of a friend; eatables we do not require, but I keep a store of some of the luxuries of life of which I know you will not refuse to partake.”

Saying this, he produced some pipes and tobacco, and a bottle of Schiedam, a case of which, he told his guest, had come on shore near his cave. Pedro partook of the latter very moderately, but he gladly replenished his own tobacco-pouch, as his own supply of the fragrant weed was running short. Lawrence then led him to the mouth of the cave.

“Mark the appearance of that line of broken water out there, which with its whirlpools and eddies comes sweeping round from the north and strikes the base of this point. Every object which once gets within its power is driven against this point. All these things which you see arranged round here have reached me in that way. What tales of shipwreck do they tell! Often, too, I fancy the waifs cast up come from far distant shores; strange, also, the water which rushes round the base of this rock is quite warm at times, and I could believe that it still retains the heat imparted to it by the sun of a southern clime. But all these things are useless to you, you will say, and so it may be; but these are the chests, and the bales, and the casks which Surly Grind and I, between us, have hauled on shore. That reminds me I promised to show you the contents of one of the chests; and here—,” (he opened a remarkably massive and well-made oaken sea-chest; the lid fitted so well, that although it had evidently been in the water for some time, none had found an entrance; Lawrence had contrived to force it open; lifting the lid, he took from it a tin case, and out of the case produced a document which he put into his companion’s hand). “Read that, and tell me what you think,” he said; and while Pedro opened the paper, and slowly perused it, he fixed his eyes earnestly on his countenance.

The Spaniard read on very slowly, and not without great difficulty.

“It is in English,” he said at length. “I cannot pretend to understand it all, but from what I do comprehend, I see that if I could fulfil my promise to my dead shipmate and captain, and see justice done to his widow and child, I have greater reason than ever for hurrying back to Spain to try and counteract the schemes of Father Mendez, and to oppose the Marquis Don Anibal Villavicencio, who will of course stir heaven and earth to maintain his position.”

“I thought as much,” said Lawrence; “you see that his friend here may have very little power to assist him in asserting his rights. Give me back the paper. I keep all my valuables in this cavern; there is no place so safe, for there is little chance of fire, and still less likely are thieves to break in and steal.”

Lawrence pointed to several other chests, but he seemed in no way disposed to exhibit any more of his treasures, whatever they were. The lieutenant, indeed, proposed returning forthwith to the castle. Lawrence having charged Surly Grind to keep strict watch and ward over his storehouse, they set off to return by the same way they had come.

Not long after this Pedro received the long-looked-for remittance from Spain, and prepared for his departure from Shetland. When he went to pay his adieus to Hilda, he dropped on one knee, and taking her hand, respectfully pressed it to his lips, while he silently repeated his oath, to exert himself to the utmost in the cause of her and her child. Accompanied by Lawrence, he then set off for Lerwick, whence he immediately embarked on board a vessel bound for London. He was much regretted by all the inhabitants of Lunnasting, but more especially by Hilda, who, although not aware of the extent of his devotion to her cause, felt that she had lost one of the few friends on whom she could depend for counsel and assistance.

Chapter Eleven.

Father Mendez in Spain—The Marquis and his old Shipmates—Captain Tacon the ex-Pirate.

Father Mendez, on reaching Lerwick, found a vessel about to sail for Leith. He might probably have taken a courteous farewell of the inhabitants of Lunnasting, had he not wished to steal a march on Pedro Alvarez. He had discovered that the worthy lieutenant suspected his designs, and would, if he had the power, counteract them; he therefore resolved to deprive him, forthwith, of that power. The Inquisition, that admirable institution for the destruction of heresy, existed in full force in those days in Spain, and the father well knew that if he could induce its officials to lay hands on his rival that he would give him no further trouble. The father reached Leith in safety, and thence was able to proceed on, without loss of time, direct to Cadiz. Not far off from that fair city was the magnificent mansion of the Marquis de Medea. The father, on landing, did not at once hasten to visit his relations and friends, to receive their congratulations on his escape; nor did he even go to pay his respects to the superior of his order, but, without a moment’s loss of time, he hurried off to the residence of the marquis. He introduced himself without much ceremony. The marquis could not at first believe the unwelcome news he brought.

“I have no object in deceiving you, most noble marquis,” answered the priest, with a calm, unruffled brow. “I have ample proofs of the truth of my statements, and should I bring them forward you could no longer keep possession of this beautiful mansion, of yonder fertile fields, of the time-honoured title you hold. But do not be alarmed; far be it from me to wish to dispossess you; the real heir is the son of a heretic woman, and will be brought up as a heretic; and I feel that I shall but be supporting the cause of our Holy Mother Church by saying nothing about this matter, and by maintaining you in possession of your property; you, who will, I doubt not, prove yourself one of her most devoted and zealous sons.”

The marquis was a person with a narrow forehead, small grey eyes, and that peculiar expression of countenance which the vice of indulged avarice seems generally to produce. Though his lips denoted sensuality, their total want of firmness showed the astute Father Mendez that he would be easily moulded to his will. The marquis was perfectly well aware of the way in which the church was at times apt to bleed those whom she designated her most devoted sons, and he winced at the thoughts of having to part with the large portion of his newly-acquired wealth which would be required.

“I know not what you mean, father,” he answered. “I have always been a devoted son of Holy Mother Church, and shall ever be ready to pay those dues which she can rightly demand.”

The priest fixed his eyes sternly on him.

“It will be as well, Don Anibal, that we come to a right understanding on the matter,” he remarked, in a low firm tone. “Remember, I have the power of depriving you of every silver piece of the wealth you enjoy; of stripping you of your title and estates, and reducing you to the state of poverty from which you have sprung; that is what I have the power of doing. The heir—the real owner of this superb mansion, of these broad lands—is a fine healthy child; a word from me would bring him over, and put him, or his proper guardians, in possession of them. Now, if I refrain from doing this, I am in duty bound to demand a sufficient recompense, not for myself—far be it from me to claim any earthly reward, for my labours are for the benefit of our Holy Mother Church, whose devoted servant I am. Here you will see I know the exact value of your property, and its rental. This paper contains my terms: if you agree to them, well and good—if not, you know the consequences. I leave you for half an hour to consider over the matter, while I go and pay my respects to the marchioness; she is a wise woman and a faithful daughter of the church. I doubt not how she will decide.”

Now Father Mendez was excessively clever and acute, but Don Anibal Villavicencio’s cunning had been sharpened in the school of adversity. He looked up with an innocent expression of countenance, and asked—

“How do I know that the child you speak of is in existence? Pardon me for putting so rude a question, father. Where is he to be found? Give me particulars which will enable me to judge whether I am making a fair bargain with you.”

The father smiled at Don Anibal’s frankness; he was in no way offended at the doubt cast on his veracity; he liked people to be open with him; it gave him, he thought, more power over them. He knew that the marquis could have no interest in bringing the child from Shetland, and as that island was a long way off, he was not likely to set off there to verify the accounts he might give. He might, therefore, have told him any story he pleased. In this instance, however, as it answered his purpose to speak the truth, seeing that the truth would have more influence with Don Anibal than any tale he could invent, he told him all that had occurred, and gave him a full description of Lunnasting, and its position. The marquis had learnt to conceal his thoughts as well as the priest; he assumed a dull and indifferent air as Father Mendez continued his account.

“I see the justice of your remark, father, and rest assured that I will do my duty,” he answered, with a twirl of his moustache and a stiff bow of the head. “The child is heir, you tell me, to a good property in this far-off island of Shetland, of which till now I never heard; he may well be content with that; indeed it is clear that he would be out of his element as the possessor of an estate like this; besides, as you wisely remark, he will be brought up as an heretic. Yes, father, my conscience is at rest; I feel that I am doing what must be well-pleasing to the church, and you assuredly shall receive the reward you demand.”

“His conscience!—I wonder of what that is composed,” muttered the priest, and then added aloud, “You have not yet decided with regard to the paper I put into your hands, Don Anibal.”

“Well, do as you propose,” answered the marquis. “I hope that you have not been too hard on me, though.”

The priest gave a searching glance at the marquis, and without speaking, left the room. Don Anibal’s countenance did not wear a particularly pleasant expression as his eyes followed the priest.

“I’ll be even with you,” he muttered, as he ground his teeth and shook his clenched fist towards the door at which the priest had retired. “What! Does he think I am fool enough to pay him the enormous sum he demands? He has given me the key to the means of settling the matter in a cheaper way than that. I must, however, in the meantime, keep my plans secret as the grave, or he will manage to counteract them.”

At the end of the time Father Mendez had fixed, he returned, and was highly pleased with the ready acquiescence with which the marquis agreed to his proposals. He then, with a conscience at rest, hastened on to his convent to report his arrival, and to give an account of his proceedings. The marquis waited till he had assured himself that he had without doubt left the neighbourhood, and then set out for Cadiz. He had a mansion in that city where he took up his abode. He had been in his youth at sea, and had still a number of seafaring acquaintance. They were not all of them amongst the most respectable orders of society; perhaps they were the better suited to carry out the object he had in view. He was a cunning man if not a wise one, and knew that he was more likely to succeed by doing things deliberately than in a hurry. He began to frequent places where he was likely to fall in with his old nautical associates, and when he met them he seemed to take great interest in their welfare, and made many inquiries as to their late adventures and mode of life.

War had just broken out between England and France, and all the other nations of Europe were in consequence arming, both afloat and on shore, not knowing when they might be drawn into the vortex of strife.

In all the ports of Spain, and at Cadiz especially, not only at the royal, but at the mercantile dockyards, vessels were being fitted out and armed ready to take a part in the contest. People of all descriptions, many who had long been wanderers on the face of the globe, were collected there with the hope of getting employment on board the numerous privateers fitting out, caring nothing which side they espoused, provided an abundance of prize-money was to be obtained. Among these worthies the marquis found several old acquaintances. He did not fail in the course of conversation to make inquiries about other former shipmates. He invited them to his house, and treated them with unexpected liberality. One and all declared that he was well worthy of the exalted rank to which he had attained. He was seated one day alone, not having yet found the description of man of whom he was in search, when a stranger was announced.

“He is a seafaring man,” said the servant, “but he declines to give his name, as he says your excellency is not acquainted with it.”

“Let him come in—perhaps he may have business with me,” said the marquis; and a tall, thin, swarthy personage, with a large pair of moustaches which totally concealed his mouth, entered the room. He probably was about fifty years old, but he had as much the appearance of a soldier as of a sailor about him; he seated himself in a chair, and immediately said: “Your very obedient servant, most noble marquis. I understand that you are in search of a trustworthy man to undertake some work or other for you.”

“I—I never said any such thing,” exclaimed the marquis, somewhat confused.

“Your excellency may not have said it, but the tenor of your conduct shows me what you require. You would not trouble yourself with the company of all the people you have lately invited to your house unless you required something from them. Come, be frank; I have guessed rightly, have I not?”

“Before I answer that question I must know whom I address,” answered the marquis, trying to look very wise.

“As to that, my name is not unknown to fame,” replied the stranger in a careless tone. “I am Don Josef Tacon, or Captain Tacon, as I am generally called; we have met before now in the days of our youth; in the West Indies; on the coast of Africa; you remember me, perhaps. You recollect how we boarded the Dutchman, and how we relieved the Mynheers of their cash and cargo, and provisions and water; and you haven’t forgotten the English West Indiaman we captured and sent to the bottom with all her crew when they threatened to send one of their cruisers after us. These and other little similar incidents have not escaped your memory, most noble marquis.”

Don Anibal winced not a little while the pirate—for such he avowed himself to be—was speaking; but he notwithstanding held out his hand and hailed him as an old shipmate, “My memory is as good as you suppose, my friend,” he remarked; “but we will not dwell on those matters. There are some things a man would gladly forget if he could. However, there is an affair in which an intelligent fellow like you would be useful, if you will undertake it.”

“Name your price, Don Anibal, and I will tell you if I can undertake it,” answered Captain Tacon; “my fortunes are somewhat at a low ebb, and I am ready to engage in any enterprise which promises sufficient remuneration.”

“You were always a reasonable man. What do you say to two thousand dollars? It would be worth a little exertion to gain that,” observed the marquis.

“Tell me what you require to be done, and I will then give you a direct answer,” said the pirate.

The marquis thought for some time before he replied. “I must swear you to secrecy in the first place, and in the next, that you will decide, when I have put before you the outline of the work required, without obliging me to descend to particulars.”

“Depend on me, marquis,” exclaimed the pirate. “As I see a crucifix at the other end of the room, I will take the oath; and now hasten on with your sketch; I am a man of action, and will speedily decide.”

“Listen, then,” said Don Anibal. “You can, I doubt not, obtain command of one of the numerous vessels fitting out as privateers; I will use my influence. I can speak to your character for bravery, enterprise, sagacity—you understand me: you must use every exertion to find a craft. I know your talents—you will not fail.”

Captain Tacon smiled grimly at the compliments the marquis paid him. “But the enterprise, the work you require of me, most noble marquis?” he said, with a slight gesture of impatience.

“I am coming to that, my friend,” was the answer. “It lies in a nutshell: in a northern region there exists a child, of whose person, for certain reasons, unnecessary now to state, I wish to obtain possession. He lives in a mansion capable of defence; you may possibly, therefore, have to use force, but that of course will only make the work more agreeable to you. On your bringing me satisfactory assurance that you have disposed of the child as I may direct, the reward shall be yours. In the meantime, this purse, as soon as you decide, I will present to you. It is but an earnest of my liberal intentions.”

The exhibition of the gold was a bright thought of Don Anibal’s. As the taste of blood whets the appetite of the wild beast, so did the glittering bait the avarice of the pirate.

“Give me the purse,” he exclaimed, eagerly stretching out his hands; “I will take the oath.”

“Take the oath, and you shall have the purse,” answered the marquis, smiling blandly. “No mental reservations, though; I do not forget your antecedents, my old comrade.”

Captain Tacon gave a hoarse laugh, and twirling his moustachios, while his countenance wore the expression of a person about to swallow a nauseous draught, he walked across the room towards the crucifix. The marquis followed, with a self-satisfied look, as if he had achieved a victory. It is not necessary to repeat the oath taken by the pirate, or to describe the final arrangements entered into between the two worthies.

In a few days Captain Tacon again made his appearance, habited in a handsome nautical costume, with a huge cocked hat, and a richly-mounted sword by his side, and announced that he had become the captain of the privateer schooner “San Nicolas.”

“Never did you set eyes on a finer craft, most noble marquis,” he exclaimed; “she will fly like the wind, and swim like a wild-fowl. She carries eight guns, and an unlimited supply of small arms, with a bold crew of sixty men, villains every one! There is no deed of violence they will not dare or do; and now we are ready to sail when we receive your final orders.”

“I knew that I could trust you in the selection of your followers,” said the marquis, quietly. “Here are your orders; you will open them when at sea, and see that you carry them out in the spirit as well as in the letter. You will, of course, be well provided with flags. It may be convenient, at times, to sail under some other flag than that of Spain.”

Don Tacon smiled. “I have some little experience in those matters,” he answered, “trust me.”

That evening the “San Nicolas” privateer was seen standing out of the harbour and steering to the northward. It was announced that she had sailed on a cruise, and would before long return.

It must not be supposed that all these arrangements took place with the rapidity with which they have been described. The Spaniards love dearly to do everything with deliberation; the summer had ended, and the winter had come and gone, before the events just narrated took place.

Two or three days after the “San Nicolas” had sailed, it became generally known that Lieutenant Pedro Alvarez, the only surviving officer of the unfortunate “Saint Cecilia,” had arrived at Cadiz. Such was the case—Pedro had obtained a passage on board an English man-of-war. When some sixty leagues to the north of Cadiz, she had fallen in with a suspicious-looking craft, which hoisted Spanish colours. An officer was sent to board her, and Lieutenant Alvarez was requested to go as interpreter. The stranger proved to be the privateer schooner “San Nicolas,” and in her captain he recognised an old acquaintance. The last time they had met, it had been under somewhat unpleasant circumstances for Captain Tacon, who had almost got his head into a halter, and but narrowly slipped it out again. The worthy lieutenant very naturally suspected, from his knowledge of Don Josef’s previous history, that he was not engaged in any very creditable undertaking. He at once suspected that he was not sailing on a simple privateering voyage, but of course he failed to ascertain the truth. The more questions he asked, the more mysterious and important his quondam acquaintance became. The result of his conversation was, that he resolved, as soon as he arrived at Cadiz, to make all the inquiries in his power about Captain Tacon, and the “San Nicolas.” Pedro Alvarez was a blunt sailor, but he had a very considerable amount of sagacity. Before long, he discovered that his quondam acquaintance had been known to pay frequent visits to the Marquis de Medea, who was also known to have had some correspondence with the owners of the “San Nicolas.” More than this Pedro could not discover; but it was sufficient to make him suspect that the schooner’s voyage was in some way connected with the affairs of the marquis himself. He was not however a man to do things by halves, so he continued to work on in the hope that he might at last ferret out the truth. However, he had not much time for this occupation; for having reported himself to the naval authorities, he was forthwith promoted, and appointed to the command of a brig-of-war. His great aim, however, before he sailed, was to place in proper train with the legal authorities the claims of young Hernan Escalante to the title and estates now held by Don Anibal de Villavicencio. He was aware that possession is nine-tenths of the law, and that he must expect to have a very tough battle to fight.

“Never fear for the consequences,” said he to his legal adviser. “I have neither wife nor child, nor any one depending on me, and as long as I have a silver piece belonging to me, I will expend it in claiming the rights of that poor child.”

Having just given expression to this virtuous resolution as he was leaving the lawyer’s door, he found himself standing face to face with Father Mendez.

The priest looked narrowly at the house. He recollected that a well-known lawyer lived there. What could the rough lieutenant want with him? He jumped at a conclusion, which was not far from the truth; still his countenance wore its usual calm and inexpressive look.

“Ha! my old shipmate! I did not expect to see you so soon in our own well-beloved native land,” he exclaimed. “These are stirring times, and you did well to return: you will not be long on shore, however, I conclude?”

“Not long enough to lose my sea legs or sea manners,” answered Pedro, bluntly.

“Have you another appointment yet, my friend?” asked the priest.

“My superiors think me too useful to allow me to remain long unemployed,” replied Pedro.

“That is well: take the advice of a friend, and attend to your own duties,” said the priest, in a suppressed tone, sinking at last to a whisper; “you will but burn your fingers if you interfere where you have no concern.”

“Thank you for your hint, most astute priest. Then you guess what I am about,” thought Pedro, but he did not speak aloud. He only tried to look totally unconscious of what Father Mendez could possibly mean. He did not succeed as well as he wished or fancied that he had done, and the father saw that it would be necessary to watch him very narrowly, to counteract any scheme he might attempt to carry into execution.

The lieutenant, meantime, fancied that he had outwitted the priest, and continued with the greatest energy to prosecute the work he had commenced.

Father Mendez was not long in discovering this, and with fully equal resolution took steps to put a stop to his proceedings. He also prided himself on performing whatever he undertook in the most effectual manner. He saw that Pedro might cause him a great deal of trouble and inconvenience. There were two ways which suggested themselves of disposing of him: he might inform the marquis of his proceedings, who would, without the slightest scruple, probably get him assassinated; but the bravo’s dagger was not always sure, and if the marquis knew that he was dead he might be tempted to assume more independence than would be convenient. He had another plan, which could not possibly fail.

Pedro Alvarez, as do most captains, lived on shore while his ship was fitting out. He continued to do so after she was ready for sea, and while he was waiting for orders. He had made every preparation for sailing, and was ready to trip his anchor at a moment’s notice. At last his despatches arrived. He was paying his last visit to the shore, when, as he was sitting in the room of his lodging glancing over a few accounts which remained unpaid, a stranger was announced. Captain Alvarez rose to receive him, and requested to know the object of his visit. As he did so, he recognised a person of whom he had caught a glimpse more than once, watching him as he left the house.

“No matter who I am,” said the stranger; “I but obey the orders of my superiors, and I am directed to desire you to attend at the office of the Holy Inquisition, there to answer certain accusations which have been brought against you. This, it is hoped, you can at once easily and completely do, and that you will therefore not hesitate to accompany me. A carriage waits for us at the end of the street. You can arrange the matters about which you are now occupied on your return. I am directed to accompany you, and as the council is now sitting there is no time to be lost.”

“Do you expect to catch a weasel asleep?” thought Pedro, at least an equivalent Spanish proverb occurred to him. Pedro was conscious that he had at times expressed himself, in coffee-houses and taverns, in a way not over complimentary, either to the priests or the Inquisition itself; and he felt very sure that no explanations he could give would prove satisfactory to the Inquisitional council. The bold determined look he gave the officer was such as that worthy officer was little accustomed to receive from the trembling wretches on whom he served his summonses.

“You have performed your duty, my friend, and now go back to those who sent you, and inform them that you have delivered your message, but that my avocations prevent me from acceding to their demands.”

The official looked wonderfully astonished, and, without saying another word, drew a pistol from his bosom, and clapping it to the seaman’s head, told him that he must enforce obedience.

“Must you, friend?” exclaimed Pedro, by a sudden movement of his arm striking up the pistol; “then I must resist by force.”

The official pulled the trigger, but the weapon had not often been used, and the powder flashed in the pan. He was about to draw another, but Pedro’s quick eye saw the man’s purpose. His own sword lay on the table. He seized it with one hand, while with the other he grasped the barrel of the pistol about to be turned towards him. At that instant the official’s foot slipped, and, as he fell heavily forward, the point of the sword entered his throat and pierced through to the spine. Pedro caught him as he fell, but the wound was mortal, and in another minute he was dead.

Pedro Alvarez was as bold and brave a seaman as ever stepped; but he knew full well that killing an official of the Inquisition in the execution of his duty, would make the country too hot for him. The instinct of self-preservation was as strong with him as with most men. He considered how he could avoid the consequences of his act. There was a large cupboard in the room. He dragged the body in, and locking the door put the key in his pocket. The wound had not bled much, and he was able to get rid of the traces without much difficulty. It just then occurred to him that the owners of the house would get into trouble when the body should be discovered; so he wrote on a piece of paper—“This man attempted to kill me, and in self-defence, I, against my wish, slew him.—Pedro Alvarez;” and, opening the door of the cupboard, pinned it on the stranger’s coat. He then put all the papers belonging to him into his pocket, and deliberately walked down to the quays. His boat was waiting for him. His heart beat much more regularly than it had done for the last half hour, as he sprang on board and shoved off. His crew gave way, and he soon stepped the deck of his beautiful little brig, the “Veloz.” The next instant the boats were hoisted in, the anchor was weighed, the topsails were let fall and sheeted home, and the brig, with a fine breeze from the southward, stood out of the harbour. Every sail the brig could carry was pressed on her. The officers and crew were delighted with the way she flew through the water. Her captain turned his spyglass very often towards the town: he made out, at last, a boat pulling off rapidly towards the brig, and shortly afterwards his signal midshipman reported that one of the ships-of-war in the harbour was telegraphing to them.

“You must be mistaken, boy; it cannot be intended for us shut up your book, we are beyond signalling distance,” he answered. “And so farewell to lovely Spain—for ever, perhaps,” he thought to himself. “It will take more years than I am likely to live to make those wretches forget or forgive the death of their official. From henceforth I am a banished man. For myself I care not; but for poor young Hernan—who is to advocate his cause? Well, I fear for this time the spirit of evil and his imps have got the upper hand of honest folk.”

Chapter Twelve.

A Strange Schooner appears off Lunnasting—The Castle attacked—The Pirates enter the Castle—Young Hernan carried off.

The winds whistled round the towers of Lunnasting, and the wild waves, as they were wont, washed the base of the rock on which it stood, and time sped on without any material change taking place among its inhabitants. Hilda spent the greater portion of the day in her turret chamber, gazing out—when not engaged in nursing her child—on the wide-spread ocean, and thinking of him who slept beneath its surface. Her infant, however, was her constant and only source of interest.

The little fatherless infant grew and flourished, and gave every promise of becoming a strong healthy boy. Meantime the health of Bertha Morton became week after week worse and worse, and her mother began to fear, too justly, that her days on earth were numbered. Rolf had been compelled to make a voyage to Greenland, as first mate of a ship; and he came back only in time to have his little boy put into his arms and to receive the last breath of the wife he so fondly loved. At Hilda’s special invitation the young Ronald was carried up to castle that his grandmother might have the entire charge of him.

“He will make a good playmate for my little Hernan, dear Bertha,” observed Hilda; “so you see he will amply repay me for any advantage he may obtain by the arrangement. I trust the boys may be friends through life. They are of kindred blood, and Morton is a person in manners and conduct far above the position he holds. From his appearance it has more than once occurred to me that he must be of gentle blood. He that is gone, who saw a good deal of him, several times made the same remark.”

“He was brought up by a good, kind, Christian man, and it is on that account, rather than on account of his birth, that he possesses the qualities of which you so kindly speak, my dear mistress,” answered Bertha.

Hilda made no reply; affliction had not taught her to adopt the principles which guided Bertha’s conduct.

The brief daylight hours of the northern winter had once more begun to increase, when Hilda received a letter from her father, announcing his intention of returning to Lunnasting in the early part of the summer, with Edda. He also spoke of her sister’s engagement to a Colonel Armytage, remarking that the marriage would soon take place.

It is scarcely possible to describe the varied, but chiefly painful feelings which this information created in Hilda’s bosom. Her father had hitherto remained ignorant of her conduct, and she felt that he would be very justly incensed when he heard of it. Still she was too proud and self-willed to meditate for an instant asking his pardon, or seeking for reconciliation, and her whole thoughts were occupied in considering how she could best meet the storm of indignation and anger which she expected to burst on her. For Edda, however, she had as warm an affection as it was in her nature to feel for anybody so totally different as her sister and she were to each other. She could scarcely help despising Edda for her gentleness and her kind and affectionate disposition, as well as for the implicit obedience she yielded to their father’s often imperious commands.

“I pray heaven the gentleman our sweet Miss Edda is going to marry is worthy of her—good, and generous, and kind—or it will break her heart,” said nurse Bertha, as they were talking over the subject together.

“It takes a good deal to break a Wardhill’s heart, or mine would have gone long ago,” answered Hilda, with a sigh so deep and sad that it made Bertha’s sicken as she heard it.

Lawrence Brindister was as little pleased as any one with the report of Sir Marcus Wardhill’s intended return. Poor Lawrence had that instinctive dread of his guardian which a cat or a dog has of the person who takes every occasion of giving them a kick or a buffet when they meet. He felt that he was unjustly and tyrannically treated, yet he had no means of breaking away from his thraldom. Sir Marcus had a very simple plan for keeping him within bounds; he never intrusted him with money; and as poor Lawrence was known to be of unsound mind, nobody was found willing to lend him their gold to supply his wants, as none of it was ever likely to be repaid.

Pending the expected arrival of her father, Hilda was seated as usual at her turret window; now gazing at her infant, who was sleeping on a pile of cushions at her feet; now casting a glance across the ocean, over which the sun, now declining towards the west, was casting a rich glow, when her eye was attracted by the white sails of a vessel which, lighted up by his beams, shone like driven snow. There was a light wind from the south-east, before which the vessel under all sail was standing in towards the land. Hilda, who from having lived all her life near the sea was well acquainted with the rigs of vessels, recognised the one now approaching as a schooner, and from her wide spread of canvas she judged that she was a large one.

On stood the stranger, directly towards Whalsey. At first, from the bold way in which she approached, Hilda thought that she must have a pilot on board, but as she drew in with the channel between the south end of Eastling and the little island known as Grief Skerry, she hauled her wind, and then went about and hove-to, with her head off shore.

“What can possibly be her errand here?” said Hilda to herself. “Can my father be on board her? But no, he would have stood on, and brought the vessel to an anchor.”

The family retired to rest at the usual hour of ten o’clock, and probably not long after that were wrapped in sound sleep. Not so poor Hilda. The mistress of the mansion slept far less than any of those who obeyed her orders. She invariably retired long after the household were in bed, rose early, and probably seldom obtained more than an hour’s continuous sleep. On this evening her child had been somewhat fretful, and Bertha insisted on carrying the little fellow off to sleep in her room with her grandson, Ronald Morton. Hilda had reluctantly consented to the arrangement, and frequently awoke with a start of terror on missing her little companion from her side. At length she had fallen into a comparatively sound sleep, when she was suddenly awakened by a loud, crashing sound. She started up. The noise brought to her recollection, with painful clearness, the moment when the “Saint Cecilia” struck on the rocks of Ossa Skerry. She thought she must have been dreaming, but again the sound was renewed. She felt confident that it was caused by heavy blows dealt against a small postern gate which led out on the front terrace overhanging the sea. From the noise, Hilda suspected that this had already partly given way, and she feared that the assailants, whoever they were, would already have gained an entrance before she could summon any of the servants to resist them. Besides Lawrence, it was not likely that there were more than five or six men in the house. The bell belonging to her room led only to the chambers of the women, and she feared that when they awoke, they would do little more for the defence of the castle than scream; nor had she much confidence in the valour of old David Cheyne, the butler. Still she herself felt no overwhelming alarm. Throwing some garments round her, she hurried to the hall, where a bell rope communicated with the servants’ room. She pulled it violently, and then hastened on to call Lawrence. She had little confidence, however, in the way he might behave; still, she had no reason to doubt his courage, and knew that if he comprehended what was required, he was likely to be of as much value as any other man. He had fire-arms, and so had all the servants, and she hoped, if there was time for them to collect, to give the assailants a warm reception. The door, it was evident, had resisted the first attack made on it, for again there came a succession of thundering blows, which echoed through the castle, and must have aroused the soundest sleepers. Hilda took a turn up and down the hall to relieve her impatience. She felt inclined herself to go to the gate to ascertain how far it had resisted the attacks made on it, but she reflected that this would be folly, because, should she be seized by the enemy, it would make all further resistance useless. Every moment her impatience increased.

“What! are the men turned cowards?” she exclaimed, when she found that no one appeared; “are they skulking in bed, afraid to encounter the unexpected foe? Oh! that I were a man, to be able to fight as brave men do! I thought better things of Lawrence. If they would but come, we might yet drive back these marauders. It shall never be said that the castle of Lunnasting was given up without a desperate struggle.”

Again she rang such a peal, that Davie Cheyne must have been aroused, had he been twice as sound asleep as he had ever been before. It produced its effect, and with startled looks, his hair on end, with his night-cap in one hand and his coat in the other, the old butler rushed into the hall, followed by the other serving-men, and some farm labourers who slept in the castle.

“Oh my lady!—oh Miss Hilda! Oh—I beg pardon, Madame Escalante—what is the matter? What is going to happen?”

“That you, lazy-bones, have been snoring in bed, while the castle is being attacked by a band of robbers or privateers; and that, unless you stir yourselves to defend it, you may all be murdered as you deserve. Quick!—get your arms, and try to defend the place. Where is Mr Lawrence? Is he as cowardly as the rest of you?”

“No, cousin Hilda, he is not,” said Lawrence, who entered at that moment with a musket in one hand, a sword in the other, and a brace of pistols in his belt. “I have been to take a look at the besiegers. They are taking breath to make a fresh attack, and it’s my opinion that we take them on the flank, and if we work our guns well, we shall be able to shoot them down before one of them can return to their boats.”

“Excellent, Lawrence,” exclaimed Hilda, pleased with his unexpected sagacity and promptness. “Place the men as you think best. What could induce an enemy to attack this place, it is difficult to say, unless from its apparent strength they suppose it contains large stores of plate and jewels. However, I trust to your courage and conduct to disappoint them.”

While Hilda was speaking, some of the men were loading their firelocks; others found that they had forgot their ammunition, and ran back to get it; and Davie Cheyne was putting on his coat and arranging his garments in a seemly manner, and stuffing a night-cap into his pouch, he armed himself with a huge blunderbuss, which, with its ammunition pouches, hung over the mantelpiece.

“Give me a musket!” cried Hilda. “Where there are not enough men, women must fight. I would sooner lose my life than allow these marauders to enter the castle.”

Hilda was speaking while Davie Cheyne was getting down the fire-arm and handing it to her. Not another moment was then lost, and the party, led by Lawrence, were hastening to the eastern tower which commanded the gate, when several of the women rushed with loud shrieks into the hall, exclaiming that the robbers were breaking into the castle, and that they were all going to be murdered.

“Silence, wenches!” cried Hilda, indignantly. “When I show signs of fear it is time for you to be afraid. Those who have the nerve to load the guns come with me; the rest go and remain with Bertha Eswick and the children. She will shame you, I doubt not, by her coolness.”

Two of the damsels alone were influenced by this address, and followed their mistress, while the rest, every now and then giving way to a shriek, ran up stairs as fast as they could go, to the nursery, where, surrounding Bertha, who was sitting up with the children, they said the mistress had sent them, and pulling away at her, entreated her to tell them what was going to happen.

“Girls, girls; it is something very dreadful, I doubt not,” she answered, solemnly. “But shrieking and crying will not ward off the danger. Let us rather silently pray to Him who can alone save us, for protection and the safety of those we best love.”

The girls were silent for a short time, but Bertha’s address did not seem to have much effect on them; and the sound of a volley of musketry, which was soon afterwards heard again, set them off shrieking louder than before.

The effects of the volley did not appear to have much availed the defenders of the castle, for, almost before it had ceased, the thundering blows on the gate were renewed with greater violence than before, and the crashing noise which followed showed that it was yielding to them. There were, as Bertha well knew, two small gates, one within the other. The first had, as she suspected, given way to the attack the assailants had first made, the crushing sound of which had awakened her as it had Hilda. The second gate was the one against which they were now directing their efforts. Lawrence had not been aware of this, and he fancied that it was the outer gate alone which had to be defended. On reaching the first storey of the tower, and on looking from the window which commanded the space before this outer gate, he saw a large group of armed men, apparently prepared for attacking it.

“There are the enemy! Have no parley with them! Fire, boys!” he exclaimed, setting the example by discharging his musket. The rest fired likewise, and apparently several of the enemy were hit; but, instead of taking to flight, they fired in return, and several of the Lunnasting party might have been hit had they not speedily retired from the window. In the chamber below, however, there were several loopholes, and in these they forthwith assembled, and commenced firing away as before. Hilda had not used her musket; but she in no way felt inclined to shrink from the contest, and her presence wonderfully animated the rest. They soon, however, discovered that the first of their defences had been taken, and that they were not in the slightest degree impeding the progress of the attacking party, who, in spite of the repeated volleys with which their comrades were saluted, continued to batter away at the door with an evident determination to succeed. At the same time the door was a very solid one, and resisted all their efforts. Several of those outside had been wounded. One or two had been seen to fall. This encouraged Lawrence and his followers.

“Could you not make a sally and drive them off?” at length exclaimed Hilda, as the blows on the door became louder and more reiterated. “If you rushed out suddenly they would not know how many men were following, and might take to flight.”

“They know well enough how many men are inside these walls, or they would not have dared to attack us, my lady,” observed Davie Cheyne. “With your permission, my lady, we’ll fight on till the powder is gone, with the thick stone between us, but there is no use in venturing our lives against six times our number without some such aid.”

The firing on both sides now became very warm till two of the servants were hit, and a bullet passed through the sleeve of Lawrence’s coat. On discovering this Hilda despatched one of the girls for bandages, while she endeavoured to staunch the blood of the man who was most hurt with her handkerchief.

“Thank ye, ma’am—thank ye, my lady,” said the poor fellow, looking up at her with an expression of gratitude in his countenance; “it will not be much harm done, and if ye will let me I’ll be at them again.”

The girl was absent nearly a minute, and, as she appeared, in a voice of terror she exclaimed, “the gate is giving way, and they will be into the castle in a moment!”

The courage of Hilda and her two attendants formed a great contrast to the behaviour of the women who had taken refuge with Bertha. The more constant the firing the louder they shrieked; and, as the sound of the blows on the gate reached them they clung to her gown, entreating her to tell them what to do. At last there came a crash louder than any that had preceded it, followed immediately by shouts and cries, and the report of fire-arms, evidently inside the castle, and the cries and shrieks increased, and then there was the heavy tramp of men’s feet, some hurrying along the passages, others ascending the stairs.

“Oh, they are coming here—they are coming here!” cried one of the servant girls. “We shall all be murdered, and the castle will be burnt. Oh, Mistress Bertha, where shall we run to?—where shall we hide?”

“Close the doors, girls,” said Bertha, calmly. “Perhaps they will not come here.”

The sound of the footsteps drew nearer and nearer. One room after the other was entered, and at last that next to the nursery. A moment afterwards the nursery door was violently shaken. Bertha made a sign to the women to keep silence, but in vain: as a heavy blow was struck against the door, one of them shrieked out. Some words in a strange language were spoken by men with gruff voices, and the next instant the door was burst open, and a dozen or more armed men, fierce looking fellows, rushed into the room. The girls fled to the extreme corner, but the pirates—for that they were desperadoes of that description, there seemed no doubt—took at first but little notice of them, turning all their attention to Bertha and the two children. A tall sinewy fellow, with long moustachios, stalked up to her, and, before she was aware of what he was about, snatched one of the children from her, and scrutinising its countenance returned it to her, and then seized the other, which he examined still more minutely. He seemed sorely puzzled, and pulled away furiously at his moustachios, while he talked and gesticulated to his companions.

They then commenced an examination of the children, and were so absorbed in the matter, that the serving girls were able to make their escape from the room, while poor Bertha was left alone with the savage-looking band of strangers. However, the matter was soon decided. The tall man, who seemed to be the captain, attempted to snatch the one he had first seized from poor Bertha’s grasp. In vain she struggled, and entreated him to let it go. Both the little fellows shrieked out with terror, as, hugging them in her arms, she endeavoured to escape from him; but, tearing the child from her, he held it up to his companions, and seemed to be asking them certain questions. They nodded in return; and while two of them held back poor Bertha, who was struggling to regain the child, he threw a cloak over it, and, calling to his followers, hurried down stairs. Bertha attempted to follow, in the hopes of regaining the child, but, overcome with terror and agitation, she sunk exhausted on the ground. The marauders took their way to the postern gate, by which they had entered the castle. Near it was a room, at the door of which a number of their companions were standing, guarding the defenders of the castle, whom they had overpowered. Leaving them there, he passed on, and, getting over the terrace parapet wall, he descended the cliff with his burden towards the boat which lay at the foot of it, and to which the men who had been wounded had been already conveyed. The little boy was all the time shrieking out most lustily, and desiring to be taken back to his mamma. Placing the child in the boat, with strict charges to one of the men who were in her not to let it out of his arms, he climbed the cliff again with the agility of a cat, and rejoined his comrades. He addressed them in Spanish.

“My men,” he observed, “we have thus far fulfilled our engagement. Now let us recompense ourselves in case the promised reward should not be forthcoming.”

His proposal seemed to meet with the warm approval of all the party. It was necessary, however, to leave some of them to guard the prisoners, at which those who were to be left grumbled much. “No matter,” he observed; “three of you will do, and if any of the prisoners attempt to escape, shoot them. It is the quickest way of disposing of those sort of people.”

Bertha had lain thus for some time, still grasping the little child, and in spite of his piteous cries, unconscious of his presence, when she was aroused by her mistress’s voice exclaiming—

“Bertha, Bertha! where is my boy?—where is Hernan?”

“Your boy, Hilda! is he not here?” answered Bertha, scarcely yet fully aroused. “Is he not here—here in my arms?”

“Here?—no! Where is he? who has him? Give him to me!” exclaimed Hilda, in a tone which showed the agony of her terror.

“Oh! was it not a dream? Where is he, do you ask? What has happened? Those men—they bore him away,” said Bertha, trying to rouse herself.

“My boy gone? You gave him to them instead of your own,” cried Hilda. “Oh! woman—woman! Did you not know how precious he was to me? And you let them take him! You should have died rather than allow them to tear him from you.”

“You wrong me, dear mistress,” answered Bertha. “They chose yours—they had come on purpose to get him, for they rejected mine. But have they gone? Let us follow them: a mother’s tears may induce them to give him back.”

“And I have lost all this time!” cried Hilda, putting her hand to her brow, and moving from the room.

When the pirates forced their way into the castle, the defenders were separated; Davie Cheyne, with the two serving girls, hurrying off their mistress in one direction, while Lawrence and the men bravely opposed them for some minutes, till they were completely overpowered, and compelled to submit to the enemy.

Having provided for their prisoners, the captain of the pirates and his men set off to engage in the pleasant occupation of ransacking the castle. From room to room they went, injuring nothing, and breaking nothing, except the locks of drawers, cabinets, chests, and cupboards. These, as the keys were not forthcoming, they burst open to examine their contents. They worked away briskly, but in no undue hurry. They knew that the operation in which they were engaged should not be done slowly, in case of interruption; at the same time at present, they had no reason to expect any interference with their performances. They were most of them evidently practised hands, for they were choice in their selections, and took only the more valuable articles. Plate, jewels, and ornaments were quickly transferred to their pockets, or to bags with which they had come prepared; but, with the exception of a few clothes, to which some of them took a fancy, and a collection of eatables from the housekeeper’s store-room, nothing else was carried off.

These matters being arranged, the captain ordered a retreat to be sounded. It was time, for daylight was already coming on, and they could not tell what assistance might be sent to the inhabitants of the castle, as they knew that the sound of their firing must have given notice to the neighbouring population that something unusual was going on. With some derisive expressions, the meaning of which Lawrence alone, of those who heard them, could understand, they left the party in the room, simply turning the key on them, and took their way to their boats. Just as they were shoving off through the twilight, a figure was seen standing on the edge of the cliff, stretching forth her arms, and shrieking out—

“My child—my child! Bring back my boy! Take him not away!”

In vain she cried, and those fierce men, cruel and callous as they were, had not the barbarity to mock her. Without uttering a word, they pulled rapidly from the shore. Giving vent to her feelings in cries, she uttered shriek after shriek, and would have thrown herself into the water, in her eagerness to follow them, had not Davie Cheyne come behind her, and, seizing her in his arms, drawn her back from the edge of the precipice. She broke from him, and was again rushing forward, when Lawrence and a servant, who burst out of the room where they had been locked in, ran forward and surrounded her. When they saw the boats, two of them, who had secured some muskets which the pirates had overlooked, threatened to fire on them; but as they levelled their pieces the captain held up the child, and three or four bullets whizzing above their heads, showed them that they would gain nothing by warlike proceedings. Some of the men—and so did Lawrence—proposed manning Sir Marcus’s barge, and going in pursuit of the enemy; but the proposal was wisely overruled by Davie Cheyne. “How could they expect, with a single boat, and with but few men ill-armed, to capture two boats full of well-armed men, perfectly practised in warfare, and who had already shown their superiority?”

The argument was unanswerable, and the proposal was withdrawn. It was, meantime, with the greatest difficulty that Hilda was held back from the edge of the cliff.

“My child! my child!” she continued crying out. “Oh, bring me back my child!”

The sound of her voice could no longer reach those she addressed. Away pulled the boat towards the schooner in the offing; and as all hope of recovering her soon vanished, she again sunk senseless into the arms of those surrounding her.

When daylight increased, a schooner, which hoisted French colours, was seen standing away to the eastward; but whence she had come, and where she went to, no one connected with Lunnasting was ever able to discover.

Chapter Thirteen.

Arrival of Sir Marcus—Hilda and her Sister—A Brig of War appears—Edda’s Marriage—Rolf Morton sails on a long Voyage.

For many days after the loss of her child, Hilda remained in a state of such utter prostration, that Bertha, who would allow no one but herself to watch her, often dreaded that her mind would go altogether.

“Perhaps she would be happier thus unconscious of past griefs, or of the dreary future in store for her,” Bertha frequently repeated to herself; but Hilda was not thus to be spared the trials and sorrows sent to purify and correct her nature. Not only did she become fully aware of all that had taken place, but she was made fully alive to events daily occurring, and was able to contemplate what the future might bring forth. On what account her son was carried off, she could form no conjecture, but she always cherished the hope of seeing him again. This hope occupied her thoughts by day and her dreams by night, and appeared to be the chief means of her restoration to comparative health. At first she could not bear the sight of her child’s playmate, Ronald Morton; but one day she suddenly desired Bertha to bring him to her, and after gazing at him for some moments, she covered him with kisses, and from that moment could scarcely bear him out of her sight. At first the child cried, and evidently regarded her with dread; but Bertha soothed him, and persuaded him to go back to her; and Hilda, by gentle caresses, which seemed totally foreign to her nature, soon won him over completely, so that he quickly learned to look on her as really his mother. His father had sailed, at the commencement of the year, for Greenland, and there was no probability of his returning till the autumn.

In spite of the exciting incidents which had occurred, matters at Lunnasting returned very much to their usual condition. Even poor Lawrence Brindister, who had behaved with courage and a considerable amount of judgment when the castle was attacked, very speedily again became the half-witted creature he generally appeared, and once more resumed his eccentric habits and behaviour.

Sir Marcus had before this again put off the time for his return home; but at length a large cutter—a Leith smack—was seen standing towards the castle. She dropped her anchor at the entrance of Lunnasting Voe, and a boat containing a lady and gentleman immediately put off from her, and pulled for the landing-place. Hilda soon recognised her father and sister. As she saw them, she felt every nerve in her system trembling with agitation. Bertha entreated her to be calm, and at last, by a violent effort, she gained sufficient command over herself to hurry down to the landing-place to meet them. Her father met her with his usual polite, but cold and indifferent manner; but Edda herself, blooming with life and health, looked deeply concerned when she saw her altered appearance, for physical suffering and mental anxiety had made sad havoc with those features. Sir Marcus had now to learn, for the first time, of the piratical attack which had been made on his castle, and of the severe loss he had suffered. Every one was anxious to screen Hilda; and probably, had it not been necessary to account to him for the disappearance of so many articles of property, even that event would not have been told him. Of all others, he was allowed to remain perfectly ignorant.

Thus, strange as it may appear, he heard nothing of the circumstances of the visit of the “Saint Cecilia,” of Hilda’s marriage with Don Hernan, or of the birth of her child. All he heard was, that a foreign ship-of-war had anchored in the Sound, and that, shortly after, she had been wrecked on the west coast of the mainland; so sure are those who attempt to rule their dependents with severity or injustice, to be deceived or misled by them.

Humbled, softened, and weighed down with grief, Hilda could not long keep her secret from her sister; and Edda heard, with amazement and sorrow, all the strange events which had occurred at Lunnasting during her absence. Once having broken through the ice of reserve which had so long existed, the two sisters were on far more affectionate terms than they had ever before been.

Edda did not utter a word of blame. She well knew how little trained Hilda had ever been to bear it, but she gave her sympathy, and treated her with all the tenderness and affection of a loving sister.

Meantime, Sir Marcus Wardhill, who was not a man to suffer an injury without attempting to obtain redress, was sending memorial after memorial to the government in England, to complain of the attack made on his castle, and was also instituting every inquiry to ascertain to what nation the people belonged who had been guilty of the act. All he could learn with regard to the latter point was, that on the day following that on which it occurred, a pilot boat and several fishing vessels had fallen in with a large schooner of a very rakish appearance, under French colours, steering a course apparently with the intention of running between Shetland and Orkney, into the Atlantic.

In the course, however, of his inquiries, information which he little expected came out, and which could not fail to raise his suspicions as to his daughter’s discretion. He was, as has been seen, a man wise in the ways of the world, and not at all liable to give way to sudden bursts of temper, great as might be the provocation. Instead, therefore, of rushing into his daughter’s room, and accusing her of her misconduct, he kept his counsel, and said nothing whatever on the subject. It might have occurred to him that he should have been wiser had he remained at home, and looked more narrowly after his establishment. He found that he had been deceived—of that there could be no doubt. Information which he naturally expected would have been given to him had been withheld. He knew that this being the case, he was not likely to force it out of his dependents. He went on, therefore, quietly making inquiries, now of one, now of the other, and though he did not gain the whole truth, he ascertained enough to assure him that it would be wiser not to push his inquiries much further. Had he become aware of the exact state of the case, he would have undoubtedly been far more satisfied than he was; but cunning men are often caught in their own snares, and miss the mark at which they are aiming.

It was remarked that, after a time, he took far more interest in little Ronald Morton than he had at first done, and seemed not at all surprised at finding the child so constantly with his daughter. He even made some attempts to play with it, but they were not very successful, and the little fellow invariably made his escape from him as soon as he could.

The time fixed for Edda’s marriage had now arrived, and Colonel Armytage was daily expected. Sir Marcus mentioning this to Hilda, remarked, “You will let that child remain with Bertha Eswick while Armytage is here. I do not object to your petting him, but it is fit that you should pay all the attention in your power to your intended brother-in-law.”

There might have been far more order and regularity in the castle after the master’s return, but everybody felt an uncomfortable sensation of oppression whenever he was present. The only sun which shed any light through the surrounding atmosphere was his daughter Edda. Full of life and animation, nothing could quell her spirits, and in most cases she had only to appear to dispel the gloom.

Poor Lawrence, even more than any one else, felt the weight of his guardian’s presence whenever he was compelled to remain at home; but he had the resource—of which he never failed to avail himself when the weather allowed him—of going out in his boat, of wandering about the island on Neogle, with Surly Grind, or of visiting his cavern. Sir Marcus had gained that influence over him which a man of strong mind usually obtains over one of weak intellect, and he was thus often able to make him say the very things which he purposely intended to keep secret. Still Lawrence did not tell him the whole truth, and often thus misled him more than if he had not said a word on the subject. Often, too, he would startle him as he walked away by breaking out, as if unconsciously, with “The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!”

“What do you mean by that, Lawrence?” exclaimed the baronet, one day, with greater agitation than he usually exhibited.

“The meaning, coz?” said Lawrence, turning round and looking at him hard. “The true meaning is this: that the king of the land will some day come back, and put his own crown of gold on his head, in spite of the rebels and all the cunning men who try to keep him from it.”

A very uncomfortable sensation crept round the baronet’s heart.

Poor Lawrence went his way, rejoicing under the belief that he had frightened the stern, dignified baronet out of his wits. He little understood the tough materials of which his cousin’s mind was composed, or dreamed of the injury the hints he had thrown out would induce him to work against those he might suppose stood in his way. At present it was Sir Marcus’s wish to keep everything as smooth and pleasant at Lunnasting, that he might be able to give an agreeable welcome to his intended son-in-law.

Colonel Armytage had written word that he had engaged the same cutter which had carried Sir Marcus and his daughter to Shetland. It was very natural, therefore, that Edda should very frequently have her eye at a large telescope Sir Marcus had brought with him, and which he had placed in Hilda’s room at the top of the tower. One day, as she was looking through the glass, she exclaimed suddenly to her sister, “Oh Hilda, Hilda, there is the cutter at last!”

Hilda looked, but her more practised eye told her that it was no cutter, but a square-rigged vessel, which, with a fair breeze, under all sail, was approaching the island. She was sorry to disappoint Edda, and for sometime she did not tell her of her mistake. She herself went several times to the glass, and was convinced, from the squareness of the vessel’s yards and the whiteness of her canvas, that she was a man-of-war. Painful feelings crowded to her heart, for the vessel approaching reminded her strongly of the “Saint Cecilia:” she stood on boldly, as if those on board were well acquainted with the coast, and in a short time Hilda ascertained, without doubt, that she was a brig-of-war. Poor Edda, with a sigh, discovered that she had been mistaken.

The brig-of-war stood on towards Lunnasting till she neared the south end of Eastling Island, when, as she hauled her wind to stand up the Sound, Hilda saw with a thrill that the flag of Spain was flying from her peak. She brought to, at the very spot at which the “Saint Cecilia” had anchored. Before her sails were furled a boat was lowered, and pulled towards the castle. Hilda watched it through the telescope, and, as it passed under the walls, she recognised, in the officer who sat in the stern-sheets, the first-lieutenant of the “Saint Cecilia,” Pedro Alvarez. Though eager to learn what cause had brought him to Lunnasting, she was afraid of going down to meet him, lest it should excite suspicion in her father’s mind. Trembling with agitation, she sat still, waiting for his appearance, with the hope, though it was full of doubt, that he might bring her tidings of her son.

Meantime, Lawrence Brindister had espied him, and hurrying to the landing-place, welcomed him cordially. “But I say, old friend,” he continued, holding his finger to his nose, “the cat has come back, and the mice mustn’t play any more; you understand—mum’s the word; don’t talk of anything that has occurred: let old Grimalkin find out what he can; I delight in teasing him.”

Although the worthy Pedro did not comprehend all Lawrence said, he understood that he was not to allude to past events in the presence of the lord of the castle. Lawrence hurried him on, talking in his usual rambling way, so that before he had time to make any inquiries, he found himself in the presence of Sir Marcus Wardhill. The baronet received him with all due courtesy, and he was invited to stop and dine at the castle—an invitation he at once accepted. Hilda had no opportunity of seeing him till they met before dinner. It was not even then, without great exertion, that she obtained sufficient self-command to speak to him with ordinary calmness.

During the meal little Ronald Morton toddled into the room, having escaped from the arms of his nurse. Captain Alvarez gave an inquiring glance at the child, and at first looked puzzled, and then well satisfied. Hilda was able to converse with him in Spanish, and with his broken English and French he managed to make himself very agreeable to Sir Marcus and Edda; Sir Marcus, indeed, begged that when he could live on shore that he would make his castle his home; he declined, on the plea that he must sail, probably the next day, for the southward.

The attack on the castle had been spoken of, but not a word had been said of the child having been carried off.

Hitherto Hilda had been unable to talk to the Spanish captain alone; fortunately, at length, Sir Marcus left the room; Ronald was sitting playing on the ground near them.

“He is truly a noble child, though his complexion shows more of his northern than his southern blood,” observed the captain.

“That child!—oh, you are mistaken!” exclaimed Hilda, “Have you not heard that my own Hernan was carried off?” And she told him all that had occurred.

“The atrocious scoundrel!” exclaimed Pedro Alvarez; “I feared it would be so, and for your sake, lady, and for that of my late brave captain, I will pursue them round the world, and recover the boy.”

Hilda looked at him with an expression of the deepest gratitude:—

“I was certain that you had come either to bring me notice of my lost one, or that you would aid me in discovering him,” she exclaimed, taking his hand. “I trust to you, Captain Alvarez, and I am sure that you will not deceive me.”

The captain assured her that he would be faithful to his promise, and explained all he knew of the plot which had been formed to carry off her son, to prevent him from inheriting his title and property.

“But cannot we punish the treacherous marquis and kinsman?” she exclaimed. “Cannot we compel him to tell us where my child has been carried to? Has the law no power in your country?”

“None, lady, in this matter,” answered Pedro. “I myself am an outlaw; I can never return as a free man to Spain. I have been guilty of a crime so heinous in the eyes of the law, that should the officers of my own ship discover it, they would be compelled to carry me there in chains. My dread, therefore, is lest we should fall in with any Spanish ship, from which they may learn what has occurred.” He then briefly told her how he had killed the officer of the Inquisition who had tried to apprehend him.

“But the priest, Father Mendez; surely he can aid us?” said Hilda.

“Unless you can show him that by his aiding you he can advance the object for which alone he lives, he will stir neither hand nor foot in the cause,” answered the Spanish captain. “Besides, I am certain that he believes the child still safe in the castle.”

“Then, Captain Alvarez, I must place all my hope on you,” exclaimed Hilda.

“Place it on the justice of heaven, lady,” he replied, solemnly.

Hilda made no reply, but her beautiful features wore an expression of the deepest, the most hopeless distress.

Pedro Alvarez having obtained from Lawrence, and others, every particular about the attack on the castle, as well as a description of the child, and even the appearance of the men who carried him off, returned on board his brig, and the next day sailed for the southward.

His coming had thrown Hilda into a painful state of agitation. She had not recovered from it when the smack with Colonel Armytage on board anchored before the castle. Edda’s joyous countenance formed a great contrast to her melancholy look. Sir Marcus met her, as she was preparing to receive her future brother-in-law, and harshly ordered her to appear more cheerful.

“Those lachrymose features of yours will raise suspicions in his mind which may induce him to make disagreeable inquiries,” he said, in an angry tone. “I know his disposition, and fully believe that, should he discover anything to displease him, he is capable of breaking off the match altogether. Should he do so, remember, Hilda, you will be answerable for the consequences.”

“Can you intrust my sister’s happiness with such a man?” asked Hilda.

“I am the best judge on that point,” was the answer.

Colonel Armytage soon came on shore, attended by two servants. He was decidedly handsome and gentlemanly, and though at times his manner was somewhat haughty and reserved, he was often so courteous and agreeable, that he quickly regained his place in the good graces of those with whom he associated. Hilda, indeed, soon forgot her father’s remarks, and felt perfectly satisfied as to the prospect of her sister’s happiness.

Colonel Armytage was accompanied by two friends, brother officers. Their presence made the castle far more lively than it had wont to be for many a long year; but all their sallies could not dispel the melancholy which Hilda could not hide even from them. Sir Marcus very narrowly watched Lawrence, who had become intimate with them; but whether or not he had told them of any of the occurrences which had lately taken place, he could not ascertain. It was a relief to him when, the day of the wedding having arrived, the castle was filled with the families of sufficient distinction to be invited to it. Hilda could not but feel that they generally regarded her with looks of curiosity, and, at the same time, of compassion, excessively annoying to her feelings. Often as she approached a group she found them whispering, and she observed that their manner was constrained, and that they either became silent, or had evidently abruptly commenced a fresh subject of conversation.

Nothing, however, occurred to interrupt the marriage ceremony. How different did it appear to the unhappy Hilda to that by which she had been united to Don Hernan!

It was not till Colonel Armytage was about to take his departure, with his bride, for the south, that on taking his leave of his father-in-law, he showed that he was aware of what had taken place. He drew himself up haughtily as he remarked—

“My love and esteem for your daughter, and a sense of honour, compelled me to fulfil my engagement with her; but I must ever regard with feelings of distrust and contempt the man who would conceal from me matters of which I ought to have been informed. We shall probably seldom, perhaps we shall never, meet again—our doing so can produce little mutual satisfaction.”

Sir Marcus looked confused, and could make no answer, and in silence he handed his daughter into the boat which was to convey them on board their vessel. His feelings were not soothed by hearing Lawrence give a loud laugh, and sing—as he hopped and skipped up the causeway—

“The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!”

The summer passed away, and business compelled Sir Marcus to visit Scotland. During his absence Rolf Morton returned to Shetland. How different was his home to what it had been! Its chief ornament, its only attraction was gone. He frequently came up to the castle to see his child; but he was soon convinced that he could not, as usual, spend the winter at home, and he determined to go to Leith to seek for the command of some ship sailing to southern latitudes.

A few days before he took his departure Sir Marcus returned to Lunnasting. They met, and the baronet eyed him with so sinister an expression that an uncomfortable sensation crept over the heart of the bold seaman, and he felt that he was in the presence of one who would do him an injury if he had the power.

Bidding farewell, however, to Bertha Eswick and his boy, he sailed for Leith, believing that for this time, however, he had escaped the malice of his enemy. He was mistaken. He had not been at Leith many days before he had the offer made him of the command of a fine ship bound round Cape Horn. The preliminary arrangements were soon made, but the usual papers were not yet signed. As he walked through the streets of Leith he more than once observed a man, who, he felt certain, was dodging his steps, and whom he observed watching him as he entered his lodgings. The matter, however, did not make much impression on him. He was on his way to the owner’s office to conclude the arrangements for his taking command, when, as he was passing along the quays, he was accosted by the individual he had remarked following him, and who now asked him if his name was Rolf Morton.

“That is my name,” he answered.

“Then you are the very man I want to see,” was the reply. “Come along under this archway.”

Morton unsuspectingly followed his guide, but no sooner had he reached the arch, than a body of seamen rushed out of a door close at hand. He was wondering where they were going, when he found himself surrounded by them, and dragged off to a boat lying at a jetty not far off.

He was in the hands of a press-gang. He had no power of making any resistance. He was forced into the boat, which pulled away to a ship-of-war at anchor in the Forth. He explained that he was virtually master of a merchantman, and that the owners would suffer loss should he be detained. He was ordered to exhibit his protection. He had none. His remonstrances were unheeded. He found that with his will, or against his will, he must serve his Majesty. Many other men had been brought on board in the same way that he had been.

“It matters little, if a man does his duty, in what condition of life he is placed; he may be equally happy in one as the other,” he said to himself; “I shall have fewer cares and responsibilities as a man-of-war’s man, than as a master of a ship. Why should I sigh and moan thus over my lot? What can’t be cured must be endured. Yes, sir, I’ll serve his Majesty, and serve him well, I hope,” he exclaimed aloud, turning to the officer who was examining the pressed men.

Rolf Morton kept his word. He was soon known as one of the best men in the ship, and he had not been long on board before he was raised to the rank of a first-class petty officer. He saw much service in various parts of the world. Wherever work was to be done he was foremost in doing it. Had he been younger, he would probably have been placed on the quarterdeck: but he was unambitious, and contented with his lot, though he, at last, was made a warrant officer, and ultimately became boatswain of a dashing frigate, under as gallant a captain as ever took a ship into action.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Fleet at Spithead—Rolf Morton’s Visit to Shetland—Rolf takes Ronald to Sea—The Thisbe and French Frigate—Ronald Morton’s first Battle—The Enemy strikes.

One of the most beautiful sights on the ocean, to the eye of a sailor, is the spectacle presented by a large fleet, when the signal for weighing is seen flying from the flag-ship. The boatswain’s whistle sends its shrill sounds along each deck; the capstan bars are shipped, the merry pipe strikes up, with sturdy tramp round go the men—others of the crew swarm upon the yards, the broad folds of canvas are let fall, and, as if by magic, those vast machines, lately so immovable, now looking like tall pyramids of snow, begin noiselessly to glide over the blue surface of the water.

Such was the sight witnessed by numerous spectators, both on the Isle of Wight shore and that of Portsmouth, when early in the year 1794 one of England’s noble fleets sailed from Spithead. A fine breeze from the northward enabled the ships to be well out round Saint Helen’s, when hauling their tacks aboard they stood down channel under all sail. In the centre were the heavy line-of-battle ships, exhibiting a dense mass of shining canvas; while scattered around on either side were the lighter frigates, like skirmishers on the field of battle feeling the way for the main body of the army. Among the fastest, the finest, and most dashing of the latter craft, was the thirty-eight gun frigate “Thisbe.”

She had only lately been put in commission, and her captain, officers, and crew, were mostly strangers to each other. Captain Courtney, who commanded her, had the reputation of being brave and enterprising, but his present crew had yet to learn what he was made of.

The day was closing; the fleet had made good progress down channel, and the “Thisbe” was one of the southernmost look-out frigates; the crew were enjoying a short relaxation from their duties, which were pretty severe, for when a ship first gets to sea there is much to be done to put her in order, to encounter an enemy or a gale.

The captain and two of his lieutenants walked the weather side of the quarter-deck, while the other gun-room officers and some of the midshipmen, paced the lee side. Captain Courtney’s appearance was much in his favour; though his firm mouth and the general expression of his features showed that he was accustomed to command, the pleasant smile occasionally playing over his countenance relieved them from too great sternness.

The first lieutenant, Mr Strickland, looked like his chief, the perfect officer and gentleman, while the second, well known in the service as Tom Calder, was more of the rough-and-ready school.

Tom was broad-shouldered and short, with an open countenance, and a complexion which once had been fair, but was now burnt nearly to a bright copper, but neither winds nor sun had been able to change the rich golden tint of his hair, which clustered in thick curls under his hat, which hat he managed to stick on the very back of his head; whether cocked hat, or tarpaulin, or sou’-wester, he wore it the same; it was a puzzle, though, to say how it kept there. But to see Tom as he was, was to catch him at work, with knife and marlin-spike, secured by rope-yarns round his neck, his hands showing intimate acquaintance with the tar bucket, while not a job was there to be done which he could not show the best way of doing.

Tom Calder, as was said of him, was the man to get work out of a crew, and where he led others were ever ready to follow. Altogether, he was evidently cut out for a good working first lieutenant, and there seemed every prospect of his becoming one. He had entered the service at the hawse-hole, and worked his way up, by his steadiness and gallantry, to the quarterdeck, a position to which he was well calculated to do credit.

On the forecastle the three warrant officers sauntered slowly up and down, stretching their limbs after their day’s work was over.

They were accompanied by a fine intelligent-looking boy, apparently of about fifteen, who was attentively listening to their conversation. The likeness which the boy bore to one of them, made it pretty evident that they were father and son.

The boatswain was Rolf Morton. When once pressed into the navy, by the management of Sir Marcus Wardhill, he had, from want of the energy required to take steps to leave it, remained in the service till a warrant had been almost forced on him. Just before the “Thisbe” was commissioned he had paid a visit to Shetland; he had found his boy Ronald grown and improved beyond his most sanguine expectations. The Lady Hilda, as she was still called, had devoted herself to his education, and treated him as her son; and in the more important matters which she unhappily was unable to teach him. Bertha Eswick had afforded him instruction. But Ronald had another instructor, though an eccentric one, in Lawrence Brindister. Not a more daring or expert boatman, a finer swimmer, or a better shot of his age, or much above his age, was to be found in all Shetland.

Poor Hilda had never heard from Pedro Alvarez, nor had she received tidings of her son, though, hopeless as it might seem, she lived on in the expectation of one day recovering him. Both she and Bertha had so earnestly entreated Rolf to leave Ronald in Shetland, that he would have done so, had he not received a warning, not to be neglected, from Lawrence Brindister, to be off and to take his boy with him.

He had often suspected that Sir Marcus Wardhill was his enemy, and now he learned from Lawrence, that he was the enemy of his son also, and would work him ill if he had him in his power.

“Then I will take him out of his power,” observed Rolf; and before the next morning he was away to Lerwick. Sir Marcus sent a fast rowing boat after him, but when she reached the capital of Shetland, Rolf and his son had already taken their departure. Sir Marcus Wardhill was reaping where he had sown.

From his younger and best-loved daughter he had long been almost totally estranged. Colonel Armytage had for years held no direct communication with him, while Edda’s letters were very brief, and she, having become the mother of a daughter, offered this as an excuse for not paying a visit to the north.

It was not till now that Hilda revealed to him the whole history of her marriage and the loss of her boy. His rage knew no bounds when he discovered that no certificate of this marriage was forthcoming. But one witness, who was forthcoming, survived—Bertha Eswick: she, however, had been in a declining state for some time, and but a few days had passed after Rolf and Ronald had quitted Lunnasting before she expired, leaving Hilda more solitary and miserable than ever.

Ronald Morton had commenced his life at sea with the greatest zest, and although he had a few difficulties to contend with, and not a few older boys to fight, he invariably came off victorious, and was altogether a general favourite. Rolf devotedly loved his son, and though not ambitious for himself, his great desire was to see Ronald on the quarter-deck, and rising in his profession: he certainly looked as if it were more his proper place than was the forecastle where he now was.

“Father,” he said, turning his beaming countenance, “I do long to be in a battle. Are we likely soon to fall in with an enemy?”

“No hurry for that, boy,” answered the boatswain, who had been in many a desperate fight, and knew what fighting was; “we shall fall in with one before long, depend on that.”

“I hope so, indeed,” exclaimed Ronald; “those Frenchmen who have cut off their king’s head deserve to be thrashed round and round the globe till not a man of them remains alive.”

This sentiment was warmly applauded both by the gunner and carpenter.

“I don’t say as how I ’zactly hates the Frenchmen,” observed Mr Rammage, the gunner; “but it’s my opinion that the sea is not big enough for both of us, and the sooner we drives them off it, the sooner we shall be friends again.”

Ronald had not long to wait before he saw, though chiefly at a distance, one of the most important of England’s naval battles. The “Thisbe” formed one of Lord Howe’s fleet, when he gained the glorious victory of the 1st of June which taught the Frenchmen, by a lesson often to be repeated, that they must expect defeat whenever they might venture to contend with England’s navy on the ocean.

As the “Thisbe” was employed as a look-out frigate, she took but little part in the action. What she did do, far from damping Ronald’s ardour, only made him the more eager to fight again. He had not long to wait. The “Thisbe,” with the rest of the fleet, returned to Spithead to receive the marks of honour the sovereign and the nation showered on the heads of the gallant chiefs, who had led their ships to victory; but before long she was again on a cruise down channel. Rounding Ushant, she steered to the southward, boldly standing along the French coast, and making what the French probably considered a very impertinent examination of their forts and harbours.

She approached the place to be examined during the night, and at early dawn the required information having been obtained, she was again standing off shore, under all sail, before any of the enemy’s ships could get under weigh to pursue her. She proceeded as far south as Rochelle.

Looking one morning into the harbour of that place, a frigate was discovered in the outer roads, apparently ready for sea.

“She seems about our size; if we could draw her out, we might take her,” observed Captain Courtney to his first lieutenant, Mr Strickland.

“No doubt about it, sir,” was the answer; “she is, however, I suspect, rather larger, but so much the better. There is little honour in capturing a Frenchman of one’s own size. That we are of course expected to do. We should be thankful when we fall in with an antagonist of superior strength.”

“You are right, Strickland,” exclaimed the captain, warmly. “Back the maintopsail and fire a gun towards her. The signal of defiance will be understood, and if her captain has a spark of courage, he’ll come out and meet us.”

With colours flying, the British frigate lay-to off the Frenchman’s port. While thus defying the enemy a large schooner was seen standing along shore and apparently making for the harbour.

“We’ll take her before their very noses, and if that does not rouse them, I do not know what will,” observed the captain, as he gave the orders to make sail in chase.

The schooner, little expecting to be snapped up by an enemy in the very sight of port, endeavoured in vain to escape. The “Thisbe,” like an eagle towards its prey, flew after her, and in a short time she was a prize.

Taking out the prisoners and putting a prize crew on board, Captain Courtney stood back, with the schooner in tow, towards the mouth of the harbour; then again firing another shot of defiance, he bore away to the westward.

“The Frenchmen will bear a great deal, but they will not bear that,” observed Morton to his son. “Before this time tomorrow we shall either be inside that harbour, feeling very much ashamed of ourselves—and I don’t think that is likely to happen—or we shall have that frigate in there for our prize, and be standing away with her for old England.”

The “Thisbe” had got some eight miles or so away from the land, when the French frigate was seen under sail and standing towards her. Captain Courtney was anxious to draw the enemy as far from the coast as possible, lest, when the hoped-for result of the action should become known, notice might be sent of the event to other ports to the northward, and a superior force despatched to capture him. He accordingly hove-to occasionally, and then stood on to entice the enemy after him.

When the evening closed in, the Frenchman was in sight about two leagues off, coming up astern. The “Thisbe,” now casting off the prize, stood towards her. At this time there was no other sail in sight, with the exception of a small boat, apparently a fishing boat, which kept as close as she could to the “Thisbe,” possibly to watch what was going to take place.

Captain Courtney’s object was, of course, to obtain the weather gauge; and in consequence of having to manoeuvre to obtain it, it was not till past midnight that the two ships got within range of each other’s guns. Not a man of the “Thisbe’s” crew had turned in. The drum beat to quarters. The men flew to their stations with pistols in their belts and cutlasses by their sides, eager to begin the fight.

The “Thisbe” was on the starboard tack, when the enemy, on the larboard tack, slowly glided past her to windward, looking like some dark phantom stalking over the surface of the deep.

Ronald, who stood on the forecastle with his father, watched her with intense eagerness. Presently a sheet of flame burst from her side, followed by the loud thunder of the guns and the whizzing of shot. A few came near the English frigate, but none struck her.

“Return the compliment, my lads. Give it them!” exclaimed Captain Courtney.

The crew, with a cheer, obeyed the order, the flashes of their guns throwing a ruddy glow on the bulwarks and the figures of the crew, as stern and grim they stood at their quarters.

“Hands about ship!” was the next order issued; and the “Thisbe,” tacking in the wake of her opponent, stood after her.

“Father,” asked Ronald, as he stood by Morton’s side on the forecastle, “will the Frenchman try to escape us?”

“No fear of that, he would not have come out at first if he had intended to play us that trick,” was the answer. “He has made one slight mistake, though; he fancies that he is going to take us; and it’s my firm belief that we are going to take him.”

“I hope so, father,” answered Ronald. “I would sooner die than be taken by a Frenchman.”

“That is the right spirit, my boy,” exclaimed Rolf, warmly. “But little fear of what will happen—our captain is not a man to throw away a chance of victory.”

While they were speaking, the “Thisbe” was rapidly coming up with the enemy; and as her guns could be brought to bear they were fired in quick succession—the French frigate returning them with right good will, though as her shot flew high, the “Thisbe’s” masts and spars suffered more than her hull, and few of her men had hitherto been hit.

Morton looked anxiously aloft. “It will be a bad job if they go,” he muttered to himself. He then sent Ronald aft to ascertain the condition of the main and mizenmast, which he believed had been struck.

His son soon returned with a very bad report. The masts were already badly wounded.

Soon after this the “Thisbe” got within musket-shot of the starboard quarter of her opponent; and the marines opened their fire, while the firing of the great guns became warmer than ever.

Captain Courtney had never, for a moment, taken his eye off the French ship, that he might watch for the least indication of any manoeuvre she might be about to perform. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Up with the helm!—square away the after yards!”

Quickly the manoeuvre was executed, though only just in time to prevent the enemy who wore the instant before, from crossing the “Thisbe’s” bows, and pouring in a raking fire. The two frigates now ran on before the wind, closely engaged, broadside to broadside. Fast came the round shot, crashing on board. Splinters from the torn bulwarks were flying about, from aloft some rattling blocks and shattered spars; while showers of bullets were raining down death and wounds in every direction.

Ronald Morton felt his spirits rise to an unnatural pitch as the fight grew hotter and hotter. Not the remotest thought of death, not a shadow of fear crossed his mind. Others were struck down, but those missiles of destruction were not for him. Others might be hit, but he bore a charmed life.

There is something far more terrific and trying to the nerves in a night action than in one fought by day. The dark, mysterious form of the enemy, the flashes of the guns, the irregular glare, the dim light of the fighting lanterns, the cries and groans of the wounded, the uncertainty as to who is hit or what damage has been done, all combine to produce an effect which the most desperate fight by day can scarcely exhibit.

The crew of the “Thisbe” could see that their shot was producing great effect on their antagonist. Her masts still stood, but several of her spars were shot away, and her rigging appeared a mass of wreck. The English frigate was also much injured aloft, but her masts were still standing.

By this time the “Thisbe” had shot ahead of her antagonist. “Starboard the helm!” exclaimed Captain Courtney. “Cease firing, my lads! Be ready to give her a raking broadside as we cross her hawse.”

The frigate luffed up into the wind; and, as she did so, her larboard guns were discharged in quick succession into the bows of the Frenchman; but amid the roar of the guns a loud crash was heard, and the mizenmast, unable to bear the additional strain on it, went by the board, but falling to starboard, did not impede the working of the guns. As the crew were running from under it, the tall mainmast was seen to totter, and with all its yards and sails, over it went on the same side. With a groan the boatswain saw what had occurred. He feared, too, that the enemy might escape, as her masts were still standing; but as the “Thisbe’s” mainmast went, the French frigate ran stern on to her, on her larboard quarter, her bowsprit passing directly across her deck over the capstan.

“She is our own if we can but keep her,” exclaimed the boatswain; and, followed by Ronald, he hurried aft, calling to some of his mates to assist him.

The officers and crew had enough to do at that moment, for the Frenchmen trusting to their number, which appeared to be very great, were swarming on the forecastle, and rushing along the bowsprit with the intention of boarding the “Thisbe.”

“Boarders! repel boarders!” shouted the captain, setting the example in attacking the first Frenchmen who presented themselves as they sprang forward.

Now the clash of steel, the sharp report of pistols, intermingled with the roar of the great guns—those on the quarter and main-decks still continuing to pour a destructive fire into the enemy’s starboard bow as they could be brought to bear the Frenchmen, from the position in which their ship was placed, being only able to reply with musketry. Their critical position made them rush on and on again with the greatest frenzy, but each time they were driven back with heavy loss, many of them falling overboard from off the bowsprit, or being cut down by the British seamen. Meantime Rolf Morton and his followers were busily engaged in lashing the enemy’s bowsprit to their capstan with such ropes as they could lay hands on. Captain Courtney looked round, and saw how they were engaged.

“Admirably done, Mr Morton,” he cried out. “Keep her there, and we will give a good account of the Frenchmen in her.”

At that moment the enemy, with loud shouts and sacrés and other oaths, came rushing forward in greater numbers than before, intending to drop down on the “Thisbe’s” deck, and hoping to overwhelm her crew by their numbers. Again they felt the effect of British cutlasses. Desperately as they fought, they were once more driven back with diminished numbers to the ship. In vain the Frenchmen endeavoured to free their ship from the position in which they had placed her. The “Thisbe” stood on, towing them after her. Scarcely one of their guns could be brought to bear, but the marines, however, kept up a hot and destructive fire of musketry on the deck of the frigate, from the tops as well as from some of her quarter-deck guns which had been run in midships fore and aft. Though the darkness prevented their taking good aim, no sooner was it known that the bowsprit was being made fast to the capstan of the English frigate, than the whole of their fire was turned in that direction. The lashings were not yet completed. Showers of bullets fell around the brave men engaged in the work. Several had fallen. The boatswain did not think of himself, but he dreaded lest his son should be hit. He was considering on what message he should send him to another part of the ship, when he felt a sharp blow, his fingers relaxed from the rope he was grasping, and he fell to the deck. He had the feeling that he had received his death wound. Ronald saw what had happened, and in an instant was on his knees supporting his father’s head.

What thought he then of the fierce contest raging? What did he care who gained the victory? All his feelings were concentrated on his father. Was he mortally wounded, or would he recover? He entreated some of the men to carry him below, but they were at that moment too much occupied to attend to him. Rolf recovered slightly.

“No, no, boy; let me remain here,” he said in a firm voice. “All hands have work enough to do; I am but hit in the leg, and if they would set me on my feet again I could still be of use.”

But Ronald did not heed him, and continued imploring the men to carry the boatswain below. Just then the lashings were torn away, and the French frigate floated clear of the “Thisbe.” Cries of disappointment escaped from the English crew, but they redoubled their efforts to cripple their opponent, so as once more to get hold of her. Meantime several of the men, being now at liberty, offered to take the boatswain below, but he desired to be left on deck.

“I’ll see the fight out, lads,” he answered. “Help me up, some of you, and pass this handkerchief round the limb. Cheer up, Ronald, I’m not so badly hurt as you fancy, boy.”

“Hurra, lads! here she comes again; we’ll have her fast this time,” shouted the captain at this juncture.

The “Thisbe,” deprived of her after-sail, paid off before the wind, and thus the French frigate ran directly into her, on the starboard quarter, the enemy’s bowsprit hanging over the stump of her mainmast. The opportunity of securing the French ship was not lost, though her crew attempted to rush on board, as before, to prevent the operation.

While the captain and most of the superior officers who had escaped wounds or death were engaged in repelling them, Rolf caused himself to be brought nearer to the mainmast, that he might superintend the crew in lashing the bowsprit to it.

This time they took care that it should not again break away; and now the “Thisbe,” running directly off before the wind, dragged the Frenchman after her.

The fight had been hot before, but it became hotter still. Again and again the Frenchmen endeavoured to cut away those second lashings, but the English marines kept up so hot a fire, that each time the attempt was frustrated. Still the enemy showed no signs of yielding. Something must be done. Wounded as he was, Morton dragged himself up to where the captain was standing.

“I beg your pardon, Captain Courtney, but if we could get a couple of guns run out abaft on the main-deck, we could silence that fellow pretty quickly,” he said, touching his hat with all due formality.

It was somewhat out of rule for the boatswain to offer his advice unasked to the captain, but under the circumstances the irregularity was easily overlooked by such a man as Captain Courtney.

“You are right, Mr Morton,” he answered; “send the carpenter and his crew aft, Mr Calder,” to the second lieutenant. “Get the two after guns on the main-deck ready to run out astern as soon as we have some ports made for them.”

Having given this order, the captain descended to the main-deck.

Mr Gimbol, the carpenter, soon made his appearance there from below, where he had been going his rounds through the wings, to stop any shot-holes which might have been made between wind and water.

With axes and saws he and his crew set to work, but the upper transom beam resisted all their efforts.

“We must blow out some ports,” exclaimed the captain. “Send the firemen here.”

A gang of men with buckets were quickly on the spot. The guns were pointed aft. “Fire!” cried the captain. The two guns went off together, and as the suffocating smoke blew off, two holes with jagged edges were seen in the stern, but flames were bursting out around them. These, however, the firemen with their buckets quickly extinguished, and the guns, being again loaded, opened their fire through them on the deck of the Frenchman. The effect produced from this unexpected quarter was terrific. Fore and aft the shot flew crashing between the decks, seldom failing to find some victims, and oftentimes carrying off the heads of half-a-dozen men, as they stood at their guns, in its course from one end of the ship to the other. Never were guns more rapidly worked than were those two twelve-pounders on board the “Thisbe.” The captain stood by, encouraging the men.

Rolf Morton went about, badly wounded as he was, to ascertain where his services were most required. Ronald followed his father, dreading every moment to see him fall from the effects of his first wound, or to find that he was again hit. Once more they returned to the upper deck. Their numbers were falling, wounds were being received, and havoc was being made aloft and on every side. The masts of the French ship were still standing, but from the shrieks and cries which proceeded from her decks, there seemed little doubt that she was suffering even more than the “Thisbe.” Ronald kept watching the enemy.

“See, father!—see!” he exclaimed. “Down, down they come!” He pointed at the Frenchman’s foremast. It bent on one side, the few ropes which held it gave way, and crash it came down over the side. The mainmast stood, but the mizenmast in an instant afterwards followed the foremast, preventing the crew from working the greater number of the guns. However, with those still unencumbered they continued to fire away with the greatest desperation. The English seamen fought on with the same determined courage as at first. They had made up their minds that they would take the enemy, and there was not a man on board who would have given in till they had done so, or till the ship sunk under them. Half-an-hour passed away. It seemed surprising that either ship could float with the pounding they gave each other, or that any human beings could survive on their decks amid the storm of shot and bullets rushing across them. At length a loud cheer burst from the throats of the English seamen, the Frenchman’s last remaining mast was seen to lean over, and down it came with a tremendous crash, crushing many in its fall, and completely preventing the crew from working any of their guns.

“They will give in now, father, to a certainty,” exclaimed Ronald.

“Not so sure, boy; see, they are going to make a desperate attempt to revenge themselves.”

“Here they come!” he answered, and then the cry arose from the English ship of, “Boarders! repel boarders!”

Once more the Frenchmen came on with the most determined courage. Captain Courtney and some of his officers and men who were aft threw themselves before the enemy, to stem the torrent which threatened to pour down on the “Thisbe’s” decks; but with such fury and desperation did the Frenchmen come on, that many of the English were driven back, and there seemed no little probability that the former would gain their object. Rolf Morton, on perceiving this, and forgetting his wound, seized a cutlass, and calling on all the men at hand, followed by Ronald, sprang aft to the aid of his captain. His assistance did not come a moment too soon. Captain Courtney was brought to his knee, and a French officer, who had led the boarders, was on the point of cutting him down, when Ronald sprang to his side, and thrusting his cutlass before him, saved him from the blow intended for his head. Ronald would have had to pay dearly for his gallantry, had not Rolf cut the Frenchman down at the moment he was making, in return, a fierce stroke at his son.

More of the English crew, led by their officers, now came hurrying aft, and the Frenchmen, disheartened by the loss of their leader, again retreated to their ship, leaving eight or ten of their number dead or dying behind them. Still no one cried for quarter; and though not a gun was discharged, the marines and small-arm men kept up as hot a fire as before.

All this time the “Thisbe’s” two after-guns on the maindeck kept thundering away at them, fearfully diminishing their numbers. And thus the fight continued: they made, however, no signal of yielding.

The Frenchmen had scarcely retreated from their daring attempt to board the frigate, when the lashings which secured their bowsprit to her began to give way. The boatswain had, however, got a hawser ready ranged along the deck, and this, in spite of the fire kept up at them, he, with his mates and others of the crew, secured to the gammoning of the Frenchmen’s bowsprit.

“Now the lashings may go as soon as they like!” he exclaimed, almost breathless with the exertion; “the Frenchmen will gain little by the change.”

So it proved: the enemy’s ship, when the lashings gave way, dropped astern a few fathoms, and there she hung, towed onwards, as before, by the “Thisbe,” whose crew were thus enabled to rake her decks with more deadly effect. Still the battle raged as at first.

At length some voices were heard from the bowsprit of the French frigate.

“Quarter! quarter!” was the cry. “We have struck! we yield!”

“Cease firing, my lads!” shouted the captain; “we have won the night!”

The order was obeyed. For an instant there was a perfect silence, a contrast to the uproar which had so long continued; even the wounded restrained the expression of their sufferings; and then there burst forth one of those hearty cheers, which few but English seamen can give, and which they so well know how to give with effect. And now many of the brave fellows who had hitherto worked away at their guns without flinching, sank down with fatigue, Rolf Morton even then would not go below.

“I’ll stay on deck and see the enemy secured, and get the ship put to rights a little,” he answered; “I am only just showing my boy how I wish him to behave. While there is duty to do, and a man has strength to do it, he should not shrink from it, whatever it may cost him.”

Ronald listened to what his father was saying.

“That’s it, father; I’ll try and stick to that,” he observed, looking up in his father’s face.

It was now necessary to board the French ship to take possession of her, but how that was to be accomplished was the question, for not a boat that could swim remained on board either of the combatants.

The second lieutenant—one of the few officers unwounded—volunteered to work his way along the hawser, and a midshipman and several of the men offered to accompany him; Ronald begged leave to go also.

In those days, strange as it may seem, many seamen could not swim.

The boarding-party commenced their somewhat hazardous passage from one ship to the other. The “Thisbe” had but slight way on her; the hawser was consequently somewhat slack, and the weight of the people on it brought it down into the water. The lieutenant and several of the men clung on, but the midshipman was by some means or other washed off. Unable to swim, he cried out loudly for help, but no one could afford it, till Ronald let go his own hold of the rope, and swam towards him. Of course to regain the hawser was hopeless, and it was equally difficult to swim back to the “Thisbe.” Ronald had practised swimming from his childhood, and was as much at home in the water as on shore. He struck out with one hand while he supported the young midshipman with the other. His first fear was that the French ship would run them down, but a few strokes carried him and his charge clear of that danger. He next attempted to get alongside her. He looked up, and saw her dark hull rising up above him. There were plenty of ropes hanging overboard; he found one that appeared secure above; he put it into the midshipman’s hands.

“There, Mr Glover,” he exclaimed; “we shall be the first on the enemy’s deck after all.”

He was not long in finding another rope for himself, and to the surprise of the Frenchmen they found two stranger boys standing on their quarter-deck.

“Have you come to take possession?” asked a lieutenant in tolerable English. “What! are all your superior officers killed?”

“Oh, no, monsieur,” answered the midshipman; “they will be on board presently; but we are somewhat lighter craft, so made quicker work of it.”

The second lieutenant of the “Thisbe” and his companions soon made their appearance, having clambered in over the bows; and the French frigate, which was found to be the “Concorde”—one of the largest class in the French navy—was formally taken possession of.

Chapter Fifteen.

Morning after the Battle—Ronald placed on Quarterdeck—Ronald sent on Board the Prize—A Suspicious Sail in Sight—Gallant Defence of the “Thisbe”—Night closes on the Fight.

As the bright cheerful light of morning broke on the world of waters, there lay the two frigates, which, when the sun went down, looked so gallant and so trim—now shorn of their beauty, shattered and blackened wrecks.

The foremast of the “Thisbe” was alone standing, while all the masts of the French frigate, with their sails, and yards, and rigging, hung in masses of wreck and confusion over her sides. The decks covered with blood and gore, and the shattered remnants of mortality, presented a horrible and disgusting scene; while the broken bulwarks, the decks ploughed up, the wheel shot away, and the ruined condition of every part of the ship, showed the desperate nature of the conflict, and told of the bravery of the gallant French crew who had endured so much before they had consented to yield.

Onboard the “Thisbe” the carpenters were busily employed in patching up some of the boats, so that the prisoners might be removed from the prize, while the rest of the crew were engaged in clearing away the wreck of the masts, and in preparing to make sail on the ship.

Ronald was in attendance on his father in his cabin. The boatswain had been more hurt than he supposed; but he did his utmost to conceal his suffering from his son.

The shout was heard: “All hands on the quarter-deck!”

The captain was about to address the crew.

Rolf Morton tried to rise, but he soon found that he could not. “Go, Ronald, and hear what the captain has to say. It will be something pleasant, I doubt not,” he said, pressing his boy’s hand. “Come and tell me when you are dismissed.”

Ronald sprang up the hatchway. The men were mustering aft. The captain and all the officers stood on the quarter-deck—not as usual, in those bright and shining uniforms, but in the dress in which they had fought, most of them still bearing about their persons the marks of the battle.

“My lads, I have called you aft to thank you for the gallant way in which you have fought this ship, and captured an enemy with more men, more guns, and of larger tonnage than ourselves,” he began. “I do from my heart thank you; and our king and countrymen will thank you, and you may well be proud of what you have done. I wish that I could reward you as you deserve; but when all have done their duty it is difficult to pick out any for especial notice. Still there is one man who much helped us in capturing the enemy. That is the boatswain. He caught, and kept him, by lashing his bowsprit to our mainmast, and by his advice we blew open the stern ports which so mainly contributed to our success. His son, too, saved my life, and afterwards saved the life of Mr Glover, and was, with him, the first on board the prize. The boatswain will, I hope, receive his reward hereafter; but as I have the means of showing my appreciation of his son’s gallantry, I gladly do so at once: I have therefore rated him as a midshipman on board this ship. I am sure that no one will think that I have done more for him than he deserves. Come aft, Mr Ronald Morton, and receive the welcome of your new messmates.”

Ronald came forward almost with a bound, though perfectly unconscious that he was moving more rapidly than usual. The wish of his heart was accomplished. His countenance beamed with satisfaction, and he frankly put out his hand towards the midshipmen and the other members of their berth. They all in turns took it and shook it warmly; but none grasped it more heartily than did young Glover.

“I must thank you for myself, Morton,” he exclaimed, in a tone which showed that he spoke from his heart. “If it had not been for you I should have been among the missing, to a certainty.”

Morton’s own heart was too full to answer. Numberless emotions were working in his bosom. He felt a proud satisfaction at having obtained the rank for which he was conscious he was fitted; he sincerely rejoiced at having been the means of saving his captain from a severe wound, if not from death; and scarcely less so at having prevented Glover from being drowned. All these feelings kept him silent: but his silence was understood; and perhaps no one felt more pleased at seeing him on the quarter-deck than did Captain Courtney himself.

“Now back to your duty, my lads,” he exclaimed; “we have plenty of work before us.”

Three hearty cheers burst unpremeditatedly from the throats of the crew—and then in high spirits they separated to their respective duties. The work was accomplished, as the captain knew it would be, all the better for this little interruption.

Ronald hurried below. He wanted to be the first to tell his father of his good fortune, as he called it.

Rolf Morton was less surprised than he expected. “I was certain it would be so some day, if your life was spared,” he observed. “And now, my boy, that your foot is on the first ratline, mount upwards by your own exertions. Be thankful to others who help you, but trust to yourself for success.”

Ronald had got his father to select a little fellow called Bobby Doull, as his boy, whom he had, when he first came on board, taken under his protection.

Bobby had been sent to sea from a workhouse. If not an orphan he was in the condition of one; for his father, who was a seaman, had deserted him, and had not, since he was an infant, been heard of. Ronald had, at first, frequently to do battle in his cause; but he at length taught the other boys to respect him, and to let Bobby alone.

Bobby did his best to repay the kindness he had received, by his constant attention to the wants of the wounded boatswain.

Ronald had now to mess with the midshipmen. One of his first duties was to visit the prize, as soon as the boats had been got ready to transfer the prisoners to the “Thisbe.”

Glover had insisted on lending him a uniform, jacket, and dirk, till he could obtain a suit of his own.

Ronald did not hesitate about accepting the offer; and, as Doull told the boatswain, he looked every inch a midshipman.

Very little had been done when Ronald returned to the prize towards getting her into order; and as he looked fore and aft along the decks, it seemed scarcely possible that she could ever be put in a condition at sea, to make sail, so as to reach a British port in safety. Some of her crew were already mustered on deck, but others were keeping below. He was accordingly directed to take a party of men round the decks to send them up. As he passed it, he looked into the midshipman’s berth, where a boy, whose life he had probably been the means of preserving at the time of boarding, still lay.

The French midshipman recognised him immediately. “Ah! come in, my friend!” he exclaimed, in broken English: “I want to recompense you for what you did for me: but—they told me that you were a ship’s boy, and now I see that you are of the same rank as myself.”

“I was a ship’s boy when I found you under the masts, but now I am a midshipman,” answered Ronald. “But tell me your name—I shall be glad to help you in any way I can.”

“My name—ah—they call me Alfonse Gerardin,” answered the French midshipman. “I am obliged to you for your kindness. A prisoner is little able to requite it. Perhaps I may some day—as I should wish to do.”

“I have done nothing to deserve even thanks,” said Ronald. “But I must not stay. I will come and see you again as soon as I can.”

Mr Strickland, the first lieutenant of the “Thisbe,” being badly wounded, Mr Calder, the second, was directed to take charge of the prize.

Robert Rawson, an old master’s mate, was ordered to go as his second in command, with Glover and Morton as midshipmen, and a master’s assistant called Twigg.

Ronald wished to have remained to look after his father; but Rolf would not hear of it.

“You’ll be better in another ship, away from me, boy,” he remarked. “The doctor and Bobby Doull will look after me. I shall return to my duty in a few days—never fear!”

The peculiar talents of the prize-master of the “Concorde,” honest Tom Calder, were now brought into full play. Head and hand were busily employed from morning till night, and neither grew weary. Where the hardest work was to be done, there Tom’s cheery voice was heard and his helping hand was to be found, and before the two, difficulties, at first deemed insurmountable, vanished like magic.

Tom had naturally a strong fellow feeling for Ronald. He remembered his own annoyances under similar circumstances, and he fancied that Ronald would have to undergo the same. He had, hitherto, scarcely spoken to Ronald, but no sooner did he take the command of the “Concorde,” than he singled him out to superintend any work requiring more than usual care and judgment.

Ronald in no way disappointed him; everybody, indeed, on board the prize, worked well, and with a will, and in a wonderfully short space of time jury-masts were rigged, and sails were ready for hoisting.

It was evening; the two frigates lay within a few hundred fathoms of each other: the “Thisbe,” from having her foremasts standing, had a far wider range of vision than her prize. “The ‘Thisbe’ is signalling us, sir,” said Morton to Mr Calder.

“Get the signal-book, and see what she is saying,” was the answer.

The meaning of the signals was soon ascertained.

“A sail in the south-west,” Morton read; “An enemy—Prepare for action.”

“That’s just like him,” exclaimed Mr Calder; “if the stranger was a seventy-four he would prepare to fight her. It is to be hoped, though, that she is only another frigate, and then, in spite of the loss of our masts, we may be able to give a good account of her.”

Ronald was ready enough to fight, but could not help thinking that they just then had had enough of it, and therefore hoped that the stranger might prove a friend.

Some time must elapse before the point could be ascertained, and during the interval every effort was made to get sail on the two ships, not for the purpose of flying, but to enable them the better to manoeuvre, should fighting be the order of the day.

At length Ronald went below to snatch a mouthful of food, and took the opportunity of paying a visit to the wounded midshipman, Alfonse Gerardin. He had been placed in the gun-room with the rest of the French officers; he lifted up his head as Ronald entered the cabin.

After returning the salutation, he remained silent, and then he exclaimed, somewhat bitterly, “Ah, how different are our lots! you have gained a victory, have come out of the battle unhurt, and have been placed on the first step of the ladder, up which you may climb to the highest—while here I lie, a prisoner badly wounded, and, alas! have just discovered that I have lost the only friend I had in the world.”

“Oh, you are mistaken; I am sure that I have many, and so would you if you proved them,” said Ronald, in a cheerful tone. “You are wounded and ill; when you recover you will be in better spirits; but tell me, who is the friend whose loss you mourn?”

“He was the second lieutenant of this ship, and he was killed early in the action with you,” answered young Gerardin, with a sigh. “He was a brave man. I loved him as a son loves his father, and for long I thought he was my father. Only just before we were going into action did he tell me that I should find all the particulars about myself in a box, in a house where we lived when we were on shore, near Brest. I thought at first that he was jesting, and asked no questions, and it was only after he was killed that I believed he spoke the truth. Poor dear Pierre Gerardin! you were always kind and good to me, and I shall never see you again.”

The young foreigner gave way to his grief with a vehemence which somewhat astonished Ronald, accustomed to the more phlegmatic temperaments of the north. He tried to comfort him, but in vain, and when the surgeon came he intimated to Ronald that he had better leave him, as talking to a stranger seemed to agitate him in an extraordinary degree.

“He seems very sorry for the loss of his guardian, but he is an odd fellow, and I don’t quite like the look of his countenance,” said Ronald to himself, as he left the cabin.

As soon as he reached the deck he looked out to ascertain what progress the stranger had made. Her courses were already seen from the deck, appearing above the horizon. The work on board the two frigates was going forward as energetically as ever. Still there was yet much to be done before they could be put in good fighting order. The “Thisbe” was by far the most advanced of the two, still the bravest on board would rather have avoided than sought a fight just then. On came the stranger.

“Well, Morton, just say what you think of her?” said Dicky Glover, handing a telescope to Ronald; “there’s a mighty Frenchified look about those topsails.”

“I have not much experience in the matter,” answered Ronald, modestly; “but she looks very like the ‘Concorde,’ as she appeared when standing out toward us.”

“That’s what Mr Calder and the rest think,” observed Glover. “Well, we are ready for the fellow whoever he may be; and for my part, I’d sooner blow our prize up into the sky than let her be taken from us; wouldn’t you, Morton?”

Ronald was not quite so sure of that, and he suspected that Dicky himself, if put to the test, might change his mind.

The stranger in a short time drew near enough to see the signals which the “Thisbe” began to make. Her answers were watched for with intense interest on board both ships. Mr Calder had his signal-book open on deck.

“There goes up the stranger’s bunting,” he exclaimed; “now we shall see what he has got to say for himself.” Again and again his glass was at his eye: at length he shut it up with a loud slap.

“I thought as much,” he added; “he’s a Frenchman; but he will find the ‘Concorde’ a tough morsel if he attempts to swallow her, after she has belonged to us.”

Captain Courtney arrived before long at the same conclusion, and ordered the prize to stand to the northward, under all the sail she could carry.

Tom Calder received the order with a very bad grace. “I thought that he would at least have let us stop to help him to fight it out,” he muttered to himself as he put his hand to his mouth to issue the necessary orders to his scanty crew.

Sail was made on the prize, while the “Thisbe” hauled up her courses, and stood slowly after her to draw the enemy more away from the land before the commencement of their expected contest.

Mr Calder felt that he had no right to question his commander’s judgment; he could not help seeing, also, that could he effect his escape, he might possibly fall in with another British cruiser, and send her to the “Thisbe’s” assistance.

Even with more intense interest than at first, the approach of the stranger was watched from the deck of the “Concorde.”

The prize had got a mile from the “Thisbe” when the French surgeon made his appearance on deck, to enjoy a mouthful of fresh air, after his fatiguing duties below. His eager glance, and the sudden lighting up of his eye, showed that he fully comprehended the state of affairs.

Among the many accomplishments Ronald had obtained at Lunnasting was a certain amount of French. He could not speak fluently, but he could understand what was said. He could not help asking the surgeon what he thought about the stranger coming up from the southward.

“That she is one of the fastest frigates belonging to our navy,” was the answer. “We were expecting her here about this time; you have no chance of escaping her. We were to have cruised together; perhaps we shall do so now.”

“Ask him what sort of a man is her captain,” said Mr Calder, who saw Ronald talking to the surgeon.

Ronald put the question.

“There are two opinions,” said the surgeon, making a face. “He would be a coward who would refuse to attack our late antagonist in the condition to which we have reduced her.”

“All right,” observed Mr Calder, when he heard the remark; “if there are two opinions about a man’s courage it is seldom that the favourable one is the right; we shall see, though.”

In accordance with his orders, though much against his inclination, Lieutenant Calder stood away from the scene of the approaching combat.

A flash and a puff of smoke was seen, and soon afterwards a low thundering noise boomed along the waters. The French frigate had fired her first shot at the “Thisbe.”

“I hope it did not hit her!” exclaimed Morton. “Oh, how I wish we were there to help her!”

The same sentiment was expressed by all on board.

It seemed probable that the first shot did hit, for the Frenchman now luffed up and fired his broadside at the “Thisbe.” She waited till he bore away again, and then returned the compliment.

For a few minutes the firing ceased. Probably neither of the combatants had committed as much damage to each other as they expected, and were not desirous of throwing away their shots.

Ronald thought all the time of his father, and the danger to which he was exposed, for considering the comparatively defenceless state of the “Thisbe” he could not help dreading the result.

The breeze increased, and the “Concorde” got further and further from the scene of contest. Again the firing commenced. All hands knocked off work to watch the progress of the fight. The officers forgot even to recall them to their duty. The French surgeon and several of the wounded prisoners crawled up on deck to watch it also.

“There they go at it! Well done, ‘Thisbe’!” exclaimed Tom Calder. “Never saw a more rapidly delivered broadside. If she had all her spars she wouldn’t be long in taking that ship, too. Not certain that she won’t do it now. Hurra! there’s one of the Frenchman’s spars shot away.”

“Hurra for the ‘Thisbe’!” shouted the crew. “She’s the girl to win the day. Hurra! hurra!”

“Not so sure of that,” muttered Rawson, an old mate, who seldom saw things in a pleasant light. No wonder, for he had seen numbers who had come to sea long after him promoted over his head, and were now commanders and post captains, while he remained almost without hope in a subordinate position. He was pretty certain to be senior of the mess in whatever ship he sailed, and that was his only consolation, as it gave him some little authority, and full licence to growl to his heart’s content.

The firing became hotter than ever, though at the distance the “Concorde” was now from the two combatants it was difficult to observe the changes of the fight. Still all the glasses were kept in that direction.

“There! there! I said it would be so!” exclaimed Rawson, still keeping his eye at the glass.

“What has happened?” inquired Ronald, eagerly.

“Why, the Frenchmen have shot away the ‘Thisbe’s’ foretopmast, as far as I can make out—her jury-masts, too,” answered Rawson. “The ‘Thisbe’s’ done for, I’m afraid.”

“What’s that you say, Rawson?” exclaimed Lieutenant Calder. “Done for! not she; she’s not done firing, at all events.”

Rawson said no more; still it was very evident that the “Thisbe” was again almost a complete wreck, while the Frenchman had her rigging comparatively uninjured. The firing on both sides began to decrease. Evening was now drawing on, the wind was increasing, and dark clouds were coming up from the westward. For several minutes not a shot had been heard. Flashes there were, but they were from the clouds, and heaven’s artillery now rattled through the sky. The combatants could now scarcely be discerned in the distance.

“The ‘Thisbe’ has struck,” cried Rawson. “I said it would be so. I knew I should never have such luck as to take a prize like this, and to keep our ship.”

“I don’t believe it,” exclaimed Mr Calder. “Captain Courtney would never have given in to the Frenchman without a harder tussle for it.”

“Perhaps Captain Courtney has been killed,” croaked out poor Rawson, who was very bitter at the prospect of losing his long-looked-for promotion, which he would have obtained as soon as the prize was carried into port. Tom Calder, too, had every reason to wish to escape the enemy, with the same object in view, and he was not a man to throw a chance away.

The wind was fair, and the coming darkness and the rising gale would favour their escape. He now clapped on every inch of canvas which could possibly be set, and did his utmost to keep up the spirits of his crew, rating Mr Rawson soundly for his expressing his forebodings of ill.

The wind increased, and howled through the rigging; the seas came roaring and hissing up alongside, as the frigate, driven onward by the gale, went surging through the foaming water.

Thus on she went for some time.

“If we had but our masts the enemy would have a hard job to come up with us,” observed Dicky Glover to Ronald. “As it is, I doubt whether she’ll find us, after all.”

The two midshipmen were standing aft, looking over the taffrail.

“I wish that I thought we should escape her,” answered Ronald; “but I say—look!—look!—what’s that out there?”

At that moment there was a break in the clouds, and through it a gleam of light fell on the lofty sails of a ship coming up within gunshot astern.

“The French frigate! I knew it would be so,” said the rough voice of old Rawson.

There could be little doubt that he was right. The stranger was supposed by the French officers on board to be the “Atalante,” a frigate of the same size as the “Concorde.” What hope then that the latter could successfully resist her? Not many men besides Tom Calder would have had any hope of escaping.

“Never cry out till you are caught,” was his motto on similar occasions.

“That vessel astern has not yet made us out,” he observed to Rawson. “Though should she prove to be the ‘Atalante,’ perhaps we may still escape her, or she may be a friend after all.”

“Not likely that last, sir,” said Rawson, “but whether friend or foe, here she comes! She has made us out clearly enough, too, that I’ll be sworn.”

For a short time the clouds had closed in, and the stranger was hidden from view, but they again breaking, she was seen like some huge dark monster, towering up towards the sky, surging onwards on the starboard quarter of the “Concorde.”

“We shall soon see now, sir, what she is,” observed Rawson to his superior.

The bright flash of a gun, and an eighteen-pound shot, which came crashing into the side of the prize left that point very little in doubt.

“Man the starboard guns!” cried Mr Calder. “We’ll show the Frenchmen that though we have lost our wings we have still got our beaks.”

With a hearty cheer—though, from the paucity of their numbers, not a very loud one—the men went to the guns.

Could they beat off the enemy? They would try, at all events. Rawson in a moment forgot his forebodings, and was all life and courage. The enemy was seen to be shortening sail, so as not to pass the “Concorde.”

“Fire!” cried Lieutenant Calder. The men obeyed with alacrity, but scarcely had the shot left the mouths of the guns than the enemy replied with a crashing broadside, which shot away several of the stays of the jury-masts, knocked over three or four of the crew, and reduced the frigate almost to the state of wreck in which she had been found when captured.

Rawson was the only officer wounded, but still he cheered on the crew.

“We’ll not give in lads! Old England for ever!” he exclaimed, putting his right hand to a gun-tackle, and hauling away. The other arm had been hit.

In vain were all the efforts of those gallant men.

“Here she comes!” was the cry. “Boarders! repel boarders!”

The enemy gave a sheer to port, and with a loud crash ran alongside the “Concorde.” Grappling-irons were hove aboard her and the next instant the Frenchmen, in overpowering numbers, rushed like a torrent along her decks.

Chapter Sixteen.

The “Thisbe’s” Crew prepare for a Fresh Fight.

The chief anxiety of Captain Courtney when he ascertained that the approaching ship was an enemy, was to secure the escape of the prize. She would indeed have been of very little use to the “Thisbe” in repelling an attack, as the French frigate from having all her canvas would have been able to manoeuvre so as to engage each of them singly.

“There she goes, and I’ll engage Tom Calder’s heart is heavier than any one’s aboard here at having to run away!” exclaimed Captain Courtney—“Good luck go with him. We’ll try and keep the enemy engaged, and wing him, if we can. You’ll do your best, I know, my lads.”

A cheerful shout was the answer to this appeal, the last part of which was addressed to the crew.

The men were now seen fastening their handkerchiefs round their heads, tightening their waistbands, most of them having thrown off their jackets and shirts, standing at their guns with their brawny arms and shoulders bare, like pictures of Hercules prepared for battle; not a countenance that did not exhibit a cheerful alacrity for the battle.

As the captain took a walk round the decks, he felt assured that what men could do they would to maintain the honour of old England’s flag.

Many bore marks of their recent combat, and several still pale from loss of blood, had insisted on rising from their hammocks and going to their guns. Among them stood the boatswain, Rolf Morton; the captain shook his head at him.

“What! you could not trust us to fight the ship without you, Mr Morton?” he said, in a kind tone of reproof. “I must let you stay now you are on deck, but I would rather you were snug in your berth.”

“While I’ve breath for my pipe, and legs to stand on, I’d rather be here, Captain Courtney, thank you, sir,” answered Rolf. “I would lose an arm rather than let our prize be retaken.”

“So would I, Mr Morton, and we will do our best to help her escape,” said the captain, and he passed on.

With like kind words of encouragement both to officers and men, the captain passed along the guns; not a man of the crew who would not have dropped at their quarters, or gone down with the ship, rather than yield as long as their brave chief bade them fight on.

By the time Captain Courtney regained his post on the quarter-deck, the enemy had got within gun-shot, and commenced firing with her longer pieces at the “Thisbe,” but the shot fell wide.

“The enemy’s gunners want practice,” observed the captain to the third lieutenant, who was doing duty as first, though he himself was severely wounded. “We’ll reserve our fire till they get a little nearer, and then give it them with a will. They probably expect that we shall haul down our colours after we have satisfied the calls of honour with a few shots.”

“They don’t know of whom they have got hold then,” answered Mr Trenane, the lieutenant. “In a light wind they might have had too much the advantage of us, but with this breeze, the loss of our masts will matter less, I hope.”

The enemy was now coming up rapidly on the “Thisbe’s” quarter. A shot from her bow chasers whistled through the latter’s rigging; several others followed as the guns could be brought to bear.

On she came.

The “Thisbe” had not fired.

“Down with the helm and give it them, my lads!” suddenly shouted the captain.

The English frigate luffed up, and poured her whole broadside into the bows of the approaching enemy. The Frenchman put down his helm and returned the compliment, and now the two ships stood on for some time exchanging broadsides as rapidly as they could. At length a shot struck the “Thisbe’s” fore-topmast; it had been wounded in the previous engagement. Down it came with a crash, but so eagerly were the crew engaged that few discovered what had happened.

The master with a few hands flew aloft, and quickly cut away the wreck; the crew redoubled their efforts. Still the uninjured condition of the enemy’s rigging gave her an important advantage; her shot came crashing on board the “Thisbe.”

Whatever Captain Courtney might have thought, he appeared as cheerful and confident as ever. His courage kept up that of the crew. The enemy was frequently hulled. Now one spar was shot away; now another; his fire slackened. The British crew cheered lustily. That hearty cheer must have been heard along the Frenchman’s decks. It showed him that though his enemy was almost dismantled, the courage of the people was as undaunted as ever.

“We may not take him, but we may prevent his taking us,” observed Morton, as he moved among the crew.

Just then the Frenchman’s bow was seen to move up closer to the wind; his tacks were hauled aboard, the breeze was freshening, and away he stood on a bowline under all the sail he could set, leaving the astonished crew of the British ship rubbing their eyes and wondering what he was about. They, however, did not cease sending their shot after him, as a parting compliment.

“She has but hauled off to repair damages,” observed the third lieutenant to the captain.

“Not so sure of that, Trenane,” answered Captain Courtney; “probably her captain and other superior officers have been killed or wounded, and the rest suspect that we should prove too tough a morsel for them to digest.”

Captain Courtney seemed to be right in his conjectures; the French frigate stood on.

All hands were instantly set to work to repair damages, to be ready for her in case she should return. Many an eye cast an anxious glance in the direction in which she was steering. The brave crew would have welcomed her back, but they wished to be ready first to receive her.

Again she was observed to alter her course.

“She is coming back!” was the cry. “Hurra, lads, we’ll give it her if she does.”

They watched her eagerly. She was steering to the northward under all sail. There could be little doubt that she was in pursuit of the “Concorde.” More energetically than ever the crew worked away, in the hopes of being in a condition to go to the aid of their consort; but every instant the wind was increasing, the sea was getting up, and their task became more difficult. Dark clouds were gathering in the western horizon. It was evident that a gale was brewing, and there were appearances that it would be a severe one. The safety of the ship demanded all the care of the officers and the redoubled exertions of the men. The guns were secured, the shot holes stopped, the rigging knotted and spliced as strongly as time would allow; everything moveable below was lashed, and the ship’s head was brought to the wind to meet the expected blast. Had she had sea room she might have scudded, but, with the land under her lee, that was out of the question. As a brave man girds himself for an inevitable and deadly contest, so was the gallant ship prepared for the desperate conflict with the elements.

The British crew had not prepared unnecessarily to meet the gale, although delayed; down it came at length upon them with even greater fury than was expected. More than once it seemed as if the masts and rigging would give way, and that the frigate would be driven helplessly before its fury. Had a sail gone, had a rope given way, she might have been hurried to destruction; but careful hands had secured the rigging, every rope held, and there she lay nobly breasting the storm. Still she drifted to the eastward, and, should the gale continue long, she after all could not escape destruction.

As the morning approached, the wind blew harder and harder. Daylight exhibited no sign of its abating. All that day it continued, its fury in no way decreased. The weary crew began to faint with their exertions, but the officers went among them, and with cheering words reanimated their spirits. The carpenter had often sounded the well. He now reported that the ship had sprang a leak; the pumps must be manned; the demand on the energies of the crew was increased. Still they worked cheerfully. Even some of the wounded insisted on coming up to take their spell at the pumps.

Night again came on, but not for a moment during the whole course of it did Captain Courtney leave the deck. Often and often did he look out astern. He had good reason for so doing. The order was given to range the cables. It might be necessary to anchor, to make, at all events, the attempt to bring up the ship before she was driven on the enemy’s shores.

The morning returned at last, and away to the leeward, amid the thick driving spray, and through the pale cold cheerless light, a line of coast rose above the tumbling waters. Calm, as if no storm was raging, Captain Courtney walked the deck, his eye now turned astern—now at the rigging of his ship. He sent Mr Trenane forward to see that the anchors were ready for letting go. The lieutenant reported all ready.

“Then we have done all that men can do to save the ship, and to Providence we must trust the rest,” observed the captain.

Few words were exchanged by any on board, the crew were at their stations, ready to perform any duty required of them; those told off to labour at the pumps were working manfully; and thus they would have continued till the noble ship had struck on the rocks, or gone down beneath the waves.

Hours passed by. Slowly but certainly she drove stern on towards the land. The captain after a time was seen to look frequently over the side, and to watch the land more earnestly. His countenance brightened.

“There is hope for us yet,” he observed to Mr Trenane; “the wind is dropping.”

Such was the case. Rapidly the gale abated, the ship no longer laboured as before, the leak was easily kept under, the sea quickly went down, the wind got round to the southward, and by nightfall the “Thisbe,” under all sail, was steering a course for England.

Chapter Seventeen.

The “Concorde” recaptured by the “Atalante”—The Ships in a Gale—The “Atalante” wrecked—Ronald swims ashore—Communication established—The English shut up in a Tower.

In vain Lieutenant Calder and the prize crew of the “Concorde” attempted to resist the onslaught of the enemy. Several were killed, others were wounded, and they soon found themselves completely overpowered. No time was lost in conveying them on board the ship which had captured them, which proved to be the “Atalante,” a consort of their hard-won prize. Most of the wounded French prisoners were removed likewise, that they might be under the care of the chief surgeon of the ship, and among them was Alfonse Gerardin. He had somewhat recovered his strength and spirits, and now that he found himself no longer a prisoner, he talked away freely as well with the young Frenchmen of his own rank as with the English midshipmen.

When the transfer of prisoners had been accomplished, the “Atalante” took the “Concorde” in tow and made sail, but the wind increasing, the hawser broke, and both ships had to look out for their safety independently of each other.

In consequence of the comparatively small number of the English prisoners they were not very strictly guarded, and the officers were allowed to go about the decks by themselves.

The gale increased during the night, and when early in the morning Ronald Morton went on deck, he found the French ship scudding before it under bare poles.

There was a good deal of confusion on board; the crew were labouring at the pumps, but in anything but an energetic manner; some would suddenly knock off, and halloa and bawl at their shipmates to come and help them, but it was often long before their places were taken. On looking aloft he saw, too, that the masts were wounded in several places, and though the ship was placed in much greater peril by the way she had been knocked about, it was with no little satisfaction that he observed the battering she had received from the “Thisbe’s” and “Concorde’s” guns. Before long he encountered Mr Calder, whose eyes were engaged as his had been.

“What do you think, sir, of the state of affairs?” he asked.

“That they are as bad, Morton, as well can be,” was the answer. “Neither captain nor officers know what they are about, and it will be a miracle if they do not cast the ship away.”

“Of course they will,” observed Rawson, who had just then joined them; “I said from the first that we should have no good luck, and what I said has come true.”

“But other chaps among us said that we should have good luck,” remarked Twigg, the master’s assistant, who was always fond of putting Rawson in the wrong. “Now, you see, old fellow, it was just heads or tails—even, you’ll understand—and as ill-luck would have it, you happened to win.”

“It’s the only thing I ever did win, then,” answered poor Rawson, in a melancholy tone.

“Well, well, Rawson, the next time you prophesy ill, we’ll all pray that you may prove a false prophet,” observed Mr Calder. “But, my lads, it may before long be of very little consequence to most of us who is right and who is wrong; unless these Frenchmen are steering for some shelter, and know the coast perfectly, they will run us hard and fast on it before the world is many hours older.”

Ronald on this said he would go and learn what he could from young Gerardin, who would probably be able to ascertain what the Frenchmen proposed doing.

Ronald found his way to the sick-bay, where Alfonse was in his cot, able to sit up and talk without difficulty.

“What we are going to do, you demand?” he answered. “Why, let the ship drive and go to destruction, for what I can tell; all on board seem to have lost their wits, from the captain downwards. They would pitch me out of the ship if they heard my remarks, so do not repeat them.”

When Ronald returned on deck he found things in no way mended. The French crew appeared to be obeying their officers very slowly and unwillingly; indeed, the ship was already in a state of semi-mutiny. The officers, too, seemed to be issuing contradictory orders. Ronald saw them examining a chart, but it was evident from their gestures that they differed very much in opinion as to the course which should be steered. No decision was arrived at, and the ship drove onwards towards the coast of Finisterre.

There were harbours and shelter there in abundance; but judgment and good pilotage was required to take advantage of them, and these qualities were wanting on board the “Atalante.”

The English officers stood grouped together, affording a strong contrast to their French captors. Mr Calder was cool and collected as ever.

“If the Frenchmen won’t let us try and save the ship, we must do our best to save our lives,” he remarked. “Remember, in the first place, let us all hold together and help each other. We may make a harbour and run no risk of losing our lives, or we may drive on the rocks and have a desperate struggle for them, but in either case, prisoners we shall remain, only in the last we shall have a better chance of making our escape in the end—let us keep that in view, whatever happens. Now, lads! there is the land; it won’t be long before we become more nearly acquainted with it.”

Rawson, Morton, and the rest promised implicitly to follow Mr Calder’s directions. It was agreed that the instant the ship struck, Morton and Twigg should hasten down to release their own men below, and to tell them what had been resolved on. There was little doubt, even in the expected extremity, that they would willingly follow Mr Calder’s directions.

“In ten minutes we shall know our fate,” said Mr Calder, calmly watching the shore, towards which the helpless ship was rapidly driving.

It consisted of a sandy beach, the ground rising a little beyond it, with here and there a low building, and in the centre a ruined mill, or fort, or watchtower—it was difficult to say what.

The sandy beach might have offered some prospect that their lives would be preserved, but in front of it rose among the foaming breakers a line of dark rocks, and no break was perceived in them through which the ship might force her way.

“Few of those on board this ill-fated craft will see another day,” observed Rawson, as he eyed the threatening coast. But he no longer spoke in a desponding tone; the moment of action was at hand, and such a prospect always roused him up.

“There’s a fresh hand at the bellows, to help us along to our fate,” he added. “Well, let it do its worst; Jack Rawson won’t flinch as long as he has a head on his shoulders.”

Morton was what is called constitutionally brave, and the calmness of his companions increased his courage. His friend, Dicky Glover, looked at him with admiration; Morton’s bearing gave him confidence. If one who, so short a time before, was a ship’s boy, was so cool and brave, of course he who was born a gentleman, and had long been a midshipman, ought to exhibit even more calmness and resolution. So in reality, at this trying moment, Glover appeared as much the hero as did Morton.

Mr Calder noted both of the lads, and his heart warmed with pride as he marked the courage of his young countrymen, though he grieved at the too great probability of their being cut off.

The greater number of the Frenchmen were all this time agitated in the greatest degree, each man following his own devices; the officers having lost all shadow of control. Some had hurried below to put on their best clothes, or to secure what valuables they possessed; others had broken into the spirit-room, and with cans and bottles in their hands, came reeling on deck, insisting on their officers drinking with them. Some were dancing furiously; others were singing at the top of their voices, but except a very few, no one was preparing for the inevitable catastrophe. More than half were below when it came.

“Secure that coil of rope, and hold on for your lives!” shouted Mr Calder.

The ship struck, the foremast instantly went by the board; the seas furiously dashed up the frigate’s sides, and washed through her ports and over her deck. Each time she was struck, she shivered as if about to be wrenched asunder.

Numbers of the hapless crew were washed away. Men and officers shared the same fate; some were seen for a time struggling between the beach and the ship, but the cruel seas as they rushed back, carried them off, and hurled them among the dark rocks, where life was speedily crushed and washed out of them.

Ronald, Glover, and Twigg, as directed, had instantly the ship struck, hurried below to release their countrymen. The seamen, knowing what had happened, were making desperate efforts to get out of the hold in which they had been battened down. A capstan bar, which Morton and his companions found outside, enabled them to accomplish their object. The English seamen rushed upon deck, for the terrific sounds which reached their ears, and the fierce concussions the ship was receiving, warned that no time was to be lost, if they would preserve their lives.

Morton was hurrying up with the rest, when he recollected the wounded midshipman, Alfonse Gerardin.

“His countrymen won’t help him, of that I am pretty certain, and I cannot leave the poor fellow to perish,” he exclaimed to Glover, who was near him.

“I’ll help you, whatever you do,” answered Dicky Glover, who was as ready to do a good deed as a mischievous one, if it was suggested to him.

“So will I, Mr Morton,” said a seaman who had kept by the two midshipmen from the moment he had got his liberty, and had moreover possessed himself of the capstan bar, to serve him as a trusty weapon in case of need.

“Thank you, friend Truefitt,” said Morton: “come along.”

Ronald was well pleased to get such an ally as honest Job Truefitt, for there was not among the crew of the “Thisbe” a better seaman or a more trustworthy, better-hearted fellow.

While the rest were rushing on deck, Ronald and his companions made their way along the deck to the sick-bay. Many of the wounded were calling on their shipmates to come to their assistance, and uttering imprecations fierce and terrible, when they found that they called in vain.

Gerardin was attempting to get up, but his strength failed him, and he lay back, his countenance betokening a proud resignation to his own fate, and scorn at the terror of the wretches who surrounded him.

“What!” he exclaimed, when he saw Morton and Glover with Job Truefitt, “have you Englishmen found time, amid all this confusion, to come and look after a wounded wretch like me; an enemy too—who has been taught with his utmost strength to hate the English?”

“We Englishmen have been taught to help our enemies in distress, mounseer,” observed Job Truefitt, as, without waiting a moment to ask leave, he lifted the wounded lad on his shoulders. “There’s no time for palavering. Come along, sirs.”

The midshipmen sprang on, helping Job to support his burden, and they soon reached the upper-deck, when the scene of horror and confusion was indescribable! Not without difficulty, and in great danger of being washed off, they made their way to the after part of the quarter-deck, where Mr Calder, with the other Englishmen, were assembled.

The ship had driven with her larboard side to the shore, and as she heeled over they were partly sheltered from the force of the seas, which dashed in arches of foam high above her.

The English lieutenant and his party had made fast a cask to the end of the line they had secured, and were endeavouring to float it towards the shore, where three or four people stood ready to receive it. In vain they tried. Several times the cable got almost within their reach, and was carried back again with the reflux of the wave. Morton, however, observed to his satisfaction, that just at that part there were no rocks, and that the seas rushed on without any break till they reached the beach.

“If I could but do it,” thought Morton to himself. “I have swum through some tolerably heavy seas on the Shetland coast.”

He at once made the proposal to Mr Calder.

“Impossible!” was the answer. “You would be drowned, my boy, to a certainty.”

“But I could do it, and whether I’m drowned or not, it matters little,” exclaimed Job Truefitt. “Here, who’ll take charge of this here young Frenchman?”

Rawson offered also to make the attempt, but he was known not to be a good swimmer.

A thundering crash was heard. It was the fall of the remainder of the foremast, and the breaking up of the fore part of the ship. It was a strong hint to the English party to hasten whatever they might undertake.

“You’ll let me go, Mr Calder?” said Morton again.

He and Job Truefitt had secured some light line to the cask, which had just been hauled up. It was again lowered, and the lieutenant nodded his head, but his countenance was very sad, as if he had little hopes of the success of the expedition. The instant his permission was gained, Ronald and Job slid down the side of the ship, and were quickly borne on with the cask towards the shore. They both struck out bravely, and soon reached the cask. They had little at first to do, except to keep themselves afloat. All those who anxiously watched them, knew that the trial would come as they neared the beach, and got within the power of the under suck of the receding waves. At first they merely accompanied the cask, and supporting themselves by it, husbanded their strength.

“They will be lost to a certainty, I know,” observed Rawson. “If they don’t succeed, I don’t know who will. I never saw a finer swimmer than that man Truefitt.”

“Oh, I hope they will! I hope they will be saved!” cried Glover, in an agony of terror for Morton, who had inspired him with the sincerest affection.

“There they go! bravely they swim!” cried Mr Calder. “They are ahead of the cask—they dart forward—the undertow has got them. No!—they are struggling desperately with it—they don’t lose ground—on they go!—No!”

There was a cry that the sea had carried them back, but the next moment their heads appeared on the top of a foaming sea, and on it rushed towards the beach.

Now was the critical moment. Their shipmates on board the wreck held their breath as they watched their progress. One was seen to rise up on the beach from out of a sheet of foam, and to hurry upwards; but there was only one. He did not stop a moment. Down he dashed again. He had a grasp of a rope, though the other end of which was held by the people on the shore.

Without hesitation, he plunged once more into the seething waters; he did not again appear—there was a cry of despair—all thought he was lost—but no—the next instant he was seen, and this time with a companion, and aided by the people, who were on the watch for them, they both together hurried up the beach, and the cask, with the line, was hauled up after them.

The great object was accomplished; a communication was secured with the shore. The passage, however, was still full of danger.

More line was procured. A traveller and slings were fitted, and Rawson volunteered to lead the way. Should he succeed, the passage would be somewhat less dangerous.

The people on shore now tightened the rope. He took a supply of line with which to haul the next person on shore. A shout from the English seamen proclaimed that he was successful.

It was now according to rule, under such circumstances, the privilege of the youngest to proceed. Dicky Glover was ordered into the slings.

“If I must go, may I take the young Frenchman?” he asked. “I know Morton would wish it.”

“Yes, be sharp,” answered Mr Calder, assisting himself to secure them both. Away they went on their perilous passage. It was near sun-down when the ship struck. It was now rapidly getting dark. What a night of horrors was there for those who were compelled to spend it on board the wreck.

When Dicky Glover had nearly reached the shore, the surf almost tore young Gerardin from the slings, and the hold he had of him. Almost hopelessly he struggled. In another instant they both would have been carried away, when Glover saw some one making his way through the foaming water towards him. A friendly hand grasped his, and in another minute he and his charge were hauled up out of the power of the sea.

Ronald Morton, with a rope round his waist, had been the means of rescuing him and Gerardin from death. Dicky began to thank him.

“Only obeying orders—helping each other,” answered Ronald. “But lend a hand, Glover, we have plenty to do.”

Morton and his companions became very anxious for the fate of their gallant superior. Had the frigate been his own ship, he would have been the last to leave the wreck; but now, having seen his own people on shore, he would have no hesitation in coming.

Ronald applied to Gerardin, but he could get no information from his confused countrymen as to what had become of the English lieutenant. The Englishmen, notwithstanding this, continued to assist energetically in hauling the people on shore. Each time a man reached the beach, they hailed him, hoping to find that he was their officer.

Suddenly, as they were hauling in on the line made fast to the traveller, the main line became slack: alas! all communication with the ill-fated ship was cut off.

“Haul on it, lads!” shouted Rawson and Morton in concert.

“It is heavy; there is some one on it,” cried the men. “Steady, lads, steady.”

Gradually they hauled in the line. The life of one more fellow-creature might be saved. They hauled away. Yes, a man was there! was he still alive, though?

They hailed as he neared them. An English voice answered, “All right, lads!” It was their own lieutenant. They welcomed him with a joyful shout, which showed that he had won the honest affections of his men, a prize worthy of an officer’s aim.

“I had a struggle for it,” he observed, as soon as he was somewhat recovered. “No sooner was I on the rope, than some of the wretches in their madness cut it, and have so lost all means of reaching the shore in safety. Still we will do what we can to help them.”

The Englishmen kept to this resolution. With unceasing watchfulness they moved up and down along the beach, saving the lives of many who would otherwise have fallen victims to the waves.

The wearied seamen, their labours over, threw themselves on the sands to rest, scarcely allowing the thought to trouble them of what next they should do. They had not enjoyed many minutes’ repose before they were roused up by a party of soldiers, who, without much ceremony, marched them all off to a tower in the neighbourhood, which Ronald recollected observing before the ship struck. Here, in spite of all Mr Calder’s expostulations, they were locked up in an upper chamber without food or water, and left to their own devices.

It is not surprising if their remarks and reflections were not very complimentary to the people on whose shores they had been thrown.

Chapter Eighteen.

Job’s Plan for escaping—A Hint from Gerardin—A Rope brought in a Basket—Descent from the Tower—The Guard made Prisoner—Get on board a Fishing-boat.

“If I’d my way I’d break out of this here hole, knock the mounseers down that stands guard, and cut and run,” observed Job Truefitt, as he woke up after a sound sleep on some straw, in the afternoon of the day on which he and his companions had been shut up in the tower. “We might get hold of some fishing craft or other, and make good our escape. I’ve heard of such things being done afore now.”

The sentiment was warmly echoed by the speaker’s shipmates.

Mr Calder and the other officers had overheard what was said. It was intended that they should. Probably the same idea was occupying the lieutenant’s mind; he got up and took a survey of the interior of the tower. The upper part was of wood, and through a chink came a ray from the setting sun, and cast a bright light on the opposite wall. It showed the prisoners the direction of the ocean, and the point towards which they must make their way if they could escape from the tower.

Mr Calder, with no little exertion, climbed up to the chink to look out; the chamber was without any window; there had been one in the stone wall, but that had been blocked up. From the dome shape of the roof it appeared, too, that the chamber was the highest in the tower. Mr Calder having completed his survey of the surrounding country, as far as his position would allow him, descended to the floor. He said but little; he was pondering the means of escape. To be kept a prisoner now, almost at the commencement of what everybody said would be a long war, was more than his philosophy would enable him to bear with patience. Morton guessed what was passing in his superior’s mind.

“It would, indeed, be terrible to be shut up,” he observed. “It is only just what I ought to have expected,” said Rawson. “My ill-luck will stick to me to the end; no fear of that going, though everything else leaves me.”

His remark produced a laugh among his companions, who, if they even believed in ill-luck, had very little compassion on him when he complained of it; indeed, it was suspected that he rather liked to be joked on the subject.

“I should like to have a look out too,” said Ronald, climbing up by the inequalities in the stone wall and the planks which formed the side of the tower.

The sun was just sinking in the ocean, and casting a rich glow over the whole western sky. The storm had completely ceased, though the waves still rolled in with a loud roar, lining the coast with a fringe of foam.

The tide was low; a few ribs on the reef, almost abreast of the tower, was the only remnant of this once beautiful frigate, with the addition of the broken timbers and planks which strewed the shore, and which the peasantry had not yet carried off. The appearance of the coast indeed in the immediate neighbourhood of the tower offered no hopes of escape to the Englishmen, even should they succeed in getting out of their prison. To the north, however, Morton observed a high reef of black rocks, running out into the sea, and circling round so as to form a secure harbour. Two or three small craft were floating on the surface of this little haven, either launched after the gale, or which had ridden it out in safety, while several boats, appearing like black dots on the yellow sand, lay drawn up on the beach.

Ronald was still employed in making his survey, when steps were heard ascending the rickety creaking stairs of the tower, and Mr Calder ordered him down, that he might not excite the suspicion of the Frenchmen that they entertained the idea of escaping.

The door opened, and two soldiers entered with a jar of wine, and some bread and cheese and fruit. Placing the provisions before the lieutenant, they made signs that he might divide them among his people. Ronald, thinking it might be politic to get into conversation with them, mustering all his knowledge of French, thanked them warmly for what they had brought.

The man answered, somewhat gruffly, that they were only obeying orders, and that they had been directed by a young officer of the marine, who had been wrecked, to bring the provisions.

“Pray thank him for us, and say how grateful we feel for his gift,” said Ronald.

“We may not see him again,” answered one of the men. “He is ill in bed, and he will be going away into the interior, as soon as he is able to be removed.”

The men said that they did not know the young officer’s name. There could be little doubt, however, that Alfonse Gerardin had sent the provisions.

Ronald in vain tried to ascertain if the soldiers knew how they, the English prisoners, were to be disposed of, but the Frenchmen only shrugged their shoulders, and replied that that was no business of theirs. It was not likely that they would be kept for ever in the tower, which, as the rats had already deserted it, was very likely to tumble about their ears.

“It is a wonder, then, that it did not come down during the late gale,” observed Ronald.

“Ah,” said one of the men with a shrug and a wink, “it is a wonder truly, considering how rotten it is from the top to the bottom. But we must not stop here, talking with you Englishmen, or we shall be suspected of wishing to help you to escape. Adieu, adieu,—au revoir. You don’t seem much cast down. Perhaps you would be, if you knew the fate prepared for you.”

With another wink from the chief speaker, a corporal, by his uniform, the man took his departure.

“I am certain, sir, they had meaning in what they said,” observed Ronald to Mr Calder, explaining the Frenchman’s remarks. “Gerardin is not ungrateful, and wishes to help us to escape.”

Rawson laughed at the notion of a Frenchman being grateful, and even Mr Calder seemed to doubt that he, or any one else, had the slightest idea of helping them to escape.

“People are not fond of putting their lives in jeopardy, to help those in whom they have no interest,” he remarked.

It seemed too likely that the lieutenant was right, for the night passed, and noon of the following day arrived, and no one came near them. At that time the two soldiers who had before appeared brought in their food, but left it without saying a word, and again hurried down the stairs.

Ronald was persuaded that the corporal gave a significant look at him, as he followed his companion out of the door. It was probable that the two men did not trust each other.

“It is all your fancy, Morton,” said Rawson, gloomily. “Depend on it we shall be marched off to some horrible out of the way fortress, and be shut up for the next ten years of our lives, while our old shipmates are crowning themselves with laurels, or what is better, making no end of prize-money, and rising to the top of their profession. When we get back once more to the shores of old England, there we shall be wretched white-haired old mates and midshipmen, forgotten by our friends, and cared for by nobody. There’s one consolation,—I’ll not learn a word of their beastly lingo, they may depend on that.”

Although the picture Rawson had drawn was very melancholy, and too likely to be true, his latter observation so tickled the fancies of his hearers, that they all burst into a loud laugh, in which Rawson himself could not help joining.

“Well, my lads, though we may have some difficulty in breaking out of this, and more in making our escape, there’s no doubt that the alternative, as Rawson describes it, will be a very unpleasant one,” exclaimed Mr Calder. “We must all go, or none; and yet I would force none to go, for the attempt may cost us our lives.”

“Never fear, Mr Calder, sir; there’ll be no skulkers among us,” exclaimed Job Truefitt, from among the seamen. “Just you give the word as if you was on the quarter-deck of our own tight little frigate, and there is not a man here who won’t obey you as smartly, whatever you thinks fit to order, whether it is to jump off the top of this here tower, or to knock over every Frenchman we meet.”

“Yes, sir,—yes, sir,—that’s it. Job speaks the truth,” exclaimed several of the men simultaneously.

The men required no incitement to induce them to attempt escaping, although there was but little fault to find with the provisions which had been sent them. There was excellent bread and cheese, and fruit of various sorts, and some fried fish, though certainly there was neither beef nor pork, while the vin du pays was of a somewhat thin and sour description. A few bottles of fiery hot eau de vie would have suited the taste of the honest tars much better.

This day, like the former one, passed away, and nobody came near the prisoners; they all wished that the time was come when they were to make the attempt to escape. The next day, at noon, a much larger supply of provisions was brought to them. Two men accompanied their friend, the corporal, to carry them. He also carried a good-sized basket, which he deposited in a corner of the chamber, and then nodding, without saying a word, hurried down the steps; as if their friends outside had divined their wishes, there were half-a-dozen bottles of brandy!

Morton and Rawson were examining the contents of the corporal’s basket.

“I thought so,” exclaimed Ronald, joyfully; and he pulled out a long rope, amply strong enough to support the weight of a man. There was no longer any doubt that they had friends outside, anxious to assist their escape.

The weather had now become perfectly serene. A light south-easterly breeze, and smooth water, would enable them to run along the coast just out of sight of those on land, while several small vessels in the harbour would supply them with a craft suited to their purpose.

The prospect in view put them all in high spirits, and with infinite relish they discussed the viands which had been brought them. While thus engaged the door of their prison opened, and two persons in naval uniform appeared before them. One Morton at once recognised as Alfonse Gerardin, though he looked even more pale and sickly than when he had been rescued from the wreck. Ronald sprang up to greet him. His companion, on whose arm he rested, was a strongly-built middle-aged man. Alfonse gave his hand to Ronald.

“I could not bear the thought of your going away without seeing you once more,” he said. “I could not have obtained leave had it not been for my father, Lieutenant Gerardin, of whom I told you.”

“What you told me was merely that he had been killed,” said Ronald.

“So I thought, but happily I was mistaken. He had been knocked overboard, but he was picked up by a boat, and unable to regain the ship was brought to shore, not far from this, when hearing of the shipwreck he found us out.”

“And you are the young gentleman to whom my dear boy here is indebted for his life,” said Lieutenant Gerardin, in broken English, grasping Ronald’s hand warmly. “I am grateful to you. Though my nation is at war with yours, I love your countrymen. I would serve you gladly at the risk of my life. You are to be removed into the interior to-morrow, and a far-off fortress will be your habitation. This night you must make your escape; I have provided part of the means. There is a fishing-boat in that little harbour to the north; she pulls fast, and has oars and sails aboard, as also some water and provisions, but not sufficient. Carry all you can with you. I have bribed some of the guards, but not all; you may meet with opposition; you will know how to deal with your enemies. Do not think me a traitor to France; I owe her no allegiance, and yet I am bound to her. Now farewell!—we may never meet again, but you will at least not think that he whom you so bravely saved from death is ungrateful.”

Alfonse Gerardin said but little; he warmly shook Ronald’s and Glover’s hands, and then he and his father hurriedly took their departure.

The rest of the day was spent by the party in talking over their escape, and the best mode of meeting all possible contingencies, and then most of the old hands lay down to sleep, that they might be fresher when the moment of action arrived.

No sooner was it dark than Mr Calder set to work to remove some of the planks above the brickwork. It was, as the corporal had hinted, very rotten, and quickly gave way to their pulls. An aperture of size sufficient to allow a man to force himself through was soon made. Mr Calder then securing the rope, and lowering it to the ground, directing his men to stand in the order they were to descend, told Rawson to bring up the rear, went himself through the hole, and slid down noiselessly to the ground. The midshipmen followed, and then came the men; not a word was spoken, but they imitated their leader’s example in picking up some large stones with which to defend themselves, should they be suddenly attacked. One after the other the men came gliding down in the rapid way none but seamen could have done; not the slightest noise was made; their feet, as they touched the ground, made no more sound than those of cats. All had descended except Rawson, when a noise was heard in the room above, as of a door opening. There was a scuffle, but no one cried out; in an instant Job Truefitt was swarming up the rope hand over hand; Morton, the most active of the party, followed him. Whatever there was to be done was to be effected quickly. With the deepest anxiety the rest of the party waited to ascertain what had happened, while two or three prepared to follow. Job crept in at the hole in the wall, and looked round the prison. At first he could see nothing. At last he fancied that he could distinguish something moving on the other side of the room. He sprang towards the spot, and so did Morton.

“Here we are, Mr Rawson; here we are, come to help you,” whispered Job. A deep groan was the response. It was soon evident that there were two people on the ground, struggling in a deadly embrace—but which was friend or foe, was the question. They had tight hold of each other’s throats, and were actually throttling each other.

“You catch hold of one, Mr Morton,” whispered Job, who had recognised Ronald. “I’ll take t’other, and then we’ll settle with the mounseer, whichever he may be.”

Ronald found by his jacket that he had got hold of Rawson, but it was not without digging his nails into the Frenchman’s wrist that he was able to make him relax his hold of Rawson’s throat. Still more difficult was it to induce the latter to take his gripe off his opponent’s neck. To bind the legs and arms of the Frenchman, and to gag his mouth, was the work of a few moments. Ronald stumbled against his lantern, at which Rawson must have struck when he entered.

“It may prove of service,” thought Ronald, as he hung it round his neck.

Rawson soon recovered. Two more seamen had come in by this time. Their first care was to barricade the door. At first they thought of leaving the Frenchman in the room, but it was agreed that, as he might make some noise, and give the alarm, it would be better to take him part of the way with them. He was speedily lowered down, much to the astonishment of those below, and to his own annoyance. Then Morton and the rest of the party followed. Who their prisoner was it was impossible to ascertain, for fear lest the moment the gag was removed he might cry out. He was a soldier, but not their friend the corporal, as he was a shorter and stouter man.

There could be little doubt that the guard was in the room below them, and when their comrade was missed, others probably would go up to look for him. No further time was to be lost. Mr Calder, therefore, ordered the men in a whisper to close up together, carrying their prisoner among them, and to move off in the direction of the harbour. As they began to advance, Morton recollected the rope which they ought to have taken with them, as should it be left behind and recognised, it might betray the friends who had supplied it to them. As the rope was long enough to allow of its being slipped round a beam, and then again to reach the ground, he was on the point of ascending once more to execute his project, hoping quickly to overtake his companions, when a noise in the room immediately above him arrested his movements. The guard was on the alert. His delay, contrary to the orders of his superior, might cause the ruin of the whole party. He let go the rope and sprang after his companions.

“It cannot much matter,” he thought; “our friends would have warned us to carry off the rope.”

The English seamen hurried on till they came to a deep hollow in the sands. Here Mr Calder ordered them to leave their prisoner.

“Remember, mounseer, if you hallo or make any row, we’ll be back and blow your brains out for you,” whispered Job Truefitt, as he placed him on the ground.

A grunt was the only answer. It was doubtful whether the prisoner understood what was said, though he might have guessed the meaning of the remark.

The seamen pushed on as fast as they could move. It was no easy matter to find their way, for the night was very dark, and though the sky was clear, there was a slight mist, which concealed all objects, except those close at hand, from view. This was, however, an advantage, as well as a disadvantage, to the fugitives. Though they had, in consequence of the mist, greater difficulty in making their way towards the shore, it assisted to conceal them from any persons who might chance to cross their path. They had made their escape at an early hour, that they might have longer time to get an offing before daylight.

Mr Calder strode on ahead, Rawson brought up the rear, Ronald pushed on, and ranged up alongside his lieutenant. He had a fancy that if there was danger, it would be there, and he wished to be near him. The road lay chiefly over sand-hills, very heavy walking. Now and then they came to rocks, which still further impeded their progress, but there were bits also of hard ground, over which they passed at a run. The wind being from the south, they kept at their backs, while the gentle ripple of the sea on the beach, assisted still further to guide them. At last Mr Calder stopped.

“We ought to be up to the harbour by this time,” he observed in a low voice. “I see no signs of it.”

All the party had now pulled up. As they did so, the sound of voices from no great distance reached their ears. The speakers were to the north of them. It was not likely that they were pursuers. Still, if they passed near, they might discover them. The seamen crouched down to the ground. The voices grew louder and louder. They seemed to be coming towards the very spot where the Englishmen were collected.

“Lads, we must master them, whether many or few,” whispered Mr Calder. “Take care none escape.”

Morton had been attentively listening to the speakers. “They are fishermen just landed,” he said, in a low tone. “They are on their way to their homes. I doubt, from what they say, if they have landed their fish.”

“Be ready, lads,” said Mr Calder, expecting that the next instant they would be grappling with the Frenchmen. “Each of you seize his man, bring him to the ground, and gag him. Take care none get away.”

Suddenly the voices ceased. Morton thought that they had been overheard, but once more the fishermen went on talking; their footsteps were heard, but gradually the strength of the sound decreased, their voices became less and less distinct, till they were altogether lost in the distance. The lieutenant now led the way rapidly onward.

“If we had been a minute sooner we should have been discovered,” thought Morton. “All is for the best.”

They had now reached the little harbour. Several boats were drawn up, but all at a considerable distance from the water. It would be difficult to launch one of them without making a noise. A small boat was distinguished a short distance from the shore. Ronald offered to swim off to it, and bring it in. His clothes were off in an instant.

“Stay, I may have to cut the cable,” he observed, putting his clasp knife between his teeth.

The water was somewhat cold, but he did not heed that. Excitement kept his blood in circulation. He soon reached the boat. His knife came into requisition, and though there were no oars, he found a loose bottom board, and managed to paddle in with it to the beach.

It was still necessary to be very cautious. Lights were seen in some huts not far off, and the inmates might hear them and suspect that something was wrong.

The boat would not hold the entire party, so Mr Calder and Glover, with some of the men, embarked first, to select the craft most likely to suit them.

It was an anxious time for those on shore. The crews might be on board some of the boats, and if one of those was selected, the alarm might be given.

“We shall have to knock some of the fellows on the head if they are, that will be all,” observed Rawson, coolly.

The boat, however, returned without any disturbance, and the rest of the seamen got into her, bringing her gunwale almost flush with the water. Scarcely had they got twenty yards from the shore, when a voice hailed in French, “Yes, you were before us; don’t wait—bon soir,” answered Ronald, promptly, in the same language.

They pulled out as fast as they could, and got on board a a large half-decked boat, with her sails on board, and pulling eight oars.

The question was now, how to get out of the harbour. Rawson in the punt went ahead, to pilot the way, while the anchor was noiselessly weighed. The oars being got out, the little craft stood after the boat.

The mouth of the harbour was discovered, they were in the open sea. How joyously beats the hearts of all to find themselves free! As they drew off the land, the breeze freshened, the punt was cast adrift, and sail was made; just then there were lights seen on the beach; shouts were heard. There was a grating sound as of a boat being launched. They were about to be pursued, there could be no doubt about that. Still sharp eyes would be required to see them. Impelled by wind and oars the boat stood out to the westward.

The wind was fair, the sea was smooth. Of course in the darkness it was impossible to select the best boat, but they had happily hit upon one which at all events seemed a fine little craft, and they hoped she might prove the fastest. The seamen bent their backs to the oars with right good will; the water hissed and bubbled under the bows.

“The mounseers must be in a precious hurry to catch us, if they do catch us,” exclaimed Job Truefitt. “Give way, mates: if we can’t keep ahead of a crew of frog-eaters, we desarves to be caught and shut up in the darkest prison in the land, without e’er a quid o’ baccy to chaw, or a glass o’ grog to freshen our nip.”

The men, however, required no inducement to exert themselves to the utmost.

“Avast pulling!” exclaimed Mr Calder, after they had made good three miles or more from the harbour.

There was no sound of oars. The Frenchmen, it was supposed, had thought the pursuit useless, and had given it up. Still daylight must find them far away from the coast, and spell and spell throughout the night the undaunted seamen laboured at their oars.

Chapter Nineteen.

A Sail in sight—A Gale comes on—Reach the Frigate—Ronald rejoins the “Thisbe”—Made Lieutenant.

When morning dawned, and hunger reminded the escaped prisoners that it was time for breakfast, they looked about and discovered in the forepeak a supply of water and provisions, and what was of most consequence, a compass. She was evidently, then, the very craft the Gerardins had intended for their use.

“I hope they won’t get into a scrape for what they have done for us,” observed Ronald. “Though he is an odd fish in some respects, I liked that fellow, Alfonse Gerardin; and from the glimpse I got of his father, I should say he is first-rate.”

The health of their friends was therefore drunk in some very fair claret, which was found among the stores, and never has a merrier party floated in an open boat out in the Atlantic.

Two days passed, and Mr Calder calculated that they were well into the Chops of the Channel.

Several vessels had been seen, but none had been approached. Mr Calder did not care about this; he hoped to carry the boat into Falmouth or Plymouth harbour in safety.

The evening was drawing on. “A sail on the starboard bow!” was the cry. She was a ship standing across channel; unless she or they altered their course, she could not help falling in with them. From the look of the vessel it was impossible to say whether she was a friend or an enemy.

“If them there tops’ls weren’t cut by an English sail-maker, I’m ready to pass for a Schiedam drinking big-breeched Dutchman for the rest of my born days,” observed Job Truefitt, in a decisive tone, as standing up on the forecastle deck, and holding on by the mast, he shaded his eyes with his hand, and took a severe scrutiny of the stranger.

“Maybe I’ve handed them more than once and again.”

“What do you make her out to be, Truefitt?” asked Mr Calder from aft.

“Why, sir, maybe I’m wrong, and maybe I’m right; but if I’m right, then I take it she’s no other than the thirty-two pounder frigate, ‘Thetis.’ I served aboard her better nor twelve months, so I don’t deserve to have eyes in my head if I shouldn’t know her again,” answered Job.

“I think that you are very likely to be right, Job, and I’ll trust that you are,” said Mr Calder. “Take a couple of reefs in the mainsail as you hoist it, lads. The sky gives promise of a blowing night, and we shall do well if we can have a stout ship under our feet.”

As the lieutenant was speaking, a heavy squall passed over the boat, which, had her sails been set, she would have felt severely. As it was, the spray which it carried drove over her in thick masses, as she drifted before it. Dark clouds were breaking up heavily to the southward, while others drove across the sky, their outer edges glowing, like red-hot coals, with the beams of the setting sun. The squall, however, passed away, sail was made, and the boat sprang briskly over the rising seas towards the frigate. All were now as anxious to be seen by those on board her, as they were before to escape observation. It was very evident that a storm was brewing, and a pretty heavy one—such a gale as the French fishing-boat they were in could scarcely weather. Every instant the wind increased, and the seas rose higher and higher. The frigate, it was very probable, was outward bound, for as the wind got round she trimmed sails and steered to the westward. The boat was now close hauled. If not seen by the frigate, it was scarcely to be hoped that she would cut her off on the other tack. The gloom of evening was coming on also, causing the small sails of the boat to be less discernible.

“They’ll not see us,” sighed Rawson. “And as to this wretched little craft living out such a night as we are going to have, that’s a sheer impossibility.”

“The craft has carried us thus far in safety, and may carry us into Penzance or Falmouth harbour, I hope, even if we do miss the frigate,” observed Morton. “We shouldn’t so mistrust Providence, I think.”

“You think, you youngster!” said Rawson, contemptuously. “You haven’t been tried as I have.”

“But Rawson, suppose we are preserved. What will you Bay then?”

“That we have obtained more than we deserve,” answered the old mate, as if involuntarily.

“The frigate sees us,” shouted Job Truefitt, from forward, making use of a very common nautical figure of speech. “There’s port the helm—square away the yards—she’ll be down to us in a jiffy.”

“Time she was too,” observed Rawson, and he was right, for the gloom was increasing, the rising sea was tumbling and pitching the boat about, and even with two reefs down she could scarcely look up to her canvas.

The frigate, however, had not shortened sail, and on she came, looming large through the midst as she ploughed her way with irresistible force across the intervening space of tumbling foam-covered seas. Mr Calder gave the necessary orders to prepare for going alongside. It was a work of no little danger. The frigate had now got within a few hundred fathoms of the boat. Her canvas was reduced, and the helm being put down she rounded-to, and there she lay, dipping away heavily into the seas, making it appear to a landsman an utter impossibility to get near her, and even to a seaman a dangerous undertaking. The boat’s sails were lowered, and, if it could have been done, the mast would have been unstepped and pitched overboard; the oars were got out, and the boat approached the side of the frigate. Numerous friendly hands were ready to heave ropes for their assistance from various parts of the sides, from the chains and ports.

“Now give way, my good lads!” shouted Mr Calder, seeing that not a moment was to be lost.

The men pulled on, but the ship at the moment plunged forward, and the boat dropped astern. Should this again occur they might lose the chance of getting alongside altogether. With renewed efforts they again pulled up. A rope was hove on board and secured to the bits, and by its assistance they at length got alongside.

“Now, lads, up with you!” shouted the lieutenant.

The men caught hold of the ropes thrown into their outstretched hands. The greater number sprang up the side like cats, but Morton, with the right feeling that it is the officer’s duty to see his men in safety before seeking his own, hung back. Now the frigate rose on the side of a sea, leaving the boat in the trough far below her, then in another instant down she came striking the boat with a terrific crash. The side was crushed in, and the water rushing over her, down she went. More ropes were hove to those still on board. Morton caught hold of a rope with his left hand, but, at the same time, a spar struck his right a blow which rendered it powerless. He held on with all the energy of despair, for he knew that if he let go he should be lost. A poor fellow, one of his companions, was washed away close to him. His own was an awful position. He had received a second blow from a fragment of the boat. The sea was surging up round him. Should the ship roll over he must be submerged, and would inevitably be torn from his hold. He tried to cry out. The spray rushed into his mouth and almost choked him. Already it was so dark that he feared no one would see him. He believed that his last hour had come. The loud roar of waters was in his ears; he was losing all consciousness, and in another instant would have let go his hold, when his arm was grasped by a vice-like clutch, and he found himself lifted upwards till he was safely deposited on deck. He looked round to ascertain who had been his preserver. A tall gaunt young man was standing and shaking the water from his jacket, but just then an order was issued for all those who had been rescued from the boat to muster aft.

Lanterns were brought, and no sooner did the light of one of them fall on Mr Calder’s countenance, than one of the lieutenants, who proved to be the first of the ship, stepped forward, and grasped him warmly by the hand.

“What, old ship, is it you?” he exclaimed, almost wringing his hand off, and speaking rapidly, as if unable to restrain his feelings. “Where do you come from? What has happened to you? Tell me all about it.”

This Mr Calder briefly did, and warm and hearty was the reception he met with in the gun-room, to which Rawson was also invited, while the other midshipmen were taken care of in the berth.

The gale continued to increase in fury.

“We should have found ourselves in a bad way by this time on board the French fishing-boat,” observed Mr Calder. “Ah, Rawson! we have reason to be grateful, man, and we should do well if we left off grumbling for the rest of our lives.”

“You would deprive all poor old mates of the only privilege they possess,” answered Rawson; “that would be hard indeed.”

The frigate, it was found, was bound out to the North-American station. This was a great disappointment, as Mr Calder, especially, was anxious to rejoin the “Thisbe” as soon as possible, not to lose his chance of promotion.

However, although the gale continued to increase, Captain Markham was not the man to put back into port as long as he could possibly keep the sea. He had a good deal of the Flying Dutchman spirit about him, without the profanity of that far-famed navigator, which has so justly doomed him to so unenviable a notoriety.

The frigate was rolling and pitching somewhat heavily, as Ronald and his companions found their way into the midshipmen’s berth.

“Take your seats. You are welcome here, mates,” said the caterer as they entered. “We shall have food on the table in a jiffy. There’s cold beef, and salt pork, and soft tack, and here is some honest Jamaica rum. Not a bad exchange for the Frenchman’s wish-wash claret, I suspect.”

The reception, altogether, given to the new comers was cordial, if unrefined, and not many minutes had elapsed before they were all perfectly at home. Ronald, less accustomed than the rest to a midshipman’s berth, felt more inclined than usual to be silent. He found himself seated next to a midshipman, who differed considerably, both in manners and in many points, from his companions. His appearance was not at the first glance in his favour. He was red-haired, and tall, and thin; so tall, indeed, that when he stood up his shoulders touched the deck above, and his head and neck formed an arch over the table. He must have been eighteen or nineteen years old at least; indeed, he might have been older, though he still wore the uniform of a midshipman. Ronald thought that he was rather dogmatical, though his remarks were characterised by shrewd, good sense, not destitute of humour. It was not till he stood up that Ronald, who had been looking round the berth to discover the person who had just rendered him such essential service, felt sure that he was the one. Ronald suddenly put out his hand.

“I have to thank you for saving my life just now,” he exclaimed with genuine warmth. “If it had not been for you I should be floating away dead astern.”

“It cost me but little to haul you up, so say no more about it,” answered the tall midshipman. “I happened to be looking over the side, and caught a glimpse of your head as you were hanging on like a codfish just caught by a hook. Besides, I find you come from the far north, and we Scotchmen always help each other.”

Ronald had detected a slight Scotch accent in his new friend.

“You must let me be grateful, at all events,” he answered. “And you won’t heave me overboard again when I tell you that I am not a Scotchman, but a Shetlander.”

“I knew that when you began to speak,” observed the tall midshipman; and they went on to talk about Shetland, and before long the latter had learned several particulars of Ronald’s history.

“We must be friends for the future,” he observed, as the master-at-arms appeared at the door of the berth, with the announcement that it was time to douse the glim, and the various members whose watch it was below hurried off to their hammocks with as little concern as if the ship lay snug at her anchors, instead of being exposed to the full fury of a heavy gale.

The frigate was kept thrashing at it, in the hopes that she might hold her own till the storm abated. The important result of the first lieutenant’s constant care and attention to the fitting of the rigging was now fully exhibited. Not a strand of a rope parted, not a spar was sprung.

Ronald soon saw that the tall midshipman was a great favourite with Mr Lawrence, the rough diamond of a first lieutenant, nor was he surprised when he found that he was a lord, and yet the most attentive to his duty, and most eager to master all the details of his profession.

Lord Claymore, the tall midshipman, and Ronald soon became fast friends. Ronald admired him especially for the good sense and judgment he displayed in conversation, and the coolness and courage he exhibited in danger.

The gale continued, and the frigate lay her course to cross the Atlantic.

“She has been making much lee-way,” Ronald heard the master observe to the captain.

“We shall weather Cape Clear for all that,” was the answer; “once free we may run before it with a flowing sheet to the banks of Newfoundland.”

“Ay, if we are once free,” muttered the master, who was not at all of the touch-and-go school.

On stood the frigate. It was night. The midshipmen who had been rescued from the fishing-boat were allowed, after their fatigues, to remain below without doing duty for some days. Ronald could not sleep. This was very un-midshipmanlike; he knew that it was Claymore’s watch on deck, and he thought he would take a turn with him. He dressed and went on deck; it was not a tempting night; it was still blowing very hard, and the frigate under close-reefed topsails was heeling to the breeze till her lee-ports were deeply submerged, while the spray in thick showers flew over her. Ronald soon found his tall friend.

“I like this,” observed the latter with enthusiasm, rubbing his hands; “the wind is strong enough to blow every inch of canvas out of the bolt ropes, if it wasn’t all good and new, or to send the masts over the side if they were not well stayed up. We have the land under our lee, and if anything was to go we should in all probability drive on to it. Now, just consider the satisfaction of knowing that everything is as strong and good as wood, iron, and hemp can be, and of feeling that one has contributed to that end. There isn’t a block, or a spar, or a rope, that Jack Lawrence or I haven’t overhauled. See the advantage. He sleeps as soundly as if we were in harbour, when most other first lieutenants would have been up and down fifty times to ascertain that all was going right, and not have slept a wink. Take a leaf out of his book, Morton—it’s what I am doing, and intend continuing to do.”

“Land on the lee-bow!” cried one of the looks-out forward.

Had any one been drowsy, that sound would have made them rouse up very rapidly. All eyes were directly turned towards the quarter indicated. The clouds had broken away in that direction, and a gleam of light fell on the threatening headland. The officer of the watch sent a midshipman down to call the captain and master. They were on deck almost as soon as he was. The compass was consulted, and the bearing of the land taken. The master then went below to consult the chart. Claymore begged Morton to go and call the first lieutenant.

“We take things coolly aboard here, but he would not like to be below at this time, and would thank you for summoning him.”

Mr Lawrence sprang on deck after Morton. A consultation was held; it was the general opinion that the land seen was Mizen Head, and that if there were light sufficient, Cape Clear would be seen on their quarter. They might take shelter in Crook Haven; but under the uncertainty that the point seen was Mizen Head, the master refused to undertake the fearful responsibility. The determination to keep the sea was also more in accordance with the captain’s inclinations.

“She has drifted to leeward more than I suspected; we must yet shake another reef out of the topsails,” he observed. “What say you, master—do you think she will bear it?”

“She must bear it,” was the answer.

“She will bear it,” said Jack Lawrence, positively.

The united strength of all the crew was required to perform the operation.

“All hands on deck!” shouted the boatswain, giving emphasis to the summons with his shrill whistle.

Directly the order was given one of the first aloft was Claymore; Morton followed him on to the main-yard; it was not his duty to go aloft, but he could not resist the impulse which made him do so. It was fearful work, holding on to that yard, up in the darkness, with the fierce gale howling round their heads and the ship pitching furiously, while at the same time she heeled down over the roaring seas. The word was given to let go; but before the sail could be sheeted home it shook and struggled, almost freeing itself from the sturdy crew who were hauling away on the sheet.

Morton felt as if he should be shaken off the yard, but a hand with a firm grasp held him, nor let him go till he had reached the top. They descended on deck.

“Thank you, Lord Claymore,” said Morton, warmly; “had you not held me I might have lost my life.”

“I don’t say you would have deserved it,” said the tall midshipman; “but why rush to a post of danger without necessity? stronger and older men are better fitted for the task you attempted. It was my duty, and I went. However, I like your spirit, Morton. If we weather this cape we shall know more of each other; if our masts go over the side, or we otherwise fail, we may none of us see another sunrise.”

He spoke as coolly and calmly as if talking on some ordinary topic.

Away the ship plunged through the seas more furiously than ever, bending down till it seemed as if her yard-arms literally touched the foaming tops of the seas as they came rolling and hissing by. Every officer was at his post: the captain, with his lips compressed and teeth clenched, stood watching, now the bending masts, now the compass, now the dark threatening land. The frigate drew nearer and nearer to it; still she flew ahead. A quartermaster and two of the best seaman in the ship were at the helm; Jack Lawrence stood near them; they were doing as well as he could desire.

“Keep your luff, lads,” he said once in a quiet tone; “steady—that will do.”

Not another word was spoken by him, or by any one on deck; all eyes were riveted on the land. The ship seemed to be making no progress, for there it still lay on the lee-bow. Some thought they could hear the roaring of the surges, as with the whole force of a south-westerly gale they were hurled against the cliffs. Still the canvas held the fierce wind, and the well-set-up rigging supported the masts.

“Morton, the land is drawing abeam,” exclaimed Claymore suddenly; “the ship will be saved. I did not think so at one time, though.”

He was right: gradually it seemed to rise up more broad on the lee-beam; but as the ship surged onward amid wildly-leaping waves, the water, lashed into masses of foam, was seen over the lee-quarter leaping over the cliff from which she had so narrowly escaped. Still there were other points and headlands farther to the north, from which she was not altogether clear. For another two hours or more the same press of canvas was kept on her. Few breathed freely till the order was being given to take another reef in the topsails; the order was accomplished without a casualty, and the watch below were allowed to turn in.

Some days after this the “Thetis” fell in with a line-of-battle ship homeward bound: she took Mr Calder and his companions on board.

“We shall meet again, I hope,” said Lord Claymore, as Morton was about to go down the side.

“I should be sorry if I did not think so,” answered Morton, as the young men grasped each other’s hands.

Westward steered the “Thetis,” and eastward the huge old “Thunderer;” the latter reached England, and the officers and men of the “Thisbe” once more rejoined her, to the satisfaction of most of their friends, who had given them up for lost.

The “Thisbe” finished her commission with considerable credit to her captain, officers, and crew, who had likewise not a small amount of prize-money to boast of. Ronald Morton on his being paid off joined a sloop-of-war in the West Indies; here he especially distinguished himself, and, to the great delight of his father, obtained his promotion. He returned home, and was immediately appointed second lieutenant of his old ship, the “Thisbe,” now commanded by Captain Calder, and bound out to the East Indies.

Chapter Twenty.

Ronald Second Lieutenant of the “Thisbe”—a Ball at Calcutta—Ronald’s Gallantry—A Challenge—His Reply.

Ronald Morton had gone through the usual vicissitudes of a midshipman’s career, during the full swing of a hot and somewhat bloody war. He had run a good many chances of being knocked on the head, but he had done a good many things also to be proud of, though he was not overmuch so, and he had gained a fair amount of credit.

Once more he was on board his old ship, the “Thisbe.” When he first joined he was a ship’s boy; he was now her second lieutenant. The first was Rawson—he was a totally changed man. He had performed a very gallant action under the eye of the admiral, had been highly spoken of in the “Gazette,” had in consequence at once received his promotion, and had been an active, enterprising officer ever since. He seldom or never grumbled now, or talked of his bad luck; indeed he seemed to think that the world was a very good sort of place for some men to live in, and that the British navy was not a bad profession after all for a fellow to belong to. He and Ronald Morton had not met for some years. They were glad to find themselves once again shipmates.

The “Thisbe” was commanded by one they both loved and respected—honest, gallant, fighting Tom Calder. Tom had won his upward way by courage and zeal, rarely surpassed. The Lords of the Admiralty could not refuse him his promotion, had they wished it. The whole navy would have cried out at the injustice. Happily, honest Tom had no one to whisper evil against him. He had not an enemy in the world—so, to be sure, it is sometimes said of a goose, but then the goose is his own enemy. Tom, on the contrary, had proved true to himself, and that, in fact, lay at the bottom of his success.

Of the old “Thisbes,” as they were pleased to call themselves, Dicky Glover was the only officer. He was, however, still a mate. He was senior mate, though he could not help now and then just thinking that it would not be so very unfortunate—only a merciful dispensation of Providence—should they go into action, seeing that somebody must be killed, should a shot happen to knock over the third lieutenant, and give him a chance of promotion—not but what Dicky had a very kind feeling for the said third lieutenant. He was always ready to do him any service, to lend him his books or money; the latter the lieutenant was most fond of borrowing: still Dicky and he were very good friends; Dicky had plenty of money, and Peter Sims, the third lieutenant, had none. How he had got his promotion was surprising to those who knew him, till it was whispered about that he had a very near relative in a high position, who had no difficulty in obtaining it for him. Sims was, however, generally liked; he was very inoffensive, he never talked about himself or his friends, seemed to wish to be let alone, and to let others alone. He was always ready to do a good-natured action, to take a brother officer’s watch, or to give up his own leave to accommodate another.

Before the mast there were several hands who had served in the “Thisbe,” when commanded by Captain Courtney. Two had attached themselves especially to Ronald—one was Job Truefitt, and the other Bobby Doull. No men could have been more faithful or attached than they were to him—Job regarded him as his son, and constituted himself his guardian, while Bobby looked up to him as to a superior being whom it was an honour to follow and obey.

The frigate was bound out to the land so famed for tigers, and curry, palanquins, pagodas, and prize-money—the East Indies; she had a quick run down Channel, when a northerly breeze carried her almost to the tropics.

Rio was visited; the frigate touched at the Cape, and finally anchored at the mouth of the Hooghly, near the flag-ship of the admiral on the station.

The usual compliments passed, the sails were furled, and shore-boats, manned by strange-looking natives, with stranger-looking fruits and vegetables, chattering unknown tongues intended to be English, came alongside. The admiral himself was up at Calcutta, and everybody on board the “Thisbe” was anxious to pay a visit to the city of palaces. Sims offered to stop, but Rawson bluntly told him that he could not trust the ship to his charge; so he, pocketing the compliment, accompanied the captain and Morton, with two or three more of the gun-room officers, and Glover and several of the midshipmen, up to the city. They luckily took their full-dress uniforms with them; and having lionised the city in palanquins all the day, they found themselves in the evening at a magnificent ball, given by one of the principal officers of the Company’s Civil Service.

The officers of the “Thisbe” stopped near the entrance to admire the brilliant spectacle. Superb chandeliers hung from the ceiling or projected from the walls, amid gay coloured banners, and wreaths of exquisite flowers; while below them moved the fairest of Eve’s daughters to be found in the capital of the East, amid numerous military officers in various handsome uniforms; and rajahs, and nabobs, and princes, and chiefs of every description, habited in the richest and most picturesque of oriental costumes, with turbans and daggers and sword-hilts sparkling with gold and silver, and gems of fabulous value.

The gallant captain of the frigate, and most of the officers who accompanied him, were more accustomed to the quarterdeck, and the battle and the breeze, than to ball-rooms or palaces, and they stood for some time totally entranced, and scarcely able to express their surprise to each other at the gay scene.

Morton had in his boyhood learned most of the dances then in vogue, and a quick eye and perfect self-possession enabled him to appear to advantage when at rare intervals he entered a ball-room. Still, feeling himself a stranger among a crowd, he very naturally preferred remaining in a quiet spot, that he might at his leisure watch what was going forward. Captain Calder felt very much as he did, for he was even still less accustomed to ball-rooms, though his true gentlemanly feelings and innate sense of propriety prevented him from committing any solecism in good manners. Sims and Dicky Glover stood together.

“This is very slow work, sir, I think,” observed Dicky to his superior, with whom, bye-the-bye, he felt himself in a ballroom on the most perfect equality. “I vote we shove forward, and look out for partners. There are lots of pretty girls, and I flatter myself that if they were asked they would prefer us blue-jackets to the red-coats.”

“As to that I am not quite certain,” answered the lieutenant. “You see these soldier officers out here, at all events, are generally matrimonially inclined, while such would be a very inconvenient inclination for us to indulge in; and so not from superior merit but from the force of circumstances the soldiers are likely to carry the day.”

“That argument of yours is irresistible, but still I don’t see that it should make us give up our chance of a dance,” answered Glover, pushing a little more forward.

Like riflemen they advanced, skirmishing, one supporting the other. Dicky, however, was the most adventurous; without him, probably, Sims would have remained in the background. Sims had some modesty. Glover had the allowance with which, for wise ends, midshipmen are usually gifted.

“There’s a pretty girl! she hasn’t footed it for a long time; there’s nothing like trying it. I’ll go and ask her,” exclaimed Dicky, as if suddenly seized with an irresistible impulse; and before Sims could make any remark he had crossed the intervening space to where the lady at whom he had pointed was sitting, and was bowing and scraping, and smiling with the greatest self-confidence.

The young lady looked rather astonished, and not over well pleased, but this did not in any way abash Mr Glover. While he with praiseworthy perseverance was still scraping away, requesting the hand of the lady for a cotillion, a minuette, or a country-dance, a gentleman came up and spoke to her. Glover looked at her earnestly, and spoke a few words; she put out her hand, he took it, and wrung it till she almost cried out.

“Cousin Susan!” he exclaimed. “Well, I didn’t think it was you, and yet I ought to have known you among a thousand. But you know you were but a little girl when we last met, and now you are grown up and married. Well—but I’m so very glad!—how jolly! I didn’t expect to enjoy this ball; but now I shall like it very much.”

Thus Glover rattled on, and to the surprise of Morton and Sims, and his other shipmates, who had not overheard the conversation, was seen standing up to dance with an air of conscious superiority and perfect self-satisfaction. Sims was rather jealous. Morton was highly amused. Glover flew up and down the room, enjoying the dance to the full. What cared he for the heat. What mattered to him that he trod on the toes of innumerable rajahs and nabobs, who would gladly have stuck their jewel-hilted daggers into him, or given him an embrace with a tiger’s claw; an instrument worthy of Asiatic invention. His cousin, however, had soon introduced Glover to a more active partner, and so engrossed was he at first that he quite forgot to come back to his friends.

While Morton was watching the dancers an officer with a young lady stood up near him to join them. His eye was attracted to her countenance, and he was struck by its excessively pleasing expression. He looked and looked again: he thought her exquisitely beautiful, and while he looked he could not help half fancying that he had seen that countenance before. Still where it had been he could not discover; he had seen so few ladies during his sea-life that he was convinced he should, before long, remember. Yet what puzzled him was, that he felt so very familiar with the countenance. Eyes have a remarkable sympathy for each other; after a time the lady knew that she was observed—not with idle, careless admiration, but especially noticed. She looked up for a moment and observed a countenance of manly beauty and intelligence not easily forgotten. There were none in that vast assemblage to be compared to it, she thought, and yet she tried not to allow herself to dwell on the thought; her partner carried her off in the rapid dance.

Morton stood watching her with greater interest than he would have allowed even to himself.

“Yes, I must have seen her—but where? In my dreams—in my fancy,” he muttered to himself as his eyes continued following the fair young girl. “Nonsense! I am allowing my imagination to run away with me. And yet I do know that countenance, I am certain of it.”

Perhaps the young lady saw his eyes following hers. She seemed at all events to be paying but very little attention to the observations of her partner.

Morton at length noticed him; he was a young man, and had the air of a person thoroughly well satisfied with himself; but as Ronald watched him more narrowly he was convinced that he had taken more wine than his head could bear; his flushed countenance and unsteady movements after a time showed this. His partner probably had made the same discovery; and though in those days his condition would not have excited the disgust it would at the present in the mind of a well-educated girl, she was evidently anxious to obtain a seat, and to release herself from his society. Still he held her hand with a look of maudlin admiration, and insisted on forcing her once more down the dance. It was evident that she would have to struggle to escape from him, and rather than attract observation she allowed herself to be dragged once more towards the bottom of the room.

Such was the interpretation Morton put on what he witnessed, and he felt strongly inclined to rush forward to assist her. The couple had got close to him, by which time the gentleman had become still more excited and unsteady—his foot slipped—the fair girl looked up imploringly at Morton’s countenance, so he thought—her partner fell to the ground, and would have dragged her with him, when Ronald sprang forward and saved her from the threatened catastrophe.

“Thank you—thank you!—oh take me to my friend!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with nervousness.

Ronald led her through the crowd; her partner picked himself up, and uttering an exclamation would have followed them, had not some acquaintance near at hand held him back, and ultimately persuaded him quietly to retire to another room; leave the ball altogether, he would not.

“To be cut out by a sea-monster, a porpoise, a mere nautilus—that will never do!” he hiccupped out. “No, no—I must have my revenge on the fellow. I’ll insult him; drill a hole in him; my honour requires it. Couldn’t show my face again until I have killed my man.”

The young man did not give vent to these expressions until his more sensible acquaintance had retired; but two or three much of his own character remained, who partly from a love of mischief, utterly regardless of the consequences, persuaded him that he had received so gross an insult that it could be atoned for only by mortal combat.

“We’ll settle matters for you,” said Lieutenant Bolton, a chum of Maguire’s. “Go back when you feel a little better; tread on his toe, or dig your elbow into his ribs, and tell him quietly you intended to do so. It will wonderfully facilitate our arrangements.”

Meantime Morton—totally unconscious of the annoyance preparing for him, and with the fair stranger whom he had rescued resting on his arm, was looking for a vacant seat in which to place her.

“Who is your chaperone?” he asked. “Where do you think we can find her?”

“Mrs Edmonstone,” she answered. “Mamma was unwell, and papa could not come till late in the evening, and so she took charge of me. She is one of the few ladies we know well in Calcutta, and whom mamma liked to ask to take her place. Ah, there she comes: she will, I am sure, thank you, as I do, for saving me from so very disagreeable an accident.”

“I rejoice that you escaped it,” answered Morton before he looked up; when he did so he saw approaching them the very lady with whom Glover seemed to be so well acquainted: she now had his arm.

“That is Mrs Edmonstone,” said Morton’s companion. “There are two seats; she is going to take one. I am afraid I must sit down.”

Morton led her to the seat next her friend, and would have retired, though most unwilling so to do, when Glover caught him by the arm, exclaiming, “Mr Morton, allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Mrs Edmonstone—she wishes to make your acquaintance; she knows that if it had not been for you, I should have been food for the sharks long ago.”

Dicky had indeed been saying a number of complimentary things about Morton, which he fully deserved. Mrs Edmonstone held out her hand and said frankly, “I am indeed glad to have an opportunity of thanking you for saving my cousin’s life, and affording him the advantage of your friendship; your name, and, I may say, your many gallant deeds, have long been familiar to me: all his family are grateful to you.”

Morton bowed and felt gratified, for Mrs Edmonstone’s manner was so frank and cordial that he experienced none of the oppression which a sensitive person is apt to feel when receiving compliments, however well merited, if not bestowed with tact. She, supposing naturally that he had already been introduced to her younger companion, did not think it necessary again to go through that ceremony.

Encouraged by her manner, Morton remained talking in an animated way to her and her friend, Glover standing by and occasionally indulging in amusing remarks, which savoured more of the salt ocean than of the ball-room, but had no want of refinement to shock the ears of his auditors. Morton felt himself altogether in a new world; it was not very strange, but it was very different to anything he had ever before enjoyed; he put forth powers of conversation which he had not supposed himself to possess. He also was struck with the lively and intelligent remarks of the younger lady, and at the same time enchanted with the perfect simplicity which they betokened.

“Certainly her manners and conversation do not belie her looks; she is charming, she is perfect,” he more than once said to himself.

Few men can so conceal their feelings, especially if they are not aware what those feelings are, when in conversation with a lady, without her having an idea, undefined and uncertain though it may be, of the matter. The party were so interested in each other’s conversation that they might have continued talking till supper was announced, entirely regardless of what was going forward in the rest of the room, had they not been interrupted by the appearance of another person on the stage, who came up to claim the young lady’s hand.

He was slight and, though not very tall, of a good figure, with handsome features, and a remarkably dark complexion; he was dressed in a rich semi-oriental military costume, and had a dashing independent air about him, which Morton thought approached very much to a swagger, but perhaps at that moment he was not a very unprejudiced judge. Ronald could not help staring at him in a somewhat marked manner.

“Extraordinary!” he exclaimed to himself, “that I should come unexpectedly into this ball-room and meet two persona with whose countenances I am so familiar, and yet not have the slightest notion who they are. That young man’s face I know perfectly well; I must have met him over and over again, in a very different dress to what he now wears, and under very different circumstances, and I must have known him intimately, of that I am certain.”

“Do you not dance, Mr Morton?” asked Mrs Edmonstone, seeing him look about the room, as he was doing, in an abstracted manner, and fancying that he wished probably to be introduced to a partner. The instant her voice recalled his scattered senses, “Thank you,” he answered; “I so seldom have had opportunities of doing so that I can scarcely call myself a dancer; at present I confess that I feel more amusement in looking on than I should in dancing.”

“Can you tell me,” said Morton, “who is that young man in the handsome costume, who is dancing with your friend?”

“I can indeed say very little about him,” was the answer. “He is a Captain Gerardo, I understand,—a foreigner, that is to say, not English; either a Frenchman, or Spaniard, or Portuguese. He has been attached to one of the native courts in the East—I do not know which—and has come here on his travels before returning home. He seems to have come with several good introductions, especially to natives of high rank, and must be wealthy, as he is lavish in his expenditure. My husband, however, is not quite satisfied about him, and is making inquiries to ascertain whether or not he is an impostor. Numbers come to this country expecting to find a fine field for the exercise of their talents. They now and then, however, have to beat a precipitate retreat. I would not willingly have allowed my sweet friend, Edda, to dance with him, but he has been introduced to her father, who rather affects him, and I could not interfere.”

“Edda!” repeated Ronald to himself, the name conjuring up a thousand recollections of his far-distant home, for he had there heard it frequently. “What is your friend’s surname?” he asked; “I did not hear it.”

“She is the daughter of Colonel and Mrs Armytage, who are at present in Calcutta. He is on the staff—a somewhat haughty, proud man, and not a favourite of mine, but she is a gentle, amiable woman; only yields too much to him, I think.”

“How strange!” repeated Ronald aloud.

“Do you know them, Mr Morton?” she asked.

“If Mrs Armytage is the daughter of Sir Marcus Wardhill, of Lunnasting Castle, in Shetland, I know of them, though I have not seen her since I was a child. I was born on the estate, and brought up by her elder sister, who had lost her own child. Her story is a very romantic and sad one. You probably have heard of it.”

“Something, but I do not recollect all the particulars; Edda herself knows but little. The families keep up no communication, I fancy.”

“But slight,” said Morton, not liking to enter too minutely into particulars, and yet deeply interested. “I have news from Shetland occasionally, but I have not been there since I was a boy.”

“Shall I tell Miss Armytage that you know her family?” asked Mrs Edmonstone, with some hesitation.

Ronald considered a moment. “I will beg you not to do so,” he answered. “There can be no object gained. She knows nothing of my family, and probably takes but little interest in Shetland itself, while I have reason to know that her father has not for many years been on good terms with Sir Marcus Wardhill.”

“Probably you are right; I will do as you wish,” said the lady, and she kept her word.

Supper was over, and the guests began to take their departure. Morton and Glover saw Mrs Edmonstone and Miss Armytage to their carriage, and were going back to wait for the rest of their shipmates, when a young man in military uniform stepped up to the former, and, politely bowing, said that he had been deputed by his friend, Lieutenant Maguire, to demand the only reparation which one gentleman could afford another, for an insult he had that evening received.

“Assuredly, sir, you mistake my identity,” answered Morton, calmly. “I am not acquainted with Lieutenant Maguire, nor have I insulted, intentionally or otherwise, any human being.”

“Some people entertain very different notions to others as to what is an insult,” said the officer, with a sneer, intended to excite Morton’s anger. “My friend Maguire is exceedingly sensitive as to his honour. Not to lose time, sir, by any circumlocution in my remarks, you are, sir, I am led to understand, Lieutenant Morton, of his Majesty’s frigate ‘Thisbe’?”

“I am, sir,” said Morton; “your information on that point is correct.”

“I knew I was right, sir,” said the young officer, with a bullying air, mistaking a look of astonishment, which Morton could not suppress, for an exhibition of fear. “Mr Maguire conceives that early this evening you purposely tripped him up, and when you had brought him to the ground, you carried off his partner and laughed at him. Any one of these acts, sir, was an insult, to be washed out only with blood, as any man with a spark of honour in his composition will allow.”

Morton, though very much inclined to laugh at this absurd assertion, felt at the same time it was annoying. The only reply he could give was, that the young man was tipsy, and fell in consequence, and that he had nothing whatever to do with the matter. This answer would not be satisfactory to the gentleman who had brought the challenge. Still, it seemed too preposterous that he should allow himself to be drawn into a quarrel, against his will, by hair-brained young men who had lost the few wits they possessed by drinking. His own high sense of honour had never before been called in question—his gallantry had always been conspicuous.

“I cannot reply to you at once,” he answered quietly, turning to Lieutenant Maguire’s second. “Leave me your card and address, and I promise you you shall hear from me. Perhaps, in the meantime, your friend and his advisers may think better of the matter, and, at all events, you can convey him my assurance that I had no intention of insulting him, or of hurting his feelings in any way.”

“Well, sir, I must be content with your reply, though I cannot say that I conceive it to be a very satisfactory one. My name is Bolton, a brother officer of Maguire’s. Here is my card and address. I shall expect your friend.” Saying this, the young man, with a pompous air, turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

“This is indeed provoking, to have a quarrel thus pertinaciously fixed on me,” said Morton, taking Glover’s arm. “I must see the captain, and put the matter into his hands.”

Morton told Captain Calder what had occurred.

He looked considerably vexed, though he laughed as he answered, “I will act as your friend, as it is called, with all my heart, and go and see these young donkeys. If they insist on fighting, it shall be with cutlasses or boat stretchers. Do they think sailors are accustomed to handle their little pop-guns, and practise to commit murder with a steady hand? But seriously, my dear Morton, what do you wish?”

“To abide by God’s laws, Captain Calder, and to set at nought those of men,” answered the lieutenant.

“Spoken like yourself, Morton, and I have no fear that discredit will be brought on the service if we all so act,” said the captain. “And now let us collect our forces, and beat a retreat to our quarters.”

Chapter Twenty One.

Party at Mrs Edmonstone’s—Introduction to Colonel Armytage—Visit to the “Osterley”—The “Thisbe” Ordered to Bombay.

Morton had been anticipating a delightful day: he was to have called, with Glover, on Mrs Edmonstone, and he hoped to have met Miss Armytage, who was staying with her; but his first thought on waking was the disagreeable circumstance which had occurred at the conclusion of the previous evening, and the still more disagreeable events to which it would in all probability give rise.

He was well aware how much the line of conduct he intended to pursue would be criticised, how the story would be garbled and misrepresented, and how, in all probability, he would be accused of showing the white feather. Under ordinary circumstances he would have been very indifferent to what was said of him: he could well afford to allow idle tongues to prattle forth slander about him till weary of the occupation, but he could not bear to fancy that Mrs Edmonstone, or rather her friend, should hear anything to his disadvantage which he might not be present to refute; still, happily, he had not forgotten Bertha Eswick’s remark, impressed on his mind in childhood—“Do what is right, lad, and never mind what men say of thee.”

The temptation of meeting Miss Armytage was at last too strong to be resisted, and with his captain and brother officers he repaired in the evening to the house of Mrs Edmonstone. Their hostess received them in the most friendly manner, and introduced them to several of her friends, so that they at once felt themselves at home. Morton’s eyes ranged round the room in search of Miss Armytage; she was nowhere to be seen. He longed to ask Mrs Edmonstone where she was, but he was withheld by a feeling of bashfulness very unusual with him. Numberless fears entered his mind. Was she prevented by illness from appearing—had her father heard who he was, and kept her away that she might not meet him; or had Colonel Armytage been suddenly called away to another part of the country, and had his daughter accompanied him?

That the latter suspicion was correct he was convinced by overhearing the disjointed remarks of some people near him: “Great loss to our society—quite unexpected—very charming woman—sweet girl, the daughter. About him—two opinions—proud—”

The speakers moved on. Morton was convinced that the sweet girl must refer to Miss Armytage—surely to no one else. But then came the thought that he was not to see her that evening—perhaps he might never again meet her. The pain and disappointment he felt opened his eyes more rapidly than anything else would have done to his own feelings. As to enjoying the evening, that was out of the question. Still it would be a satisfaction to hear something about her. He would inquire where Colonel Armytage had gone. He was looking round for Mrs Edmonstone, as he felt that he could ask her better than any one else, when his heart gave an unwonted bound, for he saw entering the room, and leaning on the arm of a fine military-looking man, whom he had no doubt was her father, Miss Armytage herself. On the other side of her, endeavouring to engage her in conversation, walked the stranger whom Glover thought so like Alfonse Gerardin. The resemblance struck Morton, as his glance fell on his countenance, as even greater than on the previous evening. Miss Armytage seemed rather annoyed than otherwise with his attentions. As Morton had been walking forward when he first saw the group he could not stop short, so he continued to advance. The young lady put out her hand frankly, though a gentle blush rose on her cheeks as she did so.

“Papa,” she said, “I must introduce Mr Morton to you. I am sure that you wish to thank him for the service he rendered me yesterday evening.”

Colonel Armytage bowed, and assured Mr Morton that he was exceedingly obliged to him; but he said this in a stiff way, which evidently annoyed his daughter.

“I was fortunate indeed in being at hand; but I can claim no merit,” replied Morton, in a modest manner.

Mrs Edmonstone came up and welcomed her young friend.

“I am so glad you have come back,” she exclaimed, affectionately taking her hand. “I was quite vexed at your having to run away to a dinner-party, lest you should be too tired to dance this evening.”

Edda assured her that she was not. She, on this, turned round quickly to Ronald. “You dance, sometimes, Mr Morton, I know.”

“Yes,” he answered quickly, stepping forward and asking Miss Armytage to dance.

She smiled and promised.

The young stranger looked very much annoyed. He had fancied himself secure of her hand. Many men of rank and wealth would have been proud of the honour Ronald had obtained, though not more proud than he was. That evening was the brightest he had ever spent. But there were clouds in the horizon. He learned that Colonel Armytage had received a high appointment at Bombay, and that they were about at once to sail for that presidency, on board the “Osterley,” a Company’s ship, which was to touch there on her passage home.

“We sail in two weeks or so,” said Miss Armytage. “I shall be truly sorry to leave Calcutta.”

“I had little expected to find it so delightful a place,” answered Ronald.

Miss Armytage slightly blushed when he said this. Why, she could scarcely tell. Perhaps it was his manner—perhaps an unconscious look he gave. Though many sought her hand, she declined dancing again, in consequence of feeling tired, from having danced so much the previous evening.

Ronald was constantly by her side; for whenever he left it, he was quickly again attracted back; nor was he ever in want of an excuse for returning. Towards the end of the evening he observed the eyes of several people glancing towards him. It struck him that he formed the subject of conversation, especially among a group of military men. It was not, however, till he happened to meet Sims that his suspicions were confirmed.

“I knew it would be so,” said his brother lieutenant. “The fellows here, among the military, have got an idea that you refused to fight Maguire; and I believe that donkey, Bolton, has been setting the story afloat. I should like to keel-haul him.”

“Let him alone; it matters little what so insignificant a fellow says or does,” observed Morton. “The story can hardly last out the usual nine days; and if we all behave well, we can allow these empty-headed fellows to amuse themselves for that time at our expense.”

The ball came to a conclusion without any unusual occurrence. Morton could not help feeling sure that he stood well in the opinion of Miss Armytage. He had so little conceit in his composition that it never for a moment occurred to him that he had excited any warmer sentiment.

After this he frequently met her at Mrs Edmonstone’s, as well as at other houses. She invariably received him in the same friendly manner, and exhibited evident pleasure in his society.

Probably she had not dared to probe her own feelings. Colonel Armytage treated him as he would any other young officer who had proved a credit to his profession. Mrs Edmonstone always treated him with the greatest consideration.

“I have told her all about you, sir,” said Dicky Glover one day. “That cousin of mine is a first-rate person, and she says she thinks it an honour to know you.”

“I am much obliged to her for her good opinion,” was Morton’s reply.

His spirits were somewhat low; the “Osterley” was about to sail. He had by chance become acquainted with her commander, Captain Winslow. By his invitation he was on board to receive Colonel Armytage and his family. He conducted Mrs and Miss Armytage over the ship.

“I wish that you were to accompany us in the frigate,” said Mrs Armytage. “In war time we do not know what enemies we may have to encounter.”

“I should indeed rejoice, if my duty would allow it; but I trust that you will have no cause for alarm: the ‘Osterley’ is said to be a fast ship, and report speaks highly of her commander, Captain Winslow.”

Mrs Armytage had spoken without thought. She had been much pleased with Morton, and it did not occur to her that her daughter might have been so likewise, in a far greater degree, or that he might misinterpret her remark.

“Oh, of course I see that would be out of the question,” she observed; “but perhaps the admiral would send your ship to Bombay, and then you could watch us. I do not know how it is, but I have a perfect dread of this voyage.”

Ronald Morton did his best to soothe the lady’s alarm, hoping also that she would not impart it to her daughter.

Colonel Armytage, when he rejoined the party, was considerably annoyed at hearing the remarks of his wife.

Ronald could not help feeling that his manner on the present occasion was colder than ever, and somewhat supercilious into the bargain. He, by some means or other, introduced the subject of duelling, and spoke of it as the only method by which gentlemen could settle their disputes. “Military men, of course, hold their lives in their hands, and the man who shirks a duel, or does not insist on having satisfaction for an insult offered him, should, in my opinion, leave the noble profession of arms and turn shopkeeper or shepherd. When I commanded a regiment, if any officer showed the white feather in that respect, I took good care that he should not long be one of ours.”

Morton could scarcely doubt that the colonel’s remarks were aimed at him; but he thought of his gentle daughter, and refrained from making any reply. A still higher motive might also have restrained him.

A pilot vessel accompanied the Indiaman till she was clear of the river. Morton was therefore able to accept Captain Winslow’s invitation to remain on board till the ship was left to pursue her voyage alone.

Had Colonel Armytage exhibited towards him, at first, the same temper that he did subsequently, he would have felt himself compelled, however much against his will, to return on shore. Fortunately the colonel was engaged for the greater part of the day in writing in his cabin, so that Ronald was able to enjoy several hours of uninterrupted intercourse with Miss Armytage; nor did he, when her father appeared, alter in the slightest degree his tone of conversation or manner towards her.

At length the huge Indiaman was fairly out at sea. The pilot announced that he must take his departure. Morton bade farewell to his friends. Mrs Armytage held out her hand frankly, and her daughter followed her example, though there was a softness and perceptible tremor in her voice which made him wish more than ever that he could take Captain Winslow’s place, or even that of one of his officers. Colonel Armytage parted with him with a cold shake of the hand and a formal “Good-bye, sir;” and he was in the boat and soon on board the pilot vessel. The Indiaman’s yards were swung round, and under all sail she stood to the southward.

No sooner had Morton reached the deck of the pilot vessel than, as he stood astern watching the Indiaman, his eye fell far beyond her, in the horizon, on a sail. He saw that it was a large ship. He pointed her out to the pilot.

“Yes, sir, there’s no doubt of it. She is a large ship,” was the answer. “Maybe she’s an Indiaman bound lip the Hooghly. Maybe she’s the ‘Rajah,’ which sailed two days ago, and has been becalmed; or a China ship looking in for orders; or one of the men-of-war on the station.”

“I care not what she is, provided she is not an enemy’s cruiser,” said Morton. “She seems to have very square yards.”

“Difficult to make that out, I should think,” muttered the pilot as he walked the deck, and then went forward to give some directions to his native crew.

Till the pilot vessel re-entered the Hooghly, and Morton lost sight of the Indiaman, his eye was seldom off her, while his thoughts were even still more constant.

Once more he was on board the “Thisbe.” He felt no inclination to revisit Calcutta, and he only went up there once to pay his respects to Mrs Edmonstone. She very naturally talked of Miss Armytage, and spoke warmly in her praise. It was a subject of which Morton was not likely to grow tired.

“Admiral Rainier tells me that he has ordered the ‘Thisbe’ to proceed to Bombay, so that you will have an opportunity of renewing your acquaintance with my young friend,” she added. “I think that I shall charge you with a small parcel for her; some articles which were not ready before she sailed.”

This was delightful news for Morton. He had not heard that there was any chance of the frigate being sent round to that presidency. Of course it was not out of the pale of probability that Mrs Edmonstone was likely to know where the ship was to be sent before the officers belonging to her. Two or three days passed before the captain himself had the information confirmed by the admiral’s secretary.

“You are right, Morton,” he said when he came on board. “We are bound for Bombay, and if we put our best foot foremost we shall get there as soon as that old tea-chest, the ‘Osterley.’”

Morton got his parcel from Mrs Edmonstone, and three days afterwards the “Thisbe’s” keel was ploughing the waters of the Indian Ocean. During the voyage one pair of eyes, at all events, kept a bright look out for any sail of the appearance of the “Osterley” Indiaman. The second lieutenant was continually going aloft, spy-glass in hand, sweeping the horizon. Some of his shipmates might have suspected the cause, but he gave no reason for this practice which he had adopted. It was war time, and he might have been on the look-out for an enemy.

“We shall be much obliged to you, Morton, if you make out a rich prize some day,” observed Sims. “A Dutchman from Java, or a Spaniard from the Manillas, would be about the thing.”

Day after day passed, but neither friend nor foe was seen.

At length, however, the “Thisbe” touched at Ponte de Galle, when she fell in with another frigate direct from England, which had letters on board for her. Ronald got one from his father. He could not bring himself to live on shore, and having applied for employment, had been appointed boatswain of a line-of-battle ship, the “Lion,” which, it was expected, would be sent out to the East India station.

Ronald Morton loved and honoured his father too well not to feel pleasure at the thoughts of meeting him; at the same time he wished that he could have retired and remained on shore till he could join him.

Without further adventure the frigate came off Bombay.

“The Indiaman you were on the look-out for must have arrived before us,” observed Captain Calder, pointing to a large ship which lay in the roads.

With a beating heart Ronald watched her as they drew near; but as the “Thisbe” dropped her anchor at a short distance off, he saw that he was mistaken. The “Osterley” had not arrived, and considerable alarm was expressed by those who had been expecting her.

Chapter Twenty Two.

“Thisbe” in search of the “Osterley”—A Chase—The “Osterley” overtaken—Found in possession of the French—Retaken—The Passengers not on board—Morton placed in command of the “Osterley”—The unknown Island—Old Doull acts as Pilot.

The non-arrival of the “Osterley” at Bombay created considerable anxiety in all those who had friends on board, or who were otherwise interested in her in their feelings or purses. At length the fears for her safety became so great that Captain Calder was requested to sail in search of her. No one received with more satisfaction the announcement that the ship was to put to sea than did Ronald Morton; at all events he would be doing the only thing in which he could now take an interest. His heart had been tortured with a thousand fears as to the fate of one whom he had discovered that he ardently loved. Had nothing unusual occurred it probably would have taken him much longer to ascertain the true state of his heart: misfortune has a wonderful power of testing the feelings and revealing their condition.

Neither Rawson nor Sims could make him out, they agreed.

“What can have come over the poor fellow?” said the latter. “The climate does not agree with him; he should go home invalided.”

Glover might have suspected the true state of the case, but he kept his counsel to himself.

The “Thisbe” overhauled every vessel she fell in with, and made inquiries at numerous places as she ran down the coast, but nothing was to be heard of the “Osterley.” She rounded Ceylon, and stood across the Indian Ocean. Ronald Morton had kept a sharp look-out for any strange sail before, on the passage to Bombay; he kept a sharper look out now.

The frigate had got about a third of the way across the Bay of Bengal, when the second lieutenant, who, much to the surprise of his subordinates, spent many of his spare moments aloft, made out a sail to the southward steering west. She was a large ship, but whether man-of-war or merchantman, friend or foe, it was impossible to say. Ronald came on deck, and all sail was made in chase; the idea seized him that the ship in sight was the one of which they were in search.

“I am afraid you will be disappointed,” remarked Captain Calder. “She is probably some homeward-bound Indiaman from China; this would be her track, remember.”

The chase did not alter her course, but all the sail she could carry was packed on her; she sailed well, but the frigate sailed better; there was a fear that she might not overtake her till nightfall. Morton walked the deck with greater impatience than he had ever before exhibited, now looking out to windward, now at the sails, now at the chase; as the frigate drew nearer the chase, the opinions were strongly in favour of her being an Indiaman.

“But if she is, why should she run away?” observed Glover, who was always inclined to side with Morton.

“An Indiaman she is,” observed Rawson. “I hope soon we may be near enough to send a shot across her fore-foot.”

The chase sailed well, and though the frigate gained on her it was not at a rate to satisfy Morton’s impatience. It was getting dusk as they drew near; his glass had scarcely ever been off the chase.

“That must be the ‘Osterley;’ and yet it is strange,” he exclaimed. “What can have happened to her?”

The frigate at length ranged up alongside. By this time it was dark; lights were seen glimmering through her ports. Captain Calder hailed. “Wa, wa, wa,” was the only answer he received.

“She must be in the hands of an enemy,” he said.

Morton’s heart sank within him.

“Heave-to, or we fire!” cried the captain.

In a little time the creaking of blocks was heard, and the Indiaman’s courses being hauled up, she slowly came to the wind. The frigate hove-to to windward of her, a boat was lowered and manned, and Morton leaped into her, followed by Glover.

“Give way, lads!” shouted the lieutenant, eagerly.

She was soon alongside; her officers and their followers scrambled on board: little help was afforded them to do so; on the contrary, the expression of the countenances which looked down on them, seen by the glare of the lanterns, showed that if not backed by the guns of the frigate, they would have been received at the points of boarding-pikes and with the muzzles of pistols presented at their heads. The determined looks of the sturdy man-of-war’s men made the crew of the Indiaman hold back. Directly Ronald stepped on board he glanced his eye anxiously around; he had no longer any doubt that she was the “Osterley,” but with not a face that met his gaze was he acquainted.

A rough piratical-looking man, in a naval uniform, stepped forward, sword in hand, and presenting the hilt with an air which none but a Frenchman could assume, said—

“Monsieur, the fortune of war places us in your power; we yield ourselves prisoners, and claim your clemency.”

“On what ground do you claim that? Where are the passengers and crew of this ship who sailed in her from Calcutta?” exclaimed Ronald.

“The fortune of war threw them into our hands, as we have been thrown into yours,” answered the captain, drawing himself up. “The courtesy for which our nation is famed has prompted their captors to treat them with courtesy.”

“I trust so,” exclaimed Morton, with a look which the Frenchman could not fail to understand. “But tell me—what commission do you bear? Do you belong to the Imperial marine of France?”

Morton asked these questions with an agitation he could scarcely conceal, for from the appearance of the captain and his crew he could not help dreading that those in whom he took so deep an interest had fallen into the power of a band of pirates; all the atrocities of which such ruffians could be guilty occurred to him.

“Speak, man; tell me—what are you?” he shouted, for the man seemed to be hesitating about giving a reply.

“What we are you perceive, monsieur,” he answered. “We are cavaliers and Frenchmen, and are at present prisoners to an honourable enemy; as such we expect to be treated.”

“How you are ultimately treated depends on your conduct towards those whom you have had in your power,” said Morton. “Enable us to recover them, and you need have no fear on that score.”

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and protested that he had had nothing to do with the capture of the Indiaman; that he had been put in charge of her by others to carry her home, and, moreover, that he knew nothing of the passengers, except that he had been assured that they were in safety.

When Morton interrogated him as to where he had last come from, he declared that he had been, with his crew, put on board at sea, from a country craft, and the captors of the ship had taken all the passengers out and carried them he knew not where.

Ronald would not believe this statement; but the man persisted in it, and seemed obstinately determined to make no other Captain Calder directed Morton to take command of the recaptured “Osterley,” and Glover went as his lieutenant, with a couple of midshipmen, Job Truefitt, Bob Doull, and about thirty other hands. They not being sufficient to work the Indiaman, some twenty of the prisoners were retained on board her. It now became a question what course to steer. At length, as the wind was favourable, Captain Calder resolved to return to Calcutta, and should he not hear of the missing prisoners, to get the admiral to send some other ship in search of them. This determination of the captain was the only consolation Morton could obtain. Still the fact of their having fallen in with the Indiaman was of itself considerable encouragement.

Two or three days passed by; the wind was light, and not much way was made. It would be difficult to describe the varied feelings with which Morton visited the cabins which had been occupied by the Armytage family.

To calm the agitation of his mind, he went on deck and paced up and down by himself. At length, as he turned to walk forward, he saw Bob Doull coming aft, hat in hand, to the quarter-deck. The young seaman gave the usual hitch to his waistband, with a scrape of his foot, while he swung back his hat, and then waited till his superior looked as if he was ready to listen to him.

“What is it, Doull?” asked Morton.

“Please, sir, I’ve found among these outlandish chaps forward, we took aboard the prize, an old man who says as how he knows something about me, sir,” said Bob, twisting his hat round and round.

“About you, my man; who can he be?” inquired the lieutenant.

“Why, sir, he says as how he’s my daddy,” answered Doull, bluntly. “He may be, cause as how my daddy went away to foreign parts many years gone by, and never came back; but if he is, he’s a rum sort of one. I can’t say as how I takes much to the old gentleman as yet.”

“Let me see the man, and hear his story,” said Morton. “I had no idea that we had an Englishman among the prisoners.”

“Bring him aft at once; let him speak to no one; I must question him.”

Before long, Bob Doull was seen dragging along a tall, gaunt, grey-headed man, with a long beard and moustache, on whose head it was evident neither scissors nor razors had operated for many a year past. He was dressed like a French sailor, and except for a peculiar gait and certain movement characteristic of a British seaman, he would have been taken for a Frenchman.

“Please, sir, this old man says as how he is my father,” began Bob, handing him aft on the quarter-deck. “Come, cheer up, and tell Lieutenant Morton all you know.”

The old man cast an inquiring, doubtful look at Morton’s countenance, but seemingly satisfied with his scrutiny, he exclaimed, “I want, sir, to make a clean breast of it. For many years of my life I haven’t known what happiness is, and don’t ever expect to know it again.”

“As to that,” said Morton, interrupting him, “I’ll hear you by-and-by; but first, I wish to know where you have come from, and where the passengers and crew of this ship are now to be found?”

“I was coming to all that presently,” persisted the old man. “It’s of the past I want to speak.”

“But, man, lately, what have you done?—what crimes have you committed?” exclaimed Morton.

“None that I know of,” answered the seaman. “I was always a wild blade, from the time I first set foot on a ship’s deck. There was no mischief I was not up to, no crime I feared committing. I had done many bad things, but the worst was to come. I was still a lad, and so was my chum, Archy Eagleshay, and another, an older man, and older in crime, too, but he’s gone to his account, as we must all go, great and small.”

“You speak truth, my man,” exclaimed Morton, now losing all patience. “Again I ask you to pass over your early days, and to come to the latter events of your career. How did you happen to be on board this ship, among a set of Frenchmen and ruffians of all nations?”

“That was what I was coming to tell you, sir,” giving a peculiar look at Morton, who was doubtful whether it was caused by stupidity or obstinacy. He saw, at all events, that there was no use in attempting to draw forth the information he required before the old man was ready to give it.

After a pause, seeing that Morton was not again going to speak, the old man continued: “Well, as I was saying, sir, he who is gone came to Eagleshay and me, and says he, ‘Are you lads ready to gain more golden guineas than you ever set eyes on in your life?’ Of course we were. ‘It’s nothing but carrying off a slip of a baby who can do little more than talk, and just leaving him in the plantations.’ We didn’t ask questions, but we went on board a little sloop he owned, and then we waited, cruising about, till one evening he told us to pull on shore, and there we found a nurse and child, and the woman gave us the child. Away we went with it aboard the sloop, and made sail, and never dropped anchor till we reached the port of Dublin. Then our captain sold the sloop, and we all went aboard a ship and sailed for America. We didn’t reach it though. We had done a cursed deed, and God’s curse was to follow us. Our ship went down, and we were left floating on a raft; we were well-nigh starved, when a ship fell in with us, and we were taken on board. The captain was a kind-hearted man, and he said he would take care of the little fellow; and as our captain—he that’s gone—had got the money for the deed he’d done, he didn’t try to keep him; indeed, he could not have kept him if he’d wished; and so the good captain drew up a paper from what we’d told him, and he made us put our names to it, and he went and locked it up, and after that he never talked about the matter. We didn’t know what he might do, so we ran from the ship at the first port we came to. From that day to this I never set eyes on the youngster, or heard of the good captain again. Well, one bad thing leads to another. We all then went out to the West Indies, and we shipped aboard some strange craft, and strange flags they sailed under. It was difficult to know, when you came on deck, what was flying at the peak. There were many things done which sickened me, and some of my shipmates I saw hung up at Port Royal in a way I didn’t like, and at last I got away back to England. I then took a wife. Many years, you’ll understand, had passed by. I thought I was going to remain on shore, and be quiet and honest. I’d one little chap born, and I began to be fonder of him than I had been of any living creature before; but I was short of money, and the old feeling came over me. When I wanted it out in the West Indies then I took it. I now did a thing or two which made me fly the country. From that day to this I have never set foot on the shores of old England.”

Morton thought that he might now venture to interrupt the old man. He had been so anxiously waiting for the account he might give of the passengers, that he paid little attention to the first part of the narrative.

The old man declared that he knew nothing particular about them. He was on the other side of the island when the Indiaman arrived. He knew that a number of people had been landed, and that huts had been built for them, and that they were living on shore; but sentries were placed in the neighbourhood of the spot, and no one was allowed to pass to communicate with them.

“But what is the character of the men who have possession of the islands? Are they men-of-war’s men, privateers, or pirates?” inquired Ronald.

The answer the old man gave was not perfectly satisfactory. “They might be pirates, for they were a rough set; but then privateers were often rough enough, and little better. Then again some of the ships which came in wore pennants, and the officers had uniforms; but it was easy enough for a privateer or a pirate to fly a pennant, and any man could put on a uniform, as he had often seen done by villains who finished their career by being hung up in chains.”

Morton took several turns on the deck. Could nothing satisfactory be made out of the old man? “Could you find your way back again to those islands you speak of?” he asked.

“Maybe I could tell the course we’ve steered; for when it has been my trick at the helm I marked it well—it has always been the same. Five days had passed since we tripped our anchor before you fell in with us. Nor’-west by west, half west; and we ran between seven and eight knots an hour—seldom less, I should say. There, sir, can you make anything out of that?”

“I hope so; and could you pilot us into the harbour from which you sailed?” asked the lieutenant.

“That I could, I am bold to say, seeing that I’ve been fishing over every spot of it for the last ten years, or more,” said the old man.

“That will do, Mr Doull. Stay aft here, with your son, as you say he is; and I think you are right, for there is a likeness. I will trust to you, and I will do my best, if you prove true, to get you pardoned for any offence against the laws which you have committed.”

Ronald called Glover and signalised the frigate. Both ships hove-to, and he went on board. His consultation with Captain Calder was soon over, and on his return both ships shaped a course in the direction indicated by the old man.

Chapter Twenty Three.

What had befallen the “Osterley”—Had been taken by the Enemy and carried into Port—Passengers kept Prisoners on the Island.

When the “Osterley” left Calcutta she stood across the Bay of Bengal, and there appeared to be every prospect of a favourable commencement of the voyage. She had a good many passengers, but not so many as she would have had, probably, had she been going home direct. They were chiefly married ladies, accompanying their children; or civilians, or military men returning after many years’ service; or invalids, hoping to regain their health in the land of their birth.

Altogether, Miss Armytage did not expect to find much to interest her among the companions of her voyage, as they, one after the other, made their appearance on the poop-deck of the Indiaman, on which she was seated. It is possible that, while the pilot vessel continued in sight, she might have taken an occasional glance to ascertain how the little vessel was performing her voyage, and afterwards it is certain that she was lost in a reverie, from which she was not aroused till her mother had several times addressed her with the inquiry whether she was not excessively hungry, and would go down and get ready for dinner. Mrs Armytage was a very good-natured woman, and not destitute of sense, but she had no romance in her composition. She was a great contrast to her unhappy sister, Hilda.

Edda aroused herself. “Yes, mamma; if it is necessary to appear at dinner, I will go down with you.”

“Of course, dear; and here is Captain Winslow coming to offer you his arm.”

However, he offered it to Mrs Armytage herself, and with his most polite of bows, begged that they would take their seats near him at table. Captain Winslow was courteous to all his passengers, but he certainly paid more attention to the Armytage party than to all the rest.

After dinner, most of the passengers were collected on the poop, watching two vessels which appeared in the distance. One was evidently a native craft, a Dhow or Pattarmar, from her high stern, curiously-projecting bow, and lofty lateen sail. She had apparently communicated with the other stranger, which was a ship of some size, and was now working in towards the land.

The ship engrossed the chief attention of the passengers. She was a flush-decked vessel or corvette—large for that class of craft, with very square yards. Miss Armytage hoped that her mother would not overhear the observations which the appearance of the strange sail called forth. She was looked upon by all as a very suspicious craft. Under what flag she sailed was a question, but it was very evident that she was a man-of-war, a privateer, or a pirate. She was an armed vessel—she was not a British man-of-war—she might be an English privateer, but she had the look of a foreigner.

By degrees the suspicions respecting the character of the stranger increased, till few had any doubt that he was an enemy. Captain, Winslow, however, was not to be intimidated by the appearance of the ship. Captain Winslow had probably made up his own mind as to what he would do, but, under the circumstances of the case, he judged it necessary to call his officers and the principal passengers together, to ask their opinion as to what course should be pursued. Colonel Armytage was, of course, summoned to the consultation. The captain opened the proceedings.

“No one will doubt that, should the sail in sight prove an enemy—for that has not yet been ascertained—we should run for it,” he observed. “There is no disgrace in that; our business is to carry passengers and cargo, and we shall do wisely to stick to our business as long as we can; but the question, gentlemen, which I have to submit to your consideration is, shall we fight and defend our ship, the passengers and property confided to our care, or shall we yield to what may prove superior force?”

“Superior force or not, I say, sir, by the powers! let us fight it out to the last, and drive off the enemy,” exclaimed the first mate. He spoke out of order, but his opinion was echoed by his brother officers, and by most of the passengers, Colonel Armytage was in favour of fighting to the last.

“Should she prove a privateer, and we take her, we should do well to hang every one of her crew up to the yard-arm as pirates, for they are in no degree better,” he exclaimed, in a tone which showed his annoyance at the prospect of so disagreeable an interruption to their voyage.

“We shall do well to take the enemy before we decide what is to be done with him,” observed the captain.

Some few of the passengers were for temporising measures; they proposed hoisting a flag of truce, and endeavouring to come to terms with the enemy.

“Not very likely, gentlemen, that if the enemy think they have the power to take the ship, and everything on board her, they will be content with a portion,” answered the captain. “The majority are decidedly for fighting; we will prepare the ship for action.”

The Indiaman was kept on her course, but all the sail she could possibly carry was set on her. The stranger was at this time to the south-east, her hull just rising above the horizon.

The Indiaman was before the wind, so was the stranger, but her courses were brailed up, and she was evidently waiting for some purpose or other; she certainly, at present, did not look like an object to be dreaded.

The alarm of the ladies gradually subsided, till they began to wonder why it should be thought necessary to make such preparations for fighting; why the shot was got up, the powder-tubs filled, and the guns loaded, and boarding nettings made ready for rigging.

For some time the stranger did not appear to alter her position. When, however, at length the Indiaman, under all sail, began to put forth her speed, giving evidence that she might be many leagues to the southward by nightfall, the ship in the distance let fall her courses, and her head coming round, she was seen to be steering a course which would intersect that of the “Osterley.”

“It will come to a fight, sir, I suspect,” observed the captain to Colonel Armytage.

“So much the better, for I suppose that there is but little doubt that we shall beat off the enemy,” answered the colonel. “We have plenty of men, and some serviceable guns, and I trust your fellows will do their duty like men.”

“I trust so, too, sir; but probably that ship out there has more men and longer guns than we have,” said the captain, gravely. “We should not conceal from ourselves that the contest will be a severe one, at all events, and the termination doubtful. I would not say this to the crew, or to the passengers generally, but in the event of disaster, how are we to protect the helpless beings committed to our charge—the ladies and children? Some of these Frenchmen, I have heard, are fiends incarnate in the moment of victory, and if we offer a stout resistance, and are conquered at last, what is to be done?”

“I should feel inclined to blow up the ship rather than run any risk of the ladies suffering violence,” exclaimed the colonel, pacing the deck in an agitated manner.

“That were scarcely right in the sight of God, or wise in that of men,” said the captain, calmly: “I had to propose that at a signal which the chief officer who survives shall give they all assemble in the main cabin, and that then we rally round them, and refuse to yield till the enemy agree to terms.”

“Your plan is good, but you look at the dark side of things,” remarked Colonel Armytage.

“I look at both sides, sir,” was the answer. “The ‘Osterley’ is a fast ship, and we may run away from our pursuer; if we are overtaken, we may beat her off, or after all she may prove to be no enemy at all. You see, sir, I turn the state of the case right round; I like to settle beforehand how, under all circumstances, I shall act.”

“I see, Captain Winslow, you are a man of forethought—a useful quality in your profession,” said Colonel Armytage, though he did not make the remark with the best possible grace. In truth, he was inclined to look down on the sea captain as a person of a very inferior grade to himself, though compelled under peculiar circumstances to associate with him. With one of his formal bows he said that he must go below to make the ladies understand the arrangements contemplated for them.

Edda heard of the expected combat with perfect calmness.

“How I pity the poor men who may be wounded in the battle!” she remarked.

Her father sneered.

“May we go on deck and help them?” she asked suddenly. “I am sure that we can be of use.”

“Certainly not,” he answered, sternly. “We shall have enough to do without being interrupted by the interference of women.”

“Oh, father! do not say that,” said Edda. “We would be of all the use in our power; we would tend the wounded; we would take food to those who were weary; we would carry up powder and shot if required. I have read of women doing such things. Why should not we?”

“Because there are men enough to fight, and it is considered that you will be safer down below,” said Colonel Armytage, casting a look of involuntary admiration at his daughter. “Round shots are no respecters of persons, and one might destroy you or your mother or the other women as readily as the roughest man on board. In Heaven’s name, child, keep out of danger.”

A part of the hold was quickly arranged for the accommodation of the ladies during the expected action. Two lanterns were hung up in it below the beams, but notwithstanding all that was done, it was a very dreary, dark abode. Edda entreated that she and her mother might remain on deck till they were within range of the enemy’s guns. Most of the other ladies followed her example, and the deck once more resumed its usual orderly appearance, though there were signs of the expected strife in the warlike costumes of the gentlemen, who walked up and down with swords buckled to their sides, pistols in their belts, or muskets on their shoulders.

The captain had not vainly boasted of the sped of the ship, and, as he now hauled up a little to the westward there appeared to be a considerable chance of her running the stranger out of sight during the night. Darkness was now coming on. The stranger was seen on the lee-quarter continuing the pursuit under all sail. Some of the more timid suggested that part of the cargo should be thrown overboard to lighten the ship, so as to afford them a better chance of escaping, but to this the captain would not consent. He was responsible for the property. He hoped to defend it and every part of it, and even if hove away it could do little to aid their escape. His calmness and determination infused courage into all around him. Night came on. The stranger was still far beyond gunshot. Not a light was allowed to be shown on board the Indiaman. The ladies were induced to retire to their cabins, many under the happy belief that all danger had passed, and that they might look forward to a pleasant continuance of the voyage. None of the officers or crew, however, went below.

Many of the passengers also remained on deck. As night closed in, far off was still to be seen the dark outline of the stranger ship. Was she gaining on the “Osterley?” Captain Winslow and his officers looked and looked again. There seemed to be little doubt about that. No more canvas could be clapped on the Indiaman. Everything had been done that could be thought of to make her sail fast. A hurricane just then would have been welcome. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and, as the night drew on, the darkness increased. At length the stranger was hid from sight. Some declared that they could still see her, but Captain Winslow was of opinion that they were mistaken. Still even he, as he walked the deck, continued to cast many an anxious glance astern. He called his first officer to him, and they held an earnest consultation together.

“We’ll try it,” he observed; and the yards were squared away, and the Indiaman was once more steering to the southward dead before the wind; it was her best point of sailing. It was hoped that the stranger, believing that she was bound for Madras, would continue the chase in that direction. The darkness continued.

“Well, sir, I trust that we have given that suspicious-looking gentleman the go-by,” observed the captain to Colonel Armytage. “Perhaps it might be better to inform the ladies of this, to tranquillise any alarm they may still feel.”

“Have no anxiety on that score. I do not allow my wife and daughter to indulge in idle apprehensions,” answered the colonel in the supercilious tone in which he frequently spoke.

“This man may be a very important personage, but he is a very disagreeable one,” thought Captain Winslow, as he turned away.

The worthy captain was well-nigh wearied out, so, summoning his first officer to take charge of the deck, he returned to his cabin to endeavour to snatch a short rest, leaving directions to be summoned should any change occur in the present state of things.

The first officer had been one of the most anxious to fight. He believed that they might not only beat off the enemy, but take her also, and he now kept a bright look-out, hoping that she might again appear. He was a young man, and thought more of the honour and glory to be gained than of the risk to be run. Over and over again his night-glass swept round in the direction of the eastern horizon. The range of his vision was limited. After taking a long gaze he suddenly exclaimed, “There she is though!” He called an old quartermaster and bade him take the glass.

“Yes, sir, she’s the ship, there’s no doubt about it. She has been keeping way easily with us,” observed the seaman. “I’d sooner that craft, Mr Lloyd, were a hundred miles away, or a thousand, for that matter, than where she is: we none of us likes her looks, and she’ll prove a rummish customer if she gets alongside of us.”

“Oh, never fear, Davis; you’ll all fight like Britons, and beat her off; or take her, maybe. But call the captain, and let him know our friend is in sight, away on the larboard beam.”

Captain Winslow was on deck in an instant. He had been dreaming of the stranger. There she moved like a dark phantom, silently stalking over the waters.

There was something peculiarly ominous in her appearance. The very silence with which she glided on through the darkness was threatening. She soon came up within range, but not a shot was fired. There she remained gliding on, with her courses brailed up, keeping pace with the Indiaman. It was very evident that she might have come down upon her long before had she chosen.

The approach of the stranger quickly became known in the cabin, and the gentlemen passengers were soon congregating on deck, many of them buckling on their swords and examining the locks of their pistols by the light of the binnacle lamp. Various opinions were offered. Some thought that Captain Winslow ought to begin the battle by firing a broadside into the stranger; but he declined the proposal, and suggested that it would be better to ascertain first whether she was inimically disposed.

“She can scarcely be a friend, or she would not frighten people so horribly,” observed some one, but the speaker was not discovered.

The remark produced a laugh, and the spirits of the more timid began to rise.

“Perhaps the gentleman intends to wait till daylight to commence sport,” observed the previous speaker.

Another hour passed by; Captain Winslow could not help feeling that his ship was completely in the power of the stranger. She evidently sailed two feet to his one; could shoot ahead and rake him, or could stand off and cannonade him with her long guns, without his being able to return a shot. A sturdy Briton as he was, he almost wished, for the sake of all on board, especially of the females, that it had been determined to yield at once.

“No, no, that would never do,” he muttered soon after to himself; “we’ll fight, and defend them like men.”

The stranger had been edging in nearer and nearer to the Indiaman. The ladies had been assembled and sent to their apartment in the hold. They were told it was only as a precautionary measure in case of an action. They endeavoured to keep up each other’s spirits, hoping for the best. Miss Armytage sat by her mother, calm and resigned, endeavouring to read, but her mind often left the page and wandered far away.

Some few tried to talk, but they found the effort vain. A few young girls laughed and joked, and tried to persuade themselves that there was nothing to dread, but they too soon became silent, and the whole party sat patiently waiting for the event they dreaded, yet hoped might be avoided. They had no means of ascertaining what was taking place; Edda offered to go up and learn, but her mother entreated her to remain where she was, reminding her of her father’s commands. The time passed slowly by; many thought that it must be soon day. All hoped that it would be, for they fancied that with the light the stranger would be discovered to be a friend. Not a sound from the deck above reached them. The silence itself was painful. It was suddenly broken by the deep-toned voice of the captain speaking through a trumpet. Then came the concussion and fierce roar of the guns overhead, followed by the thunder of those of their opponent, and the crash of the shot as they tore their way through the sides of the ship. Many of the ladies shrieked loudly, with wild fright, and clung trembling to each other. Yes, the bloody fight had really begun; how would it terminate? Next there was a crashing sound as if the ship had struck on a rock, and she trembled in all her timbers, and there was still the roar of the great guns, but added to it the rattle of musketry; and now followed wild shouts and shrieks, and the clashing of steel as cutlass met cutlass, and men strove desperately for life, and there was the sharp report of pistol shots, and the cries increased; and there was the tramping of feet, every moment becoming louder, and the clashing of swords, and the shouts and cries growing nearer. And now one of the officers rushed down the ladder. His face was pale; there was blood on his arm.

“Ladies, we will defend you to the last,” he exclaimed. “But come up on the main-deck, and keep together. We have been boarded and overpowered. We have rallied on the afterpart of the deck, and hold it still; but there is no time to be lost.”

Miss Armytage and her mother were the first to lead the way. When they reached the main-deck they saw the gallant band of the defenders struggling with overwhelming numbers of the enemy. In the front rank was Colonel Armytage. A huge seaman, a negro, had attacked him, and was pressing him hard. He seemed to be already wounded; others were rushing on. His foot slipped and he fell. His opponent’s cutlass was uplifted to give him a blow, which must have proved fatal, when a young officer sprang forward, interposed his own sword, and turned aside the weapon of his enemy.

“Yield, sir,” he exclaimed in French. “You are a prisoner, and your life shall be respected.” As he spoke, aided by the others, he dragged the colonel, no longer able to resist, out from the mêlée, and at that moment Edda recognised him as the young stranger whom she had met so frequently at Calcutta.

“All who yield shall have quarter,” cried a voice from among the assailants of the British. “We are honourable enemies, and seek the lives of none who no longer resist. The ladies shall be protected.”

“It’s Hobson’s choice,” said one of the passengers: “let us make terms while we can.”

Several others expressed the same opinion. Indeed, it was evident that further resistance was useless. The ship was already in possession of the enemy. The captain was not with them. Where he was, no one knew. Too probably he was wounded; perhaps killed. Colonel Armytage was a prisoner. The first officer lay desperately wounded in the front rank of the little band, who had so gallantly held out to the last.

“Drop your swords, brave enemies, and the Frenchman who makes another stroke at your head, dies,” said the voice.

Although many had but little faith in the promise, they yielded to necessity. The captors, however, kept their word.

The captain, a stout middle-aged man, came forward, and taking the swords of the officers, bowed to the group of ladies, and assured them that everything in his power would be done for their accommodation.

“Oh, bring my father, then!” exclaimed Miss Armytage. “Let us attend to him, should he be hurt.”

“The officer, my lieutenant, took prisoner?—certainly. He shall be placed under your charge, madam,” answered the captain, with a bow.

As soon as it was daylight, the English part of the Indiaman’s crew, with the officers, as well as the military men among the passengers, were removed on board her captor, which proved to be “La Sybille,” a French privateer corvette. Her name had lately become known for the havoc she had committed among the British merchantmen, many of which had been carried off, but what had afterwards become of them it had not been hitherto ascertained.

It was a great relief to Edda to receive a visit from Captain Winslow. He was wounded, and having been knocked down and stunned when the Frenchman boarded, he had not recovered till the ship was completely in their power.

Several of the Indiaman’s officers and crew had been killed or wounded, but the bloody signs of the conflict had been removed when the ladies once more appeared on deck. Strangers navigated the ship, and Edda observed that her Calcutta acquaintance had the command. He approached, however, but seldom, and always with the signs of the most profound respect. Edda sometimes observed him standing at a distance, watching her, with his arms folded on his bosom, and a melancholy expression in his countenance. Still, she did not altogether like his look, though it would have been difficult for her to determine why. One thing certainly was against him. He had been acting the part of a spy at Calcutta, and it at once occurred to her, that it was probably owing to the information he had obtained that the “Osterley” had been watched for, and fallen into the hands of the enemy. Señor Gerardo, as he had called himself, at the same time paid the greatest attention to Colonel Armytage, and seemed to anticipate all his wants; indeed, no captors could have behaved with more attention to their prisoners than did the officers of “La Sybille” to the passengers of the “Osterley.”

The two ships were now sailing together, to the eastward of south, but where they were going, no one could ascertain. A sentry was stationed at the compass, and though they were allowed to range anywhere else about the ship, when any one drew near that, they were civilly ordered to move away. Ten or more days passed, and the two ships lay at anchor in a beautiful bay, among a group of islands, some of considerable elevation, and covered with all the varied productions of the tropics. There were few signs of cultivation, but there were numerous huts and tents scattered about, and it was evident that the island had been taken possession of by the French as a rendezvous for their cruisers. Another Indiaman lay at anchor with her masts and spars in a shattered condition, as if she had met with a gale on her passage there, and had not been in a fit condition to send away. On a near inspection a battery was discovered thrown up on each side of the bay, while a strong fort in the centre commanded the anchorage, and sentries were seen pacing the beach to prevent the possibility of any prisoners escaping.

The passengers remained on board two days, while workmen were seen on shore, erecting fresh huts. During this time, Lieutenant Gerardo was constant in his attentions to Edda, but they were so delicately offered, and his manners were so gentlemanly and refined, that she was almost angry with herself for not feeling more grateful. At last the whole party were directed by the French captain who came on board, to prepare for going on shore, and informed that they were at liberty to take every part of their private property with them.

“We do not war with individuals, and we feel deeply the necessity we are under of placing a restraint on your actions.”

The young lieutenant expressed his great regret at no longer being allowed to have charge of them. “Still I trust, Miss Armytage, that you will allow me occasionally to come and inquire after your health. ‘La Sybille’ requires repairs, and will be detained here some time.”

At first Colonel Armytage received him with great coldness, naturally looking on him with contempt, as having played the dishonourable part of a spy during his visit to Calcutta; but the lieutenant explained the cause of his appearance there so much to the colonel’s satisfaction, and his attentions were so unremitting and delicate, that he completely won his way into the good graces of the English officer.

Gerardo was too acute an observer not to have discovered the authority Colonel Armytage exercised over his family, and he fancied that the most certain way of winning the daughter was first to gain over the father. By degrees also he obtained the good opinion of Mrs Armytage. He never obtruded his services, but he offered them to her in so delicate a manner, and showed so much pleasure in being employed, that it was scarcely possible for her to refuse them. All the fruits and flowers which the islands produced were collected and brought to her and her daughter, often not obtained without difficulty, while numberless objects of interest, evidently taken out of prizes, were offered for their acceptance.

Very few of the other officers came near them; indeed, they appeared generally to be of a different stamp to the captain and his first lieutenant.

“We really might be very happy here if we did not wish to be elsewhere,” observed Mrs Armytage to her daughter.

“Yes, certainly,” remarked another lady. “But what shall we do when our clothes wear out? It will be shocking not to be able to get any of the new fashions. I am afraid our polite captain and Monsieur Gerardo will not think half as much about us then.”

“You don’t suppose that we are to be kept here for ever!” exclaimed another lady, in a great state of agitation.

“Perhaps till the war is over—such things are done,” remarked Mrs Armytage, who, having her husband and daughter with her, was more inclined to be contented with her lot than were most of the party.

With most of the captives, however, the days in that delightful climate passed pleasantly and rapidly by. Had Ronald Morton wished Edda to be placed in a position where her thoughts would most probably be occupied with him, he could scarcely have selected one more favourable for the purpose than that in which she now found herself.

What might have been the effect of the young French lieutenant’s devoted attention, it is impossible to say; but though he was present, the absent Morton ever stepped in to prevent him from making the slightest impression on her affections. The more she thought of Morton, the more vividly did she realise his noble qualities, his manly appearance; and thinking of him, she naturally taught herself to believe that, in some way or the other, she and her friends would be rescued from their present trying and anxious position. All the time they could not but feel that they were in the hands of enemies, who, though they behaved well at present, might at any moment change their conduct.

Both the French ship and the Indiaman had suffered considerably in the action; and since their arrival they had been undergoing repairs. These were now completed. The privateer’s men were also refreshed, and eager to go in search of fresh spoil.

With heavy hearts the late officers and passengers of the “Osterley” saw her under all sail, standing out of the bay. It appeared as if their home—the only means of escaping from their bondage—was leaving them. Many gave way to tears at the sight, and few looked on unmoved. Two days afterwards the corvette herself put to sea, both her captain and first lieutenant going in her. A small garrison was left in each of the forts, and the seamen remained in prison on board the dismasted prize, under a strong guard. As there were only a few small canoes on the beach, used for fishing, and none of the prisoners had arms of any description, there was very little chance of their attacking the garrison, or attempting to make their escape. An old French military officer, who acted as governor, was a very strict disciplinarian, and was continually going from fort to fort and inspecting his troops, so that neither he nor they were likely to be caught asleep. Indeed, it appeared that nothing was likely to occur to disturb the perfect tranquillity of the island.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The “Thisbe” approaches the Island—Old Doull’s Revelations as to the “Osterley’s” Passengers—The Frigate put under French Colours—Expedition in the Boats—Attack on the Forts—“Osterley’s” Passengers carried off.

To return again to the “Thisbe” and rescued “Osterley.” The frigate and Indiaman were once more hove-to, at a short distance from each other. In the far distance appeared a group of islands like blue hillocks rising out of the shining ocean. Volunteers from the frigate eagerly crowded on board the “Osterley,” armed to the teeth. Morton had gained sufficient information from the old man to enable him to form a plan for rescuing the prisoners, should they be, as he trusted, still on the island. He had had frequent conversations with the elder Doull. One day the old man again referred to the abduction transaction in which he had been engaged in his youth. The similarity of the account to that Morton had heard of his father’s history, struck him.

“Where was it? from what part of the coast did you take the child?” he asked, eagerly.

“Did I not say from Shetland?” replied the old man. “And what is strange, Lieutenant Morton, the boy’s name was the same as yours; but maybe you know nothing of Shetland; it’s a fine land anyhow, and you are too young to be the child I was speaking of.”

“You are mistaken in one point, Mr Doull,” said Morton. “I belong to Shetland; I was born and bred there; and I feel almost sure that the boy you carried off was my father. He was picked up at sea by a Captain Scarsdale, who brought him up as his son.”

“Scarsdale!—now you speak it, that’s the name of the master of the vessel who took us off the raft, and from whose ship we ran. For many a long year I have not thought of it. Yes, Andrew Scarsdale; and the boy was called Rolf Morton—the names come back to me as if I heard them but yesterday. There are not many other names I can remember which I knew at that time.”

“But do you believe that that was the real name of the child?” asked Morton, for he had heard his father express his belief that the name he bore was not his true one.

“That I do not know,” answered old Doull. “If it was not, the only one of us who knew the truth was our leader—the man who led us to commit the crime—that villain, Rolf Yell. It’s many a year since I have spoken his name. Now I remember, he gave me a paper to Captain Scarsdale, and put his name to it, and we saw him do it; and we—that is, Archy Eagleshay and I did; and the captain put his name, and we put ours after that, though we didn’t read the paper, but the captain said that it was all right, and that it was what he wanted, and he took it below; and so I supposed that it would make everything square for the poor boy.”

This circumstantial account agreed so exactly with that which Captain Scarsdale had given his father, that Ronald had no doubt that he had found a clue which might lead to the solution of the mystery hanging over his early history.

What had become of the important document? Why had not Captain Scarsdale produced it? Yell, at all events, knew his father’s real name, and he must have communicated it to Captain Scarsdale. He longed to meet his father, that he might give him the information he had received, and consult with him as to what steps it would be best for them to pursue.

Formerly he perhaps would have been very indifferent as to the result; now he could not help feeling that if it could be proved that he was of gentle blood, it might enable him the better to succeed in realising the bright visions in which he had of late been indulging. There might be a thousand obstacles in his path, but he felt that he could clear them all away by courage and perseverance, as he would a host of enemies with the strokes of his cutlass.

Such were the feelings with which Ronald Morton prepared for the attempt to rescue the passengers and crew of the “Osterley” from the hands of the Frenchmen. Old Doull had warned him of the difficulties to be encountered. He had described the dangers of the approach to the bay, the strength of the forts, and the number of the garrison. This of course only increased the anxiety of Morton and his followers to commence the work in hand.

While Morton was still forming his plan, old Doull, hat in hand, came aft.

“Captain Morton,” he said, “my son Bob has been telling me how you have been kind to him, and stood by him ever since he came to sea, and I want to show you that my old heart, though it’s pretty well scorched and dried up with the hard life I’ve led, can still feel thankful for favours done. At first I couldn’t make Bob believe that I was his father, and no wonder, for an unnatural one I had been to him all his life; but I told him so many things about when he was a baby that he knows it now, and has taken to call me father, and that warms my heart and gives it such a pleasure I can’t describe. After having had no one to care for me for better than twenty years, except old Archy Eagleshay—and I couldn’t trust him over-much, ’specially if a cask of rum was in his way—it is a happiness to be called father—that it is, sir. I hope as how some day you will feel it. Well, sir, as I was saying, I was turning in my mind how I might serve you best. Now, I’ve been thinking that if we were to sail in with the ships, and attempt to take the forts by force, though we might and should succeed in the end, we might hurt some of the English people on shore, and that’s what you wouldn’t wish to do.”

“No, indeed,” said Ronald, shuddering. “That I would not, of course. But what do you propose?”

Ronald had discovered the uselessness of attempting to hurry the old man, so he waited patiently for his reply.

“Why, sir, I think if the ship was to run in just before dark under the French flag, the people on shore would fancy that she had been brought back for some reason or other, and very likely wouldn’t board her that night. When it is dark I will go on shore and find my way to the huts of the prisoners. I will tell them that you have arrived to bring them off, and I think that I could manage to conduct them down by a path to the shore, so that the French sentries shall not see them. In that way, sir, they may be got on board without danger.”

Morton was not satisfied with the whole of Doull’s plan.

“You forget the risk the prisoners would run of being fired on by the French sentries, if found escaping; while, before the ship could leave the bay, the forts would open fire on her, and very probably injure some of them. However, I will think over your proposal, and I thank you for your anxiety to serve me.”

Morton would rather have run in with both ships, reduced the forts, and carried off the prisoners in triumph, but caution as well as boldness, he knew well, were necessary to insure success. Captain Calder highly approved of the plan he ultimately laid before him.

All was ready on board the “Osterley.” The boats were hoisted in; and while she ran on towards the land the frigate hauled her wind and stood off again.

The Indiaman rapidly approached the land. As she drew in with it the French ensign was hoisted at the peak. Job Truefitt looked up at it.

“It’s the first time that I minds that I ever sailed under that buntin’, and I would be sorry to see it often hoisted over my head,” he observed to the elder Doull, pointing at it with his thumb half over his shoulder, and a contemptuous sneer on his lips. “I never loved them mounseers, and hopes I never may. They are to my mind the nat’ral born enemies, so to speak, of Englishmen, and it’s my belief that they’ll remain the same to the end of the world.”

Doull was now summoned aft to pilot the ship among the reefs which surrounded the group of islands she was approaching. The wind had been faithful, and Morton managed so well that it was close upon sunset before the “Osterley” got inside the reefs. It would have been anxious work to carry a ship, in the uncertain light which still remained, among those numerous rocks and shoals, even with a friendly port in which to drop her anchor. Ronald, with the old man by his side, stood conning the ship, while two seamen with sharp eyes were placed at the end of the jib-boom, and others at the fore yardarms, to give notice of any danger they might discover.

“There’ll be no use keeping the lead going, sir,” said Old Doull. “You may get a cast of twenty fathom, and the next moment have the ship’s bows hard and fast.”

Ronald knew that this was the case, nor did it decrease his anxiety. Steady hands were at the helm. The seamen were at their stations to trim or shorten sail. The Indiaman glided onward. She was already inside the reefs, and the heaving motion of the ocean was no longer felt. Hills clothed with verdure rose close before them, the shore on either side, fringed with cocoa-nut trees, seen here and there over the yellow beach rising against the deep blue sky. The forts, too, could be made out, though thrown into shade in the centre of the landscape, as the ship, boldly guided by the old seaman to a berth, dropped her anchor. The carpenter had been busily employed all day in constructing a canoe. It was forthwith lowered noiselessly into the water, and Doull and his son stepping into it, paddled away to the shore, keeping, however, as far off as possible from the forts.

“That man can be trusted,” observed Ronald to Glover, though the words implied a doubt of the fact.

“At all events we must trust him, sir,” answered the midshipman; “that is very clear.”

After waiting for some time, and no one appearing from the shore, the boats were lowered without noise into the water, and at once manned. By this time the dim outline of the shores of the bay could alone be seen. Morton took command of one, Glover of another, and the boatswain of the frigate of a third. Sims remained on board in charge of the ship. The Indiaman’s boats followed with a midshipman in each, so that there were six altogether.

There were three forts, and it was arranged that two boats’ crews should simultaneously attack each of them. The oars were muffled, and away the flotilla glided from the side of the big ship, as Glover observed to the midshipman with him, like a brood of new-born serpents sallying from their parents’ side intent on mischief. Not a sound was heard on shore, not a sound either did the boats make as they glided over the smooth surface of the bay. Morton’s mind misgave him. It seemed strange that no people from the shore had come off to the ship.

“Surely they must have seen her even through the gloom,” he said to himself. “Can the Frenchman have left the place, and carried off the prisoners?”

The question was soon to be solved, but his impatience would scarcely brook the necessary delay. He had ascertained from Doull the direction of the huts where the English prisoners were located. Doull had also described the best landing-places under the forts. The boats, in three divisions, proceeded on their separate courses. The centre fort was the strongest. Ronald selected that for himself. His heart beat quick as he approached it. Who when going into action does not discover that his pulse beats more rapidly, even under ordinary circumstances? Ronald felt that the safety of one now dearer to him than life was involved in the success of his undertaking.

As the boats drew closer to the shore it was necessary to proceed more carefully, for fear of running on the rocks, which jutted out in certain parts of the bay. Though the surface of the bay was smooth, there was a slight surf on the shore, the noise of which, as it broke, tended to overpower any sound which the oars made as they dipped into the water.

Could the French garrisons be asleep? No sentry’s challenge was heard on the walls. Perhaps, believing that it was unlikely an enemy should discover them, and impossible for one to approach at night, they had all, in fancied security, gone to rest; but then they must have seen the approach of the ship.

Ronald had promised to send up a rocket the instant the parapet was gained and the enemy aroused. A few more strokes, and the boats would reach the landing-place. Just then a loud hail came from the walls of the fort. Ronald answered, in French, “People from the captured Indiaman.”

“Stay there,” said the sentry, who had, it seemed, either been asleep or just come up to his post. This, however, was an order the English were not very likely to obey, so on they dashed as fast as possible, knowing that in another minute their purpose would be discovered. Leaping on shore, several carrying ladders, they rushed to the walls. At the same moment a rocket flew into the night air high above the heads of the combatants, to give notice to their comrades that the attack was begun. The ladders were placed in position, and up they climbed, in a way British seamen only can climb, each eager to be first, and yet one helping on the other in the noble race of honour. In vain the sentries and a few men left on guard rushed out to oppose the assailants, and shouted and bawled to their comrades to hurry to their assistance. A pistol bullet or the stroke of a cutlass silenced the voice of many a boasting Frenchman for ever.

The English had made good their footing in the fort, but before they had time to advance, they found themselves opposed by the whole garrison, who, though just awakened from sleep, surprised and bewildered, fought with the fury of desperation. They had, however, seized in the hurry and darkness the weapons which first came to hand, and many were but imperfectly armed. Now they were driven back—now more of the officers coming among them, they again rallied and stood bravely for a few minutes, but every foot of ground Morton and his followers gained they kept, and onward they fought their way. The pistol shots, and shouts, and cries from the other forts, and high above all, the true hearty English cheers to which the seamen gave vent, showed the enemy that they were attacked by no insignificant force. By whom they were attacked they probably could not tell, till those well-known cheers reached their ears. Still they bravely stood their ground.

“On, lads, on!” shouted Morton, laying about him with his cutlass more furiously than ever. He began to be afraid, from the pertinacity of the Frenchmen, that they expected reinforcements. Again the British seamen made a fierce charge; those of the enemy in the front rank were cut down or driven back upon their companions in the rear. They in their turn gave way, and the whole body of Frenchmen took a hurried flight across the fort, with the intention of escaping through the gate on the land side. This was what Morton was especially anxious they should not do. He dashed after them like a dog endeavouring to turn a flock of sheep. He and several of his followers reached the gate almost at the same moment, but not in time to stop them. Out dashed the Frenchmen, driving each other forward. The British seamen followed close upon their heels, cutting down those they could overtake, but they in their fall somewhat impeded the pursuers. Morton marked well the way they took. It was towards, he believed, the huts of the prisoners. He guessed what their purpose would be—on he went in hot haste. Once some of the fugitives, finding so few of their enemies close at their heels, stopped, and stood at bay. They had cause to repent their temerity. Three were brought to the ground by the edge of Ronald’s cutlass, somewhat blunted as it was, while others, with severe wounds, again took to flight.

In the dark many of the pursuers and pursued were scattered, but Morton followed what he believed to be the main body. Suddenly cries and shrieks arose in front, and men’s voices were heard shouting, and he thought he recognised that of old Doull and—yes, he was certain—that of Colonel Armytage. Among the female voices was one which thrilled through every nerve. Ronald rushing on, shouted to his men to collect them round him; in another instant he found the two Doulls and Colonel Armytage fiercely engaged with a party of the fugitives. His cutlass soon put the latter to flight.

“Where are the ladies?” he exclaimed; but he scarcely waited for an answer. He divined too well what had occurred.

“There! there! the scoundrels have carried them off towards the woods,” cried Colonel Armytage.

In another instant Ronald was among the Frenchmen. Some of the men finding that with their burdens escape was impossible, let them go free, but others continued their flight. The cries of children and the shrieks of women resounded through the woods. Edda Armytage was still in the hands of the enemy. On rushed Morton; young Doull was by his side.

“There’s some people with a lady, sir,” he exclaimed, making a dash towards a path which led down a dell on one side. There were several men, and Ronald at that moment caught sight of a female dress among them. Morton’s quick ear recognised Edda’s voice.

“Oh, save me! save me!” she cried out.

The man who held her boldly came to the front, while his comrades retreated. Ronald’s cutlass was upraised to strike, when the Frenchman placed his captive before him as a shield. The rest rallied round him, and Morton, with Doull alone by his side, found himself opposed to a dozen or more desperadoes, while he felt almost unnerved by seeing Miss Armytage in their power. His dread was that some stray shot or the careless stroke of a cutlass might injure her. All he could do was to keep at bay the rest of the Frenchmen, while he continued to summon his followers. They, however, it appeared, were skirmishing on either side, or rather following the retreating enemy in every direction. Ronald made the most desperate efforts to cut down some of his opponents, but each time that he appeared to be gaining a success the big Frenchman thrust himself before him. He had received one or two severe cuts, and was beginning to despair that help would come in time to prevent the Frenchman from escaping.

Edda had from the first recognised his voice, yet she dared not trust herself to address him by name. Still not for a moment did Ronald relax in his exertions. The Frenchmen had the advantage of knowing the ground, and they were evidently, Ronald conjectured, aiming at some particular spot, where they might hold out successfully. The path was steep, and numerous creepers of a tropical vegetation crossed it. In one of these the big Frenchman must have caught his foot; he stumbled, and before he could recover himself young Doull sprung like a tiger on his throat, and held him tight. The ruffian still attempted to retain his hold on Miss Armytage.

“You look after the others, sir—I can settle with this fellow,” sung out the young seaman; but his officer thought more just then of saving the lady than of beating the enemy.

While the Frenchman was still paralysed with the vice-like clutch which Doull had taken of his throat, Ronald cast his arm round Edda, and forced her from his grasp.

“Hurra!” shouted Bob Doull, “I’ll soon finish off the villain now.”

He was as good as his word, for never for a moment relaxing his hold of the man’s throat, he threw himself on him with such force, that he brought him to the ground; with his knee he kept down one of the man’s arms, and with his left hand the other.

“I shall have done for him soon, sir,” he shouted; “he’s giving in, no fear.”

What cared Ronald now for wounds, or for the enemies who were attacking him! Supporting Edda with one arm, he kept them back, and prevented them from rescuing their companion. Suddenly Bob Doull sprang to his feet, and laying about him with his cutlass, quickly put the rest of the Frenchmen to flight.

“Oh, Ronald, what happiness to be saved by you!” murmured Edda, scarcely conscious of what she was saying, as Morton, followed by Bob Doull, who kept a cautious look-out on every side, returned to the huts.

Those words revealed to him what he had scarcely dared to hope. He found old Doull severely hurt, while Colonel Armytage had been unable to follow, in consequence of his former wounds. He did not recognise Morton, but he expressed himself full of gratitude to the gallant officer who had been the means of rescuing his daughter. Mrs Armytage was soon afterwards conducted back to the huts; she, with the other ladies and children who had been earned off, having been rescued by another party of seamen. The remainder who had escaped, and hid themselves, now made their appearance; husbands and wives looking for each other, and mothers and nurses hunting for their children.

Glover and the boatswain now sent two midshipmen from the forts, to announce their capture, and to state that they had secured the garrisons. It was thought advisable, however, to get the ladies on board without delay.

Captain Winslow and the officers and the crew of the “Osterley,” who had been hutted at a distance from the rest, on hearing the firing, had broken through the sentries, and hurried to the spot. Arms were put into their hands, and they were directed to hold the centre fort, while the passengers were once more conveyed on board.

Ronald would not entrust Edda to the care of any one, but had supported her on his arm till the boats were ready to embark the passengers; he now carefully placed her in one of them, with her mother, and other ladies, under charge of Colonel Armytage.

“I would that I could accompany you on board, but my duty keeps me on shore. I know not what number of the enemy may be on the island; they may rally and attack the forts: it is of the utmost consequence that they should be held by us till the ship is clear of the harbour: you and your companions will be safer on board than even within one of the forts. I trust by dawn to be on board, and to carry you off in safety from the scene of your captivity.”

These words, which might have been spoken to any ordinary person, were heard by all, but the tone of voice and the gentle pressure of the hand were understood by her to whom they were addressed, and she whispered, that she was sure whatever he did was for the best.

As soon as the boats shoved off, Ronald went round to visit the forts. He found Glover and his party standing guard over the prisoners they had captured—a ragamuffin crew composed of natives of nearly every country in the world, and from their appearance Ronald had strong suspicions that they might deservedly be looked upon as pirates. In the other fort Mr Tarbot, the boatswain, had charge of a similar crew. They were very sulky, and as the light of the lanterns fell on their scowling countenances, Morton thought that they looked capable of committing any atrocity, and he felt grateful that Edda and her friends had been rescued from their power.

The sound which gave him the most satisfaction through the hours of darkness was the regular striking of the bell on board the Indiaman. It assured him that her people were on the alert, and that all was going on well. It was nearly dawn when, hearing a sentry hail, he hastened to the spot. “A friend,” was the answer, and he recognised the voice of old Doull; he directed him to come into the fort, and he soon appeared with a companion, whom he introduced as Archy Eagleshay. The latter was a man very similar in age and appearance to Doull, though his countenance betokened far less acuteness and intelligence. Ronald was much relieved at the return of Doull. On many accounts he was anxious not to lose sight of him, and for the present it was specially important to have him on board the “Osterley,” to take her out of the harbour through the intricate passages by which he had piloted her in.

At early dawn every one was astir. The former crew of the “Osterley” were employed in collecting all the property of the passengers, and in carrying it on board the ship, greatly to the satisfaction of its owners. Four seamen had fallen in the attack, and nearly twenty of the enemy. They were all hurriedly interred, friends and foes sleeping side by side on the shores of that lovely bay. The prisoners were next divided among the boats, and carried on board. Their company would gladly have been dispensed with, but Morton judged that it was the only safe way to break up this nest of hornets. The last thing that was done was to spike all the guns; some were simply dismounted, and others were tumbled over the parapet among the rocks. There was not time to do more, for Morton was anxious to get to sea and rejoin the frigate.

Once more the anchor of the “Osterley” was weighed, and with the wind off the land she stood out of the bay.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Difficulty of Navigation—An old Enemy appears—Enemy chases the “Osterley”—The “Thisbe” Appears.

The Indiaman, under the skilful pilotage of old Doull and his companion Eagleshay, wound her devious way among the shoals and reefs which guarded the entrance to the bay. Many of the ladies were collected on deck—Edda was one of them; she eagerly watched every movement of the young commander of the ship, as he stood in the weather rigging, or sprang on to the hammock nettings that he might obtain a clearer view of objects ahead. What she thought and felt it would be difficult to describe, but other ladies who were watching him too, agreed that he was a noble specimen of a true sailor. Not for a moment, however, did he turn to look at them: now by hand, now by voice, did he direct the men at the helm the course to steer. Rich and deep were the tones in which the words—starboard—steady—hard a-starboard—port—port—hard a-port, and similar orders were issued. Colonel Armytage was assisted on deck. He overheard some of the remarks which were made, and seemed perfectly ready to acknowledge their justice.

“Certainly I have seldom seen a finer young man,” he observed with a warmth unusual to him. “We owe him a debt of gratitude, too, for the gallant way in which he rescued us from our disagreeable captivity. By-the-by, to what family of Mortons does he belong? It never before occurred to me to inquire.”

Edda heard the question; it showed her that her father had begun to think of Morton in another light than that of a common acquaintance. He was no longer either disposed to treat him with the supercilious air in which he did on their first acquaintance. She could have replied, because Ronald had told her that he belonged to Shetland, but she could not bring herself to speak. Those the colonel addressed hazarded various opinions, but all were agreed that from his manner and appearance he must belong to a noble family. Colonel Armytage seemed to have the same impressions.

“Yes, certainly I mistook him at first,” he remarked. “There were some reports to his disparagement about a foolish duel, but from what I have since seen of him, I have little doubt he was in the right. Such a man would certainly never refuse to fight unless the man with whom he had quarrelled was palpably in the wrong.”

This was, for Colonel Armytage, saying a great deal. His companions agreed with him. It did not occur to them that a man might refuse to fight a duel from a higher motive than knowing that he was so clearly right that the world could not help taking his part.

The observations she overheard made Edda’s heart glow and beat quicker than wont. To every word of praise it warmly responded.

“Yet they know not one-tenth part of his worth; his nobleness of mind, his generosity, his tenderness,” she said to herself.

Edda Armytage might, perhaps, have been inclined to over-estimate his various good qualities, gallant fellow as he undoubtedly was.

The conversation to which she was listening was cut short by a cry from the mast-head of “A sail in sight.”

“Where away?” inquired Sims, who had charge of the deck.

“To the southward,” was the answer.

That was not the direction the frigate was expected to appear. The ship was not yet clear of the reefs. Sims went aloft, and came down with an anxious look. He told Glover that he did not like the look of the stranger. “She is a big ship, with square yards and white canvas: an enemy, I am certain,” he observed. “If she was to catch us jammed up among these reefs she might handle us in a way which would make us look foolish.”

“We shall be clear, sir, before she can get near us,” answered Glover. “Besides, we have some bull-dogs as well as she has.”

“Mere pop-guns to hers, depend on that,” observed Sims. “What do you say to her being a heavy frigate, capable of blowing this old tea-chest out of the water?”

Morton was informed of the sail in sight, but he was too much occupied in guiding the ship out of the labyrinth of reefs to make any other reply than the simple one, “If she is like an enemy get the ship ready for action.”

What he felt his countenance did not show.

The “Osterley” continued to thread the narrow passage; the slightest inattention would have brought her upon the reefs. Those who could employ their eyes kept looking now at the approaching stranger—now at the direction where they hoped the frigate would appear. At length old Doull’s deep voice was heard exclaiming, “We are free now, sir, of all dangers; we may stand away to northward.”

Ronald sprang down on deck, and the deep sigh which escaped his bosom showed the anxiety he had felt.

“Brace up the yards on the starboard tack!” he cried out, as he stepped aft, and, calling for his telescope, took a steady examination of the stranger. He expressed no opinion as to what she was, but ordered all the sail the ship could carry to be set on her. As she had now a large crew this was rapidly done. The stranger must have seen, by the way the “Osterley” made sail, that she was strongly manned. Captain Winslow and his officers, after a long look at the former, pronounced her to be the very ship which had captured them. Ronald longed to try and turn the tables, and to take her, but a glance at the passengers made him feel that his duty was in this case to do his utmost to escape. A bright look-out was kept for the frigate.

“If the mounseers catches sight of she, they’ll be inclined to put the helm down pretty sharp, and go about on t’other tack,” observed Job Truefitt.

As the stranger approached all doubt as to what she was vanished. She had before proved herself a good sailer. She maintained her character, and with a regret almost amounting to anguish, Ronald saw that there was little probability of avoiding a fight. He had brave men under him, but the Indiaman was badly armed, and the enemy had before found her an easy prey.

“We must, I fear, Winslow, place the ladies and children below, as you did before,” he observed, with a sigh. “I pray heaven the frigate may heave in sight, for the honest truth is, I never felt so little inclined to fight; yet, if fight we must, I should never fight more fiercely.”

“Spoke like a brave man, Morton,” answered his friend. “When I have helpless women and children under my charge, though I would fight to the last gasp to protect them, I would always rather run than fight.”

“Sail ho! ho-o!” shouted the man at the mast-head, with a prolonged cadence.

“Where away?” asked Morton.

“To the north-west,” was the reply.

His heart gave a bound; it was the quarter in which the frigate was likely to appear. He kept away a little towards her. The “Thisbe” showed her number. The “Osterley” signalised, “We have all safe on board. An enemy to the south-east.”

There was no time for further greeting. The frigate made all sail and stood on. The tables were now fairly turned. The Frenchman made her out, and going about, stood away to the southward.

“We shall have Captain Gerardin and his sentimental lieutenant among us again before long,” observed Captain Winslow, rubbing his hands.

The corvette showed that she had a remarkably fast pair of heels, and night coming on hid the pursuer, as distance had already hid the pursued, from the sight of those on board the “Osterley.” Sail was taken off the “Osterley,” and she was hove-to, that she might wait for the return of the frigate.

A very important question now arose as to what port they should steer for. The passengers very naturally begged that they might be carried to Bombay, but Morton conceived that they ought to return to Calcutta. However, that was a point Captain Calder could alone decide. Poor Captain Winslow, on his part, wanted to get back the command of his ship; but that of course, Morton had no power to bestow on him. All were eager for the morning, but never did a night appear to pass by more slowly. Dawn broke at last, and a sail was seen to the southward. She proved to be the “Thisbe”—the corvette had escaped.

“We’ll catch the fellow one of these days, though,” exclaimed Captain Calder. “And if he proves to be a pirate, and I believe he is very little better, we’ll hang him without compunction at his own yard-arm.”

His captain highly commended Morton for his conduct, and decided that the “Osterley” should return under his charge to Calcutta, where Admiral Rainier still was, that he might decide how she should be disposed of.

“She’s worth some thousand pounds to us Morton,” he observed. “It will help you to furnish house whenever you set up in that way ashore.”

Ronald hoped that it would not be long before he should employ his well-gained prize money in the manner his captain suggested. He cared little to which port the “Osterley” might be sent, except that he would have preferred the one at the greatest distance, which might have prolonged the voyage.

Never had Ronald Morton been so happy. He was in the constant enjoyment of the society of Edda Armytage. She no longer concealed her love for him, and his attentions appeared to meet the approval of both her parents. The days thus glided swiftly by. It was with anything but satisfaction to him that the “Osterley” at length made the mouth of the Hooghly. A line-of-battle ship was at the anchorage. As the “Thisbe” brought up, the two men-of-war exchanged numbers, and Morton discovered with infinite satisfaction that she was the old “Lion,” on board of which his father was boatswain.

Ronald was unwilling to leave the “Osterley” even for a short time, so he despatched a boat with a note to his father, to inquire after his health, at the same time giving an account of what had occurred, and promising to visit him as soon as he was at liberty. No reply was sent, but in a short time a boat from the “Lion” came alongside the “Osterley,” and Rolf Morton himself stepped on board. Ronald welcomed his father with the affection of a son. He thought not of the subordinate rank he held in the service, nor of the fine lady and gentlemen passengers who might be making inquiries as to who he was.

After a short conversation on the quarter-deck, they retired to Ronald’s cabin, where a considerable time was spent in giving and listening to accounts of each other’s proceedings.

“And let me hear again this strange story you tell me of these old men,” said Rolf. “I must talk to them, and listen to what, they have to say, though I scarcely expect that any good will result to us from it.”

Rolf Morton had never been of a sanguine temperament; he had become still less so as he advanced in life. Ronald, on the contrary, was accustomed to look on the bright side of objects. He believed that he had obtained a clue which would lead to the discovery of a matter now he felt of so much importance to his future happiness.

The two old men were sent for. They looked at Ronald, and then at his father; but neither seemed willing to speak. Archie Eagleshay, especially, put on a stupid expression of countenance, as if he had lost all recollection of past events. After a time, however, Doull repeated the account he had already given to Ronald, and the other old man nodded his head to confirm the correctness of the statement.

“Would you swear to all this my friends, in a court of law in England?” asked Ronald.

Even Doull hesitated. The idea of a court of law, in consequence of his early transgressions, had terrors for him which he could not overcome. As pale a hue as his sunburnt skin would allow came over old Archy’s face as he heard the words, and Ronald soon discovered that he had made a mistake by putting the question.

“Well, my friends, we will not ask you to do what you do not like,” he remarked. “But do not you think that if it was to serve my father and me, and that we would take care that you suffered no injury, you could swear to the truth of the story you have told us? It is my belief that you see before you the very man you assisted to carry off when a child from his family and his country. He bears you no ill-will in consequence. Surely you would wish to do your best to repair the injury you have done him?”

“I would do anything to serve you, Captain Morton, that I would, sir, or swear anything you please: and for that matter, so would Archy.”

“No, no, my friends,” exclaimed Ronald, somewhat inclined to laugh; “I only wish you to swear the truth, nothing else can serve me. However, the time for doing so has not yet arrived. We must get home first.”

“The truth!” muttered Rolf Morton. “Where is that to be found? I doubt that it will serve us anyhow.”

“Well, dear father, all is in God’s hands,” said Ronald, after he had dismissed the old men; “I have always been content and proud to be your son, and to me, therefore, as far as my own feelings are concerned it matters little who was your father, or to what family he belonged, except—ah—I for an instant forgot—others may value family more than I do.” And Ronald told his father of his love for Edda Armytage, and of his belief that his love was returned.

Rolf Morton listened earnestly. He had more knowledge of the world than his son, and he was less accustomed to look on the bright side of things.

He shook his head.

“I doubt not she is all you say, and I am grateful to her mother’s sister for instructing you in your boyhood, but I have little cause to love her race. The old Sir Marcus worked me all the ill he could, and from what I have heard of this son-in-law of his, he is a proud and vain man, not likely to have much regard for the feelings of young lovers’ hearts. But cheer up, Ronald. You have a noble profession, and the way to its highest rank is open to you.”

“But Edda has promised to be mine, and her father could scarcely wish to make her break her word,” answered Ronald, with a simplicity which would have made a man of the world smile.

“I would not damp your spirits, lad; but if you would escape having your hopes stranded, don’t trust too much to promises.”

Ronald thought that his father was taking too desponding a view of matters.

“We’ll hope, father, that in this instance you are mistaken as to Colonel Armytage,” he answered, in a cheerful tone. “I am sure that you would like both his wife and daughter.”

“Ronald, my boy, you forget that I am a bo’sun,” said Rolf, rising from his seat. “Let us go on deck.”

They there met Glover, who welcomed Mr Morton with the greatest cordiality.

“I first went to sea with you, Mr Morton, you remember,” he observed. “You taught me more of seamanship than I ever learnt from anybody else. Besides, you know if it hadn’t been for your son I should long ago have been food for the fish.”

It was now time for Rolf to return on board the “Lion.” His son and Glover attended him down the side with as much attention as they would have paid to an admiral.

A number of the passengers were collected on the poop-deck, waiting for the boats to convey them up to Calcutta.

“Who is that man to whom Mr Morton and Mr Glover are paying so much attention?” asked Colonel Armytage, who happened just then to look up from his book.

No one could tell him. After he had seen his father off, Ronald joined the party on the poop. He certainly would not have gone, had Edda not been there. The feeling came forcibly on him that he ought to tell her about his father. It had never occurred to him before. As he was going up to address her, some ladies stopped him, and asked, “Who is that fine looking, officer-like man who just now left the ship!”

“He is my father,” said Ronald, firmly. Edda looked up at him with a surprised expression.

“Why, Mr Morton, if I mistake not, he wears the dress of a boatswain,” said Colonel Armytage, in a cool, deliberate manner.

“Yes, sir—he is boatswain of his Majesty’s ship the ‘Lion.’”

“Your father a boatswain!” said the colonel in the same slow manner. “You should have informed me of this before, sir.”

“The question was not asked me,” answered Ronald. “I was wrong, I feel, in not mentioning it.”

At that moment his eye caught Edda’s, casting on him a look of such sorrow and pain that he was about to spring to her side, when she suddenly sunk on her seat, and would have fallen on the deck had not Mrs Armytage and another lady at hand caught her in their arms.

“It is of no consequence,” exclaimed Colonel Armytage, in a peremptory manner; “you have undoubtedly duties to perform about the ship. We will not detain you from them.”

Ronald felt that his only dignified course was to retire. With a heart bursting with indignation, he walked forward. Not long after this the boats arrived to carry the passengers back to Calcutta, where they purposed remaining till the arrangements respecting the ship were concluded. Ronald had been directed to retain the command till it could be legally restored to Captain Winslow.

Miss Armytage had gone below, and was kept out of his sight till she was ready to leave the ship. He came to assist her down the side. She gave him a look full of sorrow, but which he interpreted to mean, “Do not think that what I have heard can diminish my affection for you; it were worth little if it did.” But she had scarcely time to falter out a few words before her father stepped up and effectually stopped any further communication.

The manner of Colonel Armytage, indeed, was so rude, that Ronald had to recollect who he was, to assist him in commanding his temper.

The passengers in the boats were concealed by the awnings which covered them, but Ronald could not help standing on the deck, watching them with a heavy heart as they took their way up the broad stream of the Hooghly.

The next day he received three letters; two were official, one of them was from his captain, expressing the warm approbation of Admiral Rainier for his conduct in the attack on the enemy’s forts; the other was from the officials of the Honourable East India Company, promising him some substantial proof of their sense of his merit. The third letter was private. He opened it with some misgiving.

“It is as I expected,” he exclaimed bitterly; “my father was right.”

The letter was from Colonel Armytage, and was couched in almost offensive terms.

“Sir,—You took unwarrantable advantage of the opportunities afforded you of paying attention to Miss Armytage during our late voyage; and in case you should misunderstand my behaviour towards you while you had command of the ‘Osterley,’ I feel it necessary to state that, considering your true position in society, I consider your conduct most reprehensible, and desire that from henceforth all communication between you and any member of my family shall cease. My daughter is too obedient, and has too high a sense of propriety to differ in opinion with me on this subject.—I am, sir, your obedient servant—

“A. Armytage.”

When Ronald told his father what had occurred, Rolf replied—

“You will serve your country the more devotedly, and depend on it she has need of you.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

Ronald joins Lord Claymore’s Ship—The “Pallas” at sea—A Chase—Enemy’s Fleet in sight—“Pallas” chased by Enemy—Lord Claymore’s Manoeuvre—Escape of “Pallas.”

No part of the British coast presents a harbour of beauty equal to that of Plymouth Sound, with its lofty banks covered with trees from the summit to the water’s edge, its rocks and headlands, its numerous bays, inlets, and other indentations, the towers and glittering white buildings of the picturesque town at the northern end, and the lordly castle and waving woods of Mount Edgcombe on the west.

On a bright summer morning a frigate was seen gliding slowly up the Sound, and making her way towards Hamoaze. The French flag under that of England proclaimed her to be a prize. She was quickly boarded by boats from the shore, every one in them eager to be on board, for a prize crew are supposed to have their pockets well lined with coin, and to be ready to spend it. She was soon known to be “La Forte,” captured by the “Thisbe” in the East Indies. She at once went into dock, her crew was paid off, and Rawson got confirmed in his rank of commander; but Ronald Morton received no further acknowledgment of his services. He had been paid some prize-money, and he might have remained on shore to enjoy some relaxation after the number of years he had been employed; but he had few even of the acquaintance young naval men usually make, and idleness was the very last thing in which he wished just then to indulge. Action, excitement, was what he wanted. He longed once more for the battle and the tempest. In this mood, when the ship was paid off, he went on shore. A tall thin young man, in a post-captain’s uniform, met him before he had walked a hundred paces, and after looking at him hard, held out his hand, exclaiming—“Morton, old shipmate, I’m glad to meet you.”

“So am I, you, Lord Claymore,” returned Ronald, happy to encounter one he had known and liked so much.

“Well, you see, Morton, that I have got the two swabs on my shoulders,” said the young lord, laughing. “I’ve worked hard for them, let me tell you; my lords of the Admiralty don’t give promotion for nothing to those who don’t happen to be born with silver spoons in their mouths; and I was not, I know. Mine was of wood or iron. I hope that you will get your’s soon—you deserve it. I met Rawson just now, and he was speaking of you. But, in the meantime, what do you say to taking a berth as my first lieutenant? I’ve interest enough to obtain that for you. Come along with me for a few yards. You can see the ship I have just commissioned. She is not long off the stocks. I cannot say much for her at present. She is small and cramped, but she carries thirty-eight guns, and I’ll make her do something one of these days.”

Ronald at once accepted Lord Claymore’s offer. They shortly after fell in with Glover. Lord Claymore told him that he should apply for him as his junior lieutenant.

In a week the two old shipmates found themselves appointed to the “Pallas” frigate, nominally of thirty-two guns, though in reality mounting thirty-eight. Of course Job Truefitt and Bob Doull followed them. Ronald had been puzzled to know how to dispose of the elder Doull and Archy Eagleshay, when the two old men applied to enter. At first he was inclined to laugh at the notion, but when the captain saw them he desired that they might not be refused.

“There is stuff in them yet—they will be useful.”

They proved that Lord Claymore was right, and he soon rated them as quarter-masters.

“We must be sharp in manning the frigate, Morton,” said his captain. “Promise largely. We’ll redeem our word, depend on that.”

Bills soon appeared, posted all over Plymouth:—“The ‘Pallas,’ fitting for sea, in want of a few prime hands. The fastest frigate in the service—sure to come back in a few weeks with a full cargo of Spanish pewter and cobs. Plenty of liberty at the end of each trip. Engaged to make more prize-money in three weeks than any other ship in three years.”

Lord Claymore was not unknown to fame. Many men joined in consequence of the deeds he had already done, and some, after reading the placards or hearing them read, though they had no great faith in the promises. Still, the ship could not be manned entirely without sending out press-gangs.

At length the “Pallas” was ready for sea.

“I hope we may fulfil all our pledges,” observed Ronald one day, after the frigate had left the shores of England far astern.

“I am determined to do so,” exclaimed the captain. “Morton, I have lived long enough to know that a man can do nothing without money. That is irresistible, in politics, war, or love—rather marriage; it conquers all opposition. There is but one way by which seamen can make it. We are on that course. We’ll take good care that the opportunity does not escape us.”

Morton thought awhile. For the first time in his life, perhaps, the idea occurred to him that money would aid his cause. “It may serve to elucidate the mystery of my father’s birth; or why can I not win my way up to fame and fortune? I will show Colonel Armytage that the boatswain’s son may become his superior in rank, and surpass him in wealth, just as much as the boatswain does in all the qualities which make a man truly noble.”

Ronald did not allow himself generally to give way to such feelings, but they would arise in spite of him, when he thought of the ungrateful conduct of Colonel Armytage towards him. Lord Claymore, who took an interest in all serving with him, observed Morton’s depressed spirits. He, did not, however, inquire directly into the cause.

“By-the-by, Morton, you are a Shetlander, if I recollect rightly,” he exclaimed. “I have been lately among your people, and a kind-hearted, hospitable race they are. Among other places I visited was Lunnasting Castle, where I made the acquaintance of Sir Marcus Wardhill and his daughter, a handsome person, though no longer young. He is a hale old man, but somewhat eccentric, and rather morose, I suspect; has a bee in his bonnet—that is the case with many of his family. There is a cousin who lives there; not quite as old as Sir Marcus—a very odd fellow; indeed, I should say decidedly mad. You may probably know something of them?”

Ronald told him that he had been brought up in the castle.

“A relative of the family?” said the captain.

“I can scarcely be called so,” said Morton humbly. “A distant one only, on my mother’s side. My father was about to take command of a merchantman when he was pressed into the navy. He has remained in the service ever since. He is now but a boatswain, but he is a man of whom any son may be proud.”

Ronald then told the captain all he knew of his father’s early history, and of the discovery of the two men who had carried him off.

“I understand the whole affair,” exclaimed Lord Claymore, warmly. “With all my heart I’ll help you to clear it up. You will have plenty of employment for your prize-money: the lawyers will take good care of that; but never mind, we’ll have enough for their maws, and to spare. Sharks must be fed as well as other fish, you know. As to that Sir Marcus Wardhill, I like him not. I should have little compunction about sending him on his travels; but I was interested in his daughter, a stately lady, still bearing the marks of great beauty; the Lady Hilda, they call her.”

“Yes, I used, as a boy, to think her very lovely,” said Ronald, warmly.

“I may say she is so still,” returned his captain. “But do you know, Morton, there is something very strange about her; she talked to me in the oddest way; inquired if I understood astrology, and would favour her by working out her horoscope, and would inform her when the lost one would return.”

“She has been sorely tried,” observed Ronald. “Her father and Lawrence Brindister are but sorry companions for one so gifted; and the death of her husband and loss of her child were blows she has never recovered.”

Lord Claymore had not heard the circumstances of the case, and so Ronald gave him the whole story as he had heard it. His captain was much interested.

“What a delightful thread to unravel!” he exclaimed. “I should like to aid in it; but unless you have a clue, it is not likely that her son will be discovered.”

“She lives on in hopes that he may,” answered Ronald. “I pray that she may not be disappointed. I owe her a debt of gratitude I can never repay for all the instruction she gave me.”

“Perhaps you may be able to serve her,” remarked Lord Claymore. “Though it strikes me, from what I can make out, that she was but repaying the debt she owes you.”

Ronald did not inquire what his captain meant, for they were both summoned on deck with the pleasant information that a sail was in sight. The frigate was at this time off the Azores.

“What does she look like?” was the question hurriedly put, as the captain himself was buckling his telescope over his shoulder preparatory to mounting the rigging to take a look at the stranger should the answer be promising.

“A ship, and a big one,” was the reply.

In a few seconds Lord Claymore had joined the look-out man aloft. When the captain was thus active it was not likely that the officers and crew would neglect their duty. Lord Claymore took a long steady look at the stranger through his telescope, and returning on deck ordered the ship’s course to be altered a couple of points, and all sail to be made in chase.

“Morton, I have a wonderful presentiment that yonder craft is loaded with the pewter and cobs we have been promising our fellows,” he exclaimed, walking the deck with a quick step. “Her top-gallant-sails and royals have a foreign cut, and the blanched hue of cotton cloth such as the rich galleons of Spain usually carry. They are heavy sailers, too, and the ‘Pallas,’ as I thought she would, has shown herself light of heel. We shall get up with the chase before any third party steps in to snap up our prey.”

Not only Ronald, but every man and boy in the ship entered fully into the captain’s eagerness. All longed for prize-money; the greater number, probably, that they might spend it as sailors in those days got rid of their hard-earned gains, in wild extravagance and debauchery; a few might have thought of their old fathers, mothers, and sisters, whose comforts they hoped to increase; or some one, more romantic than his shipmates, might have had in view some quiet woodbine-covered cottage, on the sunny slope of a hill, with green fields and a sparkling stream below, a seaman’s paradise, with an Eve as a companion.

Ronald Morton, in spite of his resolution to the contrary, could not help thinking of Edda Armytage, and the possibility of yet winning her; still, again and again he tried to overcome aspirations which appeared so utterly hopeless. Indeed, why should he ever wish to make her his? Had she ever attempted to assure him that she did not share her father’s feelings? Had she not, from what he had heard, been willingly receiving the attentions of Alfonse Gerardin, a mere adventurer, at best, who must have been guilty of the most barefaced falsehoods to have gained so completely, as he appeared to have done, the good opinion of a person generally so acute as Colonel Armytage? No, he did not want money for himself; it was to place his father in the position in life to which he was born, should it be, as he had every reason to hope, superior to that he now occupied; still, as he thought all this, and much more, his captain’s remark, “With money you can do everything,” rang in his ear.

Not a man or boy on board that ship who was not thinking at that moment of the same thing—money; most of them were talking of it too. With eager eyes they watched the chase as a wild beast does its prey, longing to get possession.

The stranger at first did not seem to have understood the character of the frigate. Her people were not keeping so good a look-out as were Lord Claymore’s crew; when they did, all sail was crowded in flight. Away she went before the wind. A stern chase is proverbially a long one; a tub can sail with the wind aft.

Many hours of the day had passed: evening was approaching: should the night prove a dark one, she after all might escape. The captain was becoming anxious, so was every one on board. The nearer they had got to the chase the more like a Spaniard she appeared. All was done that could be thought of to make the frigate sail; every inch of canvas she could carry was set on her; studdingsails on either side hanging down to the very surface of the water, which they swept as she glided proudly on, while other light sails were placed even above the royals, till she looked like a lofty pyramid of snow gliding over the deep. Faster she glided—the breeze was increasing; now she rushed through the water; the officers looked over her sides and watched with satisfaction the foam which rose on either side and formed a long sparkling frothy line astern.

“We shall do now, Morton,” exclaimed the captain, in high glee. “Don’t you hear the dollars chinking away in her hold?”

Lord Claymore wanted the money—not that he was avaricious—far from that; but he had numberless schemes in view, and he knew full well that without the gold they could not be carried out.

As the chase was neared, the Spanish colours were seen flying at the peak. Not a shot did she fire. From the squareness of her yards and the whiteness of her canvas, as seen in the dusk of evening, as the “Pallas” got her within range of her guns, it was not altogether certain that she might not prove a man-of-war.

“So much the better,” answered the captain, when Glover and the master gave it as their opinion that she was so. “We shall have more honour, though less gold. We must look out for the gold another time.”

The men were sent to their quarters, and the ship was prepared for action. The chances that the chase would escape were small indeed.

“There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip,” observed Mr Hardman, the second lieutenant, who had experienced the truth of the saying in his own person so often that he seldom failed to give expression to it on every opportunity. Though he numbered many more years than either the captain or first lieutenant, he had not been promoted till some time after them. Sometimes when he foretold a slip, he was mistaken.

“Ready with a gun forward!” exclaimed the captain.

The chase was well within range.

“We don’t want to injure her more than we can help,” he added. “Send a shot past her first. Fire!”

The gloom prevented the shot being seen as it flew on over the surface just free of the chase.

The Spaniards thought that the next, might come in through the stern-windows. Down went her helm; studdingsail booms were cracking away on either side; royal and topgallant sheets were let fly; topsails and courses were clewed or brailed up, and the Spaniard yielded himself to the mercy of his captors.

The frigate brought to in a more deliberate way, taking care to be to windward of the prize; boats were instantly lowered and manned, and Hardman and Glover hurried off to take possession. Perhaps the captain would have liked to have gone, but it would have been undignified. Glover soon returned with the satisfactory information that she was the “Carolina,” a large Spanish ship, richly laden from the Havanah to Cadiz. A prize crew was immediately put on board, and the prisoners were removed to the “Pallas.” They pulled their moustaches, lit their cigars, and resigned themselves to their lot. By dawn the next morning the “Carolina,” in charge of her new masters, with Glover as commander, was on her way to Plymouth.

Lord Claymore’s satisfaction was not small when he discovered that the “Carolina” formed one of a large convoy, and that it was believed the other ships were astern. Sharper than ever was the look-out kept for a strange sail. Day after day passed, however, and no merchantman or other ships appeared. Hardman began to crow, though the loss was his as well as that of the rest: it was an odd amusement, though some men will suffer anything to prove that they are true prophets.

A week had passed.

“I told you so, Morton,” he observed. “There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip. The convoy probably stole by us during the night when some of our volunteers, who had been keeping so sharp a look-out during the day, were nodding.”

“Sail ho!” was sung out at that moment in a loud cheerful tone from the mast-head.

“Who’ll prove right now?” exclaimed Morton, as he sprang aloft with his glass at his back.

Others were looking-out likewise. All sail was instantly made in chase. It was some time, however, before it could be made out whether the stranger was friend or foe, man-of-war or merchantman. At last Hardman condescended to take a look at her.

“Those sails have a decided English cut about them,” he observed, in a tone of satisfaction. “Depend on it she’s not got a dollar on board that will ever enter our pockets.”

“To my mind,” observed Job Truefitt, who with Bob Doull was standing on the fore-topgallant cross-trees, “that craft out there looks as if she was come from the land where the gold and silver grows. He looks like a Don, every inch of him. Mark my words, mate, we shall line our pockets with the rhino, and have a pretty handsome sum to take home to our old mothers or sweethearts.”

“Well for those who have them, but I have neither one nor t’other,” answered Bob. “I’ve made up my mind to have a jolly spree on shore, and live like a lord till it’s all gone.”

“That won’t be long, I suspect,” said Job.

The conversation was cut short by a summons on deck. The frigate was nearing the chase. The whole of her hull could now be seen clearly from the deck. As to her character there was little doubt. She was a merchantman of considerable tonnage. However, as yet she showed no ensign at her peak by which her nation might be known. She was pronounced to be Dutch, French, Danish, and Spanish in turn. At last the captain thought of sending for some of the prisoners to give their opinion on the subject. The Spaniards did not take long before they declared their belief that she was one of the convoy to which they belonged, and if they were not mistaken she was very richly laden.

A scarcely suppressed shout ran round the decks as the fact became known.

“Ay, but we’ve not got her yet,” observed Hardman.

Both captain and crew looked as if they wished they could urge on the frigate by means more potent than the light breeze then blowing. What plans and projects might not even then have been working in that fertile brain! Still the chase did her best to escape.

“She has something to run for, or she would have given in before this,” observed the captain, rapidly walking up and down the deck, and eyeing his anticipated prize. “Her violent efforts to escape is a good sign, at all events.”

There was now no longer any doubt as to the character of the chase, for she hoisted the Spanish flag, though she still held on. That she could escape seemed impossible, and Lord Claymore was unwilling to fire, for fear of damaging her, not in consequence of tenderness towards her, but because he hoped in a short time that she would become his property.

“Perhaps she has some notion that she will haul aft her sheets and escape to windward of us,” observed the master.

“Not at all likely that she will make so hopeless an attempt,” answered Morton.

“No; but what do you say to the fellows blowing themselves up,” put in Hardman. “There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip; it is the only way by which they can disappoint us, unless they heave their cargo overboard, which they may have done already, by-the-by.”

His brother officers, as usual, laughed at Hardman’s prognostications. At length the frigate got the chase directly under her guns, when, instead of making the slightest attempt to escape, she hauled down her flag, and heaving-to, waited to be taken possession of. This was done as soon as a boat could be lowered from the frigate; Morton went in her, and Evans the mate, who spoke Spanish, accompanied him. He stepped on board the prize. She was a handsome ship, and from her very appearance Morton hoped that she would have a rich cargo. The captain received his captors very politely, and at once produced his invoice.

“That is what you want, gentlemen,” he observed, with a deep sigh; “your gain is my loss, I am a ruined man.”

“There are all sorts of valuable things here, sir,” observed Morton’s subordinate. “I only hope they are not all shams.”

“We’ll go below and examine,” was the wise reply.

The ship was undoubtedly laden with all sorts of West India produce. Then some chests were come to; they were full of bars of silver.

“Pretty pickings, these,” observed Evans.

Some smaller boxes were next examined.

“As I am a gentleman and a Welshman, if I ever cast my eyes on diamonds before, these are diamonds!” he exclaimed, holding up a rough-looking but shining stone between his fingers. They might have been pieces of glass for what Morton could tell.

“These little boxes are worth some thousands, Morton, I can tell you,” exclaimed Hardman, half beside himself with delight. “A magnificent haul!” Suddenly he recollected himself,—“That is to say, if they ever reach England in safety. But, you know, there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

Morton was too busy to laugh just then. He had discovered some larger chests, containing some large gold candlesticks, which the captain informed them, were to ornament the church of our Lady of the Conception, in Madrid. There were just three of them, enormous and massive articles, not less than five feet high, besides, a quantity of rich plate of gold and silver. Morton sent back Evans to make a report to the captain. Lord Claymore heard the account with unrestrained delight.

“We’ll have it all safe on board, without delay,” he exclaimed. “It will not do to let it fall again into the enemy’s hands; in the frigate, at all events, we shall be able to fight for it.”

The men cheered as they saw the chests hoisted up the side. It was bringing back the good old buccaneering days; such a prize had not been made by any cruiser for a long time. A mate was sent home in charge of her.

“Take care you don’t get caught, and clapped into a French prison,” said Hardman, as he shoved off.

Scarcely were the chests of treasure stowed below, and the prize out of sight, than another sail was descried from the mast-head—chase was made—the prisoners confessed that she was one of their convoy, and as the “Pallas” came up with her, they stated that she was even more richly laden than the last. She saw that flight was useless. She was speedily boarded, and found to contain more dollars, bars of gold and silver, and other treasure. It took no long time to transfer the whole to the “Pallas.”

“If we go on at this rate, Morton, we shall have enough of the needful to satisfy all the land sharks in the kingdom, and to establish your rights, whatever they may be, against all opposition.”

Morton’s hopes began to rise high. The wealth they were collecting seemed almost fabulous; though he knew that but a small share would come to him, he thought that it would be ample to carry out his objects.

The treasure had not long been stowed away, when the wind got up with a heavy sea, and the ship laboured considerably. Hardman, when sitting over his wine with his messmates in the gun-room, began to talk of planks starting, and rich argosies going suddenly to the bottom. No one, however, paid much attention to his prognostications of evil. By dawn the next day another sail hove in sight. Chase was made, but the stranger showed that she had a fast pair of heels; the “Pallas,” however, had a faster pair, and by noon had gained upon her so much that she was seen to be an armed ship of considerable size. No sooner however did the “Pallas” get her under her guns, than she hauled down her flag and hove-to. Though a heavy sea was running, she was immediately boarded and found to be a richly laden Letter of Marque. She also had a chest of dollars; but as there would have been great danger of losing them in transferring them to the “Pallas,” they were allowed to remain on board; Evans was sent in charge of her.

“Take care that you do not slip into a lion’s mouth,” said Morton, as his brother officer took his departure.

“If I do, I hope that I shall slip out again before he has time to shut it,” was Evans’s reply.

Fortune was smiling, it seemed, on the “Pallas.” Four rich prizes had already been made; it was difficult to calculate their worth. The sanguine temperament of the captain might have over-estimated it.

“My share alone is little short of a hundred thousand pounds,” he exclaimed, showing Morton a sheet of paper on which he had been making a rough calculation—“a splendid fortune for a man of moderate wishes. I wish that you had a larger share. We captains get the lion’s part certainly; but perhaps it is as well as it is. What a stimulus it is to an officer to exert himself to obtain command in time of war.”

“Yes,” thought Morton; “but let men exert themselves to the utmost, how many fail to obtain the desired rank, or if they get that, the coveted wealth!”

“Remember, however, Morton,” continued Lord Claymore, “I have promised to assist you in establishing your claims, or your father’s rather, whatever they are. He may be the son of a peasant, or noble. No one cares less for what is called gentle blood than I do; but it is not the estimate which we set on an article, but at which the world at large holds it, which is its true value. I don’t feel happier because I am the possessor of a hundred thousand pounds than I did ten years ago when I was a beggar; but depend on it, the world will esteem me much more highly than it did.”

Morton always listened with pleasure to the remarks which dropped from his captain’s lips, always full of shrewdness and good sense.

It was now time for the “Pallas” to return home. Four prizes had been despatched to England. All were anxious to ascertain that they had arrived there safely.

“Little chance of that,” observed Hardman; “plenty of the enemy’s cruisers about, to snap them up.”

Though homeward bound, as bright a look-out as ever was kept, in the hopes that another prize might be taken.

When off the coast of Portugal, at dawn one morning, a light silvery fog lay on the water, bright but sufficiently opaque to conceal all objects even close at hand. The wind at dawn was light, but as the sun rose, so did the breeze, and the royals and top-gallant sails, which had at first been set, were, one after the other, taken off the frigate.

“This fog is, indeed, provoking. We may run by a whole convoy of the enemy’s merchantmen without seeing them,” observed Morton, who had become as eager as the most avaricious of his shipmates in the pursuit of wealth, by the royal road opened up before them.

“Of course,” answered Hardman: “very likely at this moment we are passing within hail of some Spanish galleons, whose cargoes would make every man on board independent for life.”

The looker-out at the mast-head hailed the deck.

“A ship, sir, close to—I see her mast-heads over the fog.”

“What does she look like?” asked Morton. “A large ship, sir, line-of-battle ship, I should say.”

The officers were alert in an instant. Hardman flew aloft. Scarcely had he got there, than he shouted, “There’s another! another!—three of them—line-of-battle ships and enemies.”

The last words had an electric effect. From the movements of the line-of-battle ships, as they were seen over the fog, there was no doubt that their look-outs had discovered the “Pallas.” In an instant the captain was on deck; Morton had already ordered the ship to be kept away, and was again setting topgallant sails and royals; he thought the royal masts would scarcely stand.

“Never mind, we must do everything to preserve our booty and our liberty,” answered Lord Claymore.

The breeze increased almost to a gale. The wind soon dispersed the mist, and the three huge line-of-battles ships were seen rushing on towards the frigate. A broadside from one of them would have sunk her. Her top-gallant masts bent like willow wands. Every moment it appeared that they must go. Lord Claymore stood watching them, and now and then taking a glance at his enemies, and though cool and collected, seeming positively to revel in the excitement of the scene. The wind was abeam; and the frigate, which proved herself but a crank ship, heeled over till her hammock-nettings dipped in the seething, foaming waters, which bubbled and hissed up through the lee scuppers.

On tore the “Pallas.” It was a race for liberty and the preservation of the wealth in which they had been rejoicing.

“What will you take for your prize-money in prospect now, Morton?” asked the pertinacious Hardman. “I told you so, old boy—there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip. It’s the great truth I’ve learned in my life—I shall always stick to it.”

“It may apply equally to our enemies astern, though,” observed the captain, who had overheard the remark, “we will see if we cannot make it so.”

The line-of-battle ships were by this time beginning to feel the fury of the gale, which was well nigh carrying her masts out of the frigate, or sending her over on her beam-ends. The more, however, the Spaniards saw her pressed, the less willing they were to shorten sail. She now kept edging more and more away to bring the wind further astern, squaring her yards as she did so, the Spaniards having to do the same. They did not seem to think it worth while to spend much powder and shot on her, as they, of course, felt sure of capturing her in the end. It was a grand sight to see the little English frigate dauntlessly doing her utmost to escape from her huge pursuers, the foam in dense masses flying over her, while, with bending masts, and lee-shrouds bulging out, she dashed through the frantic waves, her side, as she heeled over, half buried beneath them. What hope was there of her escaping?

One huge Spaniard was on her weather, another on her lee-beam, while the other was coming up fast astern on her weather quarter. Still Lord Claymore did not despair. He stepped down among the crew and spoke to them.

“My lads, never say die while there’s life. Let every man and boy of you do your best, and we’ll yet give the Dons the slip. Be smart, as if your lives depended on it. To your stations now.”

Every man stood ready, watching the captain’s eye. He had explained his plan to his officers. All was ready. There was a dead silence—the gale roared louder than ever—the frigate tore through the waves. The Spaniards were close upon her; angry at her still holding out, they began to fire; the shots came fast and thick, flying over and on each side of the frigate, but hitherto none had struck her. At length the Spaniards saw again that firing was of no use—they should only be knocking their destined prize to pieces—like vast mountains of snow they came rushing on. It appeared as if they were about to crush the little frigate with their united weight.

“Ready, lads!” shouted the captain of the “Pallas.”

“Clew up! Haul down!”

Those magic words put every human being on board the frigate in motion. Tacks and sheets were let go. Some hauled away at the brails. Topsails were clewed up, topgallant sheets were let fly, stay-sails hauled down, and the frigate, which an instant before was under a cloud of canvas, was now reduced to her bare poles.

The Spaniards, totally unprepared for such a manoeuvre, at first scarcely comprehended what had happened. On the huge ships sailed in their headlong course. It did not occur to their captains to attempt instantly to shorten sail, but one and all turned their eyes aft to see what their expected prize was about.

Lord Claymore watched them for a short time, but only to assure himself that they were well to leeward of him. The frigate had not lost her way through the water.

“Down with the helm!” cried the captain, in a cheerful tone, which gave encouragement to all. “Hoist away! Flatten aft the sheets!”

Not an officer, or man, or boy, but put his hand to halliards sheets, braces, or bowlines; and if the way in which she had been stripped of her canvas had appeared like magic to her pursuers, much more must the style in which sail was again made. Off she flew on a bowline on the other tack, while the three line-of-battle ships were hurrying headlong miles away to leeward.

A loud, hearty cheer burst from the throats of the British seamen as they saw the success of their captain’s skilful manoeuvre.

“What do you say now, Mr Hardman?” he said, laughing. “There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.”

“Yes, my lord; the Spaniards must confess to the truth of the saying just now,” he answered. “But we are not altogether clear of them yet.”

“No, by Jove! the fellows are after us!” exclaimed the captain, pointing to leeward, where the three ships were seen under shortened sail, slowly coming up on a wind. “We must trust to our heels and the shades of night. That trick won’t answer twice.”

Though not over-well managed, the Spanish ships sailed well, and were once more in hot pursuit of the “Pallas.” The wind had decreased a little, which was somewhat in her favour, but still, with the pressure of sail upon her, she heeled over as much as before. In smooth water she might have had the advantage, but, with the heavy sea then running, the Spaniards were evidently coming up with her. They were seen also to be steering different courses for the purpose of cutting her off. Lord Claymore, however retained his usual composure.

“Night will be down upon us soon, and then we will give the Dons the slip,” he observed calmly, and gave the order to have a lantern fixed on a ballasted cask prepared.

This was for some time carried over the stern and then lowered into the water. When this was done, the ship’s course was altered, and she stood to the north-east leaving the enemy to follow the false light. After a little time one watch was sent below, and except that the sharpest eyes in the ship were kept on the look-out, everything returned to its usual routine, and many a weary form lay stretched in the hammocks.

Dawn came at last. As the first bright streaks appeared in the sky, look-outs were aloft, and as the darkness rolled away towards the far west, they shouted, “No sail in sight!”

The captain breathed more freely—so did Morton. He had begun to fear that his prospects so lately brightening were again to be blighted. By keeping a constant look-out the “Pallas” once more made the Eddystone Lighthouse.

“Now, my lads, we’ll show our friends on the shore that we have redeemed our pledges,” cried the captain. “Have on deck those chests with the golden candlesticks, Mr Nibs,” he added, turning to the purser. The chests were got up, and tackles being made ready to each mast-head, a golden candlestick was sent up and fixed above the truck. It was no easy work, but sailors can do anything that is possible. Thus with bags of dollars at the yard-arms, and rich brocades pendant from the stays, the frigate sailed up Plymouth Sound. Great was the excitement she caused, though she had already been looked for, as her four prizes, in spite of Hardman’s prognostications, had arrived in safety before her.

All her crew who wished it got leave on shore; there was no fear of any running from her; their places would instantly have been filled by hundreds of eager applicants for a berth on board. Fully did Bob Doull carry out his intentions; and strange, though not very unusual, were the scenes witnessed in Plymouth and its neighbourhood for several days after the arrival of the “Pallas.”

Coaches-and-four and coaches-and-six were seen driving about Plymouth, laden inside and out with seamen and their sweethearts, decked out in costumes of the most gaudy colours and extravagant fashion. Suppers and dancing closed the day. There was no great variety, perhaps, in the style of their amusements. The great object seemed to be to get rid of their money as rapidly as possible.

Ronald Morton, for the first time in his life, found himself possessed of what appeared to him a very large sum of money.

“It will be enough to sift this affair of my father’s to the bottom, and if claims he has, to establish them thoroughly,” he observed to his captain.

Lord Claymore laughed heartily.

“My dear fellow, you know not what amount a lawyer’s maw is capable of swallowing,” he answered. “It will prove a mere soppit if the matter is contested, as undoubtedly it will be. However, we will see about it when we return from our next cruise. Till your father returns home, you can do nothing.”

Once more, her officers and crew having spent all their superfluous cash, the “Golden Pallas,” as she was now called, put to sea.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Lord Claymore and the Fire Ships—“Pallas” Engages Black Frigate—Colonel Armytage in the Peninsula.

“Morton, we ought to be content with the prizes we have made; we must now do something in the fighting way, or we shall be looked upon as mere buccaneers, who think of nothing but making money.”

This remark was made by Lord Claymore, after the frigate had been for some time in commission—had been to America and back, and being now on the French coast, had sent home a few more captures, though not of any very great value.

“That may be very well for a captain who has made the best part of eighty thousand pounds,” thought Morton, “but for a poor lieutenant, who has made not a twentieth part of that, yet wants it as much, it is a very different affair.”

Ronald had begun to find the value of money, and also that it has wings with which to betake itself away. He acquiesced, however, in the propriety of fighting. An opportunity was not long wanting.

Before many days had passed the frigate was off the Isle d’Aix, on the French coast. She stood in; the captain and most of the officers with glasses at their eyes watching for the appearance of a French fleet. At length the masts and spars of several line-of-battle ships came in view. Still the frigate stood on till a three-decker—an eighty-gun ship—three seventy-fours, four frigates, and three brigs were counted. The little English frigate paraded up and down before the roadstead, but none ventured out to attack her. It was the French squadron under Admiral Allemand.

“I have been thinking over a plan which may sound terrible to the ears of some, but it is both feasible and right, I fully believe,” said the captain, after taking several turns on deck, and addressing his first lieutenant. “We might set fire to or blow up into the air, one and all of those ships. I only wish that there were more together. You see they are deep in the water. They have stores on board, and are evidently intended for some expedition or other; an attack on our West India Islands, or to attack us in some other vulnerable part. They must or should be got rid of: other plans might be adopted; but I hold to that of the fire-ships. I should delight in conducting the enterprise. With a few brave men under me, on whose coolness and judgment I could rely, it would be certain to succeed. Morton, I would select you. Would it not be a glorious work?”

“If you selected me, my lord, I would certainly follow you, and do my utmost to carry out your directions,” answered Morton; “but the idea of employing fire-ships has never been congenial to my taste. I would rather meet the enemy and destroy him in a general engagement.”

“That sounds very right and chivalric,” replied Lord Claymore, smiling; “but observe the true state of the case. The object of going to war with an enemy is to sink, burn, and destroy his ships at sea, and to do him all the injury in our power on shore. In a general engagement you attack his fleet with yours, at the cost of some of your ships, perhaps, and the loss of many hundreds of your men. If a great victory is gained, a tenth, or at all events a twentieth, part of the enemy are killed and wounded. Now, by my plan the lives of very few of our own people are risked; perhaps no one may be lost; while the ships of the enemy are entirely destroyed; and though, of course, some of their people are sacrificed, probably not more are lost than in a general engagement, while the chances are that the war in consequence is more speedily brought to a conclusion, and the lives of thousands saved, and people able to return to their peaceful and useful occupations. Morton, I look upon war as a terrible curse. The sooner it can be put an end to the better, but I am very certain that in this instance it can only be by humbling our proud foes to the very dust. Napoleon will bite till every tooth in his head is drawn.”

Although Morton’s reason was convinced by the reasoning of his enthusiastic captain, his feelings were not entirely satisfied. He, however, promised to aid him as far as he had the power in carrying out any project of that description which he might conceive.

The subject was again and again reverted to during the time the frigate was on the coast, and while he was engaged in the most stirring and often hazardous operations—such as cutting out vessels, armed and unarmed, landing and destroying telegraph stations, and storming and blowing up forts.

Once more the “Pallas” returned to L’Isle d’Aix. The French squadron was still there.

“We must be at those fellows,” exclaimed Lord Claymore, as he walked the deck, looking towards the enemy with a greedy eye. “We must get them out somehow or other, if we can. It would have a grand moral effect to carry off a prize from before their very noses.”

Morton was as eager as his chief. There was a soldier’s wind, so that the frigate could stand in or off shore at pleasure.

“This is an opportunity many would rejoice to have; don’t let us throw it away,” continued the captain, watching the French ships through his telescope. They lay at their anchors, seemingly determined not to move in spite of the bold enemy proudly cruising before their eyes.

“Give them a shot or two, Morton,” said the captain; “we’ll try if that does not excite them to bestir themselves.”

In advance of the rest of the squadron was a large frigate, painted black and heavily armed, and near her were three brigs. Still they were all under shelter of the batteries on the island.

With a shout of satisfaction the British crew observed the topsails of the black frigate and her three consorts let fall. It was a sign that they were coming out. The sails were sheeted home. Out they all four stood. The canvas of the “Pallas” was reduced, and she was hove-to, in the most gallant way, to wait for them.

“We must have him, I am determined,” exclaimed the captain, as the enemy’s frigate drew near. Everybody was as eager and sanguine as the captain, except Lieutenant Hardman.

“We have had all the luck hitherto—we must not expect to keep it,” he remarked to Glover. “Remember what I often have said: There’s many a—”

A shot from the enemy, which came whizzing close over his head, and the loud shouts of “Fire!” from the captain, cut short his remarks.

The crew gave a hearty cheer, and obeyed the order by delivering a rattling broadside at the advancing enemy.

More sail was now made on the frigate, so that she might be kept completely under command. The brigs coming up also commenced firing, as did the batteries on the island, but, boldly standing on, the English frigate gallantly engaged them all. The crew required no words of encouragement. Most of the men stood at their guns stripped to the waist, with their handkerchiefs bound round their heads, labouring with that determined energy which was the sure promise of victory. Now, as they could bring their guns to bear, they aimed at the brigs, now again at their larger opponent, the black frigate. As she drew near it was seen that she was greatly superior to the “Pallas,” both in size and as to the number of her guns, while probably also her crew were much more numerous, but that in no way daunted Lord Claymore. On the contrary, he seemed the more eager not to part with her, but to carry her off as his prize.

In spite, however, of this superiority, the black frigate, as well as the brigs, showed a disposition to keep at a respectful distance. Several times the “Pallas” had to tack to avoid the shoals surrounding the island. Besides this, her captain’s aim was, by manoeuvring, to get to windward of the black frigate, and also between her and the batteries, so that their shot would be likely to damage friends as well as foes. The brigs, which showed signs of being much cut up in their rigging, seemed inclined to keep at a respectful distance. The shots of the “Pallas” were, however, aimed chiefly at her more worthy antagonist. The guns were admirably served. Again the men cheered. The first step towards victory had been gained. The mizen-mast of the black frigate had been shot away, and over the side it went, with its yards and sails.

The “Pallas” ceased firing—so did the batteries, for they would have hit the French ship had they continued to do so. Once more the British frigate tacked. She had gained a position directly to windward of her opponents. Once more she opened her fire; it was with dreadful effect. She, however, was suffering much, both in spars and hull.

“This must be cut short,” observed the captain, calmly. “Now, master, up with the helm, and carry us alongside the enemy. My men, be ready to board, the cutlass must decide the day.”

In gallant style the small English frigate bore down upon an opponent nearly twice her size. The “Pallas” poured a well-directed broadside into the black frigate, and the instant afterwards there was a fearful concussion. The main-deck guns were driven in by the sides of the French ship, and at the same moment the maintopsail-yard was torn from the mast, and much other damage was done aloft, while the bumpkin, chain plates, cat heads, and bower anchor were carried away. In vain the captain called to his men to aid in lashing the two frigates together. Before they could assemble they had separated. Ronald, with a boarding party, was about to spring on to the deck of the French frigate, but he was too late to make the attempt.

Once more Lord Claymore was about to bear down on the French frigate, when Hardman pointed out to him two more French frigates coming out under all sail to the rescue of their friend. To have remained longer would have been madness. Lord Claymore was not a man to do a foolish rash thing. Waving his hat to the brave captain of the black frigate, who kept his post on a gun watching their proceedings, he ordered the tacks to be hauled aboard, and, without further injuring his opponent, stood out to sea. The guns were run in and secured, and the crew were sent aloft to repair damages. So severe, however, were they, that the “Pallas” could scarcely have escaped from her pursuers, had not a sloop of war hove in sight and taken her in tow. The enemy’s frigates, disappointed of their expected prey, returned to their anchorage.

“We must be back there some day, Morton, for if life and strength is allowed me, I will not rest till I have carried out my plan for the destruction of this remainder of the Frenchman’s fleet.” Lord Claymore spoke, and faithfully he kept his word.

When the frigate rejoined the admiral she was found to be in so shattered a condition from her engagement with the Frenchman, that he sent her home to undergo repairs.

Morton was once more in England. He found a letter from his father, saying that the “Lion” had not yet received orders to return home, but he hoped that she soon would. He added, that this trip had satisfied him; that if he was allowed once more to set foot on British ground he had determined to take up his abode on shore, and that what with the prize-money he had made, and the produce of his farm in Shetland, he should be able to live on shore in a style suited to the rank his son had gained, so that he should have a home to offer him whenever he was not employed. This was satisfactory news to Ronald. Curiously enough, his father did not once allude to Doull or Eagleshay. He seemed to have forgotten all about the mystery of his birth, and that it might possibly by their means be cleared up. The truth was, that he had always been contented with his lot. He saw his son in the fair way of rising in his profession, and he fancied that no advantage would be gained by ascertaining the truth, even if it were possible to do so.

Soon after the letters had been brought on board, Glover came into Ronald’s cabin.

“Here, Morton, is news which will interest you!” he said, showing an open letter. “It is from my cousin, Mrs Edmonstone—she and her husband are in England; they arrived some time ago. She tells me that they made the voyage with the Armytage family; Miss Armytage still unmarried, her mamma as amiable as ever, and the colonel as much the reverse as before; he is supposed to have gained very little advantage by his visit to India; his extravagance and love of play have ruined him: however, he has interest in high quarters, and soon after his return home, he got an appointment in the army in the Peninsula, and he has gone out there with his wife and daughter. In what part of Portugal or Spain they are, she does not tell me, but I will write and ascertain. There is a bare possibility of our being some day in the neighbourhood; and, judging of your wishes by mine own, I am sure that you would like to meet Mrs and Miss Armytage again, though you may wish to stand clear of the colonel.”

There is a happy familiarity among messmates which seldom exists between other people.

Morton thanked Glover, and acknowledged, after a moment’s thought, that he should be delighted again to meet Miss Armytage.

“Am I bound to obey her father, who discards me simply because he believes me to be of inferior birth to his daughter? I feel convinced that I am her equal. I have at all events gained the rank of a gentleman; I may some day obtain the fortune to support it, and to maintain her as well as her father can do. No; I feel that I am bound by no laws, divine or human, to yield to his unjust demands. If she loves me still, and I can win her, I will.”

Glover, who was fully acquainted with his friend’s feelings, and to whom part of these remarks were addressed, highly applauded his resolution, and promised to afford him all the aid in his power.

The “Pallas” was found to have received so much injury that her repairs would take a long time. Lord Claymore and his officers and crew were accordingly turned over to another frigate, the “Imperious,” and ordered to proceed forthwith to the Mediterranean.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Ronald joins the “Imperious”—Chase of a Felucca—The Marquis de Medea—The Spanish Priest—Ronald astonishes the Priest.

The “Imperious” had been some time in the Mediterranean. She had not been idle, nor had her crew; that was not likely under such a captain as Lord Claymore. She had been up the Levant, and cruising among the Ionian Islands, and then back to Gibraltar, and had returned to Malta; and her blue-jackets and marines had landed on the Spanish and French coasts, and, as they had done before on the Biscay shores, had captured forts, destroyed barracks, and other public buildings, and burnt a town or two, and cut out merchant-men and armed vessels of all sorts; indeed, had done as much mischief as they possibly could. In all these proceedings Ronald Morton had greatly distinguished himself, and his captain promised him that he would not rest till he had obtained for him his rank as a commander.

Morton was in better spirits than he had been for a long time. He was as ready as ever for any daring exploit, but he had no desire to throw his life away if he could help it; he had a fancy that there was something worth living for. The good Lord Collingwood so highly approved of the proceedings of the “Imperious,” that he sent her back, after her return to Malta, to continue the same sort of employment.

On the passage, when not far off Minorca, a large felucca was sighted, which, from her manoeuvres, was evidently anxious to avoid the frigate. Lord Claymore had received directions from the admiral to look out for a craft of this description, which was known to be a pirate, and to have committed innumerable atrocities. Chase was instantly made. The felucca on seeing this, and apprehending danger, rigged out her tall tapering lateen sails, wing-a-wing, as it is called, one on each side. She appeared like a graceful sea-bird, and did her utmost to escape. She sailed so well that there seemed a great possibility that she might effect this. The “Imperious,” like some huge bird of prey, followed in her wake, resolved on her destruction. As yet the felucca was beyond the range of the frigate’s bow-chasers. One shot from those long guns striking her masts or slender spars, would effectually have stopped her flight. Over the blue waters she flew; the officers and crew of the frigate were watching her.

“She has an evil conscience, or she would not fly so fast,” observed Glover.

“Very likely; but like other rogues, she will escape the punishment she deserves,” answered Hardman. “The wind is falling, that is in her favour.”

“Not if it fall altogether; we may take her with the boats,” remarked Morton. “There is every sign of a calm.”

“She has sweeps, and it is extraordinary the rate at which these craft can pull,” observed the pertinacious Hardman. “She has every chance of getting away from us.”

“Hardman is a wise fellow. He is always expecting blanks that he may enjoy the prizes the more when they turn up,” said the surgeon.

“He loses the pleasure of anticipation, though,” said Morton. “That is too often greater than the reality.”

“Ah, but I am saved the disappointment of the reverse,” answered the second-lieutenant. “See our courses are hanging against the mast, and the felucca has lost the wind altogether. She has got out her sweeps, and off she goes like a shot.”

Just then the captain called Morton. “We must take that fellow in the boats. Call away the crews of the pinnace and first and second cutters. Do not lose a moment. He will show fight, and it may save bloodshed to overawe him.”

The boats were instantly made ready, and in two minutes were pulling away full of armed men, and led by Morton to the attack of the felucca.

The crew of that vessel did not for some time discover them, and continued as before urging her on at a rapid rate with their long sweeps, evidently hoping to escape. The boats, however, gained on them fast, and in a short time they were seen to lay in their long sweeps, finding, probably, that escape was hopeless, and to prepare for the attack. As the boats drew near, Ronald ordered them to separate so as to board at different parts of the vessel. Her deck was soon crowded with men, who, from their varied costumes, had a very suspicious appearance. Some were at their guns, others held cutlasses or pistols in their hands, threatening to make a stout resistance. One tall old man in a Spanish dress, with a huge white moustache and a long thin beard, stood on the companion hatch waving his sword, and with loud vociferations calling on his men to fight. As the boats got within hail, Morton rose and ordered the crew of the felucca to throw overboard their weapons and yield, for they showed no flag which could be hauled down as a sign of surrender. The answer was a round of grape and langrage from three guns, and a volley of musketry. The missels flew, whizzing and whistling close to his head. Happily he was unhurt; but two of his boat’s crew were hit, and the side of the boat riddled in several places. The British seamen dashed on, and in another instant were clambering over the low bulwarks of the felucca.

“What are we, who have been fighting with honest Frenchmen all our lives, to be dared by a set of cut-throats like you? Take that,” exclaimed Job Truefitt, as he dealt a blow which nearly severed a pirate’s head from his shoulder.

The man fell dead, and Job and the rest springing on, the ruffians gave way, and many were driven overboard right across the deck, as a flock of sheep are swept away by a torrent. The old captain defended himself with all the fierceness of despair. He fought with the feeling that a rope was about his neck. Ronald at last reached him, and by a dexterous turn sent his sword flying over the side. The old man drew a pistol, but before he could fire it, Bob Doull, had sprung up at him, and, wrenching it from his hand, pulled him down to the deck. In vain he struggled, other seamen surrounded him, and he was secured. Several men of the pirate crew were driven overboard, and the rest leaped down below to avoid the cutlasses of the British. Some in the madness of their rage began to fire up at their captors. Fortunately, none of the latter were killed, or it would have fared ill with the pirates. Truefitt and others on finding this, leaped down among them, and singling out the culprits, bound them hand and foot, and bringing them on deck, threw them down with a kick in their sides, and an order to behave themselves.

Soon after the din of battle was over, some cries were heard proceeding from a cabin in the after part of the vessel. Morton at once, knocking off the companion-hatch, followed by a midshipman and several more, leaped below. As the skylight hatch was on, the cabin was very dark, but there was light sufficient to enable him to distinguish two old men and a young lady struggling in the power of some of the pirate crew, who had apparently forced their way into the cabin from forward. The ruffians were soon hauled off from their intended victims, and secured, with a double allowance of kicks, on deck, while Morton busied himself with rendering what assistance he could to the young lady and her companions. They were Spanish he found by their dress and language. One was habited in the costume of an ecclesiastic.

He was a thin, small old man, in whose sallow cheeks it seemed as if the blood could never have mantled, while from his calm exterior it could not have been supposed that he had just been rescued from imminent danger. The young lady, before Morton could reach her, had sunk down on a locker half-fainting.

“Air, air!” she murmured out, “Oh, my father! see to him.”

The old man had sunk on the deck of the cabin. The priest stooped down to raise him up, while Ronald helped to knock off the skylight, and then went to the assistance of the young lady. The stream of fresh air which came from above helped to restore both daughter and father. They were then got upon deck, and the pure atmosphere, with a sight of the British flag, and their late masters bound hand and foot, soon completely restored them. The old gentleman was a fine looking Don of the ancient regime; the daughter, a perfect Spanish beauty, with raven hair and flashing eyes, and dark clear complexion. The old Don was profuse in his expressions of gratitude towards those who had rescued him from the hands of the pirates. He and his daughter, with his father confessor, the priest now present, had been travelling in France, when they heard that Spain was about to throw off the yoke of Bonaparte; and fearing that they should be detained, they got on board a small vessel to return to their own country. On their passage they had been attacked and captured by the felucca.

“That we have escaped with our lives is a mercy, when we reflect what atrocious villains are those into whose hands we fell, and from whom you have so nobly rescued us. That captain—the sooner you hang him at your yard-arm the better. He cumbers the earth. It is a disgrace to humanity to allow him to live.”

“We do not execute people in England without a trial; if the captain of the felucca is found guilty, he will probably be hung,” answered Morton, to whom this remark was made in French, a language the old Don spoke very well. Ronald did not altogether like his manner, or the expression of his countenance.

The sweeps of the felucca had been got out, and the boats had also taken her in tow, and she was now rapidly approaching the frigate.

During the time, Morton endeavoured to ascertain what he could about his new companions. Thinking that he might very possibly gain the information he wished for most easily from the priest, he took the opportunity of addressing him when out of hearing of the rest.

“You and your friends must have suffered much while in the power of those ruffians,” he remarked. “That old gentleman has not yet recovered; he seems from his manner to be a man of rank.”

“Yes; he is one of the old grandees of Spain,” answered the priest.

“May I ask his name? for I wish to address him properly,” said Ronald.

“Certainly,” returned the priest. “He is known as the Marquis de Medea.”

“How strange!” exclaimed Morton, involuntarily, for he had heard that name frequently repeated at Lunnasting, and had been taught to consider the possessor of the title certainly not in a favourable light.

The priest, as Ronald said this, gave him a glance as if he would look through him to his inmost soul, and yet he spoke softly and blandly as he asked, “Why so? Why strange, sir?”

“It is a name I frequently heard in my boyhood,” answered Ronald, not supposing that there was the slightest necessity for being on his guard with the mild-looking priest.

“That is strange,” repeated the priest. “Where was your boyhood passed, may I ask?” said the priest.

Ronald told him, “Chiefly in the castle of Lunnasting, in Shetland.”

Again the priest gave a piercing glance at him.

“May I inquire your name?”

“I am called Ronald Morton.”

“You say you are called so. Will it appear impertinent if I ask if you believe that you have the right to bear another?” said the priest.

“Why do you put the question?” was Ronald’s very natural demand.

“You said that you were called Morton. I fancied, from your tone, that you insinuated that you have a right to some other name,” said the priest.

“I may have some such idea; but at the same time I am perfectly contented with the one I bear.”

The priest appeared lost in thought.

“Do you remember your father!” he asked, abruptly.

“Certainly; he is, I trust, alive still. I hope to meet him shortly;” surprised at the way in which the priest continued to cross-question him. Some men would have been much annoyed, and refused to reply; but Ronald saw that his interrogator had some good reasons for putting the questions, and felt no inclination to disappoint him.

“May I ask if you were ever considered like the lady of Lunnasting Castle? Donna Hilda, I think you called her,” inquired the priest.

“I have not, that I am aware of, mentioned her name,” answered Morton, looking in his turn hard at the priest. “I will reply to your question, though, before I ask one in return. I have heard that I was like her, and that is not surprising; my mother was very like her—they were cousins. Now I must inquire how comes it that you know anything of the family of Lunnasting? Were you ever in Shetland?”

“There are few parts of the world where I have not been. The members of my order go everywhere, and should know everything that takes place on its surface,” answered the priest, evasively.

“I do not recollect you in Shetland,” said Ronald, “May I ask your name?”

“I am called Father John,” replied the priest, humbly. “I would yet further ask you, what you know respecting the Marquis de Medea?”

Ronald considered whether he should reply.

“There can be no harm in speaking the truth, surely,” he said to himself. “I will tell you,” he answered frankly. “The marquis is believed, at Lunnasting, at all events, to have inherited the estates which should rightly have belonged to the son of Don Hernan Escalante, the husband of the Lady Hilda of Lunnasting, as she is called in Shetland, the daughter of Sir Marcus Wardhill. Moreover, it is believed that, instigated by the present marquis, a pirate crew attacked the castle, and carried off the son of Donna Hilda, of whom I speak, the rightful heir to the title and estates of Medea.”

Never, probably, had the countenance of the priest exhibited so much astonishment, or indeed, any sentiment, as it did at present.

“By what wonderful means have you become acquainted with what you have told me?” he asked.

“By the simplest of all; by having been told by those who were acquainted with the facts,” answered Ronald.

“But how were they informed of those facts?” asked the priest, with increased interest.

“They learned them from a Spanish naval officer, Pedro Alvarez by name, who was the lieutenant of Don Hernan. He had promised to assist his captain’s widow and her infant son to the utmost of his power. He returned to Shetland for that purpose, and when he heard that the boy had been carried off, he sailed away in search of the pirate; he, however, never returned to Shetland, and it is believed that he perished before he accomplished his purpose. The young Escalante has never been discovered, though the poor Lady Hilda lives on in expectation of recovering her son.”

“No wonder that sacrilegious wretch, Pedro Alvarez, never returned to you. He was guilty of murdering one of the familiars of our most holy Inquisition. Had he ever caught the pirate he could not have returned to Spain, but must have been a wanderer on the face of the earth, with the mark of Cain on his brow.”

“I was a mere infant when he last came to Shetland, so that I have no personal recollection of him, but from what I have heard, he was very much liked by all with whom he associated,” said Ronald.

“Your heretical countrymen would probably think that killing an officer of the Inquisition was a very venial offence, and not look upon him with any horror on that account; but depend on it, an avenging Nemesis followed him to his grave, or will follow him, if he still lives,” remarked the priest. “But we are now close to your ship. I would advise you not to let the marquis know that you are acquainted with that part of his history, which he would desire to keep secret. At first I thought that you were the son of Don Hernan, but I see that I was mistaken.”

As soon as the felucca was towed alongside the frigate, the prisoners, as well as the marquis and his daughter, and the priest, were removed on board.

After inspecting the felucca, the captain resolved to keep her as a tender to the frigate, believing that she might be made very useful in capturing the enemy’s merchantmen, as, from her rig, she might get close to them without being suspected.

Lord Claymore highly commended Morton for the gallant way in which he had taken the vessel.

“I scarcely know what to do with the prisoners,” he observed. “We must not cut their throats, or hang them at the yard-arms, but that would be the simplest way of disposing of them, and they probably will not come to any better end.”

Ronald also told his captain all he had heard of the Marquis of Medea.

“The old scoundrel!” was the answer. “However, he is our guest, and he has a lovely daughter; we must treat him politely.”

The most important information, however, was the statement made by the marquis, that Spain had at length declared herself independent of France, and formed a league with England.

“It may be true, but we must not trust to it till we have more certain information,” remarked Lord Claymore.

The calm lasted long enough to have the felucca over-hauled, somewhat cleansed, and put in order. Glover was placed in command of her, with two midshipmen and twenty men. The prisoners were secured below on board the frigate, and sentries put over them, while Lord Claymore gave up a cabin to the young lady, and accommodated the marquis and the priest with cots in his own. It was very difficult to please the old marquis, who, notwithstanding the trouble taken to attend to his comfort, grumbled at everything—so much so, that Lord Claymore would have sent him on board the felucca to shift for himself, had it not been for his daughter, who showed herself contented and thankful for the kindness she and her father were receiving, while her brilliant smiles and joyous laughter proved that she was sincere in her expressions.

The breeze came at last, and the frigate, followed by the little felucca, stood on towards the Spanish coast.

In the course of his duty, Morton was going the round of the decks, when he heard a voice from among the prisoners calling to him in French: “A poor dying wretch would speak to you. Have pity, brave Englishman, and hear what he has to say!”

“Who are you?” asked Morton.

“I was captain of the felucca. I am now a criminal, expecting speedy death,” returned the speaker.

The master at arms held up the lantern he carried, and as its light fell on the countenance of the person who had addressed him, Morton recognised the old white-bearded captain who had made so desperate a resistance when his vessel was attacked. He had been lying at his length on some straw on the deck. He was now supporting himself on one arm that he might have a better look at the lieutenant as he passed.

“What would you say to me?” asked Morton.

“Many things, if you will listen to me,” answered the old pirate. “I overheard part of your conversation with the priest. I know more about you than you suppose.”

“What can you know about me?” asked Morton, very much surprised. “Here are two persons I fall in with unexpectedly and both assert they know more about me than I do myself,” he thought.

“If you will have me removed out of earshot of my comrades, I will tell you,” replied the old pirate. “We cannot speak in a language which some of them do not understand.”

Morton ordered the old man to be unshackled, and to be conducted to another part of the deck. After he had gone his rounds, he returned and took a seat on a bucket by his side.

“Thanks, sir, for this kindness,” said the old pirate; though as he spoke Ronald rather doubted his sincerity. “It is not thrown away. You see before you a victim to circumstances. I have done many evil deeds—many things of which I repent—but necessity drove me to commit them; poverty, that stern task-master, urged me on—not inclination, believe me. I say this that you may not look at me with the disgust that you might otherwise do. However, I am not now going to give an account of my life—I may some day, if you desire it; simply I will tell you who I am. You know already who the old man is whom I took prisoner.”

“I should like to know who you are,” said Ronald.

“I am, then, the celebrated Don Annibal Tacon,” said the old man, in a tone of no little conceit. “I have made my name famous in most parts of the world. For some reason or other, however, my enterprises have not been as successful as they ought, and I have continued in the same state of poverty in which I began life. I say this as an excuse for myself, and to excite your compassion. It is not the matter on which I wish to speak to you. I have, since my early days, been acquainted with the Marquis de Medea. He, too, led a wild life in his youth; and there are many things he did which he would not like mentioned. Many years ago, when you were but a child, he encountered me in Cadiz. Promising me a large reward, and giving me a handsome sum as an earnest of his intentions, he engaged me on a hazardous and daring enterprise. It was no less than to sail to the North of England—to the islands of Shetland—and to carry off from a castle, situated on the shores of one of them, a child, the son of a certain Captain Don Hernan Escalante. I see you are interested in my account; you may well be so. I heard you speaking of that castle. I accomplished my errand. I attacked the castle, bore away the child, and purposed to return to Cadiz to receive my reward, and to learn what the noble marquis wished as to the disposal of the boy. I had some idea, indeed, of concealing him, and employing him to wring from the marquis the gold which I might require. My plans were, however, frustrated. I was driven by a gale nearly across the Atlantic, and so many British cruisers swarmed in all directions, that I was continually driven back whenever I attempted to approach the Spanish coast. At length a Spanish vessel hove in sight. As she drew nearer, I recognised her as a corvette commanded by an officer I knew, Pedro Alvarez by name. I at first thought she was a friend, but, by the way she approached, I suspected she had hostile intentions. I endeavoured to make my escape, for I have always held that men should never fight if they can help it. That is to say, if an enemy has a rich cargo on board, a wise man may fight to capture it; but if he himself has anything of value on board, he will fly to preserve it, and only fight when he cannot preserve it by any other means.

“The corvette bore down upon us, and so well did she sail, that I found escape impossible. She ran me aboard; and Pedro Alvarez and half his crew, leaping down on my decks, drove my people before them; he fought his way into the cabin—there was the infant, on the possession of whom I rested the hopes of my future support. He seized it, and hurrying back to his own vessel, called his people to follow him, and then, casting my craft free, he stood away to the eastward, without firing a shot at my vessel, seeming content with the mischief he had already done me. Believing that he would at once go back to Spain, denounce the marquis, and proclaim me as his tool, I dared not return to Cadiz. I therefore sailed for the West Indies, and employed myself in an occupation which I found tolerably lucrative, seeing that all the transactions were for ready money, though it must be owned that it was somewhat hazardous. Some people might call it piracy. It was not till long afterwards, when I was paying a visit to Cadiz, that I learned that Pedro Alvarez was himself an outlaw, that he had not returned to Cadiz, and that neither he nor his ship had ever again been heard of.

“From the words which reached my ears while you were talking to that wily priest, I have an idea that you are no other than the son of Don Hernan and the lady of that northern castle. By whatever means you got back there, my evidence will be of value to prove that you are the child I carried off. I have no doubt about it; I would swear to the fact. Let us be friends, then. You assist to preserve my life; I will help you to obtain your rights as the Marquis de Medea, and to become the master of the immense estates belonging to the family.”

The old villain looked up into the young officer’s face, expecting a favourable reply. Ronald was almost inclined to laugh at his outrageous audacity and cunning. “You are entirely mistaken as to whom I am,” he answered. “The child you carried off from Lunnasting was never brought back. I cannot even tell you if he is still alive; but whether or not, I have no power to make any bargain with you. You must abide by the consequences of your misdeeds.”

“I have always done that,” answered the pirate, with an humble look. “From my youth up till now I have been an unfortunate man. I hope some day the tide will turn; but there is not much time left for that.”

Ronald made no reply. He resolved to tell the captain all he had heard; and on going aft he left directions that the old prisoner should be strictly watched, and not allowed to communicate with any one.

As Ronald could not speak to Lord Claymore in the cabin lest he should be overheard, he waited till he came on deck.

“A pretty set of scoundrels!” was Lord Claymore’s remark. “That cunning priest, too, depend on it, has a finger in the pie. A curious coincidence there is, too, in your own history, and in that of the story you have just told me. You want to find out to what family you belong, and here is a title, estates, and fortune, waiting to be filled by the rightful heir, if he can be found.”

Though the captain entertained a considerable amount of contempt for the marquis, for the sake of his daughter he treated him with his usual courtesy. He felt that he should be very glad to get him out of the ship; still, by keeping him on board, he might possibly gain some information which might prove useful in establishing the claims of Hilda Wardhill’s son to the property of his father. The most important object was to discover if that son was alive, and where he was, and what had become of Pedro Alvarez.

Lord Claymore and Ronald talked the subject over with such intense eagerness, that the latter almost forgot his own interests in the desire he felt to be of service to one whom he justly looked on as his patroness and the protectress of his youth. The homicide of the familiar of the Inquisition fully accounted for Pedro’s not returning to Spain; while as that country had been for so many years at war with England, he might have found it impossible to send him back to Shetland. He might have written, to be sure, but the letters might have miscarried. Nothing was more probable. It was too likely, however, that both he and the boy were lost. Still Lord Claymore hoped the contrary, and, perhaps, his anxiety was not a little increased by the satisfaction he anticipated in ousting the rascally old marquis from his estates and rank.

The coast of Spain was soon after made, and the active operations in which the ship was engaged allowed the captain or Morton very little time to think of that or any other subject.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Ronald meets his Father—Old Doull recognises Rolf Morton—Morton recognises Father Mendez—Rolf Morton’s Diplomacy—A Fort attacked—Blue Jackets on Shore.

A few days after the “Imperious” reached the coast, a brig of war hove in sight. The frigate stood towards her, and when the two vessels had hove-to, the commander of the brig came on board, and confirmed the statement made by the marquis and the priest, that Spain had made peace with England, and had determined to throw off the French yoke.

“Much good may our allies do us,” remarked Lord Claymore who had a profound contempt for the Spaniards. “A cowardly braggadocio set. I would place no dependence on their support in case of need.”

The commander of the brig bowed; he was not likely to dispute the matter with his lordship.

“By-the-by, I have brought a passenger—an old shipmate of mine, whom Mr Morton will at all events be glad to see.”

“And so shall I,” said Lord Claymore, glancing at the gangway, at which a fine, stout, elderly-looking man appeared, dressed in plain clothes. Ronald sprang aft, and grasped his hand.

“Father, I little expected to see you. Where have you come from?”

“From Malta last,” answered Rolf Morton. “I went out there to look for you. When I arrived home in the old ‘Lion,’ and was paid off, I applied for and obtained my discharge from the service. I found that I had made a mistake in going to sea the last time. It did not suit me. I felt, too, that for your sake as well as my own, it would be better for me to live in a private capacity on shore. You are a lieutenant, and may soon be a commander. It would stand in your way in society to have it said that your father was a boatswain; not that you would be ashamed of me, I am sure, but we cannot make people wiser, we must take them as they are. Besides, I am more at liberty to attend to the subject you wrote to me about. I am not very sanguine of success, but still it would be satisfactory, for your sake, to discover after all that I was of good family, and to find some relations for you.”

After Rolf Morton had talked for some time with his son, Lord Claymore sent for him. He had heard from the commander of the brig that he had retired from the service. He shook him warmly by the hand.

“It will be pleasant for you to be together, and as the brig has to return immediately, I shall be glad if you like to remain on board. Your son, I doubt not, can put you up.”

Rolf Morton thanked the captain for his kindness. It was the very thing he wished. He wanted to be for some time with Ronald, and to talk to old Doull and Eagleshay, to ascertain what they knew about his early days.

Most of the prisoners taken in the felucca were sent to Malta, but Captain Tacon was kept on board the frigate, as Lord Claymore considered that he might assist in clearing up the matter in which he was so much interested, and be made useful in other ways, from his knowledge of the coast and of the towns and villages near it.

Rolf was naturally eager to see Doull and Eagleshay. The two old men were sent for. Their astonishment was very great when they were told that he was the boy they had carried off from Shetland nearly fifty years before. He assured them that he clearly recollected the circumstance, and that two of the men were tall, like them, and that there was one much older and shorter. They both looked at him very earnestly for some time. At last Doull exclaimed—

“I remember well a mark on the laddie’s hand; a spike or a nail had run through it just between the bones of the fore and second finger. It was a curious mark to be in the hand of so small a child, and I mind well thinking that mark will never wear out, and I shall know the boy whenever I meet him again.”

While the old man was speaking, Rolf was examining his hand. He held it out with the back up; there, sure enough, was visible, through the brown, hairy skin, a deep mark, evidently produced as Doull had described.

“Father, there can be no longer any doubt about the matter,” exclaimed Ronald with more excitement than he usually exhibited.

“I am afraid that the evidence will not be considered very strong in a court of law,” observed Rolf. “However, it leaves no doubt on my mind that these two men assisted to carry me off. But that is all! they cannot say, more than I can, to what family I belong; and as for this paper which they say they signed, that of course is irretrievably lost. Ronald, I have made up my mind what I will do—I will go back to Whalsey and take possession of my farm. I no longer fear Sir Marcus Wardhill—he can do me no harm, and I will try to live at peace with the old man. I will take these two men, Doull and Eagleshay, with me. Lord Claymore will give them their discharge. They are no longer fit for duty. They shall be well looked after, for I bear them no ill-will for the injury they did me. All has been for the best, I doubt not: we can but do our duty and trust in Providence.”

Ronald heartily entered into his father’s plans, though he felt much more sanguine than he did as to the result. He said that he had little doubt but that Lord Claymore would grant a superannuated discharge to the two old men.

“All will be right,” said Rolf, cheerfully. “I must, however, take a cruise with you first, my lad. It will be time enough to think of going home when we fall in with a ship bound that way.”

Rolf had gone into the gun-room soon after his arrival on board, and did not return on deck till the evening. When he made his appearance, the marquis and his daughter and the priest were assembled there. All the officers, and especially Glover, welcomed him cordially, and Lord Claymore came up and spoke to him in the kindest way. Rolf looked across the deck at the Spanish party, and could not help fixing his eyes on the priest.

“I am sure it is him,” he exclaimed. “I never saw a stronger likeness; years have only dried him up a little.” And without another word he walked up to the old man, and said—

“What, Father Mendez! it is long since we met; but don’t you know me?”

The priest cast a calm glance at him, totally free from astonishment, as he answered—“Time changes all people. If it is long since we met, you must excuse me if I do not recollect you.”

“I forgot that,” said Rolf, frankly. “My name is Morton—we met in Shetland. Were you not then called Father Mendez?”

“I am called Father John,” said the priest in the same calm tone as before.

This reply would have irritated many men, but Rolf looked at him, and said quietly—“That may be your present name, but unless my recollection strangely deceives me, you were called Mendez.”

The priest bowed and replied—“I have seen many people in the course of my life. It is possible we have met, but you will understand that the memory of a man, as he advances in life, is not as good as it was in his youth.”

“I have the advantage of you in that respect, certainly,” persisted Rolf, in a manner very different to his usual custom.

“Come, come, Father Mendez! we were too much together in days gone by for you to have forgotten me any more than I have forgotten you,” continued Morton. “I do not wish to annoy you, but I wish you to do an act of justice. The son of your former patron and friend, Don Hernan Escalante, was carried off from his mother’s house by the crew of a schooner which suddenly appeared before the place. He has never since been heard of: what has become of him? I ask. His mother has friends in this ship who will insist on knowing the truth. It will be wiser for you to speak it at once.”

The priest was more thrown off his guard by this appeal than he probably had ever been before.

“I know nothing of Don Hernan’s child,” he answered quickly. “I did not carry him off, nor was I privy to it. I could not be guilty of such a deed; the members of my order never employ violence to bring about what they desire. That alone ought to convince you that I am guiltless of the charge you make against me.”

Morton was not in the slightest degree more convinced than at first by what the father said.

“Then, at all events, you do not deny that you were in Shetland, and that I knew you as Father Mendez?” said Rolf.

The marquis and his daughter were all this time watching the speaker with looks of astonishment.

“There would be no object in denying that such was the case,” answered the priest. “I was in Shetland rather more than twenty years ago, and I was then known as Father Mendez. I am at present called Father John.”

“I thought so,” observed Rolf, bluntly. “You’ll understand me, sir—I am but a rough seaman, and all I want is fair play. You and I were present at the marriage of that unhappy lady of Lunnasting Castle. We are the only surviving witnesses, besides Pedro Alvarez, and where he is to be found no one knows. What I ask you is, to help me to see her righted, and to find her lost son. Now that England and Spain are friends again, her son may be discovered with less difficulty than before; when discovered, assist in enabling him to regain his father’s property in Spain, which was, if I remember rightly, at once taken possession of by his relative, who, from the accounts received in Shetland, was a very great rogue; the Marquis of Medea he was called. I am not wrong, I fancy.”

Father Mendez rapidly thought over the state of the case. The marquis had certainly supported him during the misfortunes which their country had suffered by the French invasion, but he had been anything but a generous patron, and it occurred to him that he might make a far better bargain with the rightful heir, if he could be found; and he believed that Rolf Morton, notwithstanding what he said, had the clue to his discovery, if he did not already know where to place his hand on him. When therefore, Rolf, feeling that he might have been too abrupt and uncourteous in the way he had addressed him, apologised for his roughness, the priest answered blandly—

“Do not concern yourself, my friend, on that account. We are old acquaintance. I have good reason to remember your sterling qualities, which far outweigh all others, and I own that it would be with great satisfaction that I found you looked upon me as a friend. I love justice as much as you do, and most anxious I am to attain it for the son of my old and esteemed friend, Don Hernan. Tell me how I can assist you, and I promise you all the aid I can afford.”

Rolf Morton was not so completely deceived by this speech as the priest might have supposed. He, however, thanked him, and rejoined Ronald in his quarter-deck walk, which they had to themselves, as the captain and most of the officers had, gone below.

Very great was Rolf’s surprise when he found that the dignified old gentleman on the other side of the deck was the Marquis de Medea, and still more so on hearing that the very man who had carried off the young Hernan Escalante was in irons below.

Ronald reported to Lord Claymore the fresh discoveries that had been made. “All will go right, Morton, in the end, depend on that,” he answered. “I am very sanguine that the young Hernan, if he is forthcoming, will obtain his rights, and so will your father his; those two old men were not fallen in with by you in so unlikely a way, except for some object. ‘Never despair!’ has always been my motto, adopt it, there is no safer one.”

Lord Claymore would very gladly have landed the disagreeable marquis and the priest on the first part of the coast of Spain they made; but as the French still held numerous ports and towns to the west, they would have found it impossible to travel towards Cadiz, to which they expressed their wishes to proceed, and as there was a lady of the party, he could not, without great want of courtesy, have put them on shore. For the sake indeed of Don Josef’s daughter, Donna Julia, the captain would very gladly have borne with his haughty and morose manners. The young lady, indeed, contrived to enchant every one on board; and those who knew the character of her father, and entertained hopes of dispossessing him of his property, could not help feeling compassion for one so young and lovely, who would, should they succeed, be in reality the principal sufferer.

The frigate was not to be idle; numberless were the dashing exploits performed by her gallant crew. In most of them Ronald took an active part, and several times his father insisted on accompanying him, as he observed, just to make him feel young again. Numerous vessels were also captured—one was a French privateer; some Spaniards taken in a prize were on board her. From these men Lord Claymore learned that within a day’s sail there was a strong and important castle, garrisoned by French troops. This castle commanded a pass on the road by which the chief communication was kept open between the borders of France and the French army on the Ebro. A Spanish force, it was said, had already assembled, and commenced the siege of the place, but with little success. The frigate made a long tack off the coast; when she again stood in the fort was made out, situated on a commanding elevation, overlooking the road which wound along the shore. The frigate had her guns run out, and the crew stood at their quarters, ready for action. The officers, with their glasses, were examining the coast. The sun shone brightly; the water was blue, still more blue was the sky, shedding a brilliancy over the sand, the rocks, the hill-sides clothed with verdure, showing here and there the darker tints of orange or olive groves, with lighter shades where vineyards clothed the ground. Had it not been for that ominous-looking little fort, with its extended outworks, the landscape would have exhibited a picture of perfect rest and peace.

Nearer and nearer approached the frigate, gliding majestically over the smooth sea. Suddenly, emerging from a ravine, appeared a long line moving slowly on. Then dots which might have been mistaken for minute insects separated from it, and here and there puffs of smoke were seen, which were replied to by the fort with other puffs, and the faint thunder of cannon was heard on board the frigate.

“Those must be Spaniards attacking the fort,” exclaimed the captain, mechanically whistling for a breeze to urge on the ship with the rapidity that might satisfy his impatience.

In a short time the whole line was enveloped in smoke, and every gun on the south side of the fortifications commenced firing, forming so dense a cloud that the operations of the assailants could no longer be distinguished.

“The Spaniards will have completed the work, and gained all the glory, before we can get there to help them,” cried Glover. “I wish we had more wind!”

“So do the Spaniards, but depend on it they will wait for us. There will be nothing desperate done till we get up to their assistance,” observed Hardman.

The marines were now ordered to prepare for landing. The captain had made up his mind to storm the place under cover of the frigate’s guns. Morton volunteered to lead the party. The captain was doubtful about letting him go. Rolf declared that if his son went, he would go also as a volunteer. At last the wished-for breeze came, and the frigate rapidly approached the scene of action.

The breeze lifted the canopy of smoke which hung over it, and the combatants could now be seen, the Spaniards pushing on in great force and clambering over an out-work, from which the French, still fighting bravely, were retreating.

“Ay, those Spaniards have many an act of outrage and cruelty to avenge,” observed the captain. “Their blood is up now; I never saw them fight so bravely.”

The spectacle greatly increased the eagerness of all onboard the frigate to take part in the work. The crews of the boats, and those who were to go on the expedition, stood in readiness, with pistols in their belts, and cutlasses at their sides; the marines drawn up, stiff and prim, ready to step into the boats, offering a strong contrast to the blue-jackets, with their rolling, somewhat swaggering movements, while several not told off to go were stealing round in the hopes of being able to slip unnoticed into the boats.

The Spaniards, apparently encouraged by the approach of the British ship, and knowing that those they had some reason to suspect were witnesses of their conduct, charged with greater vigour.

At length the wished-for moment arrived. The “Imperious” teached in as close as the depth of water would allow. A spring had been got ready on her cable. The moment the anchor was dropped she opened her broadside on the fort, while the boats collecting on the other, the men sprang into them, and giving way, they pulled with lusty strokes towards the shore. The forts opened fire on them, but the boats were small objects, and though the shots ploughed up the water ahead and astern of them, no one was hit. As they reached the beach some way to the southward of the castle, the marines and bluejackets sprang on shore, and instantly formed; then “Onward!” was the word. The Spaniards welcomed them with vivas. There was little time for Morton to exchange greetings with the Spanish chief. A supply of scaling ladders had been prepared and brought on shore, and Lord Claymore had taken good care that they should be long enough. The seamen carried them, and rushed on, following Ronald and his father. Rolf kept up with the activity of a younger man. On they went; they soon distanced the Spaniards. The outworks had been secured. Through them they dashed. The scaling ladders were planted against the walls; the French made some attempt to throw them down, but some of the seamen held them fast at the foot while the others climbed up. Nothing could stop their impetuosity.

The Spaniards were now swarming up likewise. The enemy fought with the courage of despair. They well knew that, should they fall into the hands of the Spaniards, their doom would be sealed. A number of Spaniards had made good their footing, when the French charged them with such fury that many were cut down, or hurled back over the wall. Two or three were defending themselves bravely. One of the number fell. Morton, seeing what was taking place, and that they would all be killed, calling some of his men, made a dash at the enemy. Rolf was by his side, and lifting up the man who had been wounded, bore him out of the fight. More marines and seamen clambered up.

The Frenchmen gave way and fled to the citadel. Some were cut down while bravely defending the gate. The rest got in; the portal was closed, and then a white flag was hung out, as a token that the governor was ready to surrender on terms. His sole proposal was that he and his men might be conveyed on board the British ship-of-war, to save them from the certainty of being cut to pieces by the Spaniards, should they have them in their power.

The Spaniard whom Rolf had rescued was full of gratitude. He had been knocked down, but his wound was not dangerous. He was a militia-man; a brave fellow, as he had proved himself by the ardour with which he had scaled the walls. He put his house and everything he possessed at the service of those who had preserved his life. He lived, he said, some way to the south. He should now return home, having had fighting enough, and a wound to show as a proof of his patriotism.

Ronald took the offers at what he believed them worth, and parted from him on the most friendly terms. The prisoners were conveyed on board the frigate; and as they embarked, the scowling looks the Spaniards cast on them showed what would have been their fate had they remained on shore.

Part only of the work to be accomplished was performed. As the French would soon again occupy the fort if it was left without a garrison, and as the Spaniards could not be depended on, it was necessary to blow it up. A supply of powder was found in it; some more was landed from the ship. Excavations were made under the walls; the train was laid. One gig only remained. Bob Doull undertook to fire the train. The rest of the crew were in their seats, with oars in hand, ready to pull off. Ronald stood up in the stern-sheets to give the word. Bob applied the match, and stooped down as if to blow it, and was in consequence sent reeling backward, while the fire, like a snake, went hissing along the ground. Ronald shouted to him. He picked himself up, and rushed down to the boat with his hair singed and his face blackened like a negro’s.

“Shove off, my lads! Give way!” cried Ronald.

Not a moment was to be lost. As it was, they could scarcely hope to get beyond the influence of the explosion. There was a hollow, rumbling sound, and then, in clouds of smoke and flame and dust, up flew the whole of the fortress into the air. The next moment down rushed huge masses of masonry; it seemed indeed as if the solid rock itself had been rent, and filled up the whole of the road. Some loud splashes astern showed that the boat had but narrowly escaped destruction.

“The French will find it difficult to pass this way again for some time to come,” observed Morton to the midshipman who accompanied him.

“Yes, sir,” observed the youngster, who was somewhat of a philosopher. “It is wonderful how easy it is to knock a thing to pieces. It must have taken some years to have put all those stones together.”

Chapter Thirty.

Lord Claymore on Shore—Morton again meets Edda—Ronald’s new Friend, Don Josef.

The frigate continued her cruise further to the south; she touched at several places, and Lord Claymore or Morton went constantly on shore to urge the Spanish authorities and the people to take up arms, and to assist in organising their forces. From the information the captain received, he considered it important to communicate with some influential people a short way in the interior. He gave his instructions to Morton, therefore, and directed him to take two men as a body-guard, and to set off at once. Ronald selected Truefitt and Doull, the first for his steadiness and the other for his cool courage, and having procured a guide and a horse, and two wretched mules which had been too decrepit for the enemy to carry off, proceeded on his mission.

Ronald and his guide rode on ahead, the two seamen following. Neither of them were better horsemen than are sailors in general, but they were at all events able to stick on, in spite of the kicks and stumbles and flounders their animals occasionally gave; each was armed with a good thick stick, besides a cutlass by his side and a brace of pistols in his belt. “This is a pleasanter sort of a cruise, mate, to my notion, than we’ve had the chance of for many a day,” observed Doull.

“Keep up on your four legs, you brute, now. The people here, though, seems to me to be an outlandish set; did you ever hear such a rum way of speaking as they’ve got? they all seem to have got lumps of biscuit or duff, or something of that sort, down their throats.”

“That’s the way they have. Different people speak a different lingo, just as different animals make different noises,” answered Job, sententiously. “I can’t say as how I likes these Dons; they’ve too stuck up and stand clear a manner about them to please me.”

“That’s my notion, too, Job,” said Bob. “I like the Mounseers a precious sight better; when one is friends with them, they take to our ways a hundred-fold better than these Dons. They’ll talk and laugh away, and drink too, with a fellow, just for all the world as if they were as regular born Christians as we are. That’s what a Don will never do; he won’t drink with you, he won’t talk to you, he won’t laugh or dance, and what’s more, he won’t fight with you; and that’s what the Mounseers never refuses to do, and that’s why I likes them.”

Morton enjoyed the change very much, from his usual life on board ship; he had not the same objection to the Spaniards as had his followers, and as he had now sufficiently mastered their language to converse with ease, he was never at a loss for amusement, and was able to obtain all the information he required about the country. Three days were consumed in reaching his destination; the French, he found, had lately been in that part of the country, but had retired northward. The people were anxious to drive the French out of their country, but they wanted arms, and money, and leaders.

Ronald was treated with great courtesy wherever he appeared, and he felt himself a much more important personage than he had ever before been. He had concluded the work on which he had been sent, and was about to return to his ship, when one of the Spanish officials informed him that he had received notification of the approach of a British commissioner, a military officer, to assist them in organising their forces.

“He must be a great man, an important person,” observed the Spaniard; “for he travels with many attendants, and his wife and family. No Spanish ladies would dream of travelling about the country at a time like this.”

Morton considered that it would be his duty to communicate with the commissioner, and hearing that he was only a day’s journey off, he set out to meet him. The village at which he arrived in the afternoon, like most in Spain, consisted of neat, low, white-washed houses, with bright, red-tiled roofs, most of them having massive wooden verandahs and trellis-work in front, forming arbours, over which vines in rich profusion were taught to trail. The interior, at all events, had a neat and clean appearance, but several blackened ruins, loop-holed walls, the upper part of which were thickly bespattered with bullet-marks, showed that it had been lately the scene of, perhaps, a brief but desperate encounter between the hostile forces. The inn where the British commissioner was said to be was pointed out to him. It was a long low building like the rest in the place; the ground floor being divided into two compartments, one serving as a kitchen and common eating-room, the other as a stable and sleeping-place for the muleteers; the upper part consisted of one large room, with dormitories roughly partitioned off round it. An English cavalry soldier was doing duty as sentry at the door. He informed Morton that the colonel had gone out with some of the authorities in the neighbourhood, but that the ladies were upstairs.

While Ronald was doubting what he should do, another man appeared and begged that he would walk up and remain till the colonel returned. Handing the bridle to his attendants with directions to them to wait for him, he threw himself off his horse, and followed the servant through the dark smoky kitchen to the stairs leading to the upper floor. His heart beat more quickly than usual, for he had a hope, though a faint one, that he was about once more to meet Edda Armytage, yet again he thought it very improbable that Colonel Armytage would bring her and her mother, accustomed as they had been to all the luxuries of life, into a part of the country in which travelling was so inconvenient and dangerous. Still they were in Spain. Of that Mrs Edmonstone had assured Glover. He sprang up the steps. The door was opened. He walked in with more than usual precipitation. At one end of the room were several persons with cloaks over their shoulders, and, hat in hand, sitting silent and solemn, evidently waiting the return of the commissioner. At the further end, in the deep window recess, sat two ladies. The back of one was turned towards him. The other was looking down at a piece of work on which she was engaged. Though jaded and looking very sad, her countenance was, he was certain, that of Mrs Armytage. His quick step roused both the ladies. They turned round. In an instant Edda’s hand was placed in his. The rich blood mantled in her cheeks, her eyes sparkled with pleasure. She forgot everything but the happiness of again meeting him. Mrs Armytage received him most cordially. The Spaniards looked on at what was taking place, and twirled their moustachios. They thought the young stranger officer a very happy fellow. After the first greetings were over, and Ronald had explained how he came to be at the place, Mrs Armytage told him that Colonel Armytage had met with considerable pecuniary losses, and that when he received the appointment he now held, he wished her to accompany him, and that Edda had insisted on not being left behind.

“We knew that there were inconveniences to be encountered, though we did not suppose that there were any dangers to be feared to which we would not gladly submit for the sake of accompanying Colonel Armytage, who so much requires our care,” observed Mrs Armytage. “The inconveniences are more ridiculous than disagreeable, and I fully believe Edda enjoys them; and as to dangers, we have found none hitherto, and rather look for them to add zest to the interest of the journey.”

Mrs Armytage went on speaking in this strain for some time, when she became very grave. Ronald suspected that, although she might not have been unwilling to come, it was not only her husband’s state of health which had induced her to accompany him. He knew how selfish and tyrannical Colonel Armytage always was, and he suspected that he had not given his wife the choice of remaining behind. Edda, as she watched her mother’s countenance, grew silent, and a shade of melancholy also stole over her features. Mrs Armytage at last spoke.

“We are truly glad to see you again, Mr Morton, and you know how high you stand in both Edda’s estimation and mine. Nothing you have ever done has forfeited our regard, but I dread that when Colonel Armytage returns he will not treat you in the way that we would desire. You know that he is irritable, and that when he has taken up a prejudice it is difficult to eradicate it. He has not got over the objections which he formerly expressed to you. Earnestly do I wish that he would. But you are generous and noble-minded; you will not think unkindly of us because one we are bound to obey treats you unjustly. I know that I describe my daughter’s feelings, and I speak thus because I feel that it is due to you to say it.”

While her mother was speaking, Edda looked up imploringly at Ronald. He could not help perceiving that her countenance wore an expression of tenderness and love towards him, and it was a sore trial for him to promise compliance with the unjust demands which her father might make on him. Mrs Armytage had spoken as she felt she was bound to do. In her heart she rebelled against her husband’s commands. Edda was old enough both to judge and act for herself, she considered. She had perfect confidence in her sense and discretion. Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, she rose from her seat and went to her room, leaving her daughter and Ronald together. The window recess was very deep; Edda had retired into it, and was thus concealed from the view of the people at the other end of the room. Ronald stood with his back towards them.

“Edda, I have never ceased to think of you, to ground all my expectations of earthly happiness on the hopes of making you mine,” he exclaimed in a low deep voice. “You require no assurances of my love and my constancy; then promise me that you will not consent to become another’s whatever may occur. I dare not ask you to disobey your father, and marry me against his will; but for your own sake, for mine, I do entreat you not to yield to his authority so far as to marry one you cannot love. I have hopes, great hopes that his objections to me may be removed; but till they are so, I dread lest he should compel you to give your hand to some one else. The promise I ask will give you strength to resist any unjust exercise of authority. No one holds in more respect than I do the duty of the obedience of a child to a parent; but in this case it would, I am certain, work woe to you, sorrow to your mother, and ultimate regret to your father. You will be firm, Edda? Promise me.”

“Indeed, indeed I will,” answered Miss Armytage. “Most faithfully and unreservedly I promise you that.”

At that moment there was a commotion among the people at the other end of the room, and a scraping of their feet on the floor as they rose from their seats. They simultaneously began to bow with a formal air; the noise they had created made Ronald turn his head, and as he did so, he saw an officer in full uniform entering the room, followed by a number of persons in various costumes. A second glance told Ronald that Colonel Armytage was before him.

Ronald at once advanced to meet him, and said, “I am an officer of his Majesty’s ship ‘Imperious.’ I was sent by my captain to communicate with the people in this district, and hearing that you were in the neighbourhood, I considered it my duty to inform you of what I have done.”

“In that light I am perfectly ready to receive you sir,” said the colonel, with a stiff bow. “But you will have the goodness to proceed at once with your narrative: you see that there are a number of people waiting to transact business with me, and that my time is short.”

Ronald felt a disagreeable sensation at his heart as the colonel was speaking, but he overcame his feelings, and at once entered on the business which had brought him to the place.

The manner of Colonel Armytage was stiff and ungracious in the extreme. Ronald had done everything so well, and gave so clear an account of all the arrangements he had made, that the colonel could not do otherwise than express himself satisfied. At length he rose, and said in a formal way, “I think now, sir, our business is ended. You will, I conclude, at once return to your ship, and express to Lord Claymore my satisfaction at the arrangements which have been made. His lordship will, however, see the necessity of leaving to me the task which he has hitherto performed so efficiently.”

Edda had not dared to stir from her seat, but had continued with her head bent down over some work, only venturing at times to cast a furtive glance at her father and Ronald, to ascertain how they got on together. Mrs Armytage soon afterwards joined her, and continued equally silent, her countenance exhibiting still greater anxiety and nervousness.

The colonel ceased speaking, and looked as if he expected the young officer to make his bow and walk straight out at the door, but Ronald felt that he must risk everything rather than take his departure without exchanging another word with Edda. He therefore, as soon as he rose, observing that Colonel Armytage had beckoned to one of the Spaniards to advance, said quietly, “I will pay my respects to Mrs and Miss Armytage before I go.”

Before the colonel could reply he had crossed the room to them.

“Mrs Armytage, whatever happens, I entreat you to think favourably of me,” he said; and then he took Edda’s hand, willingly given him, and he whispered, “Farewell, dearest; we shall meet, I trust, ere long, again, when I have hopes that some of the difficulties which now surround us may be surmounted. Your promise, though we were interrupted before the whole was given, has afforded joy and contentment to my heart.”

“Oh, but I give it entirely,” Edda exclaimed, eagerly. “No power shall make me break it, believe me Ronald.”

“You will be benighted, sir, and brigandage is rife,” exclaimed Colonel Armytage, looking up with an angry glance, which Edda observed, but Ronald did not.

“Go, go!” she exclaimed. “Heaven protect you?”

Morton shook hands with Mrs Armytage, bowed to the colonel, and walked with as much dignity as he could command out of the room.

He threw himself on his horse, and rather than remain in the place he determined to ride back to a village he had passed on his way there, where he might find refreshment and rest both for man and beast during the night.

As Ronald passed the group of Spaniards, he saw one of those who had come in with Colonel Armytage stare very hard at him. It struck him at the moment that he recollected the man’s features. He had just mounted his horse, when the person in question rushed down the steps, and grasped him by the hand.

“I am ashamed, my brave friend, that I should not at once have known you!” exclaimed the Spaniard. “But we both of us look to much greater advantage than we did on the day we stormed the fort, when we were covered with gunpowder and blood. But you must not go; come to my house, it is not many leagues off. You can be spared from your ship for a day or two longer.”

Ronald thanked his friend Don Josef very warmly, but assured him that it was his duty to make the best of his way to the coast, as the ship would be standing in to take him.

“How unfortunate!” said the Spaniard. “I have to see your commissioner—he seems a very great man—or I would accompany you all the way, and we might stop at the houses of some of my friends. Still I must go a little way with you. Wait a moment; I will send for my horse: it is a poor animal—the only one those thieving French have left me. But a day of retribution is coming, and soon, I hope.”

The steed was brought out; it was a far better animal than Ronald expected to see. The Spaniard mounted, and the cavalcade moved on.

The village was soon left behind. Ronald’s new friend, however, had not accompanied him more than a league when he said he must return, or he should miss his interview altogether with the commissioner. He had given Morton during that time a great deal of information as to the state of the country, and the temper of the people generally. One feeling seemed to pervade all classes—the deepest hatred of their late master, and a desire to be free.

“Better times may arrive, the country may be restored to peace, prosperity may be her lot, and then I trust that you will come and visit me at my home, and receive the thanks of my wife and children for the benefit you conferred on me.”

Saying this with the usual complimentary Spanish expressions, Don Josef turned his horse’s head, and rode back towards the village from which they had started, while Ronald continued his journey.

Chapter Thirty One.

A Spanish Inn—The Spaniards aroused to Arms—Ronald heads a Guerilla Band—Edda rescued by Ronald.

The sun had set some short time when Ronald, with his companions, reached the village where the guide told him he could obtain shelter and refreshment. The village itself was small and mean, and the only house of entertainment it possessed offered but few attractions to the travellers to remain there. However, as their beasts required rest, they were compelled to dismount, and while the guide with the boys of the inn led the animals into the stables, Ronald and the two seamen walked into the common room, which served as dining-hall, kitchen, and apparently the sleeping-place of the family, as well as of a numerous family of fowls. A very unattractive dame, who presided over the culinary department of the establishment, was now engaged in preparing supper for a very mixed and somewhat suspicious-looking company, who were seated at a long table, on benches at one side of the room. None of them rose as the strangers entered, and the few who condescended to pay them any attention scowled at them from under their brows, as if resenting their appearance as an intrusion. Ronald was very little moved by the want of courtesy with which he was received, but, walking up to the presiding genius of the place, he inquired, in the best Spanish he could command, whether he and his followers could have beds and food. The old woman looked up with a sinister expression without speaking, while she continued stirring the pot boiling on the huge wood fire. Her eyes were bleared with the smoke, and her face was wrinkled and dried, with a few white hairs straggling over her brow, while the long yellow tusks which protruded beyond her thin lips gave her a peculiarly hag-like look. Ronald repeated his question.

“Food?—yes, and good enough for any one,” she answered in a low croaking voice; “but for beds, the enemy carried them off, and everything in the house. There is space enough and to spare, upstairs, for a taller man than you to stretch his legs. You can go and look when you have a mind; your valise will serve you as a pillow, and a sack with some straw must be your mattress. Many a better man has slept in a worse bed.”

“I do not doubt it,” answered Ronald, calmly. “My men and I will manage well enough, but we are hungry, and shall be glad of food.”

“All in good time,” said the old woman, somewhat softening her tone, and pleased at being spoken to in her own language. “You may carry your baggage upstairs, and select any corner you like for your sleeping-place. The girl will be in and give you a light presently. See that there are no holes in the roof above you, in case it should rain. You will find it warmer too if you avoid those in the floor beneath you.”

The old woman said this evidently with serious good-will. Ronald thanked her, and directly afterwards a stout buxom girl came from the further end of the hall, with a brass oil lamp in her hand. Taking the advice of the old woman, Ronald went upstairs to select a corner where he and his party might rest a night. The apartment consisted of the entire upper floor, but as the old woman had warned him, it contained not a particle of furniture, though, from its appearance, there was little doubt that there would be a large number of inhabitants. In several places through the roof he could see the stars shining, while the faint rays of light, and odours anything but faint, which came up through the floor, showed the numerous holes and rents which time had made in the boards.

“This is a rum place for our lieutenant to sleep in,” observed Bob Doull to Job; “and as to the gentry below there, they are as cut-throat a crew as I ever set eyes on. I’ll not let his valise go out of my hands, for it would be whipped up pretty smartly by one of these fellows, and we should never see more of it. Looking at the land from aboard the frigate, I never should have thought it was such an outlandish sort of a country. Should you, Job?”

“Can’t say much for their manners. May be they are better than they look,” answered the elder seaman; “but if it came to a scrimmage, I can’t say but what I wouldn’t mind tackling a dozen of them.”

These remarks were made while Morton was taking a survey of the unpromising apartment. It had apparently been used as a barrack by the French when, not long ago, they occupied the village, and very little trouble had since been taken to clean it out. Morton asked the girl if his surmise was not correct.

“Yes, the demons! they have been here, and Heaven’s curse go with them!” she answered, with startling fierceness. “It was dark when you rode in, or you would have seen the number of houses burnt down, vineyards and orange-groves rooted up for firewood; but that was not all the harm they did. Woe, unutterable woe, they inflicted on thousands. I had a lover, to whom I was betrothed; they slew him, and me they rendered wretched. But I need not tell my own griefs. Thousands have suffered as much as I have. There, señor, that corner you will find the freest from inconvenience. Place your valise and saddle-bags there—they will be safe. We are honest, though our accursed foes have made us poor indeed.”

The poor girl’s dark eyes flashed fire as she spoke. Ronald felt sure that he might trust her entirely. He ordered Bob and Job, therefore, to deposit his scanty baggage in the corner indicated, and to follow him below.

“What! does the lieutenant think he’ll ever see them again if we does?” observed Bob.

“Orders is orders,” answered Job; “but just you keep a bright look out on the stair while we’re below, and as soon as we’ve stowed away some grub, we’ll take it watch and watch, and go up and sit on ’em. The Dons will find it a hard job to carry them off then, I’ll allow.”

Satisfied with their arrangements, the two seamen followed their officer. He took his seat at one end of the table, and, as he did so, he fancied the other guests seemed to regard him with more friendly glances than before. Not a minute had elapsed before Maria placed before him a smoking puchero (a dish to be found from one end of Spain to the other, composed of various sorts of meats minced with spices). There was a soup also, of a reddish tinge, from being coloured with saffron, and sausages rather too strong of garlic, and very white bread, and two dishes of vegetables, one of which was of garbanzos, a sort of haricot beans. There was wine also, and brandy; indeed, the inhabitants must have managed cleverly to hide their stores from their invaders to enable them to produce so good a supply. Job and Bob did not conceal their astonishment; the viands suited their taste, and they did ample justice to them.

Though Ronald was in love, and had just cause to be anxious as to its result, and though he had only just parted from his mistress, yet he was a sailor; he had been a midshipman, and he had always a remarkably good appetite; and now, much to his surprise (for when he stopped at the door of the inn he had no thoughts of eating), he felt every inclination to do justice to the feast set before him.

“He’ll do,” observed Job to Bob, as they sat at a respectful distance from their officer. “At first I could not tell what had come over him as he got on his horse after he’d been talking to that young lady up at the window. Whenever I sees a man able to take his grub, whatever’s the matter with him, I knows it’s all right.”

Ronald had addressed some of the Spaniards near him. They listened respectfully. He spoke to them of the tyranny to which Spain had been so long subject; of the sufferings she had endured; of the only means of freedom—the rising of the whole nation, as a man, to throw off the yoke. “The English will help you, but they can only help, remember. It is you who must do the work,” he added.

“True, true! the cabaliero speaks well!” resounded from all parts of the room.

“It is to urge you to rise in arms, to drive the invaders from your country that I have come among you,” said Ronald. He warmed on the subject. His hearers grew enthusiastic.

“We have arms! we have arms!” they shouted. “We will bring them forth; we have powder and shot. The enemy are not far off. We will go and meet them. We will drive them before us like sheep.”

Ronald was satisfied with the effect of his address. He knew perfectly well that in the morning, after they had cleaned their arms and filled their pouches with powder, they would stop and consider before they advanced to meet the enemy. Altogether, he felt that the evening had not been ill-spent, and at the end of it the very people who had, when he came among them, cast on him such sinister looks, now regarded him with the greatest respect. It was late before he threw himself down on a sack of straw in a corner of the upper room, wrapped up in his cloak. Though the room was occupied by a large portion of the rest of the guests, who kept up a concert of snores all night long, he managed to sleep soundly till daylight.

The next morning after breakfast, having bid farewell to his new friends, he continued his journey. Nothing would induce his horse to go out of a walk, while the mules refused to proceed at a faster rate than their more noble companions, so that their progress was of necessity slow. As they proceeded the sad traces of warfare were everywhere visible. Whole farmsteads burnt to the ground, houses in ruins, churches unroofed, groves of orange and olive trees cut down, fences destroyed, and fields once fertile returning to a state of nature, and overrun with weeds. The guide looked at them as objects to which he was well accustomed, but now and then he ground his teeth and swore vengeance on the heads of the fell invaders of his country.

Job had been remarking where the devastating hand of war had passed, and had counted up the objects destroyed. At length he gave expression to his thoughts.

“Well, to my mind, it’s a mortal pity people take to fighting on shore. Why don’t they stick to their ships, and always have it out afloat? that’s the sensible thing, and then the only harm’s done to the ships and the men who has the fun of the thing, and gets the honour and glory, and that’s all natural and right.”

Bob heartily joined in with Job’s notion.

“If I was a king, I wouldn’t let ’em,” he remarked. “I’d say, just you let the farms, and the gardens, and the women and children, and the churches alone; and if you wants to tight, by all manner of means fight it out, but keep afloat, and don’t come here.”

The seamen had been conversing for some time in this strain, when the clatter of a horse’s hoof was heard behind them, and turning their heads they saw the same Spaniard who had accompanied them on their way the day before. They told Morton, who turned his horse’s head to meet him.

“Thank heaven that my steed has carried me so well, and that I have come up to you,” exclaimed Don Josef. “There is work for you; your aid is wanted; you will not refuse it, I know? But come, ride back with me as fast as your beast’s legs will move, and I will tell you. Give him the spur! spare him not; I may supply you with a better soon. The French are at no great distance from this; secure as they fancy themselves, we have spies among them to inform us of all their movements. After daybreak this morning, one of the spies arrived, and brought me notice that the enemy were advancing, and that they having heard that a British commissioner was in the neighbourhood, had resolved to carry him off. On hearing this, I instantly set out to warn your countryman of the danger to which he was exposed, but on my way I met a person who informed me that he and his party had set forth at a very early hour, and were actually advancing in the very direction where they would encounter the enemy. I, on this, instantly sent forth a person to warn him of his danger, and galloped after you, to entreat you to head a party, of strength sufficient to meet the enemy. I directed all the men in the district to assemble in arms; they want a leader, however, in whom they may have confidence. I have told them that they would find one in you, and they believe me. You will come, will you not?”

“Indeed, I will!” answered Ronald, belabouring his horse, and digging his spurs into his flanks with an energy proportioned to his anxiety. So eager was he, that for some time he could scarcely ask questions. One thought alone occupied his mind: Edda was in danger, and there was a possibility that he might preserve her from it.

The party soon got back to the village, where, in front of the inn, a large number of men with arms in their hands were assembled. They received Morton as he rode up with loud vivas. He had won their regards the previous evening by the way he had addressed them, and Don Josef had been telling them what a gallant fellow he was. They were, therefore, now prepared to place the most implicit confidence in him, and to hail him as a leader in the enterprise Don Josef had projected. The Spaniard had been giving him an exact account of all the information he had received, and of the plans he had formed. Ronald thought them excellent; there was, however, no time to be lost. Messengers with the fiery cross—at least a message of the same import—had been sent round to all the neighbourhood, and armed men were coming in from every direction. When their numbers were counted, Morton found himself at the head of a guerilla band, mustering upwards of three hundred men, cavalry and infantry. They varied more in their arms than in their costume, and though many were somewhat ragged, when massed together and all looking fierce and eager for the fight, they had a very warlike appearance.

The great object was to overtake Colonel Armytage before he could reach the spot where the ambush was supposed to be placed; he travelled with only a small escort of a dozen troopers, merely sufficient for protection against any brigands who might be roving through the country. As to the French, he had fancied that they were at a considerable distance, and had no fear of falling in with them: he ought of course to have been better informed. The truth was, that though formal and dignified, and so far fitted to have intercourse with the Spaniards, his manners were not sufficiently conciliatory to have gained their affections, and they consequently neglected to give him the information on many points which it was most important for him to obtain.

Job and Bob exchanged a few passing remarks as they bumped along in a way to which they were not at all accustomed, and which caused their words to come out like shot from guns irregularly served in action, or the pantings of a broken-down steam-engine; only such an invention was not known in those days.

“I’d sooner be serving my gun aboard the frigate than be on the top of this here brute,” observed Bob. “But it’s no odds, I suppose; if we catches the Mounseers, and drubs them, we shall ride back on their backs—eh, Job?”

“Not so sure of that; they’ll sham lame and refuse to carry us,” answered the other seaman. “But I say, Bob, what a hurry our lieutenant’s in; to my mind, it’s all about that young lady at the window; mark my words, there’ll be a splice some day or other, and good luck to him too; a finer-hearted fellow never stepped, for all he’s a boatswain’s son. There’s some men born to be officers, and he’s one of ’em.”

People seldom dream of the way in which they and their acts are discussed by their inferiors.

Don Josef now told Ronald that they were approaching the spot where he hoped to overtake Colonel Armytage and his party, but no traces of them could be seen. They must have proceeded faster than Don Josef had calculated. “On, on!” was the cry. They met a peasant, a half-witted fellow; he had seen such a party—a carriage with ladies, a waggon and some horsemen—pass an hour before.

“We shall be too late, I fear,” exclaimed Don Josef; “but on, my friends; we may still overtake the enemy.”

The party redoubled their speed; never had Ronald been worked up to such a pitch of anxiety and eagerness.

The sound of shots was heard; the road wound among low broken cliffs, and trees growing thickly together; it was a likely place for an assault; so frequent were the bends made by the road that seldom was there a direct view of more than a hundred yards. Horse and foot rushed on, till Ronald remembering that their impetuosity might do more harm than good, halted them; and begging Don Josef to remain with them and not to advance till summoned, rode on with the two seamen, and six other men, of the best-equipped and best-mounted of the party. Now again he pushed on as rapidly as he could. How his heart beat! Should he be in time to rescue his friends? If not, how would they be treated? His eagerness prompted him to shout to his men, but he recollected caution was necessary, and restrained himself. Again the rattle of musketry was heard, and dropping shots, and even the shouts of the combatants reached his ears; he was close to them; a carriage was the first object which met his view. The mule which dragged it had drawn it against the side of the cliff, against which it lay half upset. Before it were a party of men drawn up across the pass, and bravely contending against a whole host who appeared beyond. It was evident, however, the small band would be quickly overpowered, for men were seen climbing the cliff with muskets in hand, belonging to the opposite party. By their dress, and the rapidity with which they climbed the cliffs, they seemed to be seamen. Ronald’s plans were formed in a moment; he instantly despatched the most trusty of his party to direct Don Josef to send a hundred men up the cliffs, so as to gain a higher level than the French, and to advance with all rapidity with the rest. Putting spurs to his horse, Ronald, with his small body of companions, darted on, shouting in English and Spanish, “To the rescue! to the rescue! Do not give way—a strong force is at hand!”

He had neither been heard nor seen by the commissioner’s escort: at that moment they wavered and drew back. Once losing ground, the French dashed in among them; while some of the latter engaged each of them in single combat, a French officer and several others made their way to the carriage; Ronald and his band galloped on. At that moment only were they discovered. A shriek was heard. The Frenchmen were dragging the ladies from their carriage. Ronald repeated the shouts he had already uttered. Among the French were sailors as well as soldiers.

“We’ll tackle them,” cried Job.

“What business has they to be here?” exclaimed Bob.

The French officer was in naval uniform, and Ronald, even at that distance, recognised Alfonse Gerardin.

Mrs Armytage and her daughter shrieked for help; they fancied they had been attacked by bandits. They had been more alarmed for the safety of Colonel Armytage than for their own; he was nowhere to be seen.

“Fear not, my beloved Edda; you and your mother are in perfect safety,” said Alfonse Gerardin, who had thrown himself from his horse. He was now endeavouring to draw her, with as little violence as possible, from the carriage. “I have sought for you through many lands; I have found you at last, and we will never again part.”

These expressions frightened Edda far more than any threats would have done. There was a concentrated energy and determination in the way he spoke them that made her feel that he would keep his word.

“Oh, spare me! spare me!” she exclaimed. “You are not a brigand; you do not war with women. Let us go free, and hasten to the assistance of my father. You expressed friendship for him. Prove it now.”

“I will, Edda, I swear; but you cannot remain here. Any moment you may be sacrificed. The shot are falling thickly around. It is hopeless to expect help from any one but me.”

At that moment Edda saw him change colour, and then she heard the sound of a voice which she knew full well—“To the rescue! to the rescue!” while Bob and Job shouted, “Down with the Mounseers; down with them!”

Edda saw Ronald coming. She struggled to free herself; while Alfonse, having leapt on his horse, was attempting to lift her up on the saddle; but he was not a good horseman, and it seemed doubtful whether he would succeed.

While some of his followers were endeavouring to carry off Mrs Armytage, in obedience to his orders, the others were facing about to defend themselves against the approaching enemy. When the French saw the small body of men led by Morton, those who had faced to meet them boldly advanced. Morton dashed forward. His great object was to reach Alfonse Gerardin. He saw nothing else, he thought of nothing else but Edda Armytage in his power.

“Release her, or you die!” he shouted.

Truefitt and Doull meantime had each singled out a French seaman, and with hearty good-will were attacking them with their cutlasses. So fierce was their onslaught that they drove them back into the midst of the mêlée, where Colonel Armytage’s troopers were still holding their own against their foes. The French were, however, pressing them very hard. Alfonse looked round and saw that the way was open to him. In another moment Ronald Morton would be at his side. He stooped down, and throwing his arms round Edda, by a violent effort lifted her off the ground and placed her on his saddle.

“Retreat, men!” he shouted, “Let alone the other lady.”

He was galloping off, but Ronald digging his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and cutting down a French soldier, who attempted to stop him, was in another instant by the side of the young lieutenant. Gerardin saw him coming with uplifted sword. He raised his own weapon to defend himself, while he still held Edda with his left arm. He knew that Ronald would not dare to fire; he doubted whether he would even venture to strike, for fear of injuring Miss Armytage. Ronald’s eye was practised, his nerves were well strung.

“Release her, villain!—madman!” he shouted again. He saw what Alfonse, who had to turn his head to look at him, did not see, Truefitt and Doull springing across the road. Bob seized the horse’s head; the animal reared. Gerardin, in attempting to seize the rein, loosened his hold of Edda, and she would have fallen to the ground had not Truefitt caught her. The enemy were gathering thickly around. Bob, seeing what had happened, let go the rein to defend his own head, as well as his shipmate’s, from the blows showered on them. Morton, too, was attacked on all sides. He did not seek for revenge. Gerardin’s horse sprang forward and saved his rider from the only blow aimed at him by Morton. All these events had passed within a few seconds of time. At that instant the Frenchmen uttered a cry of “Retreat!—retreat! Sauve qui peut!” They had good reason for so doing; for the cliffs on either side appeared covered with guerillas, who began firing down upon them, while a strong band was seen advancing at full speed along the road.

“Ronald Morton, I hate you!” exclaimed Gerardin, turning round in his saddle, and shaking his clenched fist at the English lieutenant. “You have foiled me again and again. I know you, and who you are; you stand between me and my birthright; you shall not foil me again. I have before sought your life; the next time we meet we will not separate till one or the other dies.”

These last words were uttered as, surrounded by the survivors of his band, he was galloping off. The advantage of having sent the Spaniards to crown the height was now apparent. They drove the French riflemen down to the main body, and the enemy, not being able to ascertain the number opposed to them, gave way before a very inferior and undisciplined force. Ronald did not attempt to follow them till he had placed Edda in safety by the side of her mother, whom he found half fainting in the carriage. Then telling her that he would go in search of Colonel Armytage, he leapt on his horse and joined Don Josef and the surviving troopers who were moving on in pursuit of the enemy. He had not gone far before he fancied that he could distinguish Colonel Armytage mounted on a horse among the French, and drooping as if badly wounded.

The road sloped considerably in front. The French were descending the steep. Calling to his companions to charge, he led the way, attacking the rear-guard of the enemy with irresistible impetuosity. Down they went before the Spanish blades like corn before the sickle. Those in front endeavoured to fly. Some few turned to withstand their opponents, but they, too, gave way, and Ronald and his followers fought on till they reached the prize the French fancied they had secured: the person to capture whom the expedition had apparently been despatched. The colonel, who had been secured to his horse, was almost insensible, and seemed not at all aware by whom he had been rescued. The French, meantime, when they discovered the small number of the guerilla band opposed to them halted, and seemed about to return; but Ronald showed so bold a front that they apparently thought better of it, and on finding that they were not again attacked, formed in order, and continued their retreat.

Ronald observed, as he rode back, that although there were numbers of dead on the road, there was not a wounded man alive among them.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Colonel Armytage wounded—Crossing the Bay of Biscay—Chased during a Gale—The Brig dismasted—Captured.

Ronald Morton’s heart beat high with hope when he rode back, and was able to announce to Mrs Armytage and Edda that he had recovered Colonel Armytage. “Though wounded and faint from loss of blood, I trust that he is not seriously hurt,” he added.

He received an ample reward in the look of love and gratitude which Edda gave him.

Before the arrival of the colonel, the carriage was got up, the traces were repaired, the mules caught, and everything was in readiness to move. Don Josef, who now came up, insisted on their returning to his house.

“Even if the enemy were not in the neighbourhood,” he observed, “it would be useless for the commissioner to proceed further, utterly unable as he is to attend to business.”

After a time Colonel Armytage yielded an unwilling consent to the arrangement, he had learned that Don Josef was Morton’s friend, and he was evidently doubting in his mind how he should treat Morton himself. He had just rendered him a great service, and the very man whom he had once favoured as the suitor of his daughter, and who had promised to come and claim her when circumstances would allow him, he had seen in the ranks of the enemy, and he now learned had also attempted to carry off his daughter. These thoughts occupied his mind as the carriage moved on in the centre of the party. Ronald had too correct notions of generalship not to march in true military order. He sent forward an advanced guard, and kept a rear guard at some distance to give timely notice of the approach of an enemy, should they be pursued. He himself was everywhere, seeing that his newly-raised band of guerillas were attending to their duty, though he did not fail, whenever he passed, to make inquiries at the carriage-window as to how Colonel Armytage was bearing his journey.

It was dark when the country-house of Don Josef was reached. He literally made his house the home of the foreigners, for he made them occupy all the best rooms, and retired himself to a small chamber remote from all the rest. It was one of those glorious nights which in no part of Europe are seen to greater advantage than in the clear atmosphere of Spain. The moon, in full lustre, shone out from a sky undimmed by a single cloud, and every object on which its light fell stood out clear and defined, casting the darkest of shadows behind it.

When the guerilla band had been refreshed they assembled in the patio, or yard in front of the house, and gave vent to their satisfaction at their victory in patriotic songs. It was great enjoyment to Morton to find himself again by the side of Edda, and to feel that he had just conferred so great a benefit on her father that he could scarcely refuse his consent to their union. He little knew the unyielding nature of the man with whom he had to deal. Both Edda and Ronald referred to the threats they had heard uttered by Alfonse Gerardin.

“I cannot understand him,” she said, “who he is, nor what he is. My father certainly favoured his suit in a way I could not fancy he would do that of a person of whom he knew nothing, while he treats you, whom he does know, with evident dislike. I cannot conceal it from myself. You know the pain it must give me. Nor can I help owning that my father is acting a cruel and wrong part.”

Ronald knew how near the enemy were, and would have been anxious for the safety of his friends had not Don Josef assured him that he had sent out scouts to watch their movements, and to give the earliest notice of their approach.

The next day a surgeon arrived, who pronounced the wounds Colonel Armytage had received to be in no way dangerous, but expressed his opinion that he would be unfit for a long time to perform the duties intrusted to him. Of this the colonel himself seemed to be fully aware, and he accordingly at once wrote to beg that he might be superseded.

In the afternoon a scout arrived with the information that the French were retreating northward. This was accounted for by the rumour of the approach of a strong Spanish force.

Ronald would gladly have remained to watch over the safety of Edda and her parents, and Don Josef did not fail to employ every argument he could think of to persuade him that he would be right in so doing. He had, however, been absent from his ship much longer than had been intended; and though he could give a very good account of the way he had employed his time, and he knew that his captain would be perfectly satisfied, he felt sure that she would be employed in some work in which he would wish to take a part. Edda had too high a sense of the duty of an officer to attempt for a moment to detain him, though her sad looks showed how much she felt the parting. She talked hopefully of the future; of the happiness which might be in store for them when her father’s objections were overcome.

“They must be conquered some day,” she exclaimed. “Why should he object on the score of birth? We are cousins, though distant ones, and as for fortune, I have never been ambitious, and shall be well content to share what you may have, till— You know some day, Ronald, Lunnasting in all probability will be mine. I am not greedy of it. I would gladly see it belong to my long-lost cousin, poor aunt Hilda’s son, if he could be found; but after the lapse of so many years, that is not likely. Indeed, it is for your sake alone, Ronald, that I should prize it.”

Ronald pressed her to his heart. “Thanks, thanks, generous one,” he whispered. “We may yet obtain ample fortune to satisfy our wishes. Of that I have little fear.”

The tears came into Mrs Armytage’s eyes when Ronald wished her farewell. It appeared to her as if the only person to whom she could look with confidence for protection and support was about to leave her, for even should Colonel Armytage recover his health, his temper was not likely to improve, while, should he grow worse, she would be left in a still more helpless condition.

Ten days more passed, and a fine brig stood into the harbour. The master came on shore, and finding out Colonel Armytage, announced himself as Captain Carlton, of the “Helen,” bound direct for London. Nothing could be more convenient; every arrangement was soon concluded; the colonel and his family went on board; the generous Don Josef bade them farewell, and with a favourable breeze, a course was shaped for the Straits of Gibraltar.

The “Helen” remained only a couple of days at Gibraltar. Colonel Armytage refused to go on shore, or to allow his wife or daughter to go. They were glad, therefore, once more to be at sea. The weather continued fine, and the wind favourable, and there was every promise of a prosperous voyage. The wind was from the south-east, and as the “Helen” ran along the coast of Portugal the sea was perfectly smooth, except that a slight ripple played over its surface, on which the sun sparkled with dazzling brilliancy. An awning was spread, under which the ladies sat, and when the rock of Lisbon rose in view and the pine-crowned heights of Cintra, just then especially notorious, not for its beauty, not for its orange groves, but on account of the disgraceful treaty which had there lately been concluded, even Colonel Armytage condescended to come on deck, and to admire the beauty of the scene. Through their glasses the Cork convent could be seen perched on its lofty crags, and below them to the north the mass of odd-looking buildings known as the palace of Mafra, containing a royal residence, a monastery, barracks, and a church. Further north, little more could be seen than a long line of yellow sand, with pine-covered hills.

“Now, ladies, I think you have seen enough of Portugal,” said Captain Carlton. “We’ll haul off the shore, if you please; for, to tell you the truth, it’s a treacherous coast, which I’m in no way fond of. From here, right away till we come to Vigo in Spain, there is not a single harbour into which a ship can run for shelter; I don’t say that it’s a disgrace to the people—they didn’t make the coast; it was so formed for some good reason, I doubt not, but still I always like to give it a wide berth.”

The fine weather continued till the “Helen” had passed Cape Ortegal, and was fairly in the Bay of Biscay. The wind then increased, and became variable, and dark clouds were seen banking up in the south-western horizon. The kind old captain became less cheerful than usual. The brig no longer glided on smoothly and sedately as before, but began to roll and pitch with the rising sea. The ladies came on deck, but were unable to read and work as they had previously done, but Edda declared that she enjoyed the change, and found amusement in looking at the dancing seas, and in watching a shoal of porpoises which went careering along, sporting and rolling and keeping way with the brig without effort.

“Ah, young lady, you are looking at those fellows, are you?” said Captain Carlton. “Just watch how they go along. Now I have heard people on shore talk of a porpoise as a fat, heavy creature who hasn’t got any spirit in him, just like a hog, for instance, wallowing in the mud. I should like to see the race-horse which could keep up with them. They would beat that gallant frigate which passed us the other day, and as to this brig you see, they swim round and round her as if she was at anchor, and we are going a good seven knots through the water. People fancy when they see their black tails when they dive that they are rolling along, but the truth is, there isn’t a creature darts quicker through its native element than a porpoise.”

The captain’s lecture on the much-maligned fish was suddenly brought to a close by a cry from the masthead of a sail on the larboard-quarter. In war time merchantmen keep a sharp look-out, or ought to do so, that they may have timely notice to enable them to avoid an enemy. On the present occasion all Captain Carlton could do was to make more sail and to continue the same course he had been steering. As there were threatenings of a stiff breeze, if not of a gale, the hands were ordered to stand by to take it in again, should it be necessary.

The stranger gained rapidly on the brig, and as she was pronounced to be a large ship, then a man-of-war from the squareness of her yards, and at length a frigate—

“Could she be the ‘Imperious?’” Edda ventured to ask.

The old captain shook his head.

“No, my dear young lady,” he answered gravely; “it goes to my heart to alarm you, but the truth must be spoken. I am very much afraid that the stranger is an enemy.”

Edda’s heart sunk within her. English prisoners, she knew, whether combatants or not, were detained in France for years, and the Emperor had shown his intention of keeping them till he had attained the objects he sought.

Mrs Armytage fainted when she heard the report, and the colonel came on deck to ascertain its truth. He evidently did not like the look of things.

“Cannot you make this craft of yours sail faster?” he asked, in an angry tone of the master.

“It is the people who built her, sir, are to blame, not me. I am doing, and will do, all a seaman can accomplish to escape the enemy; I have no wish to be taken. I have a wife and family waiting my return home, and Heaven have mercy on them! we shall be utterly ruined if the brig is taken.”

Colonel Armytage was silent; the chances of escape seemed small indeed. Still pressed as she was with a far larger amount of canvas than the master would have ventured to carry under ordinary circumstances, the brig tore through the rising seas at a greater rate than had ever before probably been got out of her.

The master stood watching the masts and spars with an anxious eye. They bent and cracked with the greatly increased strain to which they were exposed; the weather-shrouds and stays were tautened to the utmost. At length the master turned round to Edda and Mrs Armytage, who, having recovered from her first alarm, had come up on deck.

“My dear young lady, and you, ma’am, do go below, let me pray you; this is no place for you,” he said, with deep earnestness. “Any moment we may have the masts and spars rattling down on our heads, or the enemy’s shot flying along our decks. Please Heaven, while the masts stand we’ll hold on. They can but take us in the end; but, dear ladies, do go below. We shall act more like men if we know that you are safe.”

Thus urged, most unwillingly Edda and her mother retired to the cabin. The colonel, however, remained on deck.

“It shall never be said that where danger was present I was absent,” he remarked.

“Maybe, but you would be of much more use looking after your wife and daughter in the cabin,” muttered the honest old captain.

Edda and Mrs Armytage went into their own cabin. They knelt down. They could not strive like men, but they could pray that the ship might be preserved from the threatened danger, or, if it was Heaven’s will that it should overtake her, that they might have strength given them to bear whatever it was their lot to suffer.

The breeze was freshening rapidly, the movement of the brig increased as she plunged with a violent jerk into one sea, and then rose up the watery ridge only to sink down again into another watery valley. Still on she tore. The master was keeping his word. On a sudden there was a cry; then followed a fearful crash.

“Oh, my father! he may have been killed,” exclaimed Edda, as she rushed on deck.

Both the masts had gone by the board, and the brig lay a helpless wreck on the tossing waters. The frigate was close to them. For an instant a wild hope rose in Edda’s heart. Was she after all the “Imperious?”

The hope was soon banished. The flag of France flew out from the stranger’s peak. Edda looked round for her father, trembling with fear. He had fallen, and lay on the deck unable to rise. She rushed towards him, all his unkindness, his harshness and injustice forgotten. She attempted to lift him up; but her strength was unequal to the task. He soon somewhat recovered.

“I am not materially injured, I fancy,” he said at length. “This is a fearful accident; I was struck by a falling block, and was stunned. I shall be myself again directly. But where is the master? What has become of the crew?”

Edda gazed horror-struck at the spectacle which met her sight. Several of the men lay crushed under the masts and heavy spars which had fallen on the deck, a few who had leaped below were returning to their assistance, but Captain Carlton was nowhere to be seen. Just then a cry struck Edda’s ears; she gazed out on the foam-covered sea. Among the wildly leaping waves she caught sight of the old master’s countenance—it was turned towards the brig with a look of agony. He was swimming bravely, sorely buffeted as he was by the seas. The effort was beyond his strength. With a wild cry he threw up his arms, and the next sea rolled over his head.

Edda would have sunk with horror had not the call of duty supported her.

“Father! oh come below! we can do nothing to help ourselves, and shall be safe there,” she exclaimed, in an imploring tone.

“No, no, girl; I must be on deck to receive our captors. See, they are coming!”

He raised himself to his feet, and was pointing to the frigate, which, having passed to windward of the dismasted brig, was now hove-to. A boat was at that instant being lowered from her side.

“Then I will not leave you, father,” said his daughter, clinging to the bulwarks near him.

The boat from the French frigate approached; she came close to the brig, but it was both difficult and dangerous for the crew to get on board. More than once they made the attempt, and each time the boat was driven off again by the sea; at last they shouted to the English seamen to come and help them. The surviving crew of the brig had gone below, as is the practice of seamen likely to be captured, to put on their best clothing and to secure any valuables belonging to them. At last they appeared, and with their assistance and the ropes they hove-to the boat, and the Frenchmen succeeded in getting on board. Their officer was the first up the side. Edda looked at him, and almost shrieked with terror when she recognised Alfonse Gerardin.

Chapter Thirty Three.

The “Imperious” homeward bound—The Fire-Ships are prepared—The French Fleet in Basque Roads—Ronald conducts a Fire-Ship—General Explosion of Fire-Ships.

The “Imperious,” with a fine breeze from the southward, was standing across the Bay of Biscay. She had been actively engaged all the time she had been in the Mediterranean, chiefly on the coasts of France and Spain, capturing armed ships and merchantmen, destroying telegraph stations, blowing up forts, and harassing the enemy in every possible way.

The Marquis de Medea and his daughter, with Father Mendez, had been, at their own request, put on board a Spanish vessel bound round to Cadiz, as they fancied that the unsettled state of the country would make the journey by land dangerous and disagreeable. Don Tacon had before that been sent to Malta to take his trial as a pirate, but by some means or other he had been completely, if not honourably, acquitted, and very soon afterwards disappeared from the island. He was supposed by some speedily to have taken to his old courses, and several merchantmen reported that they had been chased by a suspicious-looking lateen-rigged craft, on their passage between Gibraltar and Malta. He had latterly, when the ship was at sea, been allowed a good deal of liberty on board the frigate, and had been allowed to go about the decks at pleasure.

He was, however, again deprived of this liberty in consequence of having been found one day climbing up over the quarter, as if he had been prying into the captain’s cabin. No one had seen him go; it was, therefore, supposed that he must have been concealed there for some time. When caught he at once begged to be secured.

“My life is not safe if I am left at liberty,” he exclaimed, frantically tearing his hair. “I have looked at the past. I look at the future. I am miserable. I see nothing but wretchedness before me. I contemplated self-destruction. I purposed dropping quietly over the stern into the water. I did not wish to create confusion. If I had jumped overboard before you all, a boat would have been lowered, and I should have been picked up; but—must I own it?—my courage failed me. I—I who have been in a hundred fights, and have braved death in a thousand forms—I felt fear. I clung to the side trembling, and climbed on board again, and here I am.”

Ronald had a very just suspicion that Don Tacon was acting. He had formed, indeed, a perfectly just estimate of his consummate impudence and roguery, but still it was difficult to account for the reason of his having got there.

He might have gone there for the sake of eaves-dropping, for the captain was in the cabin at the time, but then it was not likely that he understood English enough to comprehend what was said. There was one very suspicious circumstance against the worthy Tacon.

A few days before Ronald had been with the captain in his cabin discussing a very important matter. It was no less than Lord Claymore’s long-projected plan of destroying the French fleet whenever it could be found collected in one of these exposed roadsteads. Lord Claymore had become more than ever sanguine as to the success of his plan.

“It must succeed, my dear Morton,” he exclaimed vehemently. “It will be of advantage to our country, equal to that of a great victory; but it will be gained without one-tenth part of the loss which a general action would entail. I must obtain my recall forthwith, and lay my plans before the Admiralty. They must listen to me; they can scarcely refuse to consider my plans. They won’t do it for love; they never do love a man who has got brains in his head, unless those brains are subservient to their will and pleasure.”

Ronald remembered that such had been some of the remarks made on the occasion referred to. Lord Claymore was rather inclined to laugh at his suspicions; but notwithstanding that, took good care that Señor Tacon should not again have an opportunity of throwing himself overboard.

It was not till some time after the Don had been sent to Malta, that Lord Claymore missed a couple of sheets of paper, on which he had drawn out some of his proposed plans. He, however, thought that very likely they had been blown overboard, and troubled himself no more about the matter. After some time he obtained his recall, and the frigate was now on her way to England.

“A sail on the starboard bow!” was the cry from the masthead. The captain was anxious to get to England, and if he chased in that direction he should be led deep into the bay, and perhaps not be able to get out again; but when the stranger was made out to be a frigate, and, in all probability an enemy, the temptation to pursue her was irresistible. The helm was put up and all sail made in chase of the stranger. Away flew the gallant “Imperious,” with the wind on her quarter, and far ahead kept the other frigate, steering directly in for the French coast. There could be now no longer any doubt that she was an enemy. An English ship could never have run in that way; but it was strongly suspected that the Emperor had ordered his naval officers to avoid fighting unless sure of success.

Once having commenced a pursuit Lord Claymore was not the man to give it up until he had caught the chase, or run her to earth. Every means that could be thought of was tried to increase the speed of the frigate, but it was soon evident that the enemy was very fast and could easily keep ahead. Still Lord Claymore hoped that some chance might enable him to come up with her and bring her to action. The weather, however continued fine, which was so far in favour of the Frenchman, that there was little chance of his carrying away any masts or spars, by which the “Imperious” might have gained an advantage. Night drew on; but the moon rose and her beams fell on the chase exactly in the position she had so long held. It was now very evident that she was steering for Basque Roads.

“She may get there but we’ll bring her out for all that,” exclaimed the captain, as he walked the deck, with his night-glass in hand, watching the chase.

Hour after hour passed without the slightest alteration in the relative position of the two frigates. Day came and the chase continued.

The officers each snatched a few hours’ rest; the captain probably took less than any one. The land was made out ahead and then on the starboard bow. It was the island of Oleron, forming the south side of Basque Roads. There was no longer any hope of bringing the enemy to action, still the “Imperious” stood on. The chase was seen to bring up under a strong fort, below which several line-of-battle ships and two frigates were at anchor.

“The fellow has shown us his den, at all events,” observed Lord Claymore, examining the enemy’s squadron, while the frigate continued standing in towards the anchorage. The crew were at their stations, eyeing the French squadron and forts with the most perfect unconcern, though it was possible for them, had they made the attempt, to blow the English frigate out of the water; but so perfect was the confidence of the seamen in the captain, that they felt as if there was no more danger than in Portsmouth Harbour.

“Morton!” exclaimed the captain, “look at that fleet of Frenchmen. Think of the havoc and devastation they will commit among our merchantmen and colonies if they get free away from this. Every one of them we could destroy with our fire-ships and explosion vessels. It must be done. I shall never forgive myself if I do not stir every nerve to get the Admiralty to undertake it. We will stand further in. I delight in thus bearding them in their very harbours.”

A shot, however, from the fort, which flew between the masts, showed him that he had stood close enough in. The frigate wore round, and did what Job Truefitt observed she wasn’t often apt to do—showed her stern to the enemy. It was surprising that she was not pursued. This made Lord Claymore suspect that the line-of-battle ships were not yet completely ready for sea.

Away sailed the “Imperious” with all the haste she could make. The wind held fair; England was soon reached. A powerful squadron, under Lord Gambier, was despatched to watch the enemy’s fleet, and the captain of the “Imperious” used every exertion to obtain leave to carry out his plans.

While the captain was absent in London, Morton had charge of the ship. He seldom or never went on shore. As soon as the frigate reached Spithead he got Glover to write to his cousin, Mrs Edmonstone, to inquire for the Armytages. Her answer was unsatisfactory; she had heard nothing of them for several months. She, indeed, knew no more of their movements than did Ronald himself. His mind was racked with the most painful doubts and fears. He could not even conjecture where they were. He had expected to have heard that they had long ago arrived in England. He missed the counsel and support of his father at the present juncture. Rolf had some time before returned to England with old Doull and Eagleshay. He had from thence, accompanied by them, gone to Shetland, where he had re-occupied his farm. Ronald received a letter from him. He had abundance of occupation in repairing the house and improving the property, which was in a sadly neglected state. He had not seen Sir Marcus Wardhill, but he understood that he was failing. The Lady Hilda seldom left the castle. She was said to spend most of the hours of the day and night in her turret chamber, occupying herself with her books, though, as the country people observed, she got very little good out of them. “But you know, my dear Ronald,” he added, “I am not the man to interfere with my neighbours’ doings. I wish that the poor Lady Hilda’s lot had been happier, and as for Sir Marcus, whatever may be his feelings towards me, I never bore him any ill-will.” In a P.S. he added, “I have just had a visit from Lawrence Brindister; he looks wonderfully little changed. It is thought wears out a man, they say, and he, poor man, does not do much in that way. He shook me warmly by the hand and shuffled about the room, examining everything, and talking of old times, while he made his comments on everything he saw. He is madder, in my opinion, than ever, for he talked in the strangest way of events of which he was cognisant; but when I questioned him, said he should say nothing till you made your appearance. I hope, therefore, Ronald, that you will come as soon as you can get leave, and induce our eccentric cousin to give us the information he possesses, though I confess that I shall not be surprised if after all it turns out he knows nothing of importance. I received a visit from my old friend Captain Maitland. He came over in his boat from North Maven. He bears his eighty winters wonderfully well. I used to think him an oldish man nearly thirty years ago. How time flies. Though I say come when you can, I would not for a moment draw you away from your duty. You know that so well that I need not have said so. I shall be looking soon for your promotion. I met Captain Courtney while I was in Portsmouth; he told me that you were sure to get it, and that he would see that you were not passed by. Again, my dear boy, good-bye. No more at present from your affectionate father—

“R.M.”

His father’s letter cheered Ronald for a time. He was glad to find that he was contented with the lot he had selected, and he determined not to tell him of his own anxieties and unhappiness. Glover, at his request, again made inquiries of Mrs Edmonstone, but her reply was as before—she could gain no information about the Armytages. The duties of the ship, however, gave Ronald ample occupation, so that he had very little time to think about himself.

Lord Claymore now returned on board in high spirits. He had obtained his object, and was at once to set to work to prepare the explosion vessels and fire-ships according to his proposed plan.

“We must, however, part, Morton, I am on many accounts sorry to say,” he observed.

“Indeed, so am I, my lord, to hear you say so,” answered Ronald. “I had hoped to continue with you in the ‘Imperious’ till she was paid off.”

“Why, the fact is, my dear Captain Morton, I have got your commission in my pocket, and appointment to a sixteen-gun sloop-of-war, the ‘Scorpion.’ I met Courtney at the Admiralty, and he insisted on my bringing it down to you, it having just been put into his hands by the first lord. I sincerely congratulate you, though I must say you have only obtained what you deserve.”

Morton’s heart bounded. What officer’s does not on receiving unexpectedly his promotion! He thanked Lord Claymore most cordially.

“Come on shore then with me in an hour, and go on board your ship and take command,” said Lord Claymore. “Get her ready for sea as rapidly as possible. You will accompany me, and I hope before our return we shall have managed to destroy the whole French fleet.”

Ronald begged that Truefitt and Doull might accompany him, a request that was at once granted; and then he put in a word for Glover, and asked if he might have him as a first lieutenant.

“Yes, I esteem him; he is a good officer, but I can get a man to fill his place, who will suit me better,” was the answer.

So it was arranged. Ronald went on board and read his commission. Glover and his two constant followers joined in a few days, and the “Scorpion” was rapidly got ready for sea.

Two explosion vessels were, in the meantime, being prepared under Lord Claymore’s directions, and ten or a dozen fire-ships. The first were terrific engines of destruction. Ronald accompanied him on board one of them. She in the first place contained one thousand five hundred barrels of gunpowder, in casks, placed on end, and bound tightly together by stout ropes; the intervening spaces were filled with wet sand, rammed down with great force, so that the whole formed one solid mass. On the top of it were placed an immense number of hand grenades and rockets, and no less than four hundred live shells with short fusees, so that they might explode soon after the fire reached them.

“What do you think of that?” asked Lord Claymore. “Woe betide the unfortunate ship she comes in contact with,” he answered. “Not a man of her crew can escape, I should think.”

The “Imperious,” with the two explosion vessels, the “Scorpion,” and such of the fire-ships as were ready, sailed for the Bay of Biscay. They reached the English blockading squadron under Lord Gambier. Many of the captains were highly indignant at finding one junior to themselves appointed to so important a charge.

“I hate to see gallant men yield to feelings so contemptible,” observed Lord Claymore. “But let them rail on. He laughs who wins.”

If the deed was to be done, no time was to be lost. The time for the terrific experiment arrived. The French ships lay at their anchors across the harbour with springs on their cables, in two lines, so placed that the broadsides of the inner line could be fired clear of the outer one. The island of Aix, with powerful batteries, guarded them on one side, that of Oleron, also with strong forts, on the other. To make their position still more secure, a boom of half a mile in length, composed of numerous spars, and formed in the shape of an obtuse angle, was placed in front of them, and secured by anchors and cables of immense thickness.

The French fleet consisted of twelve line-of-battle ships, a store-ship of fifty guns, and three frigates, amounting altogether to a number of guns perfectly capable of sinking the whole British fleet, had they attempted to force an entrance.

Besides the line-of-battle ships, the French had three frigates placed as an advanced guard in front of the other lines, and close to the boom. This boom was, as has been said, composed of a great number of spars lashed together and floated by large buoys, and was secured in its position by huge anchors and cables of great thickness. The boom was in the shape of an obtuse angle, the apex facing out, so that, a vessel striking it would glance off either on one side or the other.

The object to be attained was, first to force the boom with the explosion vessels, so as to allow an entrance for the fireships. By means of these fire-ships it was believed that the whole French squadron might be destroyed.

The “Scorpion” lay near the “Imperious,” and Lord Claymore invited Ronald to accompany him one night to reconnoitre the enemy’s position.

Ronald had been dining with Lord Claymore. Soon after it was dark they left the frigate in the captain’s gig, and pulled with muffled oars towards the boom. The night was very dark, but the lights on board the enemy’s ships could be clearly made out. They enabled Morton, who had taken the helm, to steer a right course. The object to be guarded against was falling in with any of the French boats which would be very likely rowing guard. A midshipman with a sharp pair of eyes was placed in the bows to give instant notice of the appearance of any other boat. It was supposed that, to a certainty, the French would have guard-boats on the watch near their boom, and the danger to be apprehended was coming suddenly upon them. However, the gig was a remarkably fast boat, and Morton hoped that they might easily escape if pursued. Of course his companion had no doubt about it, or he would not have run the risk, seeing that so much depended on his superintendence of the undertaking in hand. Except the rush of the tide as it swept by, a perfect silence reigned on the waters.

“How calm and solemn is the night?” thought Ronald. “How different will be to-morrow, when all this space will be full of burning ships, and the roar of guns and shrieks of dismay and agony will rend the air!”

At length the boom was reached: they now spoke in low whispers. Lord Claymore pointed out a frigate close to on the other side of it.

“This must be our point of attack,” he observed; “we’ll break the boom and then set fire to that frigate. She will cut her cables to escape her doom, and will carry consternation and confusion among the ships astern.”

“The plan must succeed if all hands do their duty,” answered Ronald.

“That is the point,” said Lord Claymore somewhat bitterly. “Many of those to be employed are untried. I wish that I could trust all as I do you. We’ll pull along by the boom a little further, and then make the best of our way on board.”

The gig had not proceeded fifty fathoms when a voice hailed, “Qui va là?”

“Round with the boat, Morton. Pull up your larboard oars, lads,” whispered the captain.

Again a Frenchman hailed, and immediately afterwards a bullet came whizzing close to them. The gig’s crew required no urging to bend to their oars. They must have been seen, for a whole volley followed them. They were not at first pursued, and it was evident that the French boats were at the inner side of the boom.

The shot continued to fall thickly round them, but no one was hit. At last they got beyond the range of fire.

“Avast pulling!” cried Lord Claymore.

The sound of oars was heard on either hand. It would be impossible to fight the enemy with any hope of success. Plight was their only resource. Morton steered for the frigate. The enemy’s boats continued to come after them. Morton kept a look-out for the frigate’s light. The Frenchmen saw at length that the pursuit was useless, and gave it up. No sooner was this ascertained than Lord Claymore began to talk on various subjects with as much composure as if they had not just narrowly escaped losing their lives or liberty.

A strong leading wind was required to execute the project. It came at last. In the afternoon the boats assembled round the various vessels destined for the undertaking, which then proceeded towards the stations allotted to them in readiness for the night, when their operations were to commence.

It was a solemn time even for the thoughtless, and highly exciting to the most phlegmatic. To many the undertaking appeared desperate in the extreme, Ronald had unbounded confidence in the judgment and bravery of their leader. He had himself volunteered to conduct one of the fire-ships. Lord Claymore was to lead in the largest explosion vessel.

Two gun-brigs were stationed at each end of the enemy’s line, and within the distance of two miles. They had lights hoisted to guide their friends, but screened from the enemy. In the centre space between these two vessels the fire-ships were to be conducted. The “Imperious” and three other frigates anchored about a gun-shot and a half from the boom to support the boats accompanying the fire-ships. Five or six sloops-of-war and brigs were placed near the east end of the island to make a diversion, while a bomb-vessel and several small craft, supplied with rockets, took up their stations near the Boyart shoal.

Under the veil of night the vessels took up their stations. The wind, which was increasing, blew directly into the harbour. In the centre of the space formed by the two light-vessels, the frigates, and the boom, were collected the fleet of fire-ships and the explosion vessels.

The awful moment had arrived. The terrific work of destruction was to begin. The darkness was intense. The two lights on either hand were the only guides on which those piloting the vessels had to depend. The explosion vessels led the way, under all sail. Morton stood at the helm of his fireship to guide her course, his heart beating as it had seldom beat before. He was calm and collected, but fully impressed with the awful nature of the work in which he was engaged. The darkness rendered the moment still more solemn. He could not help feeling also that at any instant he and those with him might be launched into eternity.

The train was laid, all was ready; a spark from one of the explosion vessels might ignite it suddenly. He could not see live yards from where he stood. The darkness was oppressive. A single star in the sky above would have been a relief. His ship proceeded under easy sail, to give time for the explosion vessels to produce the intended effect. The eyes of all on board were on the watch for the awful event. They could hear the people of the vessels on either side of them, but could not catch even an outline of their forms. Thus the fleet of fire-ships glided on to their work of destruction.

“The leading explosion vessel must be near the boom,” observed Job Truefitt, who had accompanied him. “Nothing can have gone amiss, I hope.”

“Not where he is, sir,” answered Bob, confidently. “See—there! there!”

A terrific roar was heard. Bright flames darted forth, seeming to reach the very sky, and illuminating the whole surrounding space hitherto shrouded in darkness. In the centre the light fell on the fire-ships on either side, on the two light vessels with the high land and the forts behind them, while right ahead was the French fleet riding calmly at anchor. Like some ocean volcano, the explosion vessel continued for a few moments sending upwards its sheets of flame, while missiles of every description were flying in showers around.

Ronald trembled for the fate of his gallant friend. Could he have had time to escape?

Ronald’s own turn was to come soon. The fire which had been raging so furiously, ceased as rapidly as it had commenced, and all was again dark. Not a minute had passed when a second volcano burst forth, and burnt like the first.

“Now, lads, make sail!” shouted Ronald.

The topsails were on the caps; they were hoisted and sheeted home; the courses were let fall, and Ronald steered his fire-ship directly for the spot where the first explosion had taken place. He hoped the boom had been broken, but if not, he expected to be able to force a passage with his ship. He fancied that he heard Lord Claymore hail as he passed. He hoped that it was his voice. The wind blew stronger and stronger. On flew the fire-ship. The boom was reached. With a crash she forced her way through it. She was bearing directly down for the French fleet.

“To the boats!” shouted Ronald.

The cry was repeated by the other officers with him.

“Wait till I give the word to shove off, so that no one may be left behind. To your stations, and fire the trains,” he added. He looked to ascertain that the helm was properly placed, and that the vessel was standing the right way. The instant after small snake-like lines of fire was seen stealing along the decks. Ronald sprang to the side, the deck, as he did so, seemed to lift beneath his feet. He threw himself over the bulwarks, and slid down by a rope left there for the purpose, into the boat.

“Shove off! shove off!” he shouted.

The other officers were leaping into their respective boats. He hoped that he was, as he intended to be, the last to leave the ship. Flames were bursting forth on every side of the ship, and climbing up the masts; rockets were going off, and fiery missiles of all sorts were rising from the hold, and falling around in every direction. Thus amply capable of fulfilling her mission of death and destruction, she bore down on the French ships.

The boats shoved off, but one poor fellow was blown up before he reached the one to which he belonged, and his mangled form fell close to the captain’s gig.

The rockets, too, were flying in every direction, as many directing their course towards the retreating boats as towards the ships of the enemy. No sooner, too, did the French perceive the nature of their approaching foe than they opened their fire on her, for the purpose of knocking away her masts, and altering the direction in which she was coming. Their shot also fell thickly round the boats.

The lights from his fire-ship showed Morton several others approaching the spot; and now the flames burst forth rapidly from one after the other; the distance at which they were ignited showing in a certain degree the amount of courage and judgment possessed by those who commanded them. Some were close to the boom, others were a mile, and others nearly two miles further off. On drove the fiery masses, like huge monsters of destruction, independent of human control.

Every object, far and near, was now lighted up by their flames. On, on they went, carrying havoc, terror, and confusion wherever they went; their loud explosions, added to the roar of the guns, which opened on them from the whole French squadron, increasing the awfulness of the scene. The enemy soon saw that their firing was in vain: even their boats failed to tow aside the fiery masses borne down on them by the gale. One after the other they cut their cables, and attempted to run up the harbour; but in the darkness and confusion, aided by terror at their approaching foes, they ran on shore, some on one side, some on the other; some were already grappled by the flaming ships, which literally covered them with showers of fire, while all the time the roar of the guns sounded as if a general action was taking place. Most of the fire-ships had got inside the boom, but Morton saw that one only just beginning to burn would miss it.

“Now, my lads, we’ll get hold of her, and tow her down on the Frenchmen!” he exclaimed.

“Ay, ay, sir! we’re all ready,” was the answer.

On they dashed towards the flaming mass. They got hold of the burning vessel, and towed her up towards the now retreating French ships.

Ronald saw Lord Claymore similarly engaged with another fire-ship. While they were pulling on one of the French frigates made sail, and passed to windward of them. As she did so she discharged her broadside into the two fire-ships, but the boats escaped without damage.

They were, however, compelled to let go, and allow the fire-ships to proceed on their course alone.

“Well done, Morton, those craft are performing their duty admirably!” he shouted. “It is time, however, to be out of this; we can do no more at present, I fear.”

Morton’s own boats and others had joined with Lord Claymore’s. There was no difficulty now in seeing their way; the fire-ships gave them light enough. The explosions and the cannonading had much lulled the wind; the boats which had ventured inside the boom had again nearly reached it, when one of the enemy, which had driven on shore, was seen to be grappled by a fire-ship. In vain the Frenchmen strove to free themselves; their burning enemy held them in her deadly embrace till their ship was set on fire in several places; not till then did the fire-ship drift on, leaving them to their fate. They were lowering some of their boats, but most of them had been destroyed. It was too clear that numbers of the hapless crew must fall victims to the flames.

“They are no longer enemies—we’ll try and save them,” shouted Morton.

His proposal met with a ready response from the officers and crews of the other boats, and in spite of the shot from the heated guns of the burning ship, away they dashed to the rescue of the Frenchmen.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Edda in Gerardin’s Power—The Frigate steers for Rochelle—Captain Tacon—Pedro Altarez and Father Mendez—Tacon betrays Lord Claymore’s Plans.

When Edda Armytage discovered by whom the brig had been captured, her dread of the consequences, added to the grief and terror she had been experiencing, overcame her, and she fainted. When she returned to consciousness she found herself on a sofa in a handsome well-furnished cabin; her mother was tenderly watching by her side, and her father was walking up and down making observations partly to himself and partly to his wife.

“Yes, it is provoking to be captured just as we were reaching England, I own that,” he observed. “How long we may be detained it is impossible to say. Yet things might be much worse. For the first lieutenant of the ship I have a great regard. You never appreciated him properly, Edda. Is that poor daughter of ours likely to come round soon? I must beg the surgeon of the ship to see her. Oh, well, if you think there is no danger perhaps she is better as she is. Now, with regard to this young officer, I take a deep interest in him. His history is, I confess, a mystery, but I hope to have the means of clearing it up. You, of all people, ought to take an interest in him. How constant and devoted he is to our daughter: from the first time he met her at Calcutta he admired her: nothing could be more tender or delicate than were his attentions to her when we were in his power. She has since made him the most ungrateful return. Her coldness, and the scornful way in which she treated him, was enough to drive any man away unless he was truly and sincerely attached. You tell me she does not and cannot love him. All nonsense. It is a daughter’s duty to set her affections where her father desires. I have my reasons. That is sufficient. You speak of that young English lieutenant. He is a fine-looking fellow—granted. But what else is he? The son of a boatswain—not holding the rank of a gentleman. He has himself risen from before the mast. He is said to be held in estimation in his own service—granted; but he certainly, according to my idea, showed the white feather in that duel affair with young Maguire.”

“But, Colonel Armytage, surely you do not forget that this Monsieur Gerardin was among those who made that dreadful attack on us in Spain—that he certainly attempted to carry off Edda, and would have succeeded had it not been for Mr Morton’s gallantry.”

Mrs Armytage had seldom ventured to differ so strongly with her husband.

“I have always doubted whether it was Gerardin who figured on that occasion,” he answered. “Morton, of course, is ready to suppose so, and you and Edda were too frightened, I suspect, to know what happened. Appearances are deceptive; I did not recognise him, and depend on it he will be able to assure us that he was not there.”

The lady after this dared not reply.

Colonel Armytage was in an excessively amiable mood. He was altogether not so much displeased at having been taken prisoner, for he anticipated very little satisfaction on his arrival in England. He had left it with an accumulation of debts, and he felt very sure that his creditors would give him no rest when they heard of his return. On the other hand he could live cheaply in France; the climate suited him; and he concluded that though he might be detained as a prisoner, he should be able to select his residence. But what pleased him most was the having fallen into the hands of his old acquaintance, Captain Gerardin, and his son, who, from his previous acquaintance with them, he was certain would do all in their power to make his position as agreeable as they could.

Edda had overheard the latter remarks made by her father. They did not contribute to afford her comfort, although they had the effect of arousing her attention. She kept her eyes shut, however, that she might have time to collect her thoughts. She soon comprehended very clearly what had happened, and remembering the counsel given her by Mrs Edmonstone, she resolved to treat the young foreigner with the same coldness which she had exhibited towards him at Calcutta. She forgot one very important point—their positions had been changed. He was then a prisoner—she was one now. At length, when her mother bent fondly over her with an expression of deep anxiety at her protracted fit, she could no longer resist opening her eyes to assure her that she was recovering.

A short time after this, a knock was heard at the door of the cabin, and the captain of the frigate entered. He said that he came to take the commands of his passengers as to the hour they would prefer having their meals. He was most anxious that they should enjoy every accommodation his ship could afford. He had not forgotten their kindness; and if they were destined to be made prisoners he was too happy to be their captor that he might prove to them his gratitude.

Though Captain Gerardin’s countenance was sufficiently battered and weather-worn, there was an honest, good-natured expression about it which made Mrs Armytage feel far more confidence in his expressions than in those of his son.

It was not till the next day that Edda could be persuaded to go on deck; the sea was smooth, and the air soft and balmy, and she could not help looking out on the blue ocean which she had learned to love so much. Alfonse Gerardin only occasionally approached her. When he did so his manner was so gentle and courteous that she could not help acknowledging to herself that she had no reason to complain of him. Captain Gerardin was good-natured and hearty, and laughed and talked with her and her father and mother with well-bred ease and freedom.

The frigate, he told them, was attached to a squadron now at anchor near Rochelle, and that she was now on her way back to rejoin it.

The next morning land was seen ahead, and soon afterwards the frigate came up with a small lateen-rigged craft standing the same way. Captain Gerardin hailed, and asked where she was bound? In return, a person who said he was the captain, replied that he was in search of a French squadron which would soon be ready to sail, and that he had very important information to communicate.

“We will heave-to, and you can come on board,” answered the captain of the French frigate.

In a short time a boat was launched from the deck of the little felucca, and pulled towards the frigate. She was soon alongside, and a tall thin old man made his appearance on deck. Captain Gerardin scrutinised him severely, and he stared at the captain in return.

“We have met before, my friend, if I mistake not,” exclaimed the former. “I see before me Don Annibal Tacon.”

“The same, though changed, I suspect, since we last parted,” said Captain Tacon. “And I may venture to say that I behold one with whom I have exchanged some hard knocks, but love not the worse, and whom I once knew as Pedro Alvarez; though from the flag under which you serve I presume you have changed your name as well as your nation.”

“You are right, friend Tacon,” answered the captain. “What is more, you are the very man for whom I have been long searching; but let me have your information first, and then I will tell you the reason why I have been anxious to find you.”

“It will take some time,” answered the old pirate. “If you like to make sail, I will order the felucca to stand on in your wake.”

“No; but direct her to stand on under our lee,” said the captain. “Your people may be very honest and faithful, but they may take it into their heads to run away, and leave you with us. It is well to be cautious with such gentry.”

Captain Tacon was profuse in his thanks. “Certainly, rogues like mine do require to be watched,” he remarked. “Ah, as I have always thought, honesty is the best policy, but somehow or other I never could manage to adhere to it. But before you make sail I may as well bring some passengers I have on board here. They are rather unwilling passengers, I own; I might call them prisoners, for they are Spaniards, enemies to France—an old man, a marquis and his daughter, and a priest. I took them out of a vessel bound for Cadiz; and as I did not know how to dispose of her, after removing every thing of value, I scuttled her.”

“But what did you do with her crew?” asked the captain of the frigate. “Let them go down in her,” answered Tacon coolly. “I thought it would show my other prisoners that I was not a man to be trifled with.”

“By all means let them come on board here,” said the captain of the frigate, anxious to get the prisoners out of the power of such a ruffian. “I will send an officer and a boat to conduct them.”

A boat was lowered; one of the lieutenants jumped into it, and soon returned from the felucca with the persons Tacon had described. They were helped up the frigate’s side, and the old man advanced, with his daughter leaning on his arm, and followed by the priest, who, though concealed by those in front, was, by peering out on one side, able to take a steady survey of the officers on the quarter-deck.

The captain received the marquis and his daughter with great politeness.

“We have already ladies on board, and I hope mademoiselle will have no cause to complain of her treatment while on board the ship, though our accommodation is somewhat limited.”

Mrs Armytage and Edda signed to the young lady to come to them, and she advanced at once, glad to find herself in the society of some of her own sex, whose countenances showed that they were worthy of her confidence.

The marquis stood alone, and the old priest was seen behind him.

No sooner did the eyes of the captain fall on him than he exclaimed, “What! Father Mendez is it you still on this side the grave? I meet you very opportunely, for of all people you were the one I desired to see. What! do you not recollect your old shipmate?”

“Perfectly,” answered the priest in a low tone; “but I should have thought, Pedro Alvarez, that I was the person of all others you would have been most desirous of avoiding—I, who am cognisant of your crimes, of the sacrilege you have committed, of your traitorous conduct—you, an outcast from the bosom of our Holy Mother Church—even now I find you in command of a ship belonging to the enemies of our country. If I speak, it must be to pronounce the curse of our Holy Church and of Heaven on your head.”

“Hold, father! you are going ahead too fast,” exclaimed the old seaman, bluntly; “I have braved the curses of your Church too long to care for them; those of Heaven—Heaven alone can pronounce or inflict; but call not one a traitor who was unjustly driven from his country, and has never ceased to love her. However, you are an ancient comrade, and as such have the privilege of speaking freely. I wish to be on friendly terms with you and every human being. I am never happier with the feeling that I have made an enemy. But, as I was saving, I rejoice to meet you, for you can render me a service which will enable me to accomplish an object which has been nearer my heart than any other in the world.”

The English prisoners, as well as the marquis and his daughter, were near.

“Yes, I will confess to you, my friends,” he added, addressing them: “I am not a Frenchman by birth, but a Spaniard—Pedro Alvarez by name, as Father Mendez called me. With your wife’s family, as I told you, Colonel Armytage, I am well acquainted. For many months I have resided in Shetland.”

The marquis started, and cast an inquiring look at the captain’s countenance.

“Circumstances occurred there of which Father Mendez is cognisant. We will speak of them by-and-by. My ship was wrecked, and my captain and all his crew perished. I was the only officer saved. On my return to Spain I was accused of heresy, and an officer of the Inquisition was sent to apprehend me. Perhaps the Marquis de Medea may know something about that. In self-defence I was compelled to slay the alguizal. I knew that the vengeance of the Inquisitors would follow me, and I escaped on board a ship-of-war which I had been appointed to command. I at length left her, and so managed that my officers believed me to be dead, and on their return home reported accordingly that such was the case. I wandered about in many parts of the world till the French Republic was established, and then I entered the naval service of France, and for convenience’ sake changed my name. For long I continued in it and served France faithfully, but an event occurred which compelled me for a time to quit it. I went to India, and for several years I remained in the eastern seas in command of a privateer, and having made some money in her, I returned to Europe, when I received the command of this frigate. Such has been my career. There is no great mystery in it, but it was necessary that I should give an account of it, lest any present should consider me a monster in human shape, and guilty of all the crimes of which the father accuses me.”

The marquis, who had been anxiously watching the captain’s countenance, breathed more freely when he ceased speaking. “Certainly, my friend, I think that you have every excuse for your conduct,” he exclaimed, offering his hand to the captain, who did not seem very anxious to accept it. “I for one shall be happy to welcome you back to Spain when peace is restored, and as the Inquisition has been abolished you need have no fear on that account. My friend, Father Mendez, will, I am sure, also retract his disparaging expressions he has applied to you. He must acknowledge that they are unjust—not such as you deserve. Come, father, say that you regret having spoken so harshly of the worthy officer.”

But the father shook his head without speaking.

“It matters little,” said the captain. “He laughs who wins. Perhaps when all the details are filled up, some of my very worthy friends may not be so well pleased.”

He looked significantly at the marquis. At that moment Alfonse Gerardin crossed the quarter-deck. The marquis looked at him and started.

“Who is that young man?” he asked, in an agitated tone.

“One of the officers of my ship, as you see by his uniform,” answered the captain, carelessly.

“A sail on the larboard beam!” sung out a man from the mast-head. Soon afterwards the cry was heard that there were three, four, five sail—a whole fleet of ships in sight. The captain went aloft, and so did several of the officers, to examine the strangers with their glasses. On their return on deck, they pronounced them to be English, but the greater number of the ships were well on the frigate’s quarter.

“As soon as we are seen they will give chase, but we must do our utmost to get under the batteries of Aix before they reach us. We have a good excuse for running away.”

More sail was set on the frigate. It was a question, however, whether she could reach the shelter which was sought for, in time. Several of the English ships were seen making sail in chase.

Edda Armytage looked out eagerly towards them. She at all events had no wish to remain a prisoner. Some wild hopes, too, rose in her heart as she understood that the pursuing ships were frigates.

“They will not overtake us, young lady,” said the captain, who observed the nature of her thoughts. “I would rather, too, that you did not indulge in the wish, for I cannot bear to see you disappointed.”

“Thank you for your kindness, but it is but natural that I should wish to be free,” she answered, endeavouring to smile.

She fancied, by the countenances of some of the other officers, that they had not the same confidence as the captain. She observed the point for which the French frigate was steering, and it appeared to her that the English ships were just as near. This gave her hopes. Still she was afraid that the French would fight, and that there would be a desperate struggle before they allowed their ship to be captured. She was not aware that the French frigate was to windward of Rochelle, and that the English were some way to leeward, which gave the advantage to the former. The ships were, however, rapidly approaching each other. She saw, indeed, that even the captain thought that there might possibly be a fight, for the guns were being cast loose, and powder and shot were brought up on deck.

So much engaged had everybody been in observing the movements of the English fleet on the larboard beam, that no one had been watching the proceedings of the little felucca which had been on the other side. A loud oath from the lips of Don Tacon gave them notice that something was wrong, and looking out over the starboard bulwarks she was seen close hauled under all sail, standing away to the southward. The old man walked up and down the deck, throwing furious glances at her, while he stamped and swore, and tore his hair.

“The rogues, the villains, the scoundrels, to desert me thus!” he exclaimed. “To take advantage of me when they saw that I could not pursue them. Who is one to trust in this world? My curses go with you, you knaves!” he shouted, shaking his fist at the far-distant vessel. “Ha! it is some satisfaction to know that none of you know anything of navigation, and that you will cast yourselves away to a certainty. May every one of you be food for the fish before many days are over!”

No one pitied the old pirate, and he was allowed to rave on without interference.

The frigate tore through the water—the breeze was freshening. This was all in her favour. Still the British ships were coming up fast; the leading frigate began to fire her bow chasers, but the shot fell short. She waited for some time. One fortunate shot, and the Frenchman would be her prize. The forts on the island of Oleron could now be seen clearly with the naked eye. The English frigate drew still nearer. Captain Gerardin judged that she was nearly within gunshot. “Ladies, this quarter-deck is no longer a place for you,” he said, addressing Edda and her mother, and the Spanish young lady. “I regret to drive you from it, but I must use the authority of a captain, and order you below.”

Mrs Armytage and her daughter saw that he was in earnest, and prepared to obey. A shot which whistled close over the quarter showed the wisdom of his order.

“Oh, but my father—my father! will he not come?” exclaimed the daughter of the marquis in the most bitter anguish.

“Your father will do as he thinks fit, Donna Julia,” said the captain. “I only exert my influence where ladies are concerned. Spain is at present united to England. He cannot be called on to fight.”

“And you, Captain Alvarez, you are a Spaniard. Why unite with the enemies of Spain?”

“Spain disinherited me,” he answered, turning away. “But, ladies, hasten below, there is no time to be lost.”

Another shot came whistling by, and cut short all further conversation.

The captain now ordered a couple of long brass guns to be run out aft to return the compliment the English were paying him. They were served well, and the nearer the enemy approached, the more effective they became. At length a shot struck the taffrail, and glancing along the bulwarks, sent the splinters flying about the deck. The marquis turned pale.

“It is my duty to go and look after the safety of my daughter,” he observed, diving rapidly below.

“I am not a belligerent, and if I am wounded I cannot attend to the spiritual affaire of the dying,” said Father Mendez, following his patron.

“It matters little what becomes of me, since all my worldly possessions are on board the craft those scoundrels are carrying off,” remarked Don Tacon, as he sulkily walked the deck.

Colonel Armytage kept his post on the deck, eyeing the English ships.

“It would be wiser for you, sir, to go below,” said the captain. “We shall be hotly engaged soon, and there is no reason why you should expose your life.”

“I have never avoided danger in whatever form it has presented itself,” answered the colonel, haughtily. “I do not feel disposed to show on the present occasion that I have a faint heart.”

“As you like, colonel,” said the captain, shrugging his shoulders. “It is an odd fancy some men have for making targets of their heads.”

The shots now came with greater rapidity on board the frigate. Her sails had several holes in them, and some of her standing as well as of her running rigging had been cut away. Still, only one of the chasing ships was near enough to fire, but the other two were coming up fast. The brave captain looked at his foes, and then at the friendly forts.

“We shall soon escape from them,” he observed to his lieutenant. “But one of these shots may any moment cut short my career. Should I fall, fight the ship to the last. And, Alfonse, remember—Colonel Armytage and Father Mendez know all.”

The French frigate was drawing in closer and closer to the fort. Suddenly one of the guns from it sent a shot flying past her towards her enemy. Several followed. The French garrison had got the range. Still, the Englishman did not give up the pursuit. A fortunate shot might enable him to bring the enemy to closer action. At length, however, a shot from the fort carried away his foretop-gallant-mast, another might do still further damage; and as it would have been extreme rashness to continue the pursuit further, he hauled his wind and made the best of his way out of the range of the guns of the forts, while the French frigate came to an anchor safe under their shelter near several line-of-battle ships and frigates.

No sooner had the sails been furled than Captain Tacon came aft, and begged at once to be taken to the admiral.

“I told you that I was coming to give important information,” he said coolly. “I prefer giving it to the admiral, who has the power to reward me as I deserve.”

The captain had nothing whatever to say against this, and accordingly conducted him on board the flag-ship. The old pirate then gave the information that the English had resolved to attempt the destruction of the French fleet by fire-ships; and, as a proof, exhibited the plan which he had abstracted from Lord Claymore’s cabin.

“I will consider the information you have brought me, and judge of the probability of its correctness,” answered the admiral. “You shall, according as it is found to be correct, receive your reward. Take him on board again, Captain Gerardin, and see that he does not escape. He will probably be equally ready to inform the British government, if he has the opportunity, of what we are about.”

Tacon looked not over well pleased; he well knew that expostulation would be useless.

“The fates are against me, and I am truly an unfortunate and much-to-be-pitied man,” he muttered, as he was led away.

Captain Gerardin took him back on board the frigate, and, to prevent the possibility of his escaping, put him into irons. “A hard necessity, friend Tacon,” he remarked; “but necessity often compels us to perform unpleasant acts.”

“Ah, yes, it is my unfortunate fate! I am truly much to be commiserated,” answered the old pirate. “Now there is the marquis, up there, in your cabin. He is a much greater scoundrel than I am, and yet rank and wealth are his lot.”

“Oh, we have a bonne-bouche prepared for him, which he may not relish much more than you do those manacles on your legs,” remarked the captain, as he left the worthy Tacon to his solitary reflections.

The French admiral, meantime, paid much more attention to the information he had received than he was willing to acknowledge he should do. It corroborated what he had received from other quarters, and he instantly issued orders to prepare for the expected attack. Lord Gambier’s squadron had for some time been cruising off the coast, and it was considered a wonder that Captain Gerardin’s frigate had got safe into harbour.

Meantime the prisoners, for so they were, though treated more as friends and passengers, were detained on board. The preparations for the attack were concluded, and the French were convinced that it could not succeed. It was now the common subject of conversation; and Edda heard that Lord Claymore was about to take an active part in the operation, and, of course, supposing that Ronald Morton was still with him, she felt sure that he would likewise be engaged, and would be foremost wherever danger was to be encountered. Never had she passed a time of suspense so painful. It was shared, however, in a great degree, by her mother and by Donna Julia.

She was becoming much interested in the young Spanish girl, though she could not entirely make out her character. At all events she was warm-hearted and enthusiastic, but though gentle in her manners, she seemed more inclined to resent an injury than to forgive it. Still she was very different to her father, for whom Edda had conceived a great dislike. No one, indeed, liked him. Her father kept studiously aloof from his society, and even Father Mendez rarely or never spoke to him. Edda’s chief annoyance arose from the attentions paid her by Alfonse Gerardin; they had become more frequent, and he was far more confident in his manner than he had ever before been. How to treat him under the present circumstances she could not tell. The cabin was no sanctuary to her. He entered it at all times with perfect freedom, and evidently with the captain’s sanction.

One day, believing that he was on duty on deck, where the rest of the party were assembled, she remained in the cabin to read. She was seated on a sofa, and had succeeded in fixing her attention on the book, when the door opened, and on looking up she saw Lieutenant Gerardin approaching her. She let her eyes again drop on the page before her, but not a word could she read. He sat down by her side, and before she was aware of it had grasped her hand.

“Hear me, Edda!” he exclaimed with vehemence. “I can exist no longer in the state of uncertainty I have endured for so many years. From the first moment I saw you, I loved you. You know it. My love was sincere, faithful, disinterested. I am not a mere adventurer, as you may suppose. My birth is equal, if not superior, to yours. Rank and wealth will be mine. All I offer to lay at your feet. You doubt my words. The means of proving my claims have only lately, in the most wonderful way, been placed in the power of my guardian and protector, Pedro Alvarez, whom you know as Pierre Gerardin, the captain of the ship. Let me have the satisfaction of telling you, dear Edda, that I am your cousin, the long-lost son of Donna Hilda Escalante.”

Edda looked incredulously in his face, and endeavoured to withdraw her hand; she suspected that he had by some means become acquainted with her family history, and having concocted a story, was practising on her simplicity.

“I tell you the solemn truth. Why do you doubt me,” he exclaimed, almost fiercely. “You have surely often heard how a child was carried away by pirates from Lunnasting, and that no tidings had ever been gained of him. I was that child. The chief of the band, Tacon, is a prisoner on board this ship. For the sake of obtaining his liberty, he will be ready to acknowledge his part in the transaction. I was rescued from his power by my father’s faithful lieutenant, and my constant friend and guardian, Pedro Alvarez. He had no means of getting to Shetland, nor could he return to Spain. After wandering about in many parts of the world, taking me with him, he repaired to France, then at war with England. He sent to Shetland, and from the answer he received, he believed that my mother was dead. He fancied that, even should he be able to get there, my claims would not be acknowledged, and he determined, therefore, till peace was restored, not to make the attempt. My father, as you may have heard, would have succeeded to the title of the Marquis de Medea and to a magnificent estate. On his death the inheritance became mine; but without proofs of my birth, Pedro Alvarez himself being unable to return to Spain, how could he hope to succeed in obtaining for me my rights? He had carefully abstained from telling me the secret of my birth, and I fully believed that I was his son. I have been brought up as a Frenchman, and as a Frenchman I have always felt and acted. To support the honour and glory of our great emperor has always been my ambition and aim; though he may meet with reverses, he must succeed in the end—I am sure of that as I am of my own existence. Spain, which has foolishly abandoned him, will again be brought under his power, and through his means I feel sure that I shall some day obtain my father’s inheritance. You look incredulous, lady. Proud England, too, will be humbled, and France, and all who adhere to her, will be triumphant. Those glorious days, when France will rule the world, will soon arrive, sweet Edda; and I ask you to share with one who loves you with devotion and tenderness unsurpassed, the wealth and rank which will then be his.”

“I thank you, Monsieur Gerardin, from my heart, I do, for your sentiments towards me,” she answered, in a gentle tone. “But be assured that I cannot return them. To be frank with you, my heart is given to another. To you I can only be a cousin, a friend, and well-wisher. You will, I feel sure, find many girls whose hearts are disengaged, who will love you for yourself, and not for the wealth and rank which I hope may be yours.”

“My friend and well-wisher!” he exclaimed, starting up and walking about the cabin. “Those are cold words to address to one who loves you as I have done. You tell me that you love another. He shall pay the penalty of interfering with me. I knew that he was my rival. He has escaped me often, but the next time we meet we will not part till one has fallen.”

He continued pacing up and down before her; and stamping furiously on the deck, he exclaimed—“Thus will I trample all my enemies under my feet! Ay, little does that usurping kinsman of mine dream what I prepared for him. I have him in my power, and I will take good care to exercise that power. He lives on under the belief that he is the owner of broad lands and wealth unbounded, and it is a pleasure to watch him as he paces the deck, and to know that I, all the time, am the true marquis, and that he is the impostor. Ah, cousin Edda! you supposed me a quiet, gentlemanly young lieutenant of marine. You now know who I am and what I am. I am one not to be trifled with—not to be opposed with impunity. You would have thought me a person of importance if I were simply the inheritor of the castle and the estates of Lunnasting—those estates which would have been yours had I not appeared. Without them, remember, you will be reduced to poverty—the most complete poverty—your father confesses as much. Let that weigh with you. Your love I shall gain ere long. I fear not on that point. Come, cousin, be mine—be mine. Neither heaven nor earth shall keep you from me!”

He rushed towards her and endeavoured to grasp her hand. She shrunk from him with dread, for there was a glare in his eye, and a wildness in his look which suggested the horrible idea that he was attacked with insanity. She looked round with the intention of escaping from the cabin, when the door opened and Donna Julia entered. Hernan was calm in an instant, and bowing to the Spanish lady, he said in English—“Cousin, soothe that poor girl. The blow that I have to strike will be terrible indeed to her.”

He disappeared as he spoke. He hurried on deck. His great anxiety was now to bring the marquis, Tacon, Father Mendez, and Pedro Alvarez together before Colonel Armytage, that the whole chain of evidence might be clearly exhibited to him. He was about to propose this to the captain, when a gun was fired from the flag-ship, and the signal was seen flying for the first lieutenants and four boats from every ship to come alongside.

Hernan hurried off in obedience to orders. When he got on board the flag-ship he found that a number of vessels which had been seen joining the English fleet, then at anchor about six miles off, were supposed to be fire-ships, and that an immediate attack from them was apprehended.

The fleet of boats was to be on the watch near the boom, to attack any English boats which might approach, or to tow the fire-ships clear of the men-of-war.

The night was of pitchy darkness when the flotilla of French boats started on their perilous expedition. Long they watched, every moment expecting to see the flames from the fire-ships bursting forth close to them, or to be engaged in a deadly conflict with the English boats.

“Hark!” said Hernan to the midshipman by his side; “I hear the sound of oars. Ah, there is a boat! What boat is that?” he asked, in a loud voice.

Little did he dream who was in that boat, that his hated rival was almost within his power. The French boats gave chase. There could be but little doubt that the English boat had been in the midst of them. Many a loud oath was sent after her, but she flew faster than they or their oaths, and the flotilla returned discomfited to their stations at the boom. Thus the night passed away. The general opinion was, that after all they had little to fear from the threatened fire-ships.

Chapter Thirty Five.

The Frigate attempts to escape from the Fire-Ship—The Burning Frigate—Danger of the Passengers—Escape from the Burning Ship—On board the “Scorpion”—Lord Claymore ill supported—The “Scorpion” sent to the North Sea.

The night passed off without any attack on the French fleet from the British fire-ships. Pedro Alvarez, or rather Captain Gerardin, offered to land Colonel Armytage on his parole with his family and Donna Julia, so that they might remain in a place of safety in case of threatened danger; but the colonel, with his characteristic obstinacy, declined the favour, saying that he felt himself in perfect safety on board the frigate. It must be said that the general opinion among the French officers was, that the English would not attack them, while he, accustomed to hold the navy somewhat in contempt, persuaded himself that they would not dare to make the attempt.

The evening had passed much as others had done. Edda enjoyed it the more that Hernan was absent. The captain, as he had been accustomed, brought his guitar into the cabin, and played and sang a number of Spanish airs, and persuaded Donna Julia to do the same. Father Mendez, as he well could when he had the will, made himself very agreeable by describing many places he had visited, and narrating a number of anecdotes. Even Colonel Armytage entered freely into conversation, and he and Father Mendez soon became on very friendly terms. The marquis was the only person who was in ill temper. He sat aloof from the rest of the party, and refused all invitations to join in the conversation. The truth was, he had begun to suspect that Pedro Alvarez and Father Mendez were plotting against him. He felt himself in the power of Tacon, whom he knew would give them all the information they required, while he looked with a suspicious eye on the young lieutenant, whose likeness to Don Hernan Escalante had forcibly struck him. His daughter only fancied that he was unhappy at being a prisoner; but as she was in very pleasant society, and was treated with all courtesy and kindness, she had no cause to complain.

Some of the other officers of the ship came in, cards were introduced, and the marquis was tempted to play. Colonel Armytage joined him. It was a somewhat incongruous collection of people. With music and conversation the evening passed rapidly away, and the party continued together till a much later hour than usual.

The captain handed his guitar to Donna Julia with a gallant bow.

“One more song, sweet lady,” he said. “It is seldom we seamen enjoy the delightful harmony you have afforded us this evening.”

Donna Julia took the instrument, and running her fingers over the cords commenced a low and plaintive air. Her voice was sweet, but not strong, though it was sufficient to fill the cabin, and to rivet the attention of all present. The air was sad and plaintive, and from the pathos with which she sung, it showed too clearly her own feelings. It is wonderful how music unlocks the heart, and melts the long pent-up stream. Not a sound but that sweet voice was heard. The seamen on their watch overhead stopped in their walk to listen to strains so unusual. Suddenly a roar, more terrific than the bursting of a volcano, was heard, followed by shrieks, and groans, and cries; a bright light was seen glancing over the water through the stern ports; the ship shook from her keel. The guitar fell from Donna Julia’s hands. Mrs Armytage grasped her daughter’s arm, expecting something more dreadful to follow, and believing that the ship was about to blow up. The gentlemen started to their feet; the officers rushed out of the cabin. The scene which met their view was sufficient to inspire the stoutest heart with fear. Directly ahead, and rushing towards them, was a vast fiery mass, furiously darting forth flames, sufficient, should it reach her, to wrap the frigate in a destructive embrace. At the same time, from out of this floating volcano, shot forth red-hot missiles, which fell in destructive showers on her decks. The crew, in dismay, were running for shelter below, till their captain’s voice was heard high above the din, calling on them to act like men, and to endeavour to save the ship by throwing overboard their dangerous visitors.

The remaining boats were then ordered to be lowered to tow aside the burning mass now close at hand. But who would venture to approach it?

“Alfonse would have attempted it!” exclaimed the captain, but not an officer moved. Certain destruction would be their doom.

“I then must go myself; who will follow me?” cried the captain.

Numbers of the crew sprang towards the boats. There was ample light to see what was to be done. At that instant the flames and sparks darted up higher than ever, and then, as if it were the work of magic, there was total darkness; the explosion vessel had sunk: the frigate was saved.

“We must get under weigh,” cried the captain. “The boom has been shattered. Another vessel may strike the same spot with more success, and we may not escape her so easily.”

The crew flew aloft to loosen sails. They were eager to avoid a similar danger to that which had almost paralysed them. Before they were again off the yards another fearful explosion took place close to them, but though numerous fiery fragments fell on board, few were hurt. Had they not been aloft many more would have suffered. The cable was slipped, and the frigate now began to move through the water.

On hearing the second explosion, the remaining occupants of the cabin rushed up on deck. Colonel Armytage was the least agitated, but even he did not attempt to quiet the alarm of his wife and daughter. Father Mendez trembled like an aspen leaf. The usual calmness of his exterior had disappeared. The danger which threatened was strange, incomprehensible. So occupied were the officers and crew, that none of the party were observed. The spectacle which soon after met their sight was not calculated to allay their terror.

For a few minutes all was again darkness, and then rapidly, one after the other, masses of flame burst forth from the surface of the ocean, hurrying towards them. As they approached, the sails and rigging of large vessels were seen amid the flames. No human beings could have stood on those decks; but yet onward came, rushing impetuously, the burning fleet. They were the much dreaded fire-ships. On they came. The boom had been forced. By what power could they be resisted? The French ships opened their fire on them, and shot were flying about among friends and foes, increasing the confusion and dismay. Still the fire-ships sailed on, intent on their mission of destruction. Now a line-of-battle ship was grappled. For long her gallant crew in vain sacrificed their lives in the attempt to free her from the fire-ship’s deadly embrace. The cables were cat, and both together drifted away to leeward. And now dismay seized nearly all the French officers and crews. Simultaneously the cables were slipped, and they endeavoured to avoid the threatened danger by flight. Some effected their escape, but others were overtaken by the fire-ships, and were seen surrounded by flames. The frigate had been kept under weigh, firing sometimes at the fire-ships as they sailed by, and at others at boats which were supposed to be English. As the fire reached the guns of the burning ships they were discharged right and left, and a whole broadside was poured into the frigate. It was blowing strong—a shot struck her foremast, and with all its top hamper away it went over the side, carrying the maintopmast with it. The frigate luffed up into the wind and became unmanageable. A fire-ship was approaching. On it came. It got entangled in the wreck of the mast, and soon the frigate herself was wrapped in flames.

Edda saw and comprehended the danger. “Oh, mother, we will die together!” she exclaimed, for she saw no hope of escape.

The crew, led by their captain, made many gallant attempts to cut clear the wreck and the fire-ships, but each time the fierce heat of the flames drove them back again. Still they persevered. They all saw that, with the few boats they had remaining, unless the flames were subdued they must be destroyed. From the rest of the squadron they could expect no help; some of the ships were seeking safety in flight, others were in alike predicament as themselves. The French officers exerted themselves heroically. Again and again they led their men up among the flames, where many, as with axes in hand they cut away at the spars or ropes, lost their hold and fell headlong into the burning mass, or were suffocated by the smoke. Many were precipitated into the water; and their shrieks were heard as they struggled vainly in their endeavour to reach the burning frigate driving away before them. Even at that moment the brave Pedro Alvarez did not forget his passengers. He had done all that a man could do to save the ship, but he believed that his efforts would prove fruitless. He now thought of the means of saving his friends. He was hurrying to the cabin when he perceived them grouped together on the deck. The three ladies stood, not shrieking nor giving way to fear, but calm and collected, waiting till they received directions what to do. Colonel Armytage, with the marquis and Father Mendez were endeavouring to shield them from the sparks, which flew thickly around, and threatened to ignite their dresses. The colonel looked up and saw that the flames were rapidly gaining on the ship. He was not altogether so stubborn and selfish as not to wish to preserve the lives of his wife and daughter. The awful scene made him also more kind and gentle than usual.

“Edda—wife, daughter, we must get you into the boats,” he said. “Donna Julia, and her father, and the priest will accompany us. I must obtain assistance from some of the crew.”

“The boats—the boats!” shouted the captain, rushing now to one side of the ship—now to the other; they were gone!

Some of the dastards among the crew, in selfish haste to save themselves, had leaped into them and pulled away.

Where all this time was the first-lieutenant of the ship? He with his boats had not returned; what had become of him no one could tell. He might have missed the frigate, and gone in another direction, or might have been captured by the English. Secretly, Pedro Alvarez hoped that this might be the case, for whatever his adopted son, who had always been brought up as a Frenchman, might think on the subject, he had begun to wish that he could be engaged in fighting the battles of his native country, instead of those of her enemies and oppressors.

Thinking of Hernan reminded him of his prisoner, and the old pirate Tacon. To his adopted son the old man’s life was of the greatest importance. Should he be destroyed one chief witness of his identity would be lost. He hurried below to release him. He was only just in time to save him from suffocation, for the smoke was already finding its way along the decks. He had found the armourer on his way, and ordering him to knock off the prisoner’s fetters, he dragged him up, and placed him close to Colonel Armytage.

“Much depends on his safety: keep your eye on him, sir,” he said.

A terrible idea occurred to him. The magazine had not been drowned. Should it not be done, all on board might be blown to destruction. It was a work of awful danger, for a spark might fly in before the powder was destroyed, and produce the dreaded catastrophe. He gave the necessary orders, and then devoted himself to other endeavours to save the lives of some of those on board. That all could be saved, he knew was impossible.

For some time longer, efforts were made to clear the fireship, and while some of the crew were thus employed, others, under the captain’s superintendence, were endeavouring to form a raft, but at length the flames seemed resolved to claim their victim. And now a scene of the wildest confusion ensued. Many who had hitherto been exerting themselves manfully abandoned all hope; some threw themselves overboard, others rushed below to the spirit-store, hoping to reach it before the fire had gained possession of the hold. Some rushed aft, imploring the captain to save them, and shouting loudly for boats to come to their assistance. No one among that multitude of rough men stood so calm and resigned as Mrs Armytage and her daughter. Donna Julia was scarcely less so; but her hands were clasped firmly, and every now and then she moved a few paces with rapid steps up and down the deck, regardless of the sparks which fell around her. Edda stood motionless, with her head turned away from the flames, and her eye ranging with undefined hope seaward, over the water.

“There are boats coming!—boats! boats!” was the cry.

A shout was raised by the remainder of the crew clustered on the quarter-deck.

“Lieutenant Gerardin and our comrades have arrived.”

The crew began to rush to the sides to throw themselves into the boats, but a warning cry was raised in English, “Keep back, or we pull away!” One boat, however, dashed alongside. Ropes were hove to the people in her by the captain and others, and an officer climbed up on board, and instead of Alfonse Gerardin, whom she expected, Edda beheld, to her unspeakable joy, Ronald Morton. The bright glare revealed her to him. He did not look to see who else was there. He knew her in a moment. He asked not how she came there, but clasping her in his arms, he carried her to the side of the vessel.

“Oh, Ronald, my mother!” she exclaimed.

Several persons had followed him.

“I’ll look after her, miss,” said Job Truefitt, taking up Mrs Armytage, with as much ease as if she had been a child, and accompanying his chief. An officer—it was Glover—who had got on board from one of the other boats, seeing Donna Julia, without a word, lifting her in his arms, carried her to the ship’s side. With the assistance of Pedro Alvarez they were lowered safely into the boats. Many of the seamen were then about to leap in, but the captain drove them back with his sword.

“Shame on you! there are old men and a priest to be first placed in safety,” he shouted. “Help them first, and then think about yourselves.”

Even at that awful moment the men obeyed. The marquis and the priest were lowered down, and Colonel Armytage followed. As Pedro Alvarez was helping him down the side he said in a low voice, “Keep an eye on old Tacon, he is even now meditating how he may escape. I will lower him down to you.”

The captain then caught hold of Tacon, and without much ceremony sent him down after the rest.

Ronald’s boat was now full enough, and he ordered the men to shove off and lie on their oars, while the other boats took off the remainder of the crew.

A considerable number of the Frenchmen had been taken off the burning ship, when Ronald saw the brave captain standing by himself, he having refused to quit her till his men were in safety.

“It were a pity so brave a fellow should be lost,” said Ronald.

“Oh, do—do save him!” cried Edda, who heard the remark. “He is kind and good as well as brave.”

This was enough; he once more steered the boat towards the burning ship. Just then a burning spar fell from aloft. It appeared to strike him, for he disappeared. A groan escaped all who saw the accident.

“He may not be killed though, sir,” said Job Truefitt. “If I may, I’ll look for him.”

Ronald gave him leave. There were numbers of ropes hanging over the frigate’s quarter. Job swarmed up by one of them, and directly after appeared with the captain, about whose body he had secured a rope. He lowered him down into the boat, and followed immediately. Still numbers of the crew remained. Many who had gone below hearing that there were boats alongside, came up with the hopes of escaping. When the already overloaded boats pulled away their rage and despair knew no bounds. They were seen standing on the hammock-nettings, or in the mizzen rigging, shaking their fists and uttering the most dreadful imprecations on the heads of those whom they considered were deserting them. As it was, the boats were so full that not another person could have been received on board with safety.

Morton gave the orders for the boats to pull back to the “Scorpion.” It was heavy work, for there was a strong wind and a heavy sea; but the crews encouraging each other cheerfully pulled on.

What joy filled Morton’s heart at having been the means of preserving Edda’s life and that of her father and mother! He did not press her to say much; but a few words explained how they came to be on board the French frigate.

Her feelings were not dissimilar to his. She was with him again, and she had no fear for the future.

Pedro Alvarez, too, was perfectly satisfied with having been taken prisoner, when he found from Colonel Armytage who was his captor. “The very man I wished to meet,” he said to himself. “He will tell me where his father is to be found, and Rolf Morton is an important witness in proving the claim of my poor Hernan. Where can he be though? Probably he had gone with the boats to the assistance of some of the other ships, and was not aware of our danger.”

Just before daylight the boats reached the “Scorpion.” The ladies were carried below to obtain that rest they so much required, and Ronald accommodated the rest of the party as well as he could.

Pedro Alvarez at once went up to him and claimed his acquaintance. “I wish to tell you of circumstances with which it is important you should be acquainted without delay,” he said. “I know that you have every reason to be interested in Donna Hilda Escalante, known as the Lady of Lunnasting.”

Ronald was all attention. He knew how really interested Mrs Armytage was in all concerning her unhappy sister, while he was most anxious to show his gratitude by serving her.

Pedro Alvarez then explained who he himself was, and told his astonished hearer that the pirate Tacon, whom he had on board, was the very man who had carried off Hilda’s child, which child had been rescued and brought up by him.

“Then the young officer whom I have so often and so unexpectedly met, and who appears to have such bitter animosity towards me, is no other than Hernan Escalante, the long-lost son of my kind patroness Donna Hilda?” exclaimed Ronald.

“Such is the case,” said Pedro Alvarez. “He has fallen in love with his fair cousin, and he believes that you are his rival. He has another reason for disliking you, but of that by-and-by. I believe that I can do you a service, and certainly you can do me a considerable one. You owe me a good turn, let me tell you; for in consequence of having assisted you to escape, I was obliged to take command of a privateer, bound for the East Indies, and to make my escape from France. I was wandering about in those seas for many years; but at length, having some friends in power, I was reinstated in the French navy. However, my heart has never been estranged from Spain. She is at peace with England; and as I now hope to see the great object of my existence accomplished—the son of my old captain established in his rights—I purpose throwing off my allegiance to France, and becoming once more a Spaniard. I have told you all this, at a moment so unfitting, because I am anxious that you should endeavour to prevent any of the persons who were on board my frigate from escaping. Tacon will certainly make the attempt. He does not know of what crimes he may be found guilty, and instinctively will do what he can to be at liberty.”

In a few words the worthy Pedro also told Ronald who the marquis and the old priest were, and he undertook to do his best to keep a watch on them till they had given the evidence required to establish young Hernan in his rights.

“Believe me,” he added, “I wish him no ill, and I would gladly make any sacrifice to see him restored to his mother and the possessor of his paternal inheritance. As to the marquis, I am not surprised at what you tell me; I never liked him when we had him on board the ‘Imperious,’ while the priest always puzzled me. Tacon showed himself to be a most perfect rogue, and I suspect will give us no little trouble before we can get the required truth out of him. However, as it can be proved that he committed an act of piracy in attacking a Spanish vessel, I shall take the liberty of putting him into irons, to prevent the chance of his escaping.”

Pedro Alvarez was well satisfied with the arrangements made by Morton, while the miserable Tacon complained bitterly of the hard fate to which he was doomed.

“Oh, the malice and cruelty of this world!” he exclaimed. “I no sooner get my legs out of one pair of irons than I find them clapped into another—wretched—ill-used man that I am! What have I done to deserve such a lot?”

When daylight returned, the effect produced by the fireships became apparent. The whole French fleet lay scattered about in every direction. Some had disappeared altogether. They had either sunk or effected their escape up the harbour, but the greater number lay hard and fast on shore, some so much on the heel that a few shots from the British ships would have knocked holes in their bottoms, and when the tide rose have effectually prevented their again floating.

Soon after daybreak the gallant Lord Claymore, the soul and moving spirit of the enterprise, signalised to the Admiral that the whole might be destroyed. For a long time no notice of his signals was taken. At length some vessels were sent to his assistance, but much valuable time was lost, and several of the French ships, by throwing overboard their stores and guns, floated, and got higher up the harbour.

When the British squadron did get into action, they performed their work effectually, and four line-of-battle ships and a fifty-gun ship were taken, two of which were at once destroyed. The other two were not set on fire till night, when a panic seized the French crews, who believed them to be more fire-ships, and then some again cut their cables, and endeavoured to escape up the harbour, while one captain and his ship’s company abandoned their ship altogether. One man only was left on board, who, by his bravery and presence of mind, prevented her from becoming a prize to an English midshipman and his boat’s crew. When the boat pulled up, he hailed in a loud voice, ordering her to keep off, and having a number of marines’ muskets ready, he fired them one after the other with such rapidity, that the midshipman of course fully believed that a considerable part of the crew were still on board.

The next day some fresh fire-ships were fitted for the purpose of destroying the enemy’s ships on shore, which could not otherwise be got at. The wind was, however, unfavourable, and the enterprise was ultimately abandoned.

Ronald’s own ship was not engaged in these operations, and he perhaps was secretly not sorry to avoid the risk his passengers would have run had she been so. He, however, accompanied Lord Claymore, and assisted in capturing the line-of-battle ships and in removing the prisoners. He made all the inquiries he could from the prisoners for Alfonse Gerardin, but not a word could he hear of him, and he began to fear that he must have been killed.

“Poor Hernan!” he said to himself; “it will be sad if such is your fate at the very moment that there is a prospect of your being restored to your name and station.”

Directly after this Lord Claymore returned to England, and the “Scorpion” was also ordered home.

Although most of the prisoners taken from the burning frigate were removed, on Morton’s application Pedro Alvarez was allowed to remain on board the corvette. He kept likewise that worthy, Tacon, as he felt sure that if he did not he should never seen him again. Colonel Armytage behaved much more courteously to Ronald than he had formerly done, but still there was more stiffness in his manner than was pleasant; and in his presence his wife and daughter appeared restrained and uneasy, as if he had laid injunctions on them which they would gladly have broken through.

The day after the marquis got on board he was seized with a severe illness, brought on by the anxiety and alarm which he had experienced. The surgeon pronounced it to be very dangerous. Glover had given up his cabin to him, and now assisted poor Donna Julia in tending him, which he did with the greatest devotion.

The “Scorpion” had a quick passage to Plymouth, where Colonel Armytage and his family went on shore.

Edda’s last words to Ronald were, “We must live in hope. My father may compel me to remain single, as I will not marry in opposition to his wishes; but at the same time I will marry no one but you.”

What more could a lover wisely desire?

“Hope has borne me up hitherto. It will, I trust, continue to sustain me,” answered Ronald, as, having escorted her and her parents on shore, he was compelled to return on board.

The marquis continued too ill to be moved, and Father Mendez claimed the right, as his confessor, of remaining with him. To this Morton had no objection, especially as the priest interfered with no one, and made himself a very agreeable companion. Ronald was doubting how to dispose of Pedro Alvarez, for whom he had begun to feel much regard. He was very unwilling to send him on shore, where he would have been committed to prison. While he was thus uncertain how to act, he received orders to fill up with provisions and stores, and proceed to the north seas for a summer cruise. For this he was not sorry, for though he would have preferred being more actively engaged in the Channel, it gave him the prospect of visiting Shetland. He had written to his father as soon as he reached England, and told him everything that occurred. It would now be impossible for him to know what steps he might think fit to take till he could meet him in Shetland. He thought over the matter with regard to Pedro Alvarez, and thinking it probable that he would not be inquired for, he offered to allow him to remain on board as his guest, on receiving his parole that he would not escape. This he of course at once gave, as he was himself very anxious to visit Shetland, that he might communicate with Sir Marcus Wardhill and Hilda, in order to arrange the proofs necessary for Hernan to establish his claims.

The marquis, as he lay on his sick bed, little dreamed of the probable result of his plots and contrivances, and of the reverse of fortune preparing for him.

Pedro Alvarez had clearly explained all his plans to Ronald.

“I will, my friend, help you to the utmost to do justice to the wronged; and scarcely any event will give me greater satisfaction than seeing Donna Hilda Escalante recover her son,” said Morton; “but I fear that by so doing I shall make a mortal enemy of Colonel Armytage, who would otherwise succeed to the Lunnasting property; and I shall deprive his daughter of the fortune which would fall to her.”

Pedro Alvarez looked at him hard.

“Should Hernan Escalante ever succeed to the Lunnasting property, I can answer for it that Miss Armytage will not be the sufferer,” he answered.

The remark shot a pang through Ronald’s heart. “Should Hernan become owner of Lunnasting, and a Spanish marquis, what pressure will Colonel Armytage bring to bear to compel Edda to break her promises to me, and to unite herself to him. It was of that the Spaniard was thinking. But no; I have heard and read of the falsehood and faithlessness of women, but I will not believe that Edda Armytage could by any possibility be guilty of such treachery: the very thought is dishonouring to her. Did I think that such a union would tend to her happiness, I would release her from her promise; but I feel sure it would not. No, no! wealth and rank would not bribe her. She loves me. What pride and happiness to know that I am loved for myself, and myself alone! Should I be deceived, life in future will indeed be a blank.”

Chapter Thirty Six.

Lunnasting Castle—Lawrence Brindister—Lawrence’s mysterious sayings—Unpleasant Announcement to Sir Marcus—Arrival of the “Scorpion”—The Priest’s Visit to Hilda.

Hilda Wardhill, or rather Donna Hilda Escalante, was to be seen in her turret chamber in the same spot, and almost in the same position, as when first in her youth and glorious beauty she was introduced to the reader. Years had dimmed and changed that beauty, but had not altogether destroyed it; and as she now sat habited in black, her complexion pure as alabaster, and her light hair braided over her forehead, which was bowed down over a volume of huge dimensions, she presented a subject which a painter would have delighted to portray. She leaned back in her chair, and pressing her hand on her brow, exclaimed, “In vain have I studied to ascertain how, or in what guise he will return. I demand an answer, but the oracles cruelly refuse to reply. O that I had the potent secret by which I could compel an answer, and that the dark veil which hides the future might be torn aside to disclose the view I long to see! Yet of one thing I am certain—the time cannot be far distant; of this many significant events have warned me. The return of Rolf Morton after so long an absence is strange; my father’s illness, and his strong desire to see my sister Edda once more, and her daughter, who they tell me is as lovely as she was. The old man’s illness will, I doubt not, induce that stern English colonel to come down, that he may secure some share of his wealth. He dreams not that my Hernan will return some day to claim his own, and prevent poor Edda’s daughter from becoming the Lady of Lunnasting, as they now believe she will be.”

Her hand slowly dropped from her brow, and she gazed forth on the ocean.

“What—what is yonder object? Is it a phantom of the brain or a reality?” she exclaimed, rising from her seat, and pointing towards the south-west. “See, there—there at the very spot where that beautiful ship first appeared, which the cruel ocean dashed to fragments on these rocks of Shetland, floats her counterpart. Can it be her—the ‘Saint Cecilia’ herself? Is all that has passed for these long years a dream? No, no; it has been too real, too palpable, too full of pain, and sorrow, and hope deferred, to be a dream. Yet, what is that?—a ship, come to mock me, as others have done; first to raise my hopes that my long-lost son is on board, and again as bitterly to disappoint them.”

“Yes, cousin; that is a ship, and a very fine ship, too; a British man-of-war, I judge, by the ensign which floats proudly at her peak,” said a voice behind her.

Hilda turned quickly round, and an angry frown rose on her brow as she saw Lawrence Brindister, who had entered just as she had discovered the strange ship. He shuffled up to the window, with a peculiar gait partly caused by the size of his shoes. His appearance, as he advanced in age, had become more grotesque. He wore a gay-flowered waistcoat, with knee breeches, and huge silver buckles on his shoes. His coat, which was much too large for his now shrunken figure, was trimmed with gold lace in a style already long gone out of fashion. His grey eyes looked larger and rounder than ever, while his hair, which had become perfectly white, was cropped short, and stood on end like the quills of an irritated porcupine.

“Why comes she here, I wonder?” he continued. “Once upon a time, I would have gone to ascertain, but my old arms can now scarcely paddle a boat across the voe, and were I to attempt to go, and the tide catch me, I might be swept helplessly out to sea. It might not be a bad ending for the puir auld daft bodie, you’ll be saying, cousin, and a wonder it had never happened before. But I’ve some work to do before that time, Hilda. ‘The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!’ and before long too, let me tell you, cousin.”

“Lawrence, what is the import of those words?” exclaimed Hilda, vehemently, grasping his arm as she spoke; “for years past you have uttered them. I adjure you, tell me what you mean.”

“Cousin, I am but a puir fule,” answered Lawrence, looking calmly into her face; “fules speak mony things without meaning, ye ken.”

Hilda looked steadfastly in his face, and he returned her gaze with an expression so unmoved and idiotic, that she saw it was hopeless to expect a satisfactory reply.

They were standing close to the window as she turned from him; her glance once more ranged over the ocean. Again she stopped and gazed; Lawrence watched the direction of her eyes.

“Ha, ha, cousin! you have discovered the other craft, have you? Who comes in her, think you? Guests are expected at the castle, I understand, and some at the cottage, if so you choose to designate my friend Rolf Morton’s abode; sages learned in the law coming to investigate a knotty subject, to unravel a long-continued mystery.”

“I understand you not,” answered Hilda, still continuing to watch the two vessels. The latter-mentioned one was a cutter or smack, such as was employed in the summer months to keep up the communication between the islands and the ports of Aberdeen and Leith. She had come apparently from Lerwick, and was now observed to be steering directly for Lunnasting, while the corvette kept in the offing, and was, as far as could be seen, about to enter Eastling Sound from the east, or to pass it by altogether. The smack had got a favourable slant of wind, and rapidly approached.

Hilda stood watching her with trembling anxiety. Lawrence was also watching her narrowly, and taking apparently a strange pleasure in so doing. At length an idea seemed to strike him.

“I’ll be off, and tell Sir Marcus of his coming guests,” he exclaimed, shuffling out of the room. “He little wots how near at hand they are, and what strange tidings some of them may chance to bring. Ho, ho, ho! you shall reap as you sow; there’s truth in that saying. Ho, ho, ho! ‘The prince will hae his ain again!’”

With these words on his lips he approached the door of Sir Marcus’s chamber. The old man was seated in a large armchair, propped up with cushions, before a blazing fire. His long white hair drawn back, and fastened in a queue behind, exposed his high thin forehead, while his lustreless eyes and fallen jaw showed that the hand of time was pressing heavily on him, and summoning him to conclude his career on earth.

“They’re coming, cousin! they’re coming!” exclaimed Lawrence.

“Who—who?” asked the old man, rousing up, but trembling violently. “Who do you mean, Lawrence?”

“Colonel Armytage and his wife and daughter, whom you sent for, and some gentlemen learned in the law, whom you didn’t send for, I ween. There’ll be strange doings at Lunnasting before long, Sir Marcus. Ho, ho, ho! ‘The prince will hae his ain again, his ain again!’” And Lawrence, shouting and laughing, shuffled out of the room.

Meantime, Hilda had been watching the corvette and the smack. What the former was about to do still remained doubtful, but the latter continued her course till she came to an anchor close in with the mouth of the voe. A boat which Hilda recognised as belonging to Rolf Morton went out to meet her. The smack’s own boat was also lowered, and several people among whom were two ladies, embarked in her.

A tall thin man stepped into Rolfs boat with the air of a sailor, and having shaken him warmly by the hand, assisted in two other gentlemen in black dresses, who showed by their movements that they were far from well accustomed to nautical adventure.

While Rolfs boat proceeded up the voe, the other pulled towards the Lunnasting landing-place. Hilda would fain have watched the proceedings of the corvette, but believing that her sister had arrived she hurried down to meet her. At first she was about to go down to the landing-place, but her courage failed, and she waited in the great hall to receive her guests. At last they entered, ushered in by Lawrence, who kept bowing and flourishing his three-cornered hat before them in a way which seemed more like mockery than respect.

Colonel Armytage approached Hilda with formal respect, but the sisters threw themselves into each other’s arms, and the younger found vent for her feelings in a torrent of tears; but not a drop fell from Hilda’s eye. Edda stood hesitating for a moment, and then threw her arms round her aunt’s neck, and kissed her affectionately.

“Oh, may you be more happy than either of us!” was all Hilda said, as she looked at the sweet face beaming up at her.

A gentleman followed Colonel Armytage into the room. Hilda looked towards him as if to inquire who he was.

“He is Mr Boland, my legal adviser,” said the colonel. “I thought it wiser to bring him, in case any difficulties should arise about the succession to this property.”

“What difficulties can arise—what doubts are there?” inquired Hilda, in an agitated tone.

“Matters will be explained to you, madam, shortly,” answered Colonel Armytage, suspecting that Hilda had not heard of the discovery of her son.

He was not a man who would have attempted to prevent him from obtaining his rights, but he had not virtue enough to resist the wish that he might, after all, never appear to claim them.

The meeting between Sir Marcus Wardhill and his once favourite daughter was very painful. He scarcely aroused himself to greet her.

“You have come a long distance, daughter, and have been a long time coming,” he said, putting out his hand, and looking up coldly in her face. “I suppose you feared the old man might die and leave his wealth elsewhere; it was that made you come, Edda?”

Mrs Armytage, with her eyes full of tears, stooped down and kissed the old man’s forehead. “Father, no—do not be so cruel as to speak thus,” she sobbed out. “Money I have never coveted. You sent for Colonel Armytage; you desired us to accompany him, and most gladly we came; but it was to see you, and you only, dear father.”

“Ah, so I did—now I recollect,” said Sir Marcus. “I never loved him and he never loved me, but he is a man—he has sense; he knows the world; he can rule a disorderly household. Go out, all of you. Let him come in; we have matters to arrange, and no time is to be lost. Go, go quickly!”

Colonel Armytage and Mr Boland, when summoned, hurried up to the old man’s room with due alacrity. They were closeted an hour or more with Sir Marcus, and when they came out there was a look of satisfaction in the colonel’s countenance which showed that he believed he had attained the object he had in view incoming to see his father-in-law. When he soon afterwards met his wife, he appeared to be in far better humour than she had long known him.

“Your father, my good wife, is a far more reasonable man than I expected to find him,” he said, taking her hand with an unusually affectionate air. “I had few or no difficulties with him. He told me, what I have long suspected, that your sister Hilda is the victim at times of strange hallucinations, that she is eccentric always—in fact, that she is totally unable to manage this property. He has therefore, in the most sensible way, left it entirely to us, with the proviso that we make a certain allowance for your sister’s maintenance. Our daughter, therefore, becomes the heiress of Lunnasting, and as such I feel has a right to make as good a match as any girl in the kingdom.”

“Poor Hilda!” was all Mrs Armytage said; she was going to add, “Poor Edda!” for she foresaw the grief and trouble prepared for her daughter.

“Why, madam, you do not look pleased at this announcement of our good fortune,” said Colonel Armytage.

“How can I, when I know that my poor sister, who has so long been mistress here, will ere long find herself almost disinherited?”

“Nonsensical idea!” said Colonel Armytage, scornfully. “Your sister will be as happy as her nature will allow her, with her books and abstruse studies, which, by all accounts, have turned her brain, and unfitted her for every-day life. However, we will not discuss the subject. It is settled to my satisfaction, at all events. I am no longer the miserable beggar I was two hours ago. By-the-by, what has become of our tall friend who accompanied us from Aberdeen? I expected to have seen him here. He seemed to be perfectly well acquainted with the state of things here, and intimate with those two black-coated gentlemen who professed to be ministers. From the tone of their conversation, and the merry twinkle in their eyes, I rather suspected them, to say the truth.”

“A fine-looking old gentlemen came off to receive them,” said Mrs Armytage. “He is a resident of the island. I know no more.”

“It matters not; I only hope that we shall not have to encounter that tall, red-haired young man again,” observed the colonel. “His manner to me was most offensive; he is a sailor, I feel sure, by the way he walked the deck. He recognised the sloop-of-war we saw in the offing; but when I asked her name he pretended not to hear my question; and the look he gave me, as he turned round, prevented me from again asking it. I wonder, though, what has become of her! Some of the people on board the smack seemed to think that she might anchor in the Sound near here. What is the name gived to it?”

“Eastling Sound,” answered Mrs Armytage; “we can have a perfect view of it from the eastern tower, if you like to go there.”

When Colonel and Mrs Armytage reached the tower, they found their daughter already there, attended by Lawrence Brindister, who had placed himself before her, that she might rest a telescope on his shoulder to look at the corvette, which was gliding gracefully down Eastling Sound, and shortening sail preparatory to coming to an anchor. Edda had not heard her parents’ approach.

“Yonder seems truly a brave and gallant ship, sweet cousin mine,” said Lawrence. “Can you guess her name, or whence she comes?”

“Yes, yes—it is the ‘Scorpion!’” she exclaimed.

“And what is there wonderful in the ‘Scorpion,’ fair coz?” asked Lawrence.

“Do not you know, cousin Lawrence, that she is commanded by a very brave officer, Captain Ronald Morton?” said Edda.

“That is fortunate, indeed,” exclaimed Lawrence, turning round suddenly, and encountering Colonel Armytage’s gaze fixed on him.

“Why is it fortunate?” asked the colonel.

“Because he is, I opine, a very brave officer, as your daughter says, good sir,” answered Lawrence. And away he shuffled down the steps.

There was a pause of some duration.

“Remember, Edda,” said her father, at last, “if your conjecture is right, and yonder vessel is commanded by Captain Morton, should he venture here, I command you to have no communication with him. He is a mere adventurer; you are heiress of Lunnasting, and the lands appertaining to it. Listen, girl! you will drive me mad if you look so melancholy, instead of rejoicing at your good fortune.”

Hilda had been watching the corvette from her own tower, and seeing a boat leave the ship and approach the landing-place, she descended to the hall to learn who the strangers were, and to receive them, should they visit the castle. A note was soon afterwards put into her hands, informing her that two old acquaintances had arrived, and craved leave to see her.

She desired that they might be admitted, and in a short time the stout, well-knit figure of Pedro Alvarez was seen entering the hall, while by his side glided the attenuated form of the priest, Father Mendez.

Changed as they were by years, Hilda knew them at once. She trembled violently, and it was with difficulty she could rise to receive them.

“You are welcome, old friends,” she exclaimed; “but speak—tell me by what wonderful means have you reached Lunnasting once more? What event do you come to announce?”

“The father, lady, is a more fitting person than I am to tell you,” answered Pedro Alvarez. “He has more command of the language necessary to convey to you the information we possess.”

Hilda again started from the chair into which she had sunk, and seizing the priest’s arm, she exclaimed, “Speak without delay! You come to tell me of my son: yes, is it not so? He is found! Speak—speak! where is he? Why did you not bring him? Oh! do not mock me!”

“Lady, we come not to mock you,” said the priest, quietly. “You speak of your son; he is, we believe, alive, and more, that he can be found.”

Hilda clasped her hands in speechless eagerness, fixing her eyes intently on the countenance of the priest.

“He can be found, I say; but at once to save you from disappointment, I must tell you that he is not here. By a wonderful chain of circumstances, not only has his life been preserved, but we can, without doubt, prove his identity to satisfy the most rigid demands of a court of law.”

The priest’s slow mode of speaking did not at all satisfy poor Hilda’s eagerness. She turned to his companion.

“Tell, Pedro Alvarez, where is he?” she exclaimed. “I care not now for the means by which he has been preserved. Where can I find him? When can I see him? You swore to search for him. Did you fulfil your promise? Oh! bring him to me, if you have found him.”

“Lady, I did fulfil my promise most faithfully, and to the service of your son I have devoted my life. It may be weeks or months before you can see him, but I have every reason to hope that he is safe at this moment in France. But the means were afforded me of coming here, and, moreover, of producing all the existing witnesses necessary to prove the legality of his birth in the first place, his identity in the second, and his right, if not to the castle and estates of Lunnasting, to the rank which his father would have held of Marquis de Medea, and the valuable property attached to it.”

The hapless mother heaved a deep sigh.

“All that I doubt not; but could you not have brought him to me?” she gasped out, as she sunk once more back in her seat. It was some time before either she or her visitors again spoke. At last Father Mendez saw that it would be advantageous to her to break the silence.

“Donna Hilda, I crave your pardon,” he said, “but I have been charged with a request from the captain of yonder ship, one who owns himself to be deeply indebted to you in his youth, Ronald Morton. It is, that you will give shelter to an old man, who has long been ill, and his daughter, who has accompanied him. I will not tell you the old man’s name; but he feels that he has much to ask you to forgive, ere he can die in peace. He has not many days to live, so you will not have long to exercise your mercy.”

Hilda scarcely appeared to comprehend the last remarks.

“Yes, yes; whatever you desire, most readily do I grant,” she answered. “An old man, you say? If he thinks that he can die in peace on shore, let him come here and finish his remaining days.”

It was some time before Hilda was sufficiently tranquillised to listen to the details which Pedro Alvarez had to give her of the recapture of her son from the pirate Tacon, the causes of his flight from Europe, which prevented him from bringing Hernan back to Shetland, and his ultimate meeting with Tacon and Father Mendez, and of the aid which Ronald Morton had promised towards the accomplishment of his object.

“He was always a noble, generous boy!” she exclaimed, warmly; but she was little aware of the sacrifice Ronald was prepared to make to assist his rival, and one who had shown such bitter animosity towards him in obtaining his rights.

By this time the “Scorpion’s” boat returned under charge of Lieutenant Glover, with the Marquis de Medea, as Don Josef de Villavicencio had hitherto been called, and his daughter Julia. She, poor girl, had at first been astounded with the information that another person intervened between the title and estates her father had held, and that he had no right to them; but latterly, in consequence of the delicate endeavours of Glover to console her, she had become much more reconciled to her lot.

Whatever were the motives which influenced him, Father Mendez, armed with the information he had gained from Tacon, so worked either on the fears or better feelings of the dying marquis, that he professed himself ready to confess his crime, and to do his utmost to right the wronged.

Hilda, still ignorant of who he was, had him conveyed to one of the best chambers in the castle, and directed that all his wants should be attended to, while another room near his was prepared for Donna Julia.

Ronald Morton was of course not aware of the arrival of Edda Armytage and her parents; and feeling that it might be an intrusion, under the circumstances, to present himself before Hilda on that day, he directed Glover to say that he hoped to pay his respects in person on the following morning, and then hastened on towards his father’s house.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Ronald visits Lunnasting Castle—Legal Visitors arrive at Lunnasting—The rightful Heir discovered—The Prince has got his ain again.

With a heart agitated by a variety of conflicting feelings, Ronald Morton, the day after the “Scorpion” reached Eastling Sound, approached Lunnasting Castle. He was followed at a distance by his father and the three gentlemen who had arrived by the smack from Aberdeen. His great wish was that he might first meet Edda, and break to her the discoveries which had been made, and which it was now necessary to disclose. “Should I be unable to meet her, I will endeavour to see the Lady Hilda by herself, and it will soften the blow, when I am able to remind her that her son will undoubtedly succeed in establishing his claim to his father’s inheritance.” This thought was uppermost in Ronald’s mind, as he opened the well-known wicket and was crossing the court-yard to enter the hall.

At that moment Colonel Armytage was sallying out to inspect the domain which he hoped soon would be his own. He stopped, and looking with an angry frown on his frown at Ronald, said, “Captain Morton, it will prevent mistakes in future, if I at once tell you that I cannot allow your visits to this house, especially if paid, as I have reason to suppose, for the sake of seeing my daughter. While on service I was always ready to treat you as an equal in rank, but you must remember that your birth does not entitle you to associate on the same terms with the owners of Lunnasting; and as, at the express wish of Sir Marcus Wardhill, I am henceforth to be master here, I must at once, to save unpleasantness for the future, forbid you the castle.”

Morton bowed; though he bit his lip at the insult offered him, there was a smile in his eye which showed that he was not very much moved by the colonel’s behaviour.

“I will not dispute the matter with you now, sir,” he answered, calmly. “But I have a matter of importance on which to speak with the Lady Hilda, and unless she refuses to see me, I feel myself bound to communicate with her.”

Colonel Armytage, notwithstanding all Morton could say, was determined that he should not enter. He was still holding out against what Ronald was urging, when Rolf Morton and his friends entered the court-yard.

“Colonel Armytage, these gentlemen have come expressly to see Sir Marcus Wardhill and his daughter, the Lady Hilda,” said Ronald firmly. “I must introduce them. My former captain and friend, Lord Claymore; Mr Frazer and Mr Scott, two eminent lawyers from Scotland; and my father, whom you have heard of as Mr Rolf Morton.”

Colonel Armytage looked confused.

“Of course, my lord and gentlemen, if you desire to see Sir Marcus Wardhill, I cannot prevent you. I will lead the way and prepare him for your visit.”

Scarcely had Colonel Armytage disappeared than another party entered the court-yard. In the centre walked the worthy Captain Tacon, who was examining the building with much curiosity, and looking about him with a swaggering air of independence. He was guarded on either side by Job Truefitt and young Doull, who showed by their looks that they were not at all likely to allow him to escape from want of watchfulness. Directly after them came the elder Doull and Archy Eagleshay. Ronald directed them to wait in the hall while he went to look for Pedro Alvarez and Father Mendez. During his absence another person arrived, who was warmly greeted by Lord Claymore and the two lawyers as Mr Cameron, the Sheriff-Substitute for Shetland.

In a few minutes Colonel Armytage returned, and announced that Sir Marcus Wardhill was prepared to receive them.

He seemed very much astonished at the appearance of so many strangers, and probably had a presentiment of what was preparing for him.

He was, however, a man of the world; he was also an honourable man, according to his own code; he knew that nothing was to be gained by contending against authority, and much by yielding gracefully; and he also did not desire to oppose an act of justice, even though he might be the sufferer. With a proud resolution to do all that the strictest justice could require of him, he led the way to Sir Marcus’s room.

Here also his daughters and granddaughter, accompanied by Pedro Alvarez and Father Mendez, were assembled, and and before they sat down two servants wheeled in, on a sofa, the old Spanish marquis, who was followed by his weeping daughter. Edda invited her to come and sit by her, but she declined, and stood holding her father’s hand, while the priest stood on the other side of the sofa, every now and then stooping down to whisper into his ear.

The old man looked up and inquired why so many people were assembled; but when he saw Mr Cameron and the two lawyers he bowed his head, whispering slowly—“Some criminal to be tried, I see: let the case go on.”

“Not exactly that, Sir Marcus,” said the sheriff. “I have been requested to attend here to investigate two important cases, in both of which Lord Claymore, who is known to you, has taken much interest. At his request, my two learned friends, Mr Scott and Mr Frazer, have come from Edinburgh to assist us in our investigations; but it depends on circumstances whether the cases are or are not carried into a court of law, and thus made public. With which shall we proceed first, my lord?”

“By all means with that relating to the son of a lady present—the wife of a Spanish officer, Don Hernan Escalante,” said Lord Claymore. “We all must feel how anxious she must be to know that the interests of her child have been secured.”

It is not necessary to describe all the examinations which took place. Hilda’s marriage with Don Hernan was proved by three surviving witnesses—Father Mendez, Pedro Alvarez, and Rolf Morton, though the loss of the certificate, one of the lawyers was of opinion, might prove a difficulty in a Spanish court.

“It is one a few hundred dollars may get over,” observed Pedro Alvarez, with a shrug of his shoulders.

The birth of the child, and its abduction by strangers, was proved with equal ease. And now Captain Tacon was led forward, and in pure Castilian, which Pedro Alvarez translated, confessed that he was the person who carried off the young Hernan.

“But there, there is the man who instigated me to commit the deed!” he exclaimed, pointing to the marquis, who lay on the sofa with his eyes half closed.

“Yes, I confess my crime,” said the old man, slowly raising himself up. “I have enjoyed but little happiness since. My palaces have been burnt down, and my plate and jewels carried off by the French. May the rightful owner enjoy what remains. I have done what my father confessor directed. I am prepared for the grave which yawns to receive me, and a few hundred dollars which my daughter possesses will enable her to enter a convent, and there forget my sorrow and shame.”

Pedro Alvarez then described his recovery of young Hernan, and his career up to the moment he parted from him.

“I can without difficulty communicate with friends in France, who will inform him of what has occurred, and enable him to come here without delay,” he added. “Thence he can go to Spain, and take possession of his estates.”

What the marquis had said was translated to Sir Marcus. The number of people collected, and the discussions taking place, had had the effect of rousing him up, and his intellect seemed as bright and acute as ever.

“Then, Colonel Armytage, since a male heir is found for Lunnasting, I fear that I must alter the will which I lately made in your favour.”

“You may save yourself that trouble, Sir Marcus,” said the sheriff, somewhat sternly. “There is another claimant to the Lunnasting property. I would save your daughters from the pain of listening to the investigation of the case which must now be held. They will, however, perhaps wish to see that justice is done to all parties, and they may be assured that it is with the greatest unwillingness that I shall say anything which may wound their feelings.”

Mrs Armytage thanked the sheriff, and expressed her wish to remain; but Hilda did not speak. She had sat like a statue with her hands clasped during the examination of the witnesses, once only casting a look of reproach at the marquis, when he confessed that he had instigated Tacon to carry off her son. Still she sat in the same position, lost in thought, and utterly regardless of everything around.

“Sir Marcus Wardhill,” said the sheriff, “as you well know, the heir to these estates was Bertram Brindister. He was first in succession before your wife, but unaccountably disappeared, and was supposed to have been washed away by the sea. Two witnesses have now appeared, who can prove that he was designedly carried off by a noted smuggler and outlaw, Halled Yell by name, and by themselves. They are both present. All three men and the child were rescued from a wreck by Captain Andrew Scarsdale, who brought up the boy under the name of Rolf Morton. You knew his father. There stands the present Bertram Brindister, the real Lord of Lunnasting; is he not like his father?”

Sir Marcus looked up furtively at Rolf Morton, who stood with a calm countenance, expressive of more pain than triumph, directly in front of him.

“Yes, yes, he is very like,” he answered, and then conquering any fear he might have felt, he added—“But gentlemen, assertions are not proofs. This latter tale is too clumsy an imitation of the first we have just heard not to make a man of sense discredit it. Let us hear what the men have to say.”

On this the two old men, Doull and Eagleshay, stepped forward and described their having carried off a child from Whalsey at the very time the boy, Bertram Brindister, was missed, and all the events which followed, but they could neither of them tell the exact date of the occurrence.

“I thought so,” said Sir Marcus, calmly. “The man I see before me may be Bertram Brindister, but it cannot be proved; nor can, as far as I can see, the instigator of the crime be discovered, if, as I say, there is truth in the story, which I am inclined to doubt. An important link is missing, and your case, gentlemen, falls to the ground.”

“But the link is found, and truth is triumphant. ‘The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!’” exclaimed Lawrence Brindister, starting up and flourishing two papers in his hands, while he skipped about the room, in doubt to whom he should deliver them. “This is your marriage certificate, cousin Hilda, and I have been a faithful guardian of it; and this, Mr Sheriff, is the link you require to prove that honest Rolf Morton is really Bertram Brindister, and rightful Lord of Lunnasting, and that yonder old man, who has tyrannised over me, and insulted me and wronged me in every way, is an impostor; and that he instigated the villain Yell to abduct the heir that the inheritance might be his. See, it is the paper signed by Yell, and those other two men, and delivered to honest Andrew Scarsdale. Many a long year have I kept it. You all have heard that it was locked up in Captain Scarsdale’s chest, which, guided by a hand more potent than that of man, came floating by the northern end of Whalsey, and was drawn on shore by me and my old dog, Surly Grind. In a cave I had hard by, I kept the chest and its contents, but months passed away before I examined them. When I did, I saw well that nothing would be gained by publishing them. The rightful heir was away, and with his means how could he hope to contend with the wily and astute Sir Marcus Wardhill? So I did what many a wiser man might not have done, I bided my time. Maybe, Sir Marcus, you have thought me at times a greater fool than I was; but which is the greatest fool of the two—the man who obeys, or he who sets Heaven at defiance? Once, who could compete with me at school or college? and what might I not have been had you not, when I was struck down by illness, taken advantage of my weakness, and by sending me to a madhouse, confirmed my malady; but fool as you called me, I can see that Heaven’s retributive justice has chastised you through life. Me you got into your power on the ground that I was insane, and the mind of the daughter, in whom you took such pride, often totters on its throne; her son was carried off, as was the rightful heir, and for long weary years has she waited his return, while the daughter you loved has been a stranger to your sight; and now deprived of fortune, dishonoured, and disgraced, you are sinking unregretted into the grave.”

“Oh spare him! spare him!” cried Edda, gliding forward and taking the old man’s hand, for neither her mother nor Hilda could speak. “Let his grey hairs, cousin Lawrence, be his protection.”

The old man’s head had fallen on his bosom. He was breathing with difficulty, but she did not perceive it.

Ronald sprang to her side. “For your sake Edda, no one belonging to you shall suffer; my generous father promised me this. Be mine. The only objection Colonel Armytage urged against me no longer exists. Let us afford a home to those whom it will be our duty to cherish and console.”

Colonel Armytage, who had through all the proceedings maintained as calm and dignified a deportment as he could command, overheard the words, and stepping forward said, “Captain Morton, or I should rather say, Captain Brindister—for I fully believe that name is yours—you have acted nobly and generously; you have taught me to think better of the world than I was inclined to do. My daughter’s hand is your’s as her heart is already, and may she prove as good a wife to you as her mother has to me, and may her lot be far happier. I will use all my influence to persuade Sir Marcus not to oppose your father’s claims, and I trust that the act he so long ago committed may not be bruited abroad to bring discredit on the family.”

“After all, colonel, you are a wiser man than I took you for,” said Lawrence, resuming again his former and usual extravagant manner. “Blow the wind as it may, you always sail before it, and you keep your hat ready to bow to the rising star. That’s the way of the world, and what can a poor fool like me do but approve it. But what care I now how the world wags!—‘The prince has got his am again—his ain again!’ Said I not the truth when I sang that song!”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

The Priest goes in search of Hernan—The “Scorpion” engages a French Ship—The Victor’s Return.

As the “Scorpion” required her rigging set up, Ronald had a good excuse for remaining in Eastling Sound longer than he might otherwise have done. He came on shore every day; and his first lieutenant, Mr Glover, was wonderfully fertile in excuses for coming also, as soon as the duties of the ship would allow him. It was remarked that when he came Donna Julia took the opportunity of leaving her father’s room, except when he went in to visit the old man. At last Ronald taxed him with the singularity of his proceedings.

“The fact is, Captain Morton, that she is a sweetly pretty, good girl,” he answered; “and as, instead of being an heiress and a marchioness, she is likely to be penniless, I’ve made up my mind to splice her, if she will have me, as I couldn’t otherwise look after her properly when her old father slips his cable, which he may do any day.”

Ronald advised him to make his offer forthwith, which he did, and was without hesitation accepted. The next day the old marquis died, and was buried, with due ceremony, within the walls of the old Roman Catholic chapel in which Hilda’s unfortunate marriage took place.

Lord Claymore was so much interested in Hilda that he did not immediately take his departure from Whalsey.

Pedro Alvarez had at once written to France, enclosing a letter to Hernan, telling him of the wonderful change in his fortunes. It was evident, however, that he was more likely to be discovered if some one could go over to look for him. Father Mendez volunteered to go.

Lord Claymore and Rolf supplied the father with ample funds, and he forthwith started on his journey.

It was thought prudent to keep the worthy Tacon a prisoner, in case he might be required as a witness, should other claimants arise to oppose Hernan; but as he was well fed and amply supplied with whisky, he did not complain of his fate.

At length the “Scorpion” was ready for sea. The sails were loosed, and all was in readiness to weigh. Ronald was still on shore, and had accompanied Edda to the summit of the eastern tower, the upper room in which she had appropriated to herself. As they stood together on the summit, his glance, as he looked seaward, fell on a sail just rising above the horizon. He watched her narrowly, and pronounced that she was drawing nearer.

“Edda, farewell, dearest!” he exclaimed. “I must hasten on board, and sail in chase of yonder vessel. I received notice this morning from Lerwick that several merchantmen have been chased by a sloop-of-war, and some expected have not made their appearance, which it is supposed she may have captured. I must not delay a moment. Who knows but what I may bring her back in triumph!”

He hastened down to his boat, and as fast the crew could bend their backs to the oars, pulled on board the corvette. The anchor was tripped, and under all sail she stood away in chase of the stranger.

Edda remained on the top of the tower watching the receding ship. She was soon joined by Donna Julia. Poor girl! her lover too had gone away, and she was equally anxious with Edda.

They were not long in private, for they were soon joined by Lord Claymore and Rolf Morton; Pedro Alvarez and other inmates of the castle followed.

The stranger, a corvette, was standing in towards Whalsey close hauled on the starboard tack, and when the “Scorpion” rounded the island and showed herself, she continued on the same course.

“That fellow by the cut of his canvas is a Frenchman,” observed Lord Claymore; “what think you, Captain Alvarez?”

“No doubt about it,” answered Pedro Alvarez. “But I know of no French ship in these seas.”

“See—see! there goes up the French flag!” exclaimed Lord Claymore; “she is going about to, as she does not wish to commence the fight while the ‘Scorpion’ has the weather-gauge. A brave fellow commands that craft; he has no intention, at all events, of avoiding an engagement.”

Both vessels were now seen standing away from the land, the “Scorpion” steering both so as most speedily to come up with the enemy, and at the same time to keep the advantage of the wind which she possessed, while the other was manoeuvring to avoid a close engagement till she had gained the weather-gauge.

“Ronald will not let him do that,” cried Rolf. “See, the ‘Scorpion’ is gaining on her. She has got her within range of her guns. There goes the first shot.”

As he spoke, a puff of smoke was seen to proceed from the bows of the English ship, and the sound of the gun struck faintly on their ears. Another and another followed as soon as they could be brought to bear.

As the “Scorpion” was coming up on the quarter of the French ship, the latter could not at first discharge her broadside guns with any effect, but as her enemy got more abeam of her she too opened fire, and shot after shot was exchanged in rapid succession.

The interest of all the spectators became intense, though exhibited in different ways. Lord Claymore was all excitement and animation, evidently wishing himself on board the “Scorpion.”

Rolf now waved his hand—now addressed his son—now cheered as the “Scorpion” delivered an effective broadside.

The colonel stood as if snuffing up the smoke of battle, and coolly criticising the manoeuvres of the combatants.

The interests of Pedro Alvarez seemed now to side with the flag of France, under which he had so long fought, now with the “Scorpion,” commanded by his friend. Lawrence kept moving about the platform rubbing his hands and cheering loudly every time a broadside was delivered.

“Well done, ‘Scorpion’!”

“Bravo, my boy!” shouted Lord Claymore and Rolf, in concert, as the Frenchman’s foretop-mast went over the side.

This caused him to luff up, and the “Scorpion,” shooting ahead, poured a raking broadside into his bows. On this, the Frenchman’s helm was put to starboard, by which he was able to fire his hitherto disengaged starboard broadside. It had, however, the effect of bringing his head round, and now once more he stood towards the land, while the “Scorpion” ran on in an opposite direction. It was but for a minute, she also quickly came about and ranged up on the enemy’s weather beam, pouring in the whole of her larboard broadside.

As the smoke cleared away, the Frenchman was seen with her foremast and main-top-mast gone, while the “Scorpion” did not appear to have lost a spar.

“Hurrah, my brave Ronald! the day is yours,” shouted Rolf. “It is but a matter of time.”

Still the Frenchman fired on, but the wreck of his masts seemed to impede the working of his foremost guns. It appeared as if the “Scorpion” was about again to pass ahead, when the two ships met, and lay locked together in a deadly embrace. The guns continued to roar as before, and clouds of smoke enveloped the combatants. It was a period of awful suspense—no one on the platform spoke. The firing ceased; the canopy of smoke disappeared. The two flags of England and France flew out as before from the peaks of the two ships.

“Morton has boarded the Frenchman,” cried Lord Claymore at length. “No doubt now as to the result. The Frenchmen fight bravely though. At them again, my boys! Hurrah!—hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Rolf. “Down comes the Frenchmen’s flag.”

The fight was over, the “Scorpion” was the victor.

The two ships rapidly approached, steering for the west end of Eastling Island, and when at the entrance of the sound, and not far from the castle, they both came to an anchor. A boat was seen to be lowered from the “Scorpion,” and with rapid strokes to approach the castle. With what eagerness did Edda watch her till she could distinguish the people on board. She uttered a cry of joy as she saw Ronald himself steering the boat. At the same time she perceived a person stretched at his length in the stern sheets. Poor Donna Julia almost fainted with alarm lest Glover should be the wounded man. Together they hurried down to the landing-place, where the rest of the party had already gone.

Where all this time was Hilda? She, too, had witnessed the fight. She had seen the desperate struggle, the flag of France hauled down, the ships brought to an anchor, and a wounded officer lowered into the boat. A vague, yet overpowering dread had seized her. She attempted to go down that she might meet the boat at the landing-place, but her strength failed, and she sunk back in her chair near the window, whence she could watch the boat as it glided rapidly by.

Her sister found her thus.

“Hilda, nerve yourself for a great trial,” she said, as she took her hand to lead her to the door, where Rolf Morton stood ready to conduct her down the steps.

A group was collected round a couch in the great hall. As Hilda entered, they opened out, and a young man in the naval uniform of France was seen extended upon it. Pedro Alvarez stood by him, holding one hand, while the surgeon of the “Scorpion” was feeling the wrist of the other, and administering a restorative. Hilda tottered forward.

“Who is that?” she asked in a hollow voice, as she gazed eagerly at the countenance of the wounded man.

“Madam,” said Pedro Alvarez, looking up, “that is Hernan Escalante, your son.”

“Mother!” whispered the young officer, and the light returned to his eyes, which had appeared so lustreless.

“My son, my son, have I indeed found you, and thus sorely wounded!” cried Hilda, kneeling down to impress a kiss on his brow, while she cast her arms around him.

“I shall soon recover now that I know I have you to live for,” he answered, in a faint voice.

“Oh, will he live! Can you cure him?” she exclaimed, turning to the surgeon. “Gold, any amount you can name, shall be your reward if he recovers.”

“I will do my best, madam,” said the surgeon, bowing; “he is young and strong, and I have seen those who have received worse hurts survive.”

Young Hernan was by Hilda’s directions carried to her room. Day and night she watched over him, jealous of the interference of all others.

Though he long hung between life and death, her constant care was rewarded, and the surgeon pronounced him at length out of danger. He remained, however, too weak to be moved.

The only person besides the surgeon whom Hilda would allow to come near him was the faithful pastor of Lunnasting. He knew well how to minister to a soul diseased; and Hilda herself, while listening to the words of Truth which were addressed to her son, had her own mind enlightened, and was brought to trust to the loving mercy of Him who had restored to her her long-lost child. Hernan, too, awakened to a sense of the sinfulness of the designs which his own evil passions had induced him to entertain, sought for pardon through the only means by which pardon can be obtained.

When at length he rose from his sick bed he was truly an altered man, and Pedro Alvarez acknowledged that he loved him better than ever, although a Protestant minister had been the means of his reformation.

Sir Marcus Wardhill died shortly after, in a state of utter imbecility, without recognising his grandson.

On her father’s death Hilda accompanied her son to Spain, where Hernan succeeded in establishing his rights to his paternal estates. He had, however, never entirely recovered from his wounds, and in two years Hilda had to endure the grief of seeing him die in her arms; but she bore it with fortitude, and, invited by her loving relatives at Lunnasting, returned to spend the evening of her days in Shetland.

Glover having married Donna Julia, inherited Hernan’s estates in Spain. Their children, brought up partly in the Protestant faith, became the ancestors of those who have since fought the battle for the truth in that long-benighted land.

Pedro Alvarez not being perfectly satisfied that the officers of the Inquisition, though itself abolished, might not by some means get hold of him, continued a welcome inmate to the end of his days at Lunnasting Castle, the constant companion of Lawrence Brindister, who, on the death of Sir Marcus recovered his intellect so far that he was looked upon by Ronald’s large family of young cousins as a most agreeable and amusing old gentleman, the chief promoter of every sort of pastime and amusement in which they were indulged.

For several years a gaunt old beggar might be seen at the corner of one of the streets of Cadiz, surpassing his mendicant brethren in the loudness of his complaints and the squalor of the rags which covered him; and one day Glover, passing by, recognised in him his quondam acquaintance, the ex-pirate, Tacon.

Father Mendez was never again heard of, nor was any surmise offered as to what had become of him.

As Admiral Sir Ronald Brindister might object to have more of his private history brought to light, we must bring, our tale to a conclusion.

The End.

W H G Kingston

"Salt Water"

Chapter One.

Neil D’Arcy’s Life at Sea.

My Ancestors—Larry Harrigan, and my Early Education—Choice of a Profession—First Start in Life.

“The sea, the sea,” if not my mother, has been my nurse (and anything but a dry one) from the earliest days of my recollection. I was born within the sound of old ocean’s surges; I dabbled in salt water before I could run; and I have floated on salt water, and have been well sprinkled with it too, from that time to the present. It never occurred to me, indeed, that I could be anything but a sailor. In my innocence, I pictured a life on the ocean wave as the happiest allowed to mortals; and little did I wot of all the bumpings and thumpings, the blows and the buffetings, I was destined to endure in the course of it. Yet, even had I expected them, I feel very certain they would not have changed my wishes. No, no. I was mightily mistaken with regard to the romance of the thing, I own; but had I to begin life again, with all its dangers and hardships, still I would choose the ocean for my home—the glorious navy of England for my profession.

But now for my antecedents. I will not trouble the reader with many of them. I was born at the family seat in the south of Ireland. My mother died while I was very young, and my father, Colonel D’Arcy, who had seen much service in the army and had been severely wounded, after a lingering illness, followed her to the grave. During this time I was committed to the charge of Larry Harrigan, the butler and family factotum; and, in truth, I desired no better companion, for well did I love the old man. He was a seaman every inch of him, from his cherished pigtail to the end of the timber toe on which he had long stumped through the world. He had been coxswain to my maternal grandfather, a captain in the navy, who was killed in action. Larry had gone to sea with him as a lad, and they had seldom been separated. A few minutes before his commander, in the moment of victory, lost his life, Larry had his leg shot away; and on being paid off, he repaired to where my mother’s family were residing. When my father married, he offered the old seaman an asylum beneath his roof. He certainly did not eat the bread of idleness there, for no one about the place was more generally useful. There was nothing he could not do or make, and in spite of his loss of a limb, he was as active as most people possessed with the usual complement of supporters.

Larry had loved my mother as his own child, and for her sake he loved me more than anything else on earth. As he considered it a part of his duty to instruct me in his own accomplishments, which being chiefly of a professional character, I at a very early age became thoroughly initiated in the mysteries of knotting, bending, and splicing, and similar nautical arts. I could point a rope, work a Turk’s-head, or turn in an eye, as well as many an A.B. Not content with this, he built me a model of a ship, with her rigging complete. He then set to work to teach me the names of every rope and spar; and when I knew them and their uses, he unrigged the ship and made me rig her again under his inspection. This I did several times, till he considered I was perfect. He next bought fresh stuff for a new suit of rigging, and made me cut it into proper lengths and turn it all in correctly before I set it up.

“Now you see, Master Neil,” said he, “we’ve just got the lovely Psyche out of the hands of the shipwrights, and it’s our duty to get the rigging over her mastheads, and fit her for sea as fast as the work can be done; so let’s see how soon we can do the job.”

Such were our indoor amusements, and thus I rapidly acquired an amount of knowledge which most midshipmen take a long time to get stowed away in their heads. Larry also used to take me out on the waters of the bay, and taught me to row and to manage the sails of a small boat with tolerable dexterity. I learned also to swim; and had it not been for my possession of that art, I should probably long ago have been food for fishes. And here I must endeavour strongly to impress on the minds of my young readers the importance of learning to swim well; for not only may they thus be enabled to save their own lives, but they may have the happiness of preserving those of their fellow-creatures.

While my poor father lived, he attended to the more intellectual branches of my education. My mother taught me to read, and for her sake I loved reading. She also instilled those religious principles into me which have been my support through life. Short and fleeting as was the time she remained on earth, inestimable were the blessings she bestowed on me. Whatever of the milk of human kindness flows round my heart, from her gentle bosom I drew it forth; and surely I do not err when I believe that her earnest prayers before the throne of mercy have caused watchful spirits to shield me from the perils of the stormy ocean, and from still greater dangers, the treacherous quicksands and dark rocks which have laid in my course through life.

I was ten years old before it occurred to any one that a little of the discipline of a school might be beneficial to me, to prepare me somewhat better than I could be prepared at home to rough it in the rude world into which I was ere long to be plunged. To the academy, therefore, of a certain Doctor Studdert, near Cork, I was sent, where I contrived to pick up a few crumbs of knowledge and some experience of life. I had no great dislike to school, but liked home much better; and no one sung—

“Packing up and going away,

All for the sake of a holiday,”

more joyously than did I when my first midsummer holiday came round.

Larry was on the watch for me as I jumped out of the carriage which had been sent over to Kerry to meet me. The old seaman had expected me to come back a prodigy of learning; but was horrified to discover that I was puzzled how to make a carrick-bend, and had nearly forgotten the length of the Psyche’s main-top bowline.

“And that’s what the Doctor calls schooling, does he, Master Neil?” he exclaimed, indignantly. “Now I’ll make bold to say that among all the bigwigs he has under him, including himself, there isn’t one on ’em knows how to gammon a bowsprit or turn in a dead-eye. Now, to my mind, if they can’t give you more larning than you’ve got since you’ve been away, you’d better stop at home altogether.”

I agreed with Larry, but the higher authorities ruled otherwise; so back to school I went at the end of the holidays, having regained all the nautical knowledge I before possessed, with a little in addition.

I will pass over the sad time of my brave father’s death. I was left to the guardianship of my uncle, Counsellor D’Arcy, the great Dublin barrister, and of Doctor Driscoll. I was removed to the house of the latter, with poor Larry, who threatened to do all sorts of dreadful deeds, if he were not allowed to accompany me. My patrimony, which had become somewhat attenuated, was in the meantime put out to nurse. I was rather surprised at not being sent back to school, when one day the Doctor, as he sat cross-legged before the fire after dinner, rubbing his shins, called me to him.

“Neil, my boy, your uncle, Counsellor D’Arcy, has requested me to speak to you on a very important subject. It is time, he thinks, that your studies should be directed to fit you for the profession you may select. What would you wish to be, now? Have you ever thought on the matter? Would you like to follow his steps, and study the law; or those of your honoured father, and enter the army; or those of your grandfather, and go to sea; or would you like to become a merchant, or a clergyman; or what do you say to the practice of medicine?”

“That I would never take a drop, if I could help it, Doctor; or give it to others either,” I answered. “I fear that I should make a bad minister, and a worse merchant; and as for the law, I would not change places with the Counsellor himself, if he were to ask me. I should have no objection to the army; but if I’m to choose my profession, I’ll go to sea, by all means. I’ve no fancy for any but a sea life; but I’ll just go and talk the matter over with Larry, and hear what he thinks about it.”

The Doctor said nothing. He considered, I conclude, that he had obeyed my uncle’s wishes in proposing the matter to me, and his conscience was at rest. I forthwith ran off and broached the subject to Larry; not that I doubted what his advice would be. The old seaman gave a hitch to the waistband of his trousers, as he replied, with no little animation—

“Why, you see, Master Neil, to my mind there’s only one calling which a man, who is anything of a man, would wish to follow. The others are all very well in their way: the parsons, and the soldiers, and the big-wigged lawyers, and the merchants, and the doctors, and the ‘’plomatics’—them who goes abroad to desave the furriners, and takes up so much room and gives themselves such airs aboard ship; but what, just let me ax, is the best on ’em when you puts him alongside a right honest, thorough-bred seaman? What’s the proudest on ’em, when it comes to blow half a capful of wind? What’s the boldest on ’em in a dark night, on a lee shore? Not one on ’em is worth that!” and he snapped his fingers to show his contempt for landsmen of every degree. “On course, Master Neil, dear, you’ll be a seaman. With my will, the navy is the only calling your blessed mother’s son should follow. Your grandfather died in it, and your great-grandfather before him; and I hope to see you in command of one of His Majesty’s ships before I die—that I do. But I was forgetting that you were growing so big, and that you would be going off to sea so soon,” continued the old man, in an altered tone. “You’ll remember, for his sake, all the lessons Larry gave you, Master Neil? And you’ll think of your old friend sometimes in a night watch, won’t you, now?”

I assured him that I would often think of him, and try not to forget any of his lessons. I then went back to the Doctor, to inform him that Larry agreed with me that the navy was the only profession likely to suit me.

My future calling being thus speedily settled, Doctor Driscoll, who was aware that knowledge would not come by intuition, sent me to an old master in the navy, who fortunately resided in the neighbourhood, to be instructed in the rudiments of navigation. As I was as wide awake as most youngsters of my age, I very soon gained a fair insight into its mysteries; and by the time the spring came round, I was pronounced fit for duty.

A brother of my mother’s, who commanded a large revenue cutter on the south coast of England, having been applied to for advice by the Doctor, answered by the following short note:—

“Dear Sir,—I’ll make a seaman of Neil, with all my heart, if you will send him across to Portsmouth. Let him inquire for me at the ‘Star and Garter.’ Should I be away on a cruise, I will leave word with the landlady what is to be done with him. My craft is the Serpent.

“I remain, faithfully yours,—

“Terence O’Flaherty.”

“What! send the child all the way over to Portsmouth by himself!” exclaimed good Mrs Driscoll, the Doctor’s wife, on hearing the contents of this epistle. “Why, he might be spirited off to the Plantations or the Black Hole of Calcutta, and we never hear any more about him. What could Mr O’Flaherty be thinking about?”

“That his nephew is about to be an officer in His Majesty’s service, and that the sooner he learns to take care of himself, the better,” replied the Doctor.

“Let him begin, then, by slow degrees, as birds are taught to fly,” urged the kind dame. “He has never been out of the nest yet, except to school, when he was put in charge of the coachman, like a parcel.”

“He will find his way safe enough,” muttered the Doctor. “Won’t you, Neil?”

To speak the truth, I would gladly have undertaken to find my way to Timbuctoo, or the Antipodes, by myself; but I had just formed a plan which I was afraid might be frustrated, had I agreed with the Doctor. I therefore answered, “I’ll go and ask Larry;” and without waiting for any further observations, off I ran, to put it in train. It was, that Larry should accompany me to Portsmouth; and I had also a notion that he might be able to go to sea with me. He was delighted with my plan, and backing Mrs Driscoll’s objections to my being sent alone, it was finally arranged that he should take charge of me till he had handed me over to my uncle. Such parts of my outfit as could be manufactured at home, Mrs Driscoll got ready for me, and Larry was empowered to procure the rest for me at Portsmouth.

I confess that I did not shed a tear or cast a look of regret at my birthplace; but with a heart as light as a skylark taking his morning flight, I mounted alongside Larry on the top of the coach bound for Dublin. While in that city we saw my uncle, the Counsellor. I do not remember profiting much by the visit. He, however, shook me kindly by the hand, and wishing me every success, charged Larry to take care of me.

“Arrah!” muttered the old man as we walked away, “his honour, sure, would be after telling a hen to take care of her chickens now.”

In London we put up at an inn at the west end, near Exeter ’Change; and while dinner was getting ready, we went to see the wild beasts which dwelt there in those days. I thought London a very smoky, dismal city, and that is all I can remember about it.

Larry was rigged for the journey in a suit of black; and though he would have been known, however dressed, by every one for a seaman, he was always taken for an officer of the old school, and was treated accordingly with becoming respect. Indeed, there was an expression of mild firmness and of unassuming self-confidence in his countenance, added to his silvery locks and his handsome though weather-beaten features, which commanded it.

We spent only one night in London; and by five o’clock in the afternoon of the day we left it we were rattling down the High Street of Portsmouth, on the top of the fast coach, while the guard played “See the Conquering Hero Comes”—which I had some notion he did in compliment to me.

I thought Portsmouth a much nicer place than London (in which idea some people, perhaps, will not agree with me); while I looked upon the “Star and Garter,” where we stopped, as a very fine hotel, though not equal in dignity to the “George.” My chest, made under Larry’s superintendence, showed that its owner was destined for the sea. Taking my hand, Larry stumped up the passage, following the said chest and the bag which contained his wardrobe.

“What ship has your son come to join?” asked good Mrs Timmins, the landlady, curtseying, as she encountered us.

“Faith, marm, it’s not after being the son of the likes of me is Master D’Arcy here,” he answered, pleased at the same time at the dignity thus conferred on him. “This is the nephew, marm, of Lieutenant O’Flaherty of His Majesty’s cutter, the Serpent; and I’ll make bold to ax whether she’s in the harbour, and what directions the Lieutenant has left about his nephew?”

“Oh dear, now, the cutter sailed this very morning for the westward,” answered the landlady; “that is unfortunate! And so this young gentleman is Lieutenant O’Flaherty’s nephew. Well, then, we must take good care of him, as she won’t be back for a week; and you know, mister, you needn’t trouble yourself more about him.”

“Faith, marm, it’s not I will be after leaving the young master till I see him safe in his uncle’s hands,” answered Larry, with a rap on his thigh. “So I’ll just trouble you to give us a room with a couple of beds in it, and we’ll take up our quarters here till the cutter comes back.”

This arrangement of course pleased the worthy Mrs Timmins, as she got two guests instead of one; and I thus found myself established for a week at Portsmouth. Having selected our chamber, we went into the coffee-room and ordered dinner. There were several youngsters there, and other junior officers of the profession, for the “Star and Garter” was at that time more frequented than the far-famed “Blue Posts.” At first some of the younger portion of the guests were a little inclined to look superciliously at Larry and me; but he stuck out his timber toe, and returned their glances with such calm independence, that they soon suspected he was not made of the stuff to laugh at; and they then showed an evident disposition to enter into conversation with him to discover who he could be. This, for my sake, he did not wish them to do; for, as he was to act the part of guardian, he thought it incumbent on him to keep up his dignity.

We passed, to me, a very interesting time at Portsmouth. We constantly visited the dockyard, which was my delight. He took me over the Victory, and showed me the spot where Nelson fell; and with old associations many a tale and anecdote which, long since forgotten, now returned to his memory, he poured into my eager ear.

Some people declare, and naval men even do so, that there’s no romance in a seafaring life—that it’s all hard, dirty, slaving work, without anything to repay one, except prize-money in war time and promotion in peace. Now, to my mind, there’s a great deal of romance and chivalry and excitement, and ample recompense in the life itself; and this Larry, who ought to have known, for he had seen plenty of hard service, had himself discovered. It is that some do not know where to look for the romance, and if found, cannot appreciate it. The stern realities of a sea life—its hardships, its dangers, its battles, its fierce contests with the elements, its triumphs over difficulties—afford to some souls a pleasure which ignobler ones cannot feel: I trust that my adventures will explain what I mean. For my own part, I can say that oftentimes have I enjoyed that intense pleasure, that joyous enthusiasm, that high excitement, which not only recompenses one for the toil and hardships by which it is won, but truly makes them as nothing in comparison to the former. All I can say is, let me go through the world sharing the rough and the smooth alike—the storms and sunshine of life; but save me from the stagnant existence of the man who sleeps on a feather bed and always keeps out of danger.

Chapter Two.

Don the True Blue—Romance of the Sea—Larry and his Wife.

My uniform was to be made at Portsmouth. Of course I felt myself not a little important, and very fine, as I put it on for, the first time, and looked at myself in the glass, with my dirk buckled to my side, and a round hat with a cockade in it on my head. We were sitting in the coffee-room, waiting for dinner, on that eventful day, when a number of youngsters belonging to a line-of-battle ship came into the inn. They had not been there long, when the shiny look of my new clothes, and the way I kept handling my dirk, unable to help looking down at it, attracted the attention of one of them.

“That’s a sucking Nelson,” he exclaimed, “I’ll bet a sixpence!”

“Hillo, youngster! to what ship do you belong?” asked another, looking hard at me.

“To the Serpent cutter,” I answered, not quite liking the tone in which he spoke.

“And so you are a cutter’s midshipman, are you?” he asked. “And how is it you are not on board, I should like to know?”

I told him that the cutter was away, and that I was waiting for her return.

“Then I presume that you haven’t been to sea at all yet?” observed the first who had spoken, in a bland tone, winking at his shipmates, with the intention of trotting me out.

I answered simply that I had not. Larry, I must observe, all the time was sitting silent, and pretending not to take any notice of them, so that they did not suspect we belonged to each other.

“Poor boy, I pity you,” observed the young gentleman, gravely, and turning up his eyes. “I’d advise you seriously to go back to your mamma. You’ve no idea of all the difficult things you’ll have to learn; of which, how to hand, reef, and steer isn’t the hundredth part.”

“In the first place, I have not a mamma to go to,” I replied, in an indignant tone; for I did not like his mentioning her, even. “And perhaps I know more about a ship than you think of.”

“You! what should you know about a ship, I should like to know?” exclaimed the midshipman, contemptuously.

“Why, I know how to gammon a bowsprit,” I replied, looking at him very hard. “I can work a Turk’s-head, make a lizard, or mouse a stay—can’t I, Larry?” I asked, turning to the old sailor. “And as for steering, I’ve steered round Kilkee Bay scores of times, before you knew how to handle an oar, I’ll be bound—haven’t I, Larry?”

The old man, thus appealed to, looked up and spoke. “Faith, you may well say that same, Master Neil; and proud am I to have taught you. And I’ll just tell you, young gentlemen, I’ll lay a gold guinea that Master D’Arcy here would get the rigging over the mastheads of a ship, and fit her for sea, while either of you were looking at them, and thinking how you were to sway up the topmasts. No offence, you know; but as for gammoning—I don’t think any one would beat you there.”

Several of the midshipmen muttered murmurs of applause at what Larry and I had said, and in a very short time we were all excellent friends, and as intimate as if we were shipmates together. They at once respected him, for they could not help recognising him as a true sailor; and they also saw that, young and inexperienced as I appeared, I was not quite as green as they had at first supposed. And we all parted excellent friends.

We had been waiting some time at the “Star and Garter,” and there were no signs of the Serpent, and from the information Larry gained from those who were likely to know, he was led to believe that several days more might elapse before her return; so he proposed that we should look out for lodgings, as more economical, and altogether pleasanter. I willingly agreed to his plan, so out we set in search of them. We saw several which did not suit us. At last we went to Southsea, which we agreed would be more airy and pleasant; and seeing a bill up at a very neat little house, we knocked at the door, and were admitted. There was a nice sitting-room and bed-room, and a small room which Larry said would do for him. The landlady, who was a pleasant-looking, buxom dame, asked only fifteen shillings a week, including doing for us; so we agreed to take it. By some chance we did not inquire her name.

“Good-bye, Missis,” said Larry. “I’ll send the young gentleman’s traps here in half an hour, and leave him mean time as security. I suppose you’ll have no objection to stay, Master D’Arcy?” he added, turning to me.

I had none, of course, and so it was arranged. While Larry was gone, the good lady took me into the sitting-room, and begging me to make myself at home, was very inquisitive to know all about me. I had no reason for not gratifying her, so I told her how my mother and then my father had died and left me an orphan, and how I had come all the way from Kerry to Portsmouth, and how I belonged to a cutter which I had not yet seen, and how I intended one day to become a Nelson or a Collingwood. Of my resolution the kind lady much approved.

“Ah, my good, dear man, if he had lived, would have become a captain also; but he went to sea and died, and I never from that day to this heard any more of him,” said she, wiping the corner of her eye with her apron, more from old habit than because there were any tears to dry up, for she certainly was not crying. “Those things on the mantel-piece there were some he brought me home years and years ago, when he was a gay young sailor; and I’ve kept them ever since, for his sake, though I’ve been hard pushed at times to find bread to put into my mouth, young gentleman.”

The things she spoke of were such as are to be found in the sitting-rooms of most sailors’ wives. There were elephants’ teeth, with figures of men and women carved on them, very cleverly copied from very coarse prints; and there were shells of many shapes, and lumps of corals, and bits of seaweed, with the small model of a ship, very much battered, and her yards scandalised, as if to mourn for her builder’s loss. She was placed on a stand covered with small shells, and at either end were bunches of shell flowers, doubtlessly very tasteful according to the widow’s idea. The room was hung round with coloured prints, which even then I did not think very well executed. One was a sailor returning from a voyage, with bags of gold at his back and sticking out of his pockets. I wondered whether I should come back in that way; but as I did not know the value of money, there was nothing very exciting in it to me. There were two under which was written “The lover’s meeting.” In both cases the lady was dressed extravagantly fine, with a bonnet and very broad ribbons; and the lover had on the widest trousers I ever saw. Another represented a lady watching for her lover, whose ship was seen in the distance; and one more I remember was a seaman cast upon the shore, with a female bending over him; while there were several pictures of ships, some of which were on the tops of waves running truly mountains high, and curling over in a very terrific way indeed. I had time to inspect all these things while my landlady was getting my bed-room ready. I had not dined; and when Larry, who was rather longer than I had expected, returned, I found that he had purchased all sorts of necessary provisions, and that they only wanted cooking for me to eat them. While he laid the cloth, the landlady performed the office of cook; and in a little time a very nice dinner of veal cutlets, ham, and fried potatoes made its appearance. When Larry had nothing to do but to look about him, I observed him fix his eyes in a strange sort of way on the model of the ship, and then at the shells and the other things in the room. At last he turned to the landlady.

“Please, marm,” said he, “where did you get all them things from?”

“Oh, sir,” answered the landlady, “they were given to me by my poor dear man, who has been dead and gone this many a long year.”

“May I be bold to ask, and no offence, what is your name, marm?” said Larry.

“My husband was an Irishman, like you, and my name is Harrigan,” answered the landlady, who held at the moment a jug of beer, from which she was going to pour me out a tumblerful.

“Faith, you may well say that he was like me, marm, for, curious enough, that’s my name too,” answered Larry.

“Your name!” exclaimed the landlady, standing still and looking doubtfully at him.

“Yes, my name—it is, indeed,” said Larry. “And may I ask what is your Christian name, marm?”

“Jane is my name, and yours is Lawrence!” shrieked Mrs Harrigan, letting fall the jug of beer, which was smashed to pieces, and rushing towards him.

“By the pipers, you’re right now; but if you’re yourself—my own Jane Harrigan, whom I thought dead and buried, or married long ago to another man, it’s the happiest day of my life that I’ve seen for a long time,” cried Larry, throwing his arms round her and giving her a hug which I thought would have squeezed all the breath out of her body.

I looked up at the pictures on the wall, and fancied he was imitating one of the persons there represented; though, to be sure, my friends were rather aged lovers.

“And I thought you were lost at sea long, long ago,” cried Mrs Harrigan, now sobbing in earnest.

“Faith, so I was, Jane, and it’s a long time I’ve been being found again,” said Larry; “and how we’ve both come to life again is more than I can tell.”

“Oh, I never forgot you, and wouldn’t listen to what any other man had to say to me,” said Mrs Harrigan.

“Nor I, faith, what the girls said to me,” returned Larry. “But for the matter of that, my timber toe wasn’t much to their liking.”

“I see, Larry, you’ve lost your leg since I lost you, and it was that puzzled me, or I should have known you at once—that I should,” observed Mrs Harrigan, giving him an affectionate kiss on his rough cheek.

They did not mind me at all, and went on talking away as if I was not in the room, which was very amusing.

Larry afterwards confessed to me that he should not have recognised his wife, for when he went to sea and left her for the last time, she was a slim, pretty young woman; and though she was certainly not uncomely, no one could accuse her of not having flesh enough. Larry, as many another sailor has done, had married at the end of a very short courtship, his wife, then a nursery-maid in an officer’s family at Portsmouth; and a few weeks afterwards he had been pressed and sent out to the East Indies. While there, he had been drafted into another ship, and the ship in which he had left home had been lost with all hands. Of this event his wife became acquainted, and having come from an inland county, and not knowing how to gain further information about him, she had returned to her parents in the country. They died, and she went again into service.

Meantime, Larry, having lost his leg, came home, and notwithstanding all his inquiries, he could gain no tidings of her. At last he came to the conclusion that she must have married again, probably another sailor, and gone away with him—no uncommon occurrence in those days; so he philosophically determined to think no more about her, but to return to the land of his birth to end his days.

She had gone through the usual vicissitudes of an unprotected female, and at last returned to Portsmouth with a family in whose service she acted as curse. Here, having saved up a little money, she determined to settle as a lodging-house keeper, and she had taken the house in which we found her.

This event, caused me very great satisfaction, for it had occurred to me that Larry would find himself very forlorn going back to Ireland without me to look after, and no one to care about; and now, instead, he would have a good wife, and a comfortable house to live in. She also would be the gainer, for he had saved some money when in our service; and as he was a sober, temperate man, he would be able to assist her very much in her business. On my own account also I was very glad, because I should now have many opportunities of seeing him whenever I returned to Portsmouth.

Several days passed away after this, during which time I must say no one could have taken better care of me than did good Mrs Harrigan; and I felt convinced that my old friend would likewise be well looked after during my absence.

Chapter Three.

Lieutenant O’Flaherty—My Ship and Shipmates—The Pilot’s Boat—Results of Drunkenness—My First Command.

One day, on going with Larry, according to custom, to the “Star and Garter” to learn tidings of the cutter, I saw a fine sailorlike-looking man, with an intelligent and good-humoured expression of countenance, talking to the landlady.

“There’s the young gentleman himself,” she exclaimed, pointing at me.

“What, my lad, are you indeed my nephew?” said the officer, kindly, putting out his hand and pressing mine warmly. “Faith, I needn’t ask that, though; you are the very picture of your poor mother. Well, Neil, the sooner you get on board and begin learning your duty, the better.”

I answered that I was perfectly ready, for I at once took a great fancy to him, and thought I should be very happy in the cutter.

He now observed Larry for the first time.

“What! old shipmate,” he exclaimed, shaking him warmly by the hand, “are you the trustworthy person Dr Driscoll told me he would send to look after the youngster? I’m delighted to see you again, and wish I could give you a berth on board my craft, but I’m afraid the service won’t permit that. You must, however, come and take a cruise with us, and talk over old times.”

“Faith, your honour, I’m not much fit for duty, I own, with my timber toe, afloat, and I’ve just found a snug berth on shore, which I intend to keep till Master D’Arcy settles down in the halls of his fathers, and wants my services; but I’ll gladly take a cruise with your honour, and just see how he practises all I’ve taught him. You’ll find him in a few days, I’ll warrant, as smart a seaman as many who’ve been two or three years afloat.”

To make a long story short, while Larry remained on shore with his new-found wife, I went on board the cutter; and the following day we ran out of harbour, round by Saint Helen’s, and stood down Channel in search of a smuggling craft, of whose movements the Commander had received notice.

I found my uncle, on further acquaintance, to be what his looks betokened him, a thoroughly honest, hearty sailor. His first officer was a very old mate who had long given up all hopes of promotion in the service. He was married; and his wife and family lived near Portsmouth. His name was John Hanks. There was a second master and a clerk in charge; so that, for a cutter, we made up an unusually large mess. We had no surgeon, as we could always run into harbour if any of us required doctoring.

My uncle, who was a poor man, had taken the command of the cutter for the sake of his wife and family; and when I came to know my sweet young aunt, I felt, with her smiles to welcome him when he got home, Lieutenant O’Flaherty was a happier man far than many who roll in their easy carriages about the streets of smoky London.

Mrs O’Flaherty, with the two children she then had, lived in a pretty little cottage near Ryde, where he was able every now and then to go and see her. Of course he was never wanting in an excuse, when duty would allow him, to be off Ryde; and on one of these occasions he first introduced me to his wife. I loved her at once, for she was a thoroughly genuine, graceful woman, young and pretty, with a kind, warm heart, and a sweet expression of countenance, which her character did not belie. My little cousins and I also became great friends, and I confess that I felt I would much rather stay with her than have to go to sea and knock about in all weathers in the cutter; but duty sent us both on board again, and it was a long time before I had another opportunity of paying a visit to Daisy Cottage.

But I have been going ahead of my narrative.

We were standing down Channel in the Serpent. Our cruising ground was chiefly from Saint Helen’s to the Start; but we were liable to be sent elsewhere, or might go wherever our Commander had notice there was a chance of catching a smuggler.

We had been out some days, keeping a sharp look-out off Portland Point for a noted fellow, Myers by name, the owner of a fast lugger, the Kitty, who was expected to try and run a cargo of tubs in that neighbourhood.

The smugglers played us all sorts of tricks, and I must own we were more than once taken in by them. On one occasion, while it was blowing very fresh, a cutter hailed us and told us that she had just passed over a number of tubs, pointing out the direction where we should find them. While we were engaged in picking them up, she made sail for the shore; and we afterwards learned, to our mortification, that she had run a very large cargo of contraband goods.

Thanks to Larry’s instructions, as I was very handy in a boat, and understood the duties of a midshipman tolerably well, I was, to my great delight, soon placed in charge of one of the gigs.

A few days after the occurrence I have described, when we were about mid Channel, we observed a vessel whose appearance was suspicious. It had just gone two bells, in the forenoon watch. It was blowing pretty fresh from the south-west, and there was a lop of a sea, but not enough to endanger a boat. We made sail towards the stranger, and as we neared her we perceived that she was veering about, apparently under no control.

“Her main-boom has gone,” observed Hanks, “and there doesn’t seem to be a soul on deck; her crew have been knocked or washed overboard, I suspect.”

“I am afraid so,” said the Commander. “She looks to me like a pilot-boat. She was probably struck by a squall, with only a couple of hands left in her.”

“Lubberly work somehow, at all events,” remarked Hanks.

In another ten minutes we were close to the pilot-boat, and the cutter being hove-to, a boat was lowered, and Hanks and I were ordered to go in her and see what was the matter. When we gained the deck, we found that the boom had knocked away part of the bulwarks and companion-hatch, and committed other damage. The first thing we did was to lower down the mainsail and to secure the boom, which task, after some difficulty, we accomplished. We next set about searching the vessel, thinking that no one was on board. The main hatch was on, but there was a little cabin aft, with a small stove in it, and six berths, in which the crew lived. There was a table in the cabin, and on it were a couple of tumblers, a thick-necked, square-sided glass bottle, on its side, a broken pipe, and wet marks, and ashes of tobacco, as if people had very lately been drinking there.

“What’s wrong here?” said Hanks. “It could not have been long ago since some one was on board.”

Our eyes soon began to get accustomed to the sombre light of the cabin, which was darkened by the mainsail hanging over it. I happened to stoop down, and my eyes glanced under the table, where we had not before looked.

“Hillo,” I exclaimed, “why here are a man’s legs.”

“There seems to be two brace of them,” said Hanks, laughing. “Come out, my hearties, and give an account of yourselves.”

Saying this, he began to drag towards the companion-ladder one of the men; I following his example with regard to the other.

“Why, Jim, we ain’t got in yet; so let us alone, will ye,” grunted out one, as he turned on his side, without opening his eyes.

The other was too drunk to speak; indeed, had we not loosened his neckcloth, I believe he would have died of apoplexy, for he was already getting black in the face. We placed them near the companion-ladder, where they could obtain some air; and then, getting off the main hatch, we proceeded to search the vessel. In the hold were several casks of French brandy, immensely strong spirit, intended to be diluted before being sold. From one of these the crew had evidently been helping themselves, and not being accustomed to so potent a liquid, fancying it of the ordinary strength, it had overcome their senses before they were aware of what was happening to them. We found, also, Dutch drops, several bales of tobacco, and sundry other things, amply sufficient to condemn the craft as a smuggler, but which also proved that it was an unusual venture, and that the people were not adepts in the contraband trade. We searched the vessel throughout, but no one else was discovered.

“Who, then, could Jim be?” we asked ourselves.

The drunken men were still too fast locked in a state of stupor to answer. When nothing more could be done, Hanks sent me back to the cutter, to report proceedings, hoping to be ordered to take the prize in himself.

When I had made my report, “Very well,” said the Commander, “I wish to try what amount of discretion you possess, Neil; so you shall take the prize up to Portsmouth, and deliver her and the people over to the proper authorities. Take Thole and four hands with you. Look out that the prisoners do not escape, and I dare say you will do well. I shall be up at Portsmouth in a day or so, to take you off. Now get on board, and assume your command as fast as you like. Send Mr Hanks on board again.”

A change of things was soon put up in a bundle, and I and it bundled on board the prize.

“And so you are to go, youngster, are you?” remarked Hanks, as I got on board. “It’s all my ill luck, for I thought to go myself; but good-bye, youngster, and a pleasant trip to you.”

Saying this, he stepped into the boat alongside, and returned to the cutter, leaving me in possession of my new-fledged honours. The pilot-boat belonged to some place on the Dorsetshire coast, and had drifted up off Saint Alban’s Head, where we found her. The Needles were just in sight ahead, or rather the end of the Isle of Wight, off which they extend, so it seemed an easy matter to run in; but I suspect, without Thole I should have made some slight mistake or other, which might have laid my charge on the rocks. Thole showed me the proper marks, and by keeping the two lighthouses on Hurst Point in one, we ran in between the Needles and the shoal of the shingles. I felt very grand, as I walked the deck with my spy-glass under my arm, and watched the chalk-white cliffs of Alum Bay rising high above us on the right, and the curiously-coloured strata of sand at the eastern end of it, the wood-covered heights of Freshwater, and the little town of Yarmouth; on the left, the old castle of Hurst, and the long extent of the forest shores of Hampshire, with the picturesque town of Lymington rising among the green trees and green fields. I had, I confess, a feeling—grand as I had to appear—that I knew less than anybody else on board about affairs nautical; but modesty is the frequent companion of merit, and though I was very little, I might have been remarkably good.

By this time one of the prisoners began to come to himself, and his astonishment was only equalled by his alarm when, on sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he found himself surrounded by strange faces, and discovered that the craft was running up the Solent Channel. My uniform at once told him the truth.

“Where’s Jim?” he asked, on seeing only his drunken companion near him.

“Jim—I don’t know who you mean,” answered Thole. “If it was any one you left on deck, master, why, all I can say is, he wasn’t there when we boarded you.”

On hearing this announcement, he started to his feet, instantly throwing off all appearance of drunkenness, except that his eye was haggard and his cheek discoloured. He was a man of about fifty, of a stout build and a weather-beaten, bronzed face, rather full and good-humoured, certainly not giving one the notion that he was an habitual drunkard. His hair was somewhat long, and dishevelled and grizzled, from exposure to the atmosphere.

“What! Jim not on board?” he exclaimed, rushing on deck. “Where is my boy—what has happened to him?”

He stood for a few seconds leaning against the companion-hatch, while his eye scanned the condition of the vessel, and he seemed instinctively to comprehend what had happened.

“Where is Jim?” he repeated, in a hollow voice.

“I don’t know, master,” answered one of our men, whom he seemed to address. “We only found you two below. If there was another of you, he must have been washed overboard while you lay drunk in the cabin.”

“Drunk!” he ejaculated; “then, my son, I’ve murdered you.” As he uttered these words he sprang to the side, and would have thrown himself overboard, had not Thole, who just then came on deck, caught him by the legs and dragged him forcibly back. The unhappy man struggled violently in his endeavour to perpetrate his intention. “Jim, Jim, my son! you gone—gone for ever; how can I go home and face your mother, my boy?” he cried, his bosom heaving with the passion raging within. Then he turned frantically to us, swearing oaths too frightful to repeat. “You’ve been murdering him, some of you, you bloody-handed king’s officers. I know you of old. It’s little you care for the life of a fellow-creature. Where is he, I say? I left him on deck sound and well, as fine a lad as ever stepped. How could he have gone overboard? He hadn’t touched a drop; he was as sober as any one of you; but I know how it was, you chased him and he wouldn’t give in—he stood at the helm like a man; so you, you cowardly hounds, shot him down as if he were a brute. There’s his blood on the deck—the brave lad’s blood, and you dabbling your feet in it—you, his murderers,—and laughing at me, his father.”

Thus the unhappy man went raving on, conjuring up, in his excited imagination, scenes the most dreadful. Of course we heeded not his raving abuse, for we pitied him most sincerely. There was now no doubt that, while the father and his smuggling companion were drunk below, the son had been knocked overboard. In vain had the voice of the poor lad implored aid from those whose brutal intoxication prevented them even from hearing his death-shriek ere he sunk for ever. It was with the greatest difficulty we could hold the wretched man as we dragged him below and lashed him into one of the standing bed-places. He there still continued raving as before, now calling on his son to come to him, and then accusing us of his murder. His cries and groans at last awoke the other man out of his drunken trance, but it was some time before he could comprehend what had happened. He was not a father, and when at length he came to his senses, he, with brutal indifference abused his companion for disturbing him. As I stood over the skylight which had been got off to give air to the little stifling cabin, I heard him growl out, “Jim’s gone, has he? his own fault then, not to keep a better look-out. It’s he, then, who’s brought us into this scrape; and I don’t see why you should make such a jaw for what can’t be helped. There now, old man, just belay all that, and let me finish my snooze. We can’t hang for it, you know; there, there, now,”—and he actually turned on his side and went off to sleep again. At length the father of the drowned lad wore himself out and fell off, it seemed, into a sort of stupor.

“I never knew no good come of smuggling,” observed Thole, rather sententiously. “What they makes they spends as fast as they gets, and no one’s the better for it.”

Nobody had a better right than had he to know this, for he had been somewhat addicted to the practice in his youth, and had in consequence been sent on board a man-of-war. The flood and fair wind carried us right into Portsmouth Harbour, where I dropped my anchor and pulled on shore to report my arrival to the custom-house authorities. I was in one respect sorry that my cruise was over, because I was obliged to descend from my rank as commander to that of midshipman; but as I hoped some day to regain it, I did not grieve much about it, especially as I expected to be soon able to set off and pay Larry a visit. The two smugglers were sent to prison; one afterwards entered on board of a man-of-war; the unhappy father died raving mad in the hospital, calling himself the murderer of his son.

Thus ended what I may consider my first cruise.

Chapter Four.

Myers the Smuggler—I Learn to Play the Fiddle—Smell Gunpowder—Action with a Lugger—Left in the Lurch.

The cutter soon after came in, and after seeing my men safe on board her, I got leave for a day to pay a visit to Larry. On ringing, I heard him stumping downstairs to open the door. When he saw me, he could scarcely contain his delight; and forgetting etiquette and all rules and precedents, he seized me in his arms as if I had been a baby, and almost squeezed the breath out of my body. Though I had not been away six weeks, he vowed that I had grown wonderfully, and looked like a man already. Mrs Harrigan was equally complimentary, and I could not help feeling myself a person of mighty importance. I was very glad to find that my old friend was perfectly contented with his wife, and that he made himself very useful to her, so that there was every prospect of their being comfortable together. The house was full of lodgers; but there was a little room which they insisted on my occupying. They themselves lived in a back parlour, where I spent the evening with them. I slept at their house, and the next morning returned on board the cutter. We were ordered to keep an especial look-out for Myers, whose lugger was reported to have run more cargoes than any free-trader among the vast numbers engaged in the illicit traffic. She belonged to Beere, a small town on the Dorsetshire coast, in West Bay. It is a pretty, quiet little place, and consists of one long, broad street, built in the centre of a valley reaching close down to the water’s edge, with white cliffs on either side of it. The lugger was often seen off there; but we could not then touch her, as she was never found with anything in her to enable us to prove that she was engaged in smuggling. Myers, whenever on these occasions we paid him a visit, was always the politest of men; and a stranger might suppose that he had a vast regard for all king’s officers, and for us especially; and yet in reality no man hated us more cordially, or would more readily have worked us harm.

Cruising after smugglers is not the noblest work, perhaps, in which one can be engaged; but it is necessary, not altogether unprofitable, and at times highly exciting. In the war time, the smugglers had large armed vessels, which set the king’s cruisers at defiance, and seldom failed to show fight. When I was in the Serpent, they were frequently armed; but their business was to run, and they never fired unless in hopes of knocking away the spars of a pursuer, or, at the last extremity, to defend themselves.

I should be very ungrateful to old Hanks if I omitted to mention his kindness to me, and the pains he took to give me instruction in my profession. Among other accomplishments, he taught me one of which he was not himself a little proud.

“D’Arcy,” said he one day to me, “I’ve a regard for you, and I’ll put you in the way, my lad, of gaining your bread, should other trades fail.”

“What is it, Hanks?” I asked. “I am glad to learn anything you will teach me.”

“It is to perform on the violin, my boy,” he answered. “I learned the art for the reason I mention. I have never yet been called upon to gain a livelihood by it; but I do not know how soon I may be, if things don’t mend with me.”

“Is it to learn the fiddle you mean?” said I. “Faith, with all my heart, Hanks; and the sooner I begin then, the better.”

Hanks was delighted at gaining so willing a scholar, though I suspect our shipmates would rather have had us both securely moored at the bottom of Fiddler’s Race, off Yarmouth. Whenever duty permitted us, our fiddles were never idle. My performance was not very scientific, certainly; but I learned to play, after some months’ scraping, many a merry tune, such as would make the men kick up their heels irresistibly when they heard it.

“There, D’Arcy,” said my kind instructor, at the end of the tune; “now, my boy, whatever happens, and wherever you go, provided you can save your arms and your fiddle, you’ll be a welcome guest, and will never want a morsel to put in your mouth.”

I found his words true; and on parting, he gave me one of his two fiddles, which he valued as much as any piece of property he possessed.—But I am forestalling events. We had been cruising about for several days in search of Myers, when one morning at daybreak, we found ourselves in the midst of a dense fog. It was literally so thick that one could not see from one end of the cutter to the other. Just the sort of weather, indeed, when, without unusual care, vessels are apt to run into each other. There was about wind sufficient to send us gliding through the water at the rate of three to four knots an hour; but the sea was perfectly smooth,—kept down, it seemed, by the very weight of the fog. One hand was stationed forward on the look-out, and two others on either quarter, to guard against our being run into, or our running into something else. The wind was about west, and our whereabouts was as nearly as could be half-way between Portland Bill and Berry Head. We were all on deck in our thick Flushing coats, for the fog in its effects was nearly like a shower-bath in regard to wetting us, and it hung in large drops like heavy dew on many a tarpaulin hat, bushy whisker, and shaggy jacket; while the sails were stiff and wet as if it had been raining hard all night. It was not a pleasant morning, but it might certainly have been very much worse in a hundred ways. We ran on for a couple of hours, with our main-boom over the larboard quarter, the tack triced up, and the peak-halyards eased off, for we had no reason to hurry. It was just about striking five-bells in the morning-watch, when, as I happened to cast my eyes ahead, I thought I saw a dark object looming through the mist. The look-out saw her at the same moment. “A sail on the starboard bow,” he sung out in a low voice—for revenue men learn to be cautious. On hearing this, the Commander stepped forward, and I followed him. We could just distinguish through the mist the three sails of a long, low lugger, standing close-hauled to the northward.

“By Jupiter, there’s the Kitty at last!” exclaimed my uncle, rubbing his hands. “We’ll have her this time, however.”

There could be little doubt that if she was the Kitty, her people would be keeping too bright a look-out not to have seen us; but probably they fancied we had not observed them, for they did not alter their course, which would have carried them clear across our bows. For another minute we stood on as before, thus rapidly drawing nearer the stranger. During this time, our guns were cast loose, loaded and primed, ready to fire, in case she should prove to be the smuggler, and refuse to heave-to.

“Let the mainsail jibe over; down with the tack; hoist the foresail,” sung out the Commander in a brisk tone. “Be smart, my lads; set the gaff-topsail. Stand by, to haul in the mainsheet.”

These orders were issued just as the lugger was about to cross our bows; but our helm being put down, prevented her from accomplishing this purpose; and a shot, sent skimming along the sea ahead of her, showed her that we were wide awake. All hands who had time to turn their heads in her direction, were peering at her through the fog; and the general opinion was that she was no other than the long-sought-for Kitty. To the shot she paid not the slightest attention, hoping to forereach us, probably, and to get away in the fog. The chances were much in her favour, unless we could wing her, for some little time to come; but after that, we should get her into the bay, and then we might jam her down into the bight, and catch her.

“Give her another shot across her fore-foot, Mr Waddilove,” cried the Commander. “If she does not pay attention to that, fire right into her, and we will try to knock away some of her spars.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the gunner, right willingly, as he hurried to perform his duty.

She did not seem to regard the second shot with more respect than the first. There was now no doubt that she was a smuggler, and that she knew her to be a royal cruiser, but whether the Kitty or not still remained to be discovered. We accordingly, without ceremony, set to work in earnest to make her a target for our shot; but though we believed that we hulled her several times, we could not manage to knock away any of her rigging or spars. Fast as we fancied the Serpent, the chase, whatever she was, could, we soon found, show as fleet a pair of heels; and this made us doubly anxious to wing her, lest, by the fog coming down thicker, she might disappear altogether. Not a sound was heard from her except the sharp pat as our shot at intervals struck her; nor did she offer other than the passive resistance of refusing to heave-to. At last, so faint was her outline as she glided onwards on our starboard bow, that I could scarcely help fancying that we were attacking a mere unsubstantial phantom. It was only from the large size she appeared to be, that one could judge of her nearness to us. For some minutes we ran on without a syllable being uttered, except the necessary words of command for loading and firing the guns.

“Now let me see if I can hit the fellow,” exclaimed Hanks, growing impatient at our want of success; and stooping down and taking a steady look along the gun, he fired. A fearful shriek was the answer sent back from the lugger’s deck. She was standing on as before, her rigging untouched, and her hull apparently unharmed. That sound must have been the death-cry of some of her crew. An almost solemn silence followed, and then, as if slumbering hitherto, the fury of the smugglers burst forth, and a shower of shot from great guns and musketry came flying about us. It was evident that she was prepared to resist to the last. We now found that we had been under-rating her strength. Our two other guns were run over to the starboard side, the small-arms were got up on deck and loaded, and cutlasses were buckled on, and all hands not required to work the guns began blazing away with the muskets.

“How do you like the smell of gunpowder, my boy?” asked Hanks, as he was driving down his ramrod.

“As for the smell, I can’t say that I have any objection to it,” I replied, laughing; “and for the shot, they don’t seem likely to do us much harm.”

“Don’t be too sure of that till the guns of the enemy are silenced,” he replied.

Scarcely had he spoken, when I heard a deep groan; and oh, how my heart turned sick within me, as I saw a poor fellow writhing in agony on the deck. A round-shot had torn away his chest and ribs. He gave a few convulsive struggles, and all was over. It was the first time I had ever seen death in any form, or even blood spilt, and for the moment I felt so faint that I thought I should have fallen; but Hanks roused me by calling for a loaded musket, and in a few moments those dreadful sensations went off, never again to return. Two of his messmates drew the dead body out of the way, and then returned to their gun without apparently taking further notice of the matter. Our Commander was all life and ardour, urging on the men to activity, while he kept a watchful eye on our opponent, to take advantage of any accident which might happen to her, or to follow any change in her course. It is difficult to describe the scene our decks presented. Though our guns were light, the men, from habit, had stripped themselves to the waist, and each one had bound a silk handkerchief round his loins and another round his head; their figures, even at a little distance, being obscured by the thick fog and smoke from their guns and the small-arms. All the guns were over on the starboard side, and those not required to work them or tend to the sails were either loading or taking aim over the bulwarks at our phantom foe. I did not dare to look at the dead body which lay near me, and was praying that no one else might be hit, when I heard a sharp tap, and old Thole, who was standing with his musket at his shoulder by my side, fell to the deck. I stooped down, shuddering, for I expected to see such another ghastly spectacle as the other poor wretch had presented; but he looked as calm as possible, as if nothing was the matter with him, and I began to wonder why he had fallen. He had not even uttered a cry or groan.

“What is the matter, Thole; are you hit?” I asked.

Hanks heard me speak, and seeing Thole on the deck, he knelt down by his side and took his hand.

“There’s no use, my lad, in talking to the poor fellow, for he’ll never speak another word,” he said, in a calm tone, as if nothing strange or awful had occurred; and rising quickly, he seized a musket and recommenced firing away at the lugger with renewed earnestness.

“Come, my lads, fire away; we must put a stopper on this work as soon as possible,” he exclaimed.

“Hurrah! see, we’ve shot away his mizen-halyards.”

I did not see it, for I could make nothing out through the fog but a dark mass moving along on our beam. The order had been given to keep the helm up and to stand by the mainsheet, in expectation of the lugger’s running off the wind, when, quick almost as thought, the mizen-halyards were spliced, and the sail was again hoisted up.

“Never mind, my lads; try and wing him again,” cried my uncle.

The men answered with a cheer, and several of our shot told. Unhappily, two more of our people were wounded, though not badly; and as yet we were no nearer victory than we had been at the commencement of the fight. I heard my uncle tell Hanks that he had some hopes that the smugglers were not aware how deep we were running into the bay.

“I’m afraid, sir, those fellows are far too wide awake not to know exactly where they are,” answered Hanks.

“I rather am inclined to think that they have some dodge or other they intend to practise if they can; and if we don’t soon manage to stop them, they will be wishing us good morning without our leave.”

For an instant after he spoke there was a cessation of firing, and then came a whole broadside of great guns and small-arms concentrated in one focus, crashing among our rigging. Several of the shot told—the head of the mainsail was riddled, and down came our peak, the halyards shot away in two places. The smugglers were not long in discovering our disaster and the advantage they had gained, and a loud derisive cheer showed us the triumph they felt. Without the loss of a moment, hands were sent aloft to reeve fresh halyards; but before the peak could be got up, the lugger had shot ahead of us, and was rapidly edging up to windward. Every exertion was made again to set the mainsail; but as we were swaying up the peak, another iron shower came rattling among us. One of the hands aloft was hit, and would have fallen on deck, had not another caught him and helped him down the rigging. It was the last broadside the smuggler fired, and the next instant we saw him shoot by our bows, and before we could get a gun over to bear on him, he disappeared in the fog to the northward. Once well to windward he would have a decided advantage over us on a long stretch. Luffing as close to the wind as we could, we stood on for a few minutes in the hope of again seeing him; and then we tacked, on the chance, should he also have tacked, as he probably would do, of overhauling him on the other board. We now more earnestly than ever wished the fog to clear away to give us a wider view; but yet minute after minute passed away, and still it would pertinaciously hang down over us like a thick canopy, shutting out the surrounding world. My uncle and Hanks, who both had seen much of gun-shot wounds, did their best to doctor the poor fellows who had been hit; the bodies of the two men who were killed, were placed side by side abaft the mast, and covered up with a union jack; and we then piped to breakfast. I had not recovered my appetite, which the scenes I had witnessed during the morning had taken away. Hanks rallied me on my sensibility. “Why, my boy, you should get over all those sort of feelings at a leap, or you’ll never be fit for the service. I remember once upon a time having some of the queer sensations you talk of; but now, whatever happens, I never let it interfere with my meals, provided I can get the food to make them of.” Instigated by his example and remarks, I took a little tea, and then a slice of beef and bread; and I confess that in a few minutes I began to experience my usual midshipman-like state of perfect health, with perhaps a little weight about the region of the heart, as if some calamity had happened to me, but that very soon wore off. We were speedily on deck again, looking out for the chase; while in the meantime the carpenter and most of the crew were busily employed in repairing damages. The sun as he rose higher in the sky, was every instant gaining power, and in almost an hour after we lost sight of the smuggler, he victoriously darted through the mass of vapour which in thick wreaths rolled away before it, our hitherto confined horizon every instant increasing, while the bright beams of the luminary struck down on our blood-stained deck. No vessel, however, appeared in the direction we expected; but as Hanks was glancing round the horizon, his eye fell on a sail, hull down to the eastward. “There she is,” he exclaimed; “I should know her among a hundred other craft. D’Arcy, run below and tell the Commander that to my belief the Kitty is in sight down to leeward.”

My uncle had gone to take his breakfast. I descended to the cabin. I found him sitting with his face resting on his hands on the table. He did not notice my entrance. I heard him groan deeply.

“I hope, sir, you are not ill or wounded,” said I; for I thought he must be hurt.

“No, lad, no,” he answered; “but it’s a sad thing to have so many of one’s men killed and hurt by a rascally smuggler. But we must try and catch the fellow, and then get the doctor’s aid as fast as we can for those to whom it may yet be of use. But what do you come for?”

I made my report. In an instant he shook off the feeling which was oppressing him, and springing on deck, he ordered the helm to be kept up and the mainsheet eased off till we were standing after the supposed smuggler. This was our best point of sailing, and probably the lugger’s worst; at all events that rig of vessel has generally the greatest advantage on a wind. Our square-sail, square-topsail, and every sail the cutter could carry was now set, to overtake the chase; and the breeze freshening as the day advanced, we bowled away at a famous rate.

“Do you think, Hanks, we have a chance of catching her?” I asked, as the old mate and I were intently watching her.

“As to catching her, depends upon circumstances. If we get the strength of the breeze before her, and she doesn’t hide away in another fog; but she has a long start, and we are out of luck this time, to my mind. However, why is it, D’Arcy, you are so anxious to have another brush with the chap? I thought you had had sufficient taste of his quality.”

“To punish him for killing poor Thole there,” answered I, for I felt very bitter against the smugglers for the harm they had done.

“I thought so,” answered Hanks. “It’s the way with most people. Before a blow is struck, they are all peaceable enough; but the moment blood is drawn, they are all as blood-thirsty as a savage.”

“I hope you don’t think me a blood-thirsty savage,” said I.

“I wouldn’t trust you, D’Arcy, my boy,” he replied. “When the blood boils, all the ferocity of the heart bubbles up to the top, and we feel more like wild beasts than men.”

“Are we gaining on the chase, Mr Hanks, think you?” sung out my uncle at this moment.

“A little, sir; but the sky has got so much clearer thereaway in the last half-hour, that perhaps she only appears nearer,” was the answer; and then Hanks went aft, to walk the quarter-deck with his Commander.

There is off Portland Bill a race, or overfall of water, caused by a shallow and rocky bottom, where the sea at times breaks so violently that vessels have been known to be swamped, and to go down amid the turmoil, with scarcely a possibility of any of the hapless crew escaping. During south-westerly gales, and with an ebb tide, the race runs the highest; but sometimes, even in moderate weather, without any apparent cause, there is a strange chopping and leaping of the sea, which makes it dangerous for a small vessel to pass through. The faint outline of the well-known headland was now seen on our larboard bow, and it was pretty evident that the lugger was getting her starboard tacks aboard, to haul off round the outside of the race, if not to stand away towards the French coast. We, accordingly, had to alter our course after her; but I suspected that there was no very great chance of our being able to overtake her. Still we stood on, our main hope being that another cruiser might fall in with her, and turn her again towards us. After the fog had disappeared, the sky overhead became beautifully clear; but, as the day drew on, clouds began to gather, and by the time I went down to dinner they were coming up pretty thick from the south-west and south, rather an unusual circumstance after the sort of morning we had had. While we were discussing our meal, the cutter heeled over, and nearly sent our scanty dinner-service away to leeward.

“Hillo, what’s the matter now?” I asked.

“Matter! why the breeze is freshening, to be sure,” said old Growl, our acting master. “Look out for your plates, and when you go on deck it will be time enough to learn all about it.”

Old Growl was in many respects not dissimilar to Hanks. He was of the same age, if not older; as fond of spirits, if not fonder; and as addicted, indeed I think more so, to grumbling. He was not a gentleman by birth, education, or manners; but he was kind of heart, and I liked him very well. I think I remarked that all the officers were very old for their standing. Growl’s hair was white, and so was Scriven’s, the clerk in charge. I was young enough to be the son of any of them, in fact, and was treated almost as such. Fortunately, my uncle did his best to throw responsibility on my shoulders, so that, in spite of the pains they took to spoil me, I gradually learned to think and act for myself. Dinner was over, for the best of reasons—that we had eaten up all our boiled beef and potatoes, and the greater portion of our last cheese, and I was thinking how much pleasanter it was to be sitting there quietly, and nibbling biscuit and sipping my glass of grog, than standing up to be shot at, as I had to do all the morning, when Hanks, whose watch it had been on deck, came below. His eye immediately fell on my tumbler of grog, which was, I own, stiffer than usual; and without saying a word, he emptied half the contents into another, and drinking them off, filled my glass with water. I dared not remonstrate, for I had been transgressing his orders in taking more than the quantity he allowed me.

“Neil, my child,” he used to say, “drink is a bad thing; and it grows upon a fellow. If you were to take your full allowance now, by the time you grow up you would be a drunkard, so for your sake I shall swallow your grog; besides, you know, what is bad for a little chap like you, is good for an old worn-out follow like me, who wants something to keep his soul alive in his body.”

I did not exactly understand his reasoning; but as, notwithstanding his peculiarities, I was fond of my old messmate, I was well content to yield him up part of my allowance, for the sake of keeping him alive.

“Well, Hanks, are we gaining on the chase?” I asked.

“No, boy; but our ill-luck has gained upon us,” he replied. “The wind has taken it into its head to veer round to the south-west, and given the rascally lugger an advantage she doesn’t deserve. Boy, bring me dinner.”

The boy who acted as steward brought him in his portion of beef, which had been saved, and I followed Growl, whose watch it was on deck. The sea had got up considerably, and the cutter was heeling over to the rapidly increasing breeze. An exclamation from Growl made me look anxiously ahead for the lugger.

“Where is she?” he asked of the quartermaster, who had charge of the deck.

“Just slipped into that bank of clouds gathering in the southward, sir,” was the answer.

“Can any of you see her,” he inquired of the people on deck.

“No, sir, no; not a sign of her,” said several voices.

“Then we shan’t see her again this cruise,” he exclaimed.

No more we did. We followed her, notwithstanding, for some hours, when darkness approaching and the wind increasing, we were obliged to bear up and run into Weymouth, where we anchored at a late hour in the night. The next day we buried our two shipmates, and a surgeon came off to attend to the wounded ones, whom he took on shore with him. A gale got up, which lasted three days, during which time we remained at anchor, ready, as soon as it should moderate, to put to sea again in quest of Myers. The engagement with the smuggler made a good deal of noise, we heard. Some said that we ought to have taken her; others, that our Commander was not a man to leave undone what could have been done. However, as no one had any doubt that Myers was in command of the lugger, a large reward was offered to whoever would give information that might lead to his apprehension, and a still larger to the person who should place him, bound, in the hands of justice. One evening, after dark, a small boat came alongside, with a single man in her. I was on deck.

“Is Lieutenant O’Flaherty on board?” asked the man.

I told him he was.

“Then,” said the stranger, springing on board, “take this note to him, young gentleman, and say the bearer waits to see him.”

The stranger was of a strongly-built, stout figure, and had the appearance of a rough seafaring man. I took a paper he handed me into the cabin. My uncle read it attentively two or three times over, as if puzzled to comprehend its meaning.

“I must see the rascal, and hear what he has to say,” he muttered. “But I never like to trust a traitor. Show the man below, D’Arcy.”

I did as I was ordered. The man bowed as he entered, and then I saw him take a chair and seat himself, without being asked to do so. I longed to hear what he had to say, so I lingered in the cabin, as if waiting for orders. The stranger looked at me hard.

“What I have to say is for your ear, Lieutenant; so I can’t speak with another present, though he is but a little one,” he remarked, in a tone I thought remarkably impudent.

“Neil, go on deck,” said my uncle.

In about half an hour the stranger appeared on deck, and without saying a word, jumped into his boat and pulled away. I observed that he did not pull directly for the shore, but that he steered for a considerable distance to the northward before attempting to land, thus not allowing any one who might meet him to suspect that he had visited us. The mysterious stranger afforded considerable matter for surmise among all on board, the general opinion being that he had brought off some important information, which might lead to the capture of Myers or of some of his smuggling confederates.

Chapter Five.

Expedition on Shore—The Informer’s Fate—The Smugglers Cave—Jack Stretcher—The Smuggler’s Revenge—Our Dreadful Position.

The Serpent was again in West Bay, just near enough to Portland Bill to be distinguished by any one looking out for her; and she was standing with a light breeze from the north-east, as if bound across Channel. We stood on till dusk, and then tacked and worked back into the bay, till we got close in with the Dorsetshire coast. The cutter was now hove-to, and the boats were lowered and manned, all hands being well-armed.

“Mr Hanks,” said my uncle, as he came on deck, “you will take charge of the ship, and keep her as near as possible to where she now is: I expect to be absent about an hour.”

Hanks gave the usual “Ay, ay, sir,” and then continued the duty he was about in superintending the lowering the boats. I seized the opportunity, while he was waiting for the final preparations, to go up and speak to my uncle.

“May I go, sir?” I asked. “If there is anything to be done, I should like to see it.”

“We shall only find hard knocks and little glory,” he replied. “However, a midshipman should see everything. Can you spare Mr D’Arcy, Mr Hanks?”

“Oh yes, sir, if you please,” said Hanks, laughing.

I had at first felt very grand at the way my uncle spoke of me; but there was something in Hanks’ tone of voice which considerably lowered my pride. However, I gained my object, and jumping into the first gig with my Commander, the order was given to shove off, and away we pulled towards the shore.

There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and the stars overhead shone brightly forth into the calm, silent water beneath them. I never saw the water smoother; and the little wind there was came off the shore, gently sighing as it passed over the dry grass and low bushes which fringed the edge of the cliffs above our heads. Not a word was spoken, and our oars were muffled, as we pulled along shore, a considerable distance to the westward of where we left the cutter. There were three boats, so we all knew it was possible some considerable opposition might be expected.

After we had pulled about three or four miles, our Commander ordered two of the boats to remain off shore, the crews resting on their oars, till they should see a blue light burned; they were then to give way as fast as they could, and support us if necessary. We then pulled slowly in, our people being told to make as little noise as possible on beaching the boat.

“Neil,” said my uncle, “we have a chance of catching that accomplished rascal, Myers, through the means of another rascal, who has offered to betray him, and who is to meet us off that point yonder, and to conduct us where Myers and his gang are to be found. If we come to blows at any time, just keep behind me, boy, and don’t be after getting yourself killed or hurt, or I’ll never take you to see any more fun, remember that.”

It was clear, by this remark, that my uncle had not forgotten the old country; and I promised to obey his directions.

In a few minutes the bow of the boat touched the shore, and we, by aid of a boat-hook, jumped on the sand. Ordering two of the men to accompany him, and giving directions to the others to keep silence, and on no account to quit the boat, our commander advanced towards the foot of the cliff. We went on some little way without meeting anybody.

“It is very extraordinary,” he observed, in a low voice. “I cannot have mistaken the spot or the hour. It was just here the man Langdon appointed to meet me.” We halted for some minutes and listened attentively, but not a sound was to be heard except the low, soft, and musical lap of the tide as it glided by the shingly beach. Above us was the lofty cliff beetling over our heads, its dark outline well-defined against the brilliant sky.

“Something, I’m afraid, is wrong,” remarked my uncle; “or can the fellow have been imposing on me?”

Having waited for some time in vain, we again advanced. We had not gone many paces when a figure was seen leaning against the cliffs. The person, apparently, from his not moving at our approach, was fast asleep.

“That must be the fellow Langdon,” said my uncle. “Why, what can he be about?” On this he whistled twice, very softly, but there was no answer. We then hurried up to the spot where the figure was observed. It was no optical illusion; there certainly was a person, but he took no notice of our presence. Our two men then went up to him, thinking to awake him; but as they took him by the arms he slipped from their grasp, and fell to the ground. An exclamation of horror made us hurry up to them. It was a corpse we saw. A dark spot on the forehead, from which a stream of blood, rapidly coagulating, oozed forth. His singed hair, and the black marks on one side of his face, showed how the deed had been done. It was evident that he had been shot by a pistol placed close to his head.

“He hasn’t been dead above a quarter of an hour,” observed Stretcher, one of the men, feeling his heart. “He is still warm, sir.”

“Then his murderers cannot be far off,” said my uncle. “I’ll land our people, and we will hunt them down. The poor wretch could scarcely expect any other fate were he discovered.”

“What—do you know the man, sir?” I asked. “Yes, he is the informer, Langdon; the very man who was to have conducted us to Myers’ retreat,” was the answer.

“Here, sir, is a bit of card tied round the man’s neck, and close to him was this pistol and handkerchief,” said Tomkins, who had placed the body on the sands, bringing him the articles.

“Very well; do you take charge of those things, Tomkins, and on no account lose them. D’Arcy, do you go back with Sims to the boat; burn a blue light close down to the water, shade it by the boat’s side so that it may not be seen from the cliffs above; and then, as soon as the boats come in, order two hands to remain in each, and bring the rest up here.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” I replied with alacrity, for I was always proud of having any orders given me by my uncle; and away I and Sims hurried towards the boat. We had not got many paces before a shout from Jack Stretcher made us turn back, and at the same moment several men came leaping down by a narrow path in the side of the cliff.

“Run in—they are smugglers—run in!” cried Sims, setting the example, and shouting to our people in the boat. It was the wisest thing he could do to get help, for the man was no coward; but before I had time to think whether or not I could run down to my uncle, I found myself knocked down by one of the foremost of the new comers, with a not very complimentary remark to midshipmen in general, and to me in particular. What became of Sims I could not tell, for the blow on my head made me feel inclined to keep my eyes shut. When, after a moment or so, I attempted to rise, I found myself seized by a couple of men. My arms were lashed behind me in a very uncomfortable way, and which reminded me of the necessity of not tumbling down, if I was anxious to preserve the regular outline of my nose; while a handkerchief was secured tightly over my eyes. Directly afterwards I heard a scuffle, and my uncle’s voice among that of many others; blows were struck, and two or three pistols were fired; and then there appeared more scuffling, and all was quiet except the suppressed murmur of apparently many voices as I was dragged forward by the people who held me. We went along the seashore for some way, and then up the cliffs; and next we descended, and I was led along what seemed a narrow path by the careful way in which my conductors stepped. We went over certainly more than a mile of ground, and then we halted till other parties came up, and I was led down a gentle declivity on a soft, sandy soil; but I no longer felt the light cool wind blowing on my cheek, from which I conjectured we were leaving the open air.

Scarcely a word had been spoken to me the whole of this time by any one of the party. I once ventured to ask my conductors where they were going to take me; but the answer I got in a low growl—“Hold your tongue, you young whelp!” and the click of a pistol lock—made me unwilling to enter on another question. I was more seriously alarmed about my uncle. For myself I feared nothing, as I did not think that the smugglers would hurt a young boy like me; but from the manner of their proceeding, and the few words they let fall of concentrated hate and anger, I was afraid that, supposing they were the crew of the Kitty, they might wreck their vengeance on his head and murder him. I had become deeply attached to him. I felt miserable at the thought of his danger, and I earnestly, though silently, prayed for his preservation. After we had gone a little way, I was almost convinced, from the damp, stagnant feel of the atmosphere, that we were in a cavern or a large vault of some sort or other. I was confirmed in this opinion by hearing a voice before me say, “Stoop down your head or you will hit the rock.”

I thought he addressed me, so I bent down as if I were passing under a very low archway, when my conductors laughed, and one observed to the other, “The youngster thinks himself a giant; howsomever, he won’t ever be much bigger than he now is, will he, Jim?”

“No; he’s nibbled his last biscuit,” growled out his companion. “Come, heave ahead, master.”

On hearing these last observations I had stopped, scarcely able to make my feet move on; for I thought the villains were going to treat me as they had treated the poor wretch we had just found, for I had no doubt they were his murderers. They again urged me forward, and I presently found myself in a place surrounded by a number of people—at least so I judged by the suppressed hum of voices which I heard.

“Cast off the handkerchiefs from the prisoners’ eyes,” said a voice in an authoritative tone.

I felt a fellow fumbling at the handkerchief round my head; but pretending, I suspect, that he could not undo it, he forced it down over my face, to the considerable damage of my nose, and then, giving his knuckles a turn with the dexterity of a Thug, very nearly throttled me. When I had somewhat recovered, and the stars had done flying about before my eyes, I perceived that I was in a large cave, standing at the foot of a rude table, at the further end of which sat a powerfully-built, bold-looking man, dressed in a nautical costume, while a number of other men, mostly seamen, sat on either side of him.

I looked anxiously round for my uncle, and my mind was much relieved to see him standing, unhurt apparently, a few paces from me. However, my satisfaction was much mitigated when, being able to distinguish objects more clearly, I perceived that there were two men standing on either side of him, with pistols in their hands; and it instantly occurred to me that they were there to act the part of executioners, and to blow his brains out, at the command of the ruffian I saw sitting as judge in this lawless court. We recognised each other at the same moment; and if I could judge by the expression of his countenance, he had more compassion for me than fear for himself. He made no attempt to speak to me, but instantly resumed his former undaunted attitude, with his arms folded on his bosom, and his eye resting on the leader of the smugglers.

But there was another object which was, indeed, well calculated to fill me with horror. It was the corpse of the murdered man, stretched out on some rough planks, resting on four casks placed on end; the face uncovered and bloody; the eyes staring wide open, for no one had taken the trouble to close them; and the features distorted by the wound or, perhaps, by fear of the fate which he saw prepared for him when his murderers appeared. The corpse was close to me, and I could not keep my eyes from it, dreadful as it was. It seemed to possess a terrible fascination; and every time I turned my eyes away, it attracted them back again; so that, wild and remarkable as was the whole scene, that horrible object is to this day the most prominent to my mental vision, and all the rest is but an indistinct background to the picture.

I found that Jack Stretcher was close to me, on my left side, also in custody of two smugglers. The cave itself was a complete storehouse of goods of every description. There were arms—swords, pistols, and muskets; and bales of silks, boxes of laces and ribbons, and casks of spirits: indeed, everything with a high duty on it was here collected, ready to be sent up to London or through the country, to the highly respectable shops which dealt in such things. I had not time, however, to make many observations, when the fierce ruffian at the head of the table commenced the proceedings by inquiring who we were and what was our object in coming on shore that night.

“You know perfectly well who we are, and with regard to our object on shore, you certainly are not qualified to question me,” answered my uncle, with a firm voice.

“Then I must answer for you,” replied the smuggler. “You came, instigated by a wretch whose body lies there, under the hopes of taking me and my men in our nest. He has received his reward. The very moment he was thinking he had got us secure, a pistol bullet went through his head. What do you think you deserve?”

My uncle did not answer.

“Speak, and answer me!” exclaimed the ruffian, levelling a pistol at him.

I tried to spring forward to throw myself before him, but the smugglers held me back, though the action, instead of making them angry, seemed to gain we more respect from them, as they held me less rudely than before, and no longer amused themselves by twisting the handkerchief, Thug fashion, round my gullet.

My uncle looked calmly at the smuggler and answered, “I came on shore in pursuit of my lawful duty, to apprehend you, or any others, breaking the revenue laws. Further than that, I have no feeling of ill-will against you, or any of those connected with you.”

“Very fine talking, Mr Lieutenant; but that won’t do here. You came to injure us; there’s no doubt about that, from what you own yourself; and you must take the consequences.”

“You will suffer for it, if you injure me or any of my people!” exclaimed my uncle, indignantly.

“We don’t want to hurt any of your people; but you and that young cub of an officer must be prepared to die this very night. Your man there we don’t intend to hurt; and he may, if he likes, join us, which he probably will be glad enough to do; if not, we carry him away over the water, far enough from this.”

“No, that I won’t, you cold-hearted scoundrels, you!” exclaimed Jack Stretcher, vehemently. “My Commander there, I tell you, is a truer and braver man than any one of you; and you to think of murdering him because he is doing his duty, and that young innocent boy, his nephew—a mere baby to any of you,—it just shows what a white-livered crew you smugglers are; but, howsomdever, if you’ll let them go without harm, you may make a shot fast to my feet and heave me over the cliffs outside here, or do what you like with me; you can but kill me, and I don’t fear you—so heave ahead, my hearties.”

This address of Jack Stretcher created some considerable sensation among the smugglers; but their chief seemed immovable. What surprised me most was, that they were not in the slightest degree enraged at the abuse showered so liberally on their heads; but, on the contrary, they infinitely admired him for his fearlessness and fidelity to his superior.

“What you say, my man, can’t be done; those two die, for conspiring with a traitor to betray us. We shall keep you shut up for some time, and then carry you over to America, perhaps, or some distant part; but we shan’t take your life; so now you know what you have to expect. Take those two off, and heave them over High-Peak Cliff. Be sharp about it, now.”

Before my uncle could speak a word or attempt to free himself, he was dragged back and pinioned, and I was treated in the same way; our eyes were tightly bandaged, as before; and we were forced out of the cavern by a large body of the smugglers.

“Never fear, sir,” shouted Stretcher. “They’ll hang for it yet, and I shall live to see you revenged.”

Extraordinary as it may appear, I had no particular dread of the fate which was awaiting me. Perhaps it was a presentiment that I should escape. I cannot now explain the cause of the feeling; indeed, at the time, I could not probably have done so. I thought much more of my brave uncle being thus brought to an untimely end, and of the grief of my sweet young aunt at Ryde, when she should hear of his barbarous murder. The atrocity of the deed was increased by the cold-blooded manner in which the wretches proceeded, by dragging us to their pretended court, and then condemning us, with scarcely even the mockery of a trial. Indeed the affair seemed so unusual, that I could hardly believe in the reality. My most absorbing feeling was bitter indignation, and a burning desire to break from my guards, and to rescue my uncle. However, as I wriggled about helplessly in their grasp, I must own that I was very like an unhappy cockchafer stuck through with a pin by a cruel schoolboy, without the remotest chance of escaping. My uncle was dragged away first, and I followed him closely, as I judged by the voices of the villains who had him in charge. What became of Stretcher I could not learn, though I supposed that he was detained in the cavern. Even now, I could scarcely have believed that the smugglers were going really to put their threat into execution, had it not been for their acknowledgment of the murder they had committed, and the perfect confidence with which they exhibited their cavern, and the smuggled goods it contained; for, though taken blindfold to the place, we could, of course, have little difficulty in finding it again; and they must have been well aware that, if we escaped, we should do our best to discover them and bring them to justice. They appeared to me to be dragging us for a very long distance. We went up and down hill, and along the seashore, and then we again mounted, it seemed, to the top of the cliffs, and went over several miles of ground. I thought we should never get to High-Peak Cliff. I cannot say that I was in any hurry to get there, which is not surprising, considering the pleasant prospect which I had before me. At length we ascended a considerable height, it seemed; and I concluded, from what I heard some of the smugglers remark, that we had reached the place of the intended murder. I shuddered as I felt that I was standing at the edge of the precipice from which I was in a few minutes to be hurled; a cold perspiration burst out over me, and I felt an awful horror, such as I had never before experienced. I was aware that any instant, without a moment’s preparation, a shove might send me rolling over and over down to the rocks below, where I must instantly be dashed to pieces, as I judged that I was standing close to the very edge of the precipice; and I even fancied that I could hear the sound of the water breaking on the sands, many hundred feet beneath, borne upward on the calm night air. Still, there I stood, as yet unharmed, and I found the delay was caused by some of the party, whose voices I could hear at a little distance, holding a consultation in a whisper. I was hoping that they, more merciful than their leader, were proposing not to execute his directions, when I was undeceived by their return. One of them then addressed us.

“We give you and the youngster, Lieutenant, three minutes more to prepare for death,” said the villain, in a diabolically cold tone; “after that, we intend to hang you over the cliff by your hands, and when you can’t gripe on any longer, you may let go. Just understand, now, we do this in mercy to you, that you may not say we sent you out of the world without warning. Youngster, you hear what is said, so just make ready, for you haven’t many moments of life in you.”

To appeal to the mercy of the wretches was, I knew, hopeless; so I did my best to prepare for the fate awaiting me.

“The time’s up,” said a voice, and I found myself urged back a few paces, and my feet lifted over the edge of the cliff. It is impossible to describe my sensations of horror at this moment. I was then lowered down, every instant expecting to be let drop, till I found my hands clutching the grass, and my nails digging into the uncertain soil which fringed it. I judged that my uncle had been treated in the same way, from what the smugglers said. They then left us, satisfied that we could not release ourselves. Bad as they were, perhaps they did not wish to witness our death, though I could hear their mocking laughter as they quitted the spot. I was light, and I held on for dear life.

“Uncle, are you there?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Neil, I am,” he answered; “but I am afraid of using any exertion to lift myself up, lest the earth should give way. You are light, though; so try to drag yourself slowly up by your arms, then get your elbows on the turf, and tear the bandage from your eyes, and come to my assistance.”

“Oh, I cannot, uncle, I cannot!” I cried, in an agony of fear; for I found it impossible to move without almost a certainty of missing my hold altogether. Again I tried all I could to lift myself up, but it would not do. I shouted at the top of my voice. Every instant my strength was failing me.

“I must let go, uncle, indeed I must,” I exclaimed. “Good-bye, uncle.”

“So must I, my boy,” he answered. “Good-bye, if we do not succeed; but make a final effort, and spring up. So now—”

I tried to spring up, and so did he, I conclude. Alas! the earth crumbled beneath his hands; a deep groan escaped his bosom—not for himself, but for his wife and children, and all he held dear in the world. He could hold on no longer. I also failed in my attempt to spring up. Down I went; but what was my surprise, instead of being dashed to pieces, to find that I had reached a bottom of some sort, rather splashy certainly, only a few feet below where I had been hanging. An exclamation at the same moment from my uncle reached my ears. I tore off the bandage from my eyes, and looking round, I saw him but a short distance from me, and discovered that we were at the bottom of a chalk-pit, with all our limbs safe and sound, instead of being both of us mangled corpses at the foot of High-Peak Cliff. Our position was not dignified; and certainly, though it was much less romantic and full of horror than it would have been had the catastrophe we expected really occurred, and had we figured in the newspapers as the subjects of a dreadful accident, it was, I must own, far more agreeable to my feelings.

“Uncle,” I sung out, “are you hurt?”

“No, Neil, my boy; but rather wet, from a puddle I’ve fallen into,” he answered. “So those confounded rascals have been playing us a trick all the time. However, it’s better thus than we expected, and it proves that they are not as bad as we thought them.”

“So I was thinking,” I replied, moving up to him. “But, I say, uncle, how are we to get out of this?”

He was sitting down on a ledge of the chalk rock, endeavouring to recover from the shock which his nervous system had received.

“Why, as I have not a notion where we are, we had better wait till daylight, or we shall run a great chance of going over the cliffs in reality,” said he. “The sun will rise in little more than an hour hence, I hope, and then we shall be able to ascertain whereabouts we are.”

In accordance with his advice, I sat myself down by his side, and remained silent for some time, while I watched the stars glittering overhead. At length I remarked, “It is very odd, uncle, that Myers did not murder us, as he did the poor wretch we found under the cliff.”

“I fully expected he would; but, after all, there are several reasons against such an act,” he answered.

“He put the spy to death, both for the sake of vengeance and that he might not betray any more of his secrets, or show us the smugglers’ hides. Myers, however, knew that if he murdered a king’s officer, the Government authorities would not rest till they had brought him to punishment. There is also a wild notion of justice among these outlaws; and as they know we are but doing our duty in pursuing them, they have not the same bitter feeling towards us as they have towards any of their companions who turn traitors. Myers, perhaps, might have wished to secure a friend, in case of need. The fellows who had charge of us, however, could not resist the temptation of playing us a trick, and trying to frighten us out of our wits. Some years ago, also, Myers was in my custody, and I treated him, as I should any fellow-creature, with some kindness and consideration. I spoke to him seriously, and endeavoured to win him from his evil courses. I did not consider myself either as his judge or executioner. Perhaps, therefore, gratitude may have induced him to spare our lives.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said I. “I have to thank you, therefore, uncle, for my life.”

“I don’t suppose they would have hurt you, Neil, had you been alone,” he observed, laughing.

“Do you think that we shall be able to discover the cavern?” I asked.

“I fear not,” he replied. “Even if we did, it would be emptied of its contents. Depend on it, the smugglers were prepared to carry off everything into the interior, and all the valuable goods are by this time a long way on their road to London. At all events, whatever were the motives of the smugglers, let us offer our thanks to God for the preservation of our lives, for they have been in great peril.”

We knelt and prayed. I hope I did so sincerely. What other remarks he made I do not remember, for I soon after this felt very drowsy, and quickly fell asleep. I dreamed all the time that I was tumbling head over heels down precipices, but never reached the ground. So I shall end this chapter at the bottom of a chalk-pit.

Chapter Six.

We get out of the Pit—Jack Stretcher’s Adventure—Search for Myers—Hanks’ Advice—Lose our Ship in a Fog—Minute-Guns Heard.

I was awoke by my uncle, and looking up, I saw that the stars had grown dim, and that the rosy dawn was rapidly spreading over the sky. When there was sufficient light to enable us to see distinctly, we discovered that we were in an unusually large and deep chalk-pit. We had, however, but little difficulty in climbing out of it, and in reaching the top of the down in which it was situated. What was our surprise, on looking seaward, to discover the cutter riding at anchor below us, and the boats just going off to her! We therefore went to the most conspicuous height, and waved our caps and handkerchiefs, in the hopes that some one might by chance be on the look-out with a telescope, and perceive us. We waited for some time, and were just giving up the case in despair, when one of the boats put off from the cutter, and pulled directly for the beach, above which we were standing; so we hurried down by a rough zigzag path cut in the cliff, and were ready on the shore to receive her when she pulled in. Who should we see in the boat but Stretcher, whom we fancied all the time held in durance vile by the smugglers. The honest fellow’s satisfaction at seeing us was even greater than our surprise; for he had fully believed that we had been murdered, and had reported our death on board. The boat’s crew gave three cheers as they ran up on the beach; and in their delight they almost lifted my uncle and me into the boat. We were not long in getting on board again, when the cheers were repeated by all hands; and I must do honest old Hanks the justice to say, that, though he had doubtless begun to indulge in dreams of getting his promotion and the death vacancy, his pleasure was as genuine as that of the rest. He had, we found, been already arranging a plan to search for us, and to discover and capture the smugglers. The latter part of it, our Commander determined forthwith to execute. Before we went to breakfast, Stretcher was sent for to make his report—a proceeding of which I did not approve, for I was very sharp-set; but midshipmen’s appetites are seldom much thought of on such occasions. Jack soon made his appearance, with his hat in one hand, while he smoothed down his hair most pertinaciously with the other.

“Well, Stretcher, my man; I wish to know how you managed to escape so well out of the fangs of those rascals,” said my uncle.

“Why, your honour,” he answered, “I scarcely know how it all happened myself, for after the blackguards dragged off you and Mr D’Arcy, I was in such a taking, thinking that they were going to heave you over the cliff, that I didn’t seem to know where I was or what I was doing. At last they made the handkerchief fast round my eyes again, so that I couldn’t see a wink; and they began to haul me along, till I found that I was out of the cave and in the open air. On I went, up and down hill, some way inland, it seemed; and then back again through a chine down to the seashore. After a bit they led me up hill, and making me sit down on a rock, they told me that if I stirred an inch before daylight, I should meet with the same fate my master had done.

“‘How am I to tell when daylight comes, you lubbers, if you leave me with my eyes blinded,’ said I.

“No one answered, but I fancied I heard some one laugh close to me. They then lashed my arms behind me, so that I could not cast off the bandage from my eyes.

“‘So you are not going to carry me to foreign parts,’ said I, for I thought, as they didn’t mind killing my officer, they would think nothing of sending me over the cliffs also.

“‘We’ve changed our minds,’ said they, ‘and can’t be troubled with you; so ask no questions.’

“I didn’t like the answer at all, for I made sure they was going to do away with me somehow; but, as I couldn’t help myself, I was not going to show them what a funk I was in; so I pretended to whistle, quite happy like. I had been whistling away some time, when I thought I heard their footsteps moving off; and so it proved; for when I next sung out to them, no one answered. I called them all manner of names, and blackguarded them like fun; but it didn’t make them angry, because, you see, there was no one there to hear me. At last, when I’d grown hoarse with hallooing after them, I thought I might as well go to sleep a bit, seeing as how I couldn’t manage to move, or to cast off the lashings round my arms. How long I slept I don’t know; but I was woke up by hearing some one hail me, and I soon knew that they were some of the cutter’s people. When they got up to me, and cast off the handkerchief from my eyes, then I found I had been sitting not ten feet above the beach, and directly opposite where the cutter is brought up. That, your honour, is all I know about it; but who the people are who played us the trick, or whereabouts the cave is, is more than I can say.”

“Do not you think that we might manage to discover the cave, though?” asked the Commander.

“No, sir, certainly not,” answered Stretcher, positively. “It may be close to us, or it may be five miles off. To my mind, it’s some very clever hide; and those who took us there knew very well we should never find it again.”

“We must see about that,” observed my uncle. “By-the-bye, Stretcher, I gave you some things to take charge of; where are they?”

“Here, sir; they never overhauled my pockets, which shows that they have some manners, at all events,” said Jack, producing a pistol, a handkerchief, and a card. My uncle took the card, and on it were written the words, “This is the way we punish informers and traitors.”

“Perhaps, sir, you don’t know who the man was who took the lead of the rest in the cave,” said Stretcher.

“Who was he?” asked the Commander.

“No other than Bill Myers himself,” answered Jack. I knew him directly, and several of those with him; but I thought it better to keep a silent tongue in my head, so they didn’t suspect me. To my mind, Myers murdered the man as a warning to others not to attempt to play a like trick upon him. From what I happened to hear, I suspect the lugger has run her cargo, and is by this time off again; for I am certain some of the people we saw belonged to her, and they wouldn’t be likely to stay in this place after the work which has been done.

Nothing more of importance being elicited from Jack, he was dismissed; and my uncle arranged with Hanks that all the boats should visit the shore, and that a strict search should be made to discover the cave; while we should communicate with the authorities, and state what had occurred. The mist of the morning having cleared off, a look-out was kept at the masthead for the lugger, should she be in sight, but not a sign of her appeared; and as soon as breakfast was over, a large party of officers and seamen went on shore to hunt for the cave. My uncle, Stretcher, and I, meantime, went off to the nearest magistrate, to make our depositions. Mr Gibson, the magistrate, received us very politely, and expressed his anxiety to sift the affair to the bottom, and to bring the offenders to justice. He took charge of the things we had found; and while he entertained us at luncheon, he sent about to make inquiries on the subject. The man, whose corpse we believed we had seen, was found to be missing, and we learned that he was well-known to be connected with the smugglers; but of the cave, and the cargo which we suspected to have been run, no one could, or rather would, afford any information. When, however, it was known that murder had been committed, several persons, who had no objection to assist in simple smuggling, but had a prejudice against murdering people, came voluntarily forward to state all they knew and suspected about the matter. By several, Myers had been seen on shore during the previous day; and, what is extraordinary, one of the witnesses, an alehouse-keeper, swore that he had seen him use the very handkerchief we had found to sweep the crumbs off a table at which he had been eating bread and cheese, in order to have it clean for writing. He had also given him a letter to post, which he had forgotten to do. The handwriting was exactly like that on the card. Another witness said that he knew Myers by sight perfectly; that later in the day, as he was taking a cut across some fields near the cliffs, he had seen him seated under a tree, and that he was either loading or cleaning a pistol of the size and shape of the one now produced. Indeed there was ample circumstantial evidence to enable Mr Gibson to issue a warrant for the apprehension of Myers on a charge of murder, whenever and wherever he could be found. A reward was afterwards offered to whoever should capture him. It is very extraordinary that the cave could not be discovered, nor could we gain any information about the goods which had been seen. Of Myers himself no tidings could be obtained. There was no doubt that he had committed the murder, and he must have been aware that many of his old friends might be tempted by the prospect of the reward to deliver him up, should he venture again among them. The general opinion was, therefore, that we should hear nothing more of him. We, however, continued cruising in search of his lugger; but, though we chased at different times several craft which we thought might be his, we never got them within range of our guns. We, however, captured several other smuggling vessels, and made prize of a considerable number of tubs. The latter we picked up, either floating out at sea, or we got them by groping after they had been sunk. Smuggling vessels carry a considerable portion of their cargo lashed along outside, just above the water. When hard pressed these are cut away, and the rest are thrown overboard, so that when overhauled, nothing contraband may be found on board. When within a short distance of land, so that marks on the shore can be seen, weights are attached to the tubs, which are all fastened together; and the marks being observed, so that the spot should be known again, they are sunk. Sometimes we saw them being hove overboard and sunk; and then, of course, we did our best to get them again. We at length took a longer cruise than usual, and were for some time knocking about in the longitude of Plymouth, and that turbulent portion of the aqueous world—the Chops of the Channel. There was a light wind and a smooth sea, and we were dodging along under easy sail, being in no hurry to get anywhere. I was walking the deck with Hanks, talking on matters doubtless very erudite and abstruse; but I now forget what they were. Scriven was casting up his accounts—literally, not metaphorically, be it understood; Growl was endeavouring to forget his cares, with eyes fast closed, on two chairs in the gun-room; and our Commander was below, reading.

“D’Arcy, I have taken a fancy to you, and I want to give you some good advice,” remarked my companion, after some time. “Just remember what I say, and it will be useful to you in elbowing your way, as you must, through this crowded world. First, then, keep that potato-trap of yours shut, except when you want to catch potatoes in it; and your eyes and ears open on all occasions. There is little harm in knowing a thing, but there is a very great deal in repeating it; and much harm often in letting others be aware that you do know it. Then, my boy, always remember to look before you leap, and not to let go one rope before you have a firm gripe of another. You pretty boys from green Erin’s Isle are too apt to do things in a hurry—to knock a fellow down, and then to ask his pardon, on finding that he wasn’t the man you intended to floor; like the Irish soldier officer who declared that anchovies grew on the walls of Gibraltar, and when he had shot his friend for doubting his statement, recollected that it was capers he meant.”

I laughed at Hanks’ old story, though it was a hit against my countrymen; for I have always found it far better to laugh off anything said against one’s self, than to put on the dignities and to look grand. Laughter and good humour are like polished shields, which make the shafts of satire glance off on either side; but sulkiness and dignity are sure to bring them thick around them.

Our conversation was interrupted by the cry of “A sail on the weather bow!” The wind was about south-east, and the cutter’s head was up Channel. I went to report her to the Commander, who immediately came on deck, and, looking at her attentively through his glass, ordered a boat to be lowered. He then returned below, and brought up a package.

“Mr D’Arcy,” said he—and I felt very grand to be so called,—“take this parcel on board yonder ship. I think I know her. If she is bound to —, leave it with the master, to be delivered immediately on his arrival; if not, bring it back.” I forget now the name of the place he mentioned.

“Ay, ay, sir,” I answered; and jumping into the boat, shoved off. Jack Stretcher, who, in consequence of his behaviour with the smugglers, had gained the estimation of all on board, was with me in the boat. Away we pulled towards the ship with rapid strokes, for we knew that the faster we pulled the less distance we should have to go. We were about half-way between the cutter and the ship, when a bank of mist came rolling slowly along from the southern horizon, the opposite extremities seeming to close in, till a circle was formed around us, still, however, having the cutter and the ship within its confines. On we rowed, the circle growing smaller and smaller, till, by the time we reached the ship, our own vessel was completely shrouded from view. As I knew exactly where she was, that did not trouble me. The ship proved to be the one I was sent to board—the Ajax, I think, was her name.

I delivered my despatches. The master asked me down into the cabin to take a glass of wine, which it would have been against the principles of a midshipman to refuse. I took two or three, and ate some cold chicken and ham into the bargain. There were, I remember, a number of passengers, who were very civil, and some gave me letters to take on shore; indeed it is just possible that one of the reasons why I was so hospitably entertained was that time might be obtained to finish and close the said letters. At last the package of farewells, last words, and before-forgotten directions, being ready, I tumbled with it into the boat, and shoved off to return to the cutter.

I calculated that she bore about north-north-west from the ship; and not having a compass, the last thing I did was to take a careful glance at the one on board. I then pulled away, thinking that I should not lose sight of the merchantman before we got hold of our own craft. In about ten minutes I found that I was not a little mistaken. I had told Stretcher, who was pulling stroke-oar, to keep his eye on the ship, while I, meantime, was looking out for the cutter. Every moment I expected to see her; but, as we advanced, the fog appeared to rise up with redoubled thickness around us; and my difficulty was still further increased when Jack Stretcher exclaimed—

“I can’t see the ship nowhere, sir! She was there not a moment ago, and just as I passed my hand over my brow, she was gone.”

“Well, we must pull on,” I exclaimed. “If we keep the breeze on the starboard quarter, we cannot be far wrong.”

However, not many minutes afterwards, the wind, true to its proverbial character of fickleness, died away, and we were left without any guide by which to steer our course across the trackless deep. Still we pulled on, I fancied, in the direction of the coast. We should have been wise had we laid on our oars, and gone to sleep. As I could not see ahead, I steered by the wake astern, and was under the impression that I was keeping a wonderfully straight line. How long we had gone on I can scarcely tell, when we heard the sound of a gun booming along the water; but, instead of coming from the direction in which we were steering, it seemed to be astern of us. Still we thought it must be the cutter firing. The men even declared that they knew the sound of the gun. The probability was, certainly, that it was her gun, as she would be sure to fire to show her whereabouts to us; and it was not likely that any other vessel near us would be firing for a similar purpose. Although I was very confident, from the straight wake I fancied I had kept, that Jack was mistaken, and that the sound of the gun had come from some other vessel, yet I yielded to his opinion, and pulled in the direction whence we thought it proceeded. We had not made good a quarter of a mile when we again heard the sound; but still, to our surprise and vexation, it was indubitably right astern.

“That gun’s from the cutter, sir,” said Jack; “but I can’t make it out how it comes from away there.”

No more could I; but determined this time, at all events, not to miss our vessel, we pulled away directly towards the spot whence we were certain the sound proceeded.

“Give way, my lads, we shall soon be up with her,” I shouted; and the crew sent the boat flying through the smooth water. I kept looking out on either bow for the cutter, expecting every instant to see her looming through the fog; when, for the third time, a gun was heard, but in spite of all our hopes and expectations, and almost against our belief, it also sounded right astern, and further away than any of the others. I was ready to cry with vexation. It seemed like the work of magic, and as if a set of mischievous imps or spirits, like those on Prospero’s island, were employed in trying our tempers and patience. There seemed no use in going on thus, to be constantly baulked; so I ordered the men to lay on their oars, resolved to wait either till the mist cleared off, or till we could devise some better means of finding our way to the shore than we now possessed. Thus for an hour or more we floated listlessly on the water.

Chapter Seven.

Fall in with a Wreck—Dreadful Scene on Board—Mr Marlow and his Daughter—Alice Marlow’s Account of the Voyage—Bring the Ship into Harbour.

“Hillo! where does that come from?” I exclaimed, as the low deep boom of a gun came rolling over the calm water.

Another and another report followed, and then, as if affected by the concussion, the mist on a sudden lifted a few feet from the surface, and revealed, about three miles off, the hull of a large ship on which the rays of the now setting sun glittered brightly for an instant, ere she sank beneath the wave. It was sufficient to show us our position, and we might easily have found our way towards the shore; but, as I was about putting the boat’s head in that direction, Jack observed—

“There’s something wrong with that ship yonder, sir, or she wouldn’t be firing in the way she does.”

I listened attentively. There could be no doubt—those were minute-guns, the well-known signal of distress at sea. We could do but little good, probably; but what good we could do I determined to attempt. My men needed no encouragement. The fact that fellow-creatures wanted help was sufficient to nerve their arms. Had an enemy been in sight, and had there been heads to be cracked, it would have been much the same. Round spun the boat, and away they pulled as hard as they could lay their backs to the oars. The breeze which had cleared off the mist, had likewise got up the sea a little, and the spray flew over our bows as we dashed through the dancing waves. Away we went; the big sea-serpent could not have beaten us. Every minute the low, dull sound of the gun reached our ears, growing louder and louder as we drew nearer the ship. Her distress was evidently great. From the somewhat irregular way the gun was fired, and from its tone, Jack pronounced the ship to be a merchantman, as he remarked that minute-guns from a man-of-war would have been far louder and more regular. The mist, fortunately, did not again settle down thickly over the ship, so that, although twilight was coming on, we could still distinguish her whereabouts. As we drew near, we saw that she was of considerable size, and that all her masts had gone by the board. We were evidently not perceived, even though we had got close up to her, for she continued firing as before.

“Now, my lads, we’ll let the poor fellows know that we are at hand to help them,” I exclaimed; and on this my men joined me in raising a right hearty cheer, which must have given the people on board no unpleasing notice of our approach. There was a pause, as if they were recovering from their surprise; and then it was answered by a shout so feeble, that it sounded more like the sighing of the wind among the crumbling walls of some old building, than a cheer of welcome. It was now too dark to distinguish any one, but I fancied that I saw the heads of several people over the taffrail, as if eagerly watching us. We were soon alongside, when some one attempted to heave us a rope, but it fell short of the boat. We, however, hooked on to the main-chains, and, followed by Jack, I was not long in scrambling on board. A seaman stood there, holding a ship’s lantern, which shed a feeble light around, where all was wreck and confusion; and it besides exhibited more strongly his own countenance, which looked haggard and emaciated in the extreme. The greater part of the bulwarks, the spare spars, the caboose, and the boats had been carried away,—indeed, the sea must have made a clean sweep over her; and it seemed not a little surprising, from the appearance of the deck, that any human beings should have remained, and that the ship herself should have escaped foundering. Besides the man who held the lantern, three equally wretched-looking beings came to meet us. I observed that some others were lying on the deck, round one of the chain-pumps, as if they had sunk down with fatigue; while two more were stretched out alongside the only remaining gun, the report of which we had heard. I thought to myself, Can those poor fellows be dead? but I dared not ask the question.

“You seem in a bad plight,” I observed, as I looked round.

“Bad enough,” answered one of the seaman; “and if you don’t bear a hand, we shall have the ship sinking under us.”

“We’ll do our best for you; but how can our boat carry all your ship’s company?” I asked, for I thought I saw other people moving aft, and fancied that some must be below.

“Oh, she’ll carry all of us that’s alive,” returned the same rough-spoken seaman. “But, sir,” he continued, “we have two aboard here whom we must get out of harm’s way before we look after ourselves.”

“Where are they?” I asked.

“Right aft, sir,” he answered, leading the way along the deck.

As I followed him, I passed two bodies stretched out at full length.

“They’ll never break biscuit again,” observed one of the men. “We were near thirty souls in all, and this night there only remain six of us alive.”

There was no time just then to ask questions. The companion-hatch had not been washed away, and as the seaman held up the lantern, its light fell on the figure of a man kneeling on the deck, bending over the fair face of a young girl, who reclined on a seat by the side of it.

“Rouse up a bit, sir; there’s help come when we didn’t expect it,” said the seaman.

The gentleman, for such I saw that he was, had not his voice proved it, rose from his knees. “Heaven be praised, my child may yet be saved!” he exclaimed, clasping his daughter in his arms, and scarcely appearing to notice my presence. “Alice, dearest, bear up but a little longer; we may once more hope to reach the shore.”

The young girl endeavoured, to raise herself, and feebly returned his embrace.

Then turning to me, he said, “You have arrived most opportunely. We had well nigh abandoned all hope of escaping death. What do you propose we should do?”

“As the people on board seem to say that the ship may go down any moment with slight warning,” I replied, “I think, sir, the sooner you and the young lady get into the boat, the better. We will follow you when it becomes absolutely necessary. Meantime we must see what can be done on board.”

I then told him that I belonged to a cutter, which could not be far off, and that I hoped by daylight we should see her, and that she would come to our assistance.

The gentleman, on this, took his daughter in his arms and carried her to the gangway.

“How are the poor men who were so ill?” I heard her ask.

“They are free from all pain,” was the evasive answer; but it seemed to satisfy her.

We soon got them safely placed in the boat, in which I left two boat-keepers, with orders to be ready to shove off at a moment’s notice. The rest of the boat’s crew came on board to lend a hand to what might be required.

I then set to work to see what was best to be done. There was no time to ask questions as to how the ship had got into her present condition. My first care was to attend to the wants of the sick. The seaman who had received us and my own people went round with me. Unhappily, we found that most of the other poor fellows were beyond human aid. Three only were still alive, verging on the portals of death. We fortunately had a flask of spirits, a keg of water, and some biscuits in the boat; of these I served out sparingly among the crew. The food had the effect of speedily reviving them. I next took a lantern, and, accompanied by Jack, went below to discover, if I could, how much water the ship had in her. I was not quite comfortable during the time, for I thought she might take it into her head to go down before we could regain the deck. The water we found was over the cabin floors; but, as far as we could judge, it was not gaining on her. Half of it might have got in while the sea broke over the ship. The contents of the cabin, bedding, and tables, and chairs, and crockery, and books, and clothing, were washing about together. Returning on deck, we went forward. The forepeak was much in the same condition.

“She’ll not sink yet awhile, sir,” said Jack. “Hark, now! don’t you hear a bubbling sound right forward, there? Now, to my mind, if we were to get a sail thrummed and brought across her bows, we might carry her into harbour yet.”

“If you think so, we’ll try it, by all means,” I answered, feeling no little pride at the prospect of saving the ship.

No time was to be lost in setting about the work, if it was to be done. I had only three men; and the four we found able to move about on board were still too weak to be of much use. Officers there were none. I shall have to tell a sad tale on that subject, by-and-by. We had no little difficulty in getting at the sail-room; but, after much rummaging about, we discovered a spare topsail, with which we set to work as we proposed. What with searching for the ropes and getting the sail ready, it took us an hour before it was brought under the ship’s bows. Meantime the water gained very slowly on us. It was nervous work, for we could not tell at what moment the last bucketful might come in which would send her to the bottom.

“That will do, sir, I think,” said Jack Stretcher, who, I must own, was the prime mover. “The leak seems to suck in the sail, and we may now try to clear her of the water.”

With a will we manned the chain-pumps, and after an hour’s hard work it became evident that we had materially lessened its depth. In the meantime the little girl and her father, with the weakest of those we found on board, had remained in the boat.

“You may come on board again, sir; I don’t think the ship is going to sink this time,” I sung out, as I looked down on them.

At first the gentleman would not venture to quit the boat, for he could not believe that the ship was not on the point of sinking. After some persuasion, however, I got him and his daughter on deck, and we wrapped her up comfortably, and placed her on the seat by the companion-hatch, for the cabin was too damp for her to occupy. The sick men we placed on the poop, with a sail stretched over them, to shelter them somewhat from the night air. The dead were carried forward. We had no time, however, to spare from the pumps; but, with the aid of the fresh hands, we again set to for a spell, the gentleman helping, as far as his strength would allow him. As may be supposed, I was curious to know who he was; and while we were pumping away, I bethought me I would ask him his name.

“You may call me Marlow,” he answered. “I ought to have mentioned that before.”

The reply made me fancy that there was some mystery or other, and my imagination conjured up all sorts of romantic stories. “And that young lady,” thought I, “is Miss Alice Marlow.” “Alice Marlow—Alice Marlow; what a very pretty name,” I kept repeating to myself, while my arms were aching with the exertion of pumping. Fortunately it remained very calm, or I suspect we should not have gained on the leak. Mr Marlow was anxious to get on shore for the sake of his daughter, and would willingly have abandoned the ship; but at the same time he was glad to save some valuable property he had on board. All hands worked with a will, spelling each other, till we were almost knocked up. I thought the night the longest I had ever spent. We had no time for conversation, so I was still ignorant of how the ship had been brought into her present condition. At last the cold grey light of the coming day appeared. I looked out in the hope of discovering the blue line of the land on the northern board; but the dull, leaden sea surrounded us on every side, fortunately, unruffled as a looking-glass. Neither the cutter nor any other sail was in sight. We had given our own provisions to the half-famished crew, and were becoming very sharp-set ourselves. Some nutritious food had, I found—much to the credit of those on board,—been reserved for the exclusive use of the little girl, and this had been the means of preserving her life, notwithstanding all the hardships she had undergone. Mr Marlow, overcome with fatigue, had wrapped himself in a cloak, and lay asleep at his daughter’s feet. Two of the ship’s crew had fairly given in, and dropped off also; but my own fellows, urged on by Jack, worked away like Trojans at the pump.

“Do ye see, lads, if we get this here craft into harbour, we shall make a better job of it than of any prize we are ever likely to pick up in the whole course of our lives; but if she sinks, why, do ye see, we shall get nothing,” he remarked, whenever he saw them inclined to flag in their exertions; and each time he spoke, the water always seemed to flow faster than before out of the scuppers.

Our prospect was not a very pleasant one. We had a boat certainly; but with any sea running she would scarcely carry the remnant of the crew and passengers; and while the ship floated I would on no account desert her.

The beams of the sun, as he rose out of the ocean, fell on the little girl’s face. I had fancied her rather pretty at night, but I now thought her very lovely. While my arms were resting I stood watching her, when the dazzling light of the sun aroused her from her sleep, and opening a very bright pair of blue eyes, she fixed them on me with a look of extreme surprise. It may be laid down as a general rule that a midshipman, especially an Irish one, does not take a long time to fall in love, nor, it must be confessed, to fall out again—which latter, taking all things into consideration, will be considered a very fortunate circumstance. I, accordingly, instantly conceived a very ardent affection for Miss Alice Marlow, and felt ready to go right round the world, and to perform all sorts of prodigies for her sake. She looked at me, and then around her, as if trying to collect her scattered senses.

“Where are we—where are we going?” she asked, in a very sweet and musical voice.

“We are in the Chops of the Channel; and we are going nowhere at present, but we hope soon to be,” I answered. “We must try to rig a sort of a jury-mast, and if we get a little breeze from the southward, we may hope to fetch Plymouth.”

The idea of getting up a jury-mast had only just occurred to me.

Her voice aroused Mr Marlow. It was pleasant to see the way in which the father and daughter greeted each other. I left them together, offering up their thanks to Heaven for having preserved them to see another day, while I went forward to propound my idea to Jack. He was about to propose the same to me, the only want being the spars with which to make the mast. A few remained, certainly, on deck, but they were short and broken. On putting them, however, together, we found that we might splice them so as to form a mast and a yard of sufficient length to answer our purpose. All hands set to with a will, in the hopes that a breeze might spring up from the southward or westward, and blow us on to the English coast. The ebb, I found, had drifted us down Channel, and the flood, now again making strong, sent us the way we wished to go. As the sun also rose, and the mist which had so long hung over the sea cleared off somewhat, we at length made out the land to the northward, which we had no doubt was the coast of Cornwall.

Things now began to wear a much more cheering aspect. We had to knock off mast building, however, every now and then, to take a spell at the pumps. Mr Marlow assisted us at either work to the best of his power; and even little Miss Alice seemed very anxious to lend a hand, and, though I own she could have been but of slight use, her presence encouraged us to perseverance. It did me at all events. I have all my life felt doubly energetic in the presence of a lady, and fancy, at all events, that there is not a deed which I would not dare for the sake of winning the smile of an amiable girl.

At last we got something like a mast built, and lashed to the stump of the foremast. We stayed it up, got a yard across it, and bent a topsail to it, which we fortunately found below. This was but very little sail: but it was all we could hope to be able to set, and without a wind even that was of no use to us.

The pumps, in the meantime, kept us fully occupied; clang—clang—clang they went, till I thought I never should get the sound out of my ears. Jack every now and then turned his eye over the smooth, glassy sea to the northward, as if he observed some sign which I did not. Before long he gladdened our ears by exclaiming, “Here it comes! We’ll stand by, sir, if you please, to hoist the sail.” I went aft to the helm. A nice fresh, laughing breeze came rippling and curling up briskly the hitherto sullen waters. It struck us abeam on the larboard side. The sail was hoisted, the ship answered her helm, and I steered her in the direction in which I believed that Plymouth was to be found.

As the binnacle had been swept off the deck, and the only compass I could find in the cabin had been so damaged by water as to be of no use, I had only the distant blue land to steer by.

Our sail, fortunately, required but little attention, so that my whole ship’s company were at liberty to work at the pumps, which was very necessary, as, whenever they relaxed in their efforts, the water again rapidly gained on us.

Miss Alice, being of no assistance to them, came and stood by me to help me to steer the ship, which, I assured her, was very kind of her.

As all danger appeared past, and the sun shone forth bright and warm, her spirits revived. Her voice was very sweet and low, and I thought that I had never heard anything more musical.

“What is your name, little officer?” she asked, putting her hands on the spokes of the wheel, and imitating my attitude as I stood on the other side of it.

“Neil D’Arcy, little lady,” I answered, not quite liking the epithet she bestowed on me.

“Oh, I so much wished to know it; for papa and I are so very, very grateful to you for coming to save our lives, and we can never thank you enough,” said she.

“Oh, I have done nothing at all to be thanked for; I wish that I had,” I replied. “I wouldn’t mind any trouble or danger to serve you; and I would go right round the world for your sake, that I would.”

“It’s very kind of you to say so,” said Miss Alice. “And I know that I shall like you some day very much—indeed I do so now—for the service you have been to us; but tell me, Mr Neil D’Arcy, are you a captain of a ship?”

“No, I am a midshipman,” I replied, modestly.

“Is a midshipman higher than a captain?” she inquired, innocently.

“Sometimes; when he’s mast-headed,” I answered. This seemed to satisfy her; and I, not wishing to be lowered in her estimation, was anxious to change the subject. I therefore said, “It seems very odd that though I’ve been on board so many hours, and seem to be so well acquainted with you, I do not know where you have come from, or how you got into this terrible plight.”

“Oh, I will tell you all about it, then,” she replied. “You must know that papa has been a great merchant in the Brazils, where we have lived almost since I can remember. Dear mamma died there; and if it had not been for my sake, I believe papa would have died too. You cannot tell how fond he is of me, for I have no brothers or sisters, and there was no one else in that country for him to love. At last the doctor told him he must come to England, so he took a passage in this ship, which is called the Poictiers. There were some other passengers, and I had an old black nurse to take care of me. At first we had fine weather, and things seemed to go pretty well; but, sad to say, the captain was a very tipsy man, and we, I believe, lost our way, and the wind blew against us and kept us back a long time.”

“Oh, I see! the master got out of his reckoning, and met with a succession of foul winds,” I remarked.

“I don’t know, but I know we were very uncomfortable, and had very little to eat, and what we had was very bad,” she continued. “It was very horrid, was it not? A fever also, which one of the passengers had brought from Rio, spread among the people on board. Several of the other passengers and many of the crew died of it, and among others, my poor nurse Josefa. God was very kind, and saved dear papa and me. I do not think the captain caught it; but he was always very tipsy, and now was worse than ever. One night he fell into the sea and was drowned.”

“Drinking brought on delirium tremens, and in his madness he jumped overboard probably,” I remarked. “No wonder his ship was in so bad a condition; but go on.”

“Both the mates died, and we were left without any officers. Fortunately the crew were very steady, and behaved well; and at last the fever went away, and those who were sick recovered. The carpenter was the only person on board who had any idea how we should steer, so the rest made him act as captain.”

“It was a mercy, under such circumstances, that you found your way into the Chops of the Channel.”

“Where is that?” asked Miss Alice, naïvely.

“Where we now are,” said I; and I should probably have gone on to explain the reason of the name, but that I was very anxious to hear more of her account. As far as I could make out, three very anxious weeks passed by while the ship remained in this condition, when, as they were getting near soundings, a gale sprang up and drove her furiously before it. “One evening,” continued the little girl, “papa and I were in our cabins, when suddenly the ship rolled over dreadfully on her side, and—most horrible!—the water came rushing down into them. At the same time there was a frightful crash, and we heard sad shrieks and cries. Poor papa flew into my cabin, and seized me in his arms, for he thought the ship was sinking, so did I, and we wished to die together.”

“The ship had broached to, and had been thrown on her beam-ends, and the masts had gone by the board,” I remarked. “It was fortunate they did so, or she would have been sent to the bottom to a certainty. When the masts went the ship righted, and you saw there was a chance of escape.”

“I was too frightened to think anything just then,” said she. “All I know is, that papa, carrying me in his arms, found his way in the darkness to the companion-ladder, and then up on deck. When we got there, I wished that we were in our cabin again. We were in the midst of high, black, foaming waves and bright flashes of lightning; and when I looked up, there were no masts and no sails, but the deck was covered with their broken remains. It was so very dreadful, I cannot talk more about it now. I did not cry or faint, but I felt my heart beat very quick as I clung to papa, while he held tight to the companion-hatches, which, as you see, still remain firm.”

“But where have you lived all the time you have been on the wreck?” I asked.

“Oh, I remained where you first found me,” she answered. “At night they covered me up with cloaks and a sail, and in the daytime I was able to walk about, for the sea, fortunately, was tolerably smooth. The kind sailors also, though suffering much from hunger, I heard papa say, brought me all I required to eat, which was not much, you may suppose.”

This was all about the shipwreck I heard from Miss Alice at the time. It appeared that when the masts had been carried away, the mizen-mast had hung on by some of the rigging, and by dragging astern had assisted in making the head of the ship pay off. This caused her to drive before the gale, and saved the decks from being swept by the seas, which would otherwise have cleared them of every human being. As soon as all the damage had been committed, the wind and sea began to go down, and by the morning there was only a moderate breeze. The carpenter, however, discovered that the ship had sprung a leak, and all hands were now summoned to work the pumps; but weakened by disease and famine, and overcome with fatigue, they were soon obliged to give up the almost hopeless task. Three days of horror passed away without any ship coming near them, while several of them died from sheer starvation. Fortunately, at last they discovered some gunpowder which, being in tin cases, was not spoilt, and with it they managed to fire the guns which had attracted our attention.

Miss Alice told me many more incidents, which I now forget. Our conversation was interrupted by Jack Stretcher, who came aft.

“Sir,” said he, touching his hat, “I’m afraid we shall have to take to the boat, for the people are almost all knocked up; and, do all we can, the ship won’t float much longer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, for I should have liked to have got her safe into harbour,” I answered. “But I suppose there is no help for it.”

“We’ll take another spell at the pumps before we give in,” he replied. “But I wanted to tell you, sir, that to my mind that poor gentleman will be killing himself if he works away as he does; and as he is of no great use to us, it would be better if he sat down and rested himself.”

On hearing this, Miss Marlow darted forward to her father, and seizing him by the arm, tried to force him away from the pumps. He soon yielded to her entreaties, and almost fainting with fatigue, came and sat down aft.

“Now, my lads,” cried Jack to the men, who, one after the other, had thrown themselves down on the deck, “we’ll see if we can’t keep the old craft afloat till we get her into harbour.”

But no one responded to his summons. Just then my eye fell on the white sail of a vessel appearing above the dark horizon right ahead of us. I pointed it out to Jack.

“It’s the cutter, sir, to a certainty,” he exclaimed, after scrutinising it attentively. “Huzza! my lads, there’s help at hand, if you will but hold out an hour longer.”

The men, encouraged by his words and example, resumed their labours, and again sent the water gushing through the scuppers. It was an anxious time; for after all I felt that the sail in sight might not prove to be the cutter, or she might be crossing our course and not see us. Our last remnant of food and water had been served out, with the exception of a biscuit, which I had kept for the little girl and her father; so that all hands were very hungry as well as fatigued. I had tightened my belt round my waist to serve me for my breakfast. I watched the vessel as she rose higher and higher above the horizon; and, to my great joy, I at length saw that she was, at all events, a large cutter, beating up towards us. I called Jack to look at her again.

“She’s the Serpent, and no mistake,” he exclaimed. “She’ll be down to us in another hour, if the wind holds. My doubt is if the ship will swim as long,” he added in a whisper to me; “but we’ll do our best, sir.”

“Let me know in time if the water gains much on us, that we may get the young lady and the gentleman into the boat,” said I.

“Ay, ay, sir,” he answered, as he went forward, and with a loud cheer, resumed his labours.

The minutes dragged slowly on; for, though I had no fear for our lives, I was anxious to get fresh hands to keep the ship afloat.

“Is that little vessel yours?” asked Miss Marlow, pointing to the cutter as she approached.

“Yes,” said I. “I hope before long to take you on board her.”

“That will be very nice; for dear papa and I want to leave this dreadful ship. You will carry us home to Old England, will you!” she said.

“If the cutter makes us out, I hope to get you on shore this evening or to-morrow,” I replied. “But I am not quite certain that she sees us.”

She had just then tacked, and was apparently standing away from us. I watched her eagerly. Again she tacked, and I was certain she saw us. I steered towards her, and now, the breeze freshening, we rapidly neared each other. She stood on, and passing under our stern, kept alongside of us.

“Hillo, D’Arcy, my boy, how did you get there?” hailed my uncle, as he recognised me at the helm.

“Fell in with her, sir. Pray send some fresh hands, for we are sinking; and some prog, for we are starving,” I shouted, in return.

The cutter flew by us, and hove-to a short distance ahead. A boat was lowered, and as we came up, she hooked on to our main-chains, and my uncle stepped on board. I was thus speedily shorn of the honour of command. As soon as I had introduced Mr Marlow and his daughter to him, and given him a brief account of what had occurred, he invited them on board the cutter, ordering me to take charge of them, and to send Hanks with another boat’s crew to assist in working the ship. He had brought some provisions, which very soon restored my hungry people, and enabled them to pull me and my charges on board the cutter, while the fresh hands took their places at the pumps. Even when Miss Alice discovered my unexalted position, she did not seem to esteem me the less, for I had already, I rather fancy, established myself in her good graces. I did my best to make her and her father comfortable in my uncle’s cabin; and Flitch, his steward, soon placed before them such a breakfast as they had not seen for many a long day, to which I, at all events, did not fail to do ample justice. The young lady appeared to think that naval officers were very hungry mortals, as she saw numberless slices of bacon and eggs disappear down my throat.

“We have no lady’s maid on board to attend on you, Miss Marlow,” said I, as I got up to leave the cabin; “but Flitch will put your berth to rights; and if you’ll follow my advice, you’ll turn in and take a good snooze, for you want it, I think.”

The poor little girl was almost falling asleep at table. Mr Marlow thanked me for my good advice, which he said he and his daughter would follow.

When I went on deck I found that the cutter had taken the ship in tow, and that we were running up Channel. My uncle soon came on board, and praising me for my behaviour, said he should try and carry our prize into Portsmouth. He was in high spirits, for he expected to get a good round sum for salvage. The breeze held favourable, and in two days we were steering safely through the Needles passage.

Chapter Eight.

Alice at Daisy Cottage—A Boat’s Crew Capsized—Pick up Dicky Sharpe—Our Friendship Commenced.

I may as well say that my uncle got a fair round sum for the salvage of the good ship the Poictiers, and a very welcome addition to his year’s pay. Our passengers went on shore at Portsmouth, and as soon as we arrived there, I thought I was to see no more of them, when, having accompanied them to the door of the George Hotel, I was about to bid them farewell.

“What! we are not going to part yet,” said Mr Marlow. “Come in, young gentleman—come in.”

There was the usual bustle consequent on the arrival of a party at an inn. It soon subsided. Rooms were selected, and we found ourselves seated in a parlour, which looked doubly comfortable after the deck of the dismasted ship and the small cabin of the cutter.

“You will come and dine with us to-day, Mr D’Arcy; and I must beg you to convey an invitation to your uncle,” said Mr Marlow.

As midshipmen are not always their own masters, I had to explain that I would, if I could; though I did not think my uncle would refuse me leave. I was not disappointed; and at six o’clock I found myself seated at Mr Marlow’s dinner-table, and opposite my Commander. I thought the little lady, Miss Alice, still looked very much fatigued.

“She is scarcely yet fit to perform the journey to London,” observed her father. “Still I am anxious to be there, and must also visit Liverpool in the course of a few days.”

“If you will allow her to remain with Mrs O’Flaherty, I can answer for my wife being most happy to receive her,” said my uncle.

To my great joy, though I was afraid of showing if, Mr Marlow at once acceded to the proposal.

“I will, then, bring Mrs O’Flaherty over to fetch her,” added my uncle. “You will, I suspect, agree very well, Miss Alice.”

“Indeed, my dear sir, you are laying me under a tenfold obligation,” said Mr Marlow. “All our connections are, I believe, in the North, and in dreary London there is no one with whom I could leave the dear child.”

I don’t remember the rest of our conversation. I know that I discussed a very good dinner; and that same evening we got under weigh and ran over to Ryde, and my uncle went up to Daisy Cottage. The next morning my aunt accompanied him on board, and we returned to Portsmouth. She received little Alice, as I knew she would, most kindly, and before many hours had passed they became great friends; and, to make a long story short, Miss Marlow became an inmate for several weeks of Daisy Cottage.

We were lying one day soon after this in Portsmouth Harbour, off Haslar Creek, ready to start for the westward. It was Sunday. My uncle had gone over to Ryde, and I was in hopes of getting across in the afternoon to visit my aunt and her guest. I had turned out in full fig; and while all the people were below dressing for muster, I walked the deck as officer of the watch, with my spy-glass under my arm, looking out for the signal from the flag-ship to make it eight-bells. I felt very important, but I have reasons to doubt whether I looked proportionably consequential. All the ships in the harbour and at Spithead ran up their bunting at the same moment; and I had just belayed our signal halliards when I saw a boat, crowded with seamen and marines, putting off from a frigate lying right ahead of us. The tide was running strong out of the harbour. A young midshipman was at the helm, and he did not seem to have made due allowance for the strength of the current. The consequence was that the boat drifted down some way below the intended place of landing, and while he was putting her head up the harbour to regain his lost ground, her keel struck the mast of a barge which had sunk the day before, and which scarcely showed above the water. In an instant over she went, and the people in her were spilt out into the eddying, rushing tide-way. Some struck out for the shore, a few clung on the boat, and others came drifting down helplessly with the current.

So suddenly had the accident occurred, that I had not a moment to consider what was best to be done, nor to call any one from below. Fortunately we had a punt alongside. Casting off the painter, I jumped into her, and shoved off to where three men were struggling, close ahead of the cutter. I caught hold of one who was just sinking, and hauled him over the bows, while the other two got in without my help. I looked round to see what had become of the rest of the people. Two marines were clinging to the keel of the boat, and she was on the point of striking our stern, by which she would have been carried under our bottom, when I sculled alongside and got the two jollies on board. By the glance I had had at her just before, I observed that another person had been with them, while, as I was getting in the three first men, a cry for help had reached my ears.

“Oh! sir, there’s Mr — gone, poor fellow!” exclaimed one of the marines saved. “There he is, though!”

Directly under the water, where he pointed, I saw a head of hair or a bunch of seaweed, I could not tell which; but, on the chance of its being the former, I sculled up to it. The sun shone forth brightly, and I caught a glimpse of a human face convulsed with agony beneath the tide. Twice it eluded me; but stretching out my arm, and almost going overboard and capsizing our already over-crowded boat, I got firm hold of a person by the hair, who, I saw, had a midshipman’s patch on the collar of his jacket. I had some difficulty in getting the seemingly lifeless body of my brother officer into the boat.

Seeing that there was no one else to be saved—for several boats had shoved off from the shore and vessels at anchor near at hand to pick up the rest of the people—I paddled my nearly sinking boat alongside the cutter. Hearing my hail as I jumped into the punt, the crew had rushed on deck, and were standing ready to hand on board the half-drowned midshipman and the men I had been the means of saving. The latter were none the worse for their ducking, except that their clothes were wettish.

“You’ll want a clean shirt, mate,” said one of our people to a Patlander from the frigate.

“Arrah! now didn’t I put a dry one in my pocket this blessed morning; so it will be all handy for me,” he exclaimed, diving into the recesses of his dripping peacoat.

The midshipman, who was still insensible, was, by Hanks’ advice, carried down into the gun-room. We were unwilling to run the risk of the delay which must have occurred had he been conveyed on board his own ship.

“Bring a glass of hot grog; and let it be pretty stiff, steward!” said Hanks, as we were engaged in stripping our patient and putting him into my berth between the blankets.

We then set to work to rub his body with a coarse worsted sock, the first suitable thing which came to hand. Having got some of the salt water he had swallowed out of his mouth, Hanks poured a little warm grog into it instead. This, with the rubbing, had the effect of speedily restoring animation. In a few minutes he opened his eyes, and tried to sit up and look about him.

“Hillo! where am I? I say, are the poor fellows all picked up?” he asked, in a weak tone.

I liked him at once for thinking of his men.

“All right, mate,” I answered; “no harm has come of the capsize, except a few wet jackets.”

Just then, on looking round, I saw a man, who by his uniform I knew to be a naval surgeon, standing near me. “So I see you’ve saved me my work, gentlemen,” he said, smiling. “You could not have acted better than you appear to have done; and, thanks to you, we shall soon have him all right again.”

“Thank’ee, Doctor, I’ve come round pretty well already,” sung out the midshipman. “But, I say, mate, I just want another glass of your stuff. It’s prime physic.”

The medico smelt the tumbler, which stood on the table full of grog, and then felt the youngster’s pulse and looked at his tongue.

“You may take half a glass—it’s quite enough for you, and then we’ll have you wrapped up in blankets, and carried on board,” he answered.

“Oh, thank’ee, Doctor, I’m very comfortable where I am, and my clothes ain’t dried yet; so if you’ll let me stay here, I think it would be the better for me,” said the midshipman.

The Doctor’s objections, if he had any, were soon overruled; and, telling the midshipman to return on board the frigate as soon as his clothes were dry, he quitted the cutter.

“What’s your name, mate?” asked my new friend, as he was sipping his glass of grog.

I told him.

“Mine’s Richard Sharpe; but I’m mostly called Dicky Sharpe,” he answered. “Some of my messmates give me all sorts of names; but I don’t mind them. As long as they don’t cob me, it’s all very well. I’m a happy fellow, and ready for all the ups and downs of life. I’m pretty well wide awake, and know my duty, so I don’t often get mast-headed. If I happen to get a fall, I generally manage to pitch on my feet; and as I’m some day or other to come into a fortune, I’m not troubled about the future. If the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty give me my promotion, it will be all very well; if not, why they’ll have to dispense with my valuable services, and the country will be the loser.”

I was highly edified by Master Dicky’s philosophy, and I at once conceived a great regard and respect for him.

“Now, D’Arcy, my boy,” he continued, in his free and easy tone, “it’s stupid work lying here between the blankets; so if you’ll just give me the loan of some of your toggery till mine are dry, I’ll sit up at table and crack a bottle of wine with you.”

I had to remind him of the early hour, and to confess that wine our mess did not possess, but that he should have some breakfast and hot tea, which would be better for him, and that he should be welcome to my clothes.

While he was seated at table, Hanks, who had gone on deck to see the medico off, returned. “Well, D’Arcy, I told him how you had saved the youngster and the other men,” he said. “It will be a feather in your cap, my lad, and you deserve to wear it.”

“What!” exclaimed my volatile young friend, grasping my hand, while the tears came into his eyes, “you saved me from drowning. On my word, I’m very much obliged to you. I shouldn’t like to have become food for fishes just yet. I’d rather eat a few dinners off them first.”

“Oh, faith, I could not have done less if you’d been only a sheep or a pig,” I answered, laughing; “so you’ve little to thank me for.”

“I suppose, though, even a sheep or a pig would have tried to show their gratitude, unless you had intended to turn them into mutton and pork directly afterwards,” replied Dicky Sharpe. “So, D’Arcy, I must look upon you as my friend and preserver; and I just wish, when you can get leave, that you would come down and see my governor and mother and sisters. They won’t make much of you, won’t they, that’s all.”

I told him that I should be very glad to accept his invitation if I could; but at the time I was thinking that my aunt and Miss Alice would admire the feather Hanks said I might wear in my cap more than anybody else. I never met a merrier or more contented fellow than Dicky Sharpe. I was quite sorry to lose him when his clothes were dry and a boat came alongside to take him on board his ship, the Cynthia, What was my surprise to receive by her, at the same time, a note from the captain of the frigate, inviting me to dine with him on the following day, stating that he wished to thank me for the presence of mind I had displayed in saving the lives of one of his midshipmen and several of his people.

“I’m glad to hear it,” exclaimed Hanks. “It shows your talents are not hid under a bushel; and now get away over to Ryde with that note in your pocket, and explain its meaning in the best way you can.”

I jumped into a wherry just then passing, and in less than an hour landed at Ryde Pier, whence I found my way up to Daisy Cottage. My aunt was delighted to hear my story, which, I flatter myself, I told with all the innate modesty of an Irishman. Alice, I thought, blushed her approval most sweetly; and my uncle congratulated me warmly. I spent a very pleasant evening, some of the time walking with Alice on the shore, and resting under the trees, which come almost close down to the water’s edge. I found that I could not dine with Captain Bruff, as we were to sail next morning for the westward; so I was obliged to be content with the empty honour of the invitation; and, I dare say, my absence did not break his heart. I was more sorry to miss seeing Dicky Sharpe again, as I should have liked to have had another palaver with him; and before our return the Cynthia would probably have sailed.

Chapter Nine.

A Chase—A Prize—Capture a French Smuggler—Our Prisoner’s Politeness—Do not Trust a Greek, even when Polite.

At the hour I was asked to dine with Captain Bruff we were running out at the Needles, with a fresh breeze and a thick, drizzling rain, which called pea-coats and sou’westers into requisition. We cruised about for three or four days without seeing anything suspicious; not a tub afloat, nor a craft with a smuggling look about her. At last we found something to give us employment. One evening a mist settled down over the water, which, though there was a good breeze, was perfectly calm. Although the night was in no ways dark, yet the density of the fog prevented our seeing beyond the bowsprit end, or even so far. It was just such a night as a smuggler delights in. The cutter was on her old ground, off Portland Bill. We were slipping through the water at the rate of some five or six knots an hour, when Stretcher, who was standing close to me, exclaimed, “Ah! see there, sir; there’s a craft of some sort right away to leeward, trying to steal off from us.” I looked, and could just distinguish the shadowy form of a sail through the mist. The Commander was called, and the cutter was instantly kept away in chase. Jack pronounced her to be a wherry; but I thought her something much larger. The wind was from the southward, and she, choosing what was probably her best point of sailing, made for the English coast. She sailed well; but we kept her in sight, for daylight had just broke, and the mist had partially cleared away. As soon as my uncle came on deck he ordered a shot to be fired wide of her, to make her heave-to. She paid no attention to it.

“Fire another, Stretcher, right into her this time, and we will make her show her quality,” said he.

The mists had now cleared off sufficiently to show that she was a wherry, though rather a small one. The shot went through her foresail, but still she held on. She was heavily laden, and her crew must have seen that her chance of escape was small, if not impossible. To render this still more difficult, it was every instant growing lighter and lighter. There were numerous sharp eyes on board the cutter fixed on her, and we now perceived her crew heaving the tubs overboard as fast as they could. They fancied, probably, that we could not see them. There were no weights attached to them, so they floated; but as we had no time to stop and pick them up, we noted carefully our course as we passed them, so as to be able to find them again.

“Fire away at her, my lads, till she heaves-to,” cried my uncle, seeing that she still held on.

“Surely she’ll not get away from us,” I remarked to Jack.

“Not so sure of that, Mr D’Arcy,” he answered. “Now she’s got her cargo out of her, should the wind fall on a sudden, and the fog come on thicker, she may contrive to hide herself away in it before we can get our boats out.”

The fog deceived us as to her true distance from us, for after the first, none of our shot struck her, though that mattered nothing, for the breeze freshening, we were now coming up with her hand over hand.

“Lower your canvas!” shouted my uncle, as we got near.

Her people thought it wise to obey, to avoid the shot, which could not now well miss its aim. She was next ordered to pull alongside, which she immediately did; but there was not a symptom of a cask or keg of spirits in her. She had five hands in her. They were desired to come on board. One of them acknowledged himself the skipper.

“We want to know why you chased and fired at us, sir,” he said, in the most innocent manner possible, addressing my uncle.

“For having contraband goods on board,” he answered.

“Lord love ye, sir—we have contraband goods aboard, sir!” replied the skipper, with a feigned look of surprise. “We was just taking our pleasuring, and didn’t know but what you was an enemy, or a pirate, or some chap of that sort, so we runned away, sir, do ye see.”

“Very well; you’ll remain on board the cutter for the present, and perhaps I may prove to the contrary,” said my uncle.

The smugglers were compelled, with a very bad grace, to go below; the wherry was dropped astern, and the cutter stood back over the ground we had before crossed. Before eight-bells we had picked up fifty tubs of brandy. As plenty of our people could swear that they saw a number of tubs thrown overboard from the wherry, there was no doubt of her being condemned. When our prisoners perceived that their escape was impossible, they seemed to screw themselves up to bear their reverses like brave men. Though somewhat down in the mouth, they apparently felt no ill-will, but were obedient and respectful. Luck was against them. They had tried to smuggle, and we, as in duty bound, had stopped them. The worst they had to expect was a few months’ residence in Winchester gaol. My uncle had each of them down separately in his cabin, to try and obtain any information they might be inclined to give, especially about Myers, whom he was most anxious to get hold of. From one of them he learned that a large lugger was to run across the following night but one, from Cherbourg; and he resolved to intercept her. A course was immediately shaped for that port. He had explained his plan to Hanks, who was to take the wherry with four hands and to keep a bright look-out for the lugger, and to board her if he met her, as soon as she was half-way across Channel. I obtained leave to accompany him, for though I could not be expected to do much while blows were being given and taken, I was considered a good hand at steering; and my uncle was glad to let me see as much service as possible, holding the opinion that in that way only could I become a good practical officer.

When we had got about mid Channel between Saint Catharine’s and Cherbourg, the cutter was hove-to and the wherry hauled up alongside.

“Success attend you,” said my uncle, as Hanks and I stepped into the wherry. “Mind, Mr Hanks, keep a sharp look-out for the lugger; but do not let anything else with a smuggling air about her escape unexamined.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Hanks, as we shored off. “I hope to get hold of the lugger, and Myers in her.”

We had in the boat provisions for four or five days; cloaks, blankets, a compass, and lantern; with three muskets, and pistols and cutlasses for each person. Our directions were to cruise about for three days, should the weather remain moderate, and then to rejoin the cutter off the Needles. We started away with a light breeze and a smooth sea, and stood for a short way towards Cherbourg, while the cutter returned over part of the course she had come. The weather was very pleasant, and the sunbeams sparkled cheerily on the rippling wavelets caused by the meeting of the tide and wind, as we ran through the water at the rate of some five or six knots an hour. Hanks lighted his favourite short black pipe, such as in Ireland we should call a “dodeen.” He never indulged in a cigar, except one was given him. While he leaned back, with his legs stretched along the seats, I steered. I used to think it very hard that he would never let me smoke, but I have since been much obliged to him.

“This is what I call comfort, Neil,” said he. “One of the smooths of life; but it won’t last, so let us enjoy it while we can. Before long we may be getting broken heads, with a gale of wind into the bargain.”

So he smoked his pipe, took ever and anon a sip from the rum-bottle, sang a snatch from a song, and joked and talked away till the sun began to hasten his descent into the ocean. We were all the time keeping a look-out for any suspicious craft.

At last the sails of a lugger appeared against the evening sky as she got clear of the land. We made sure it was the vessel we were in search of, and prepared for action.

“D’Arcy, do you stay at the helm, and keep the wherry alongside, while the rest of us jump aboard,” said Hanks. “Stretcher, you must knock down the fellow at the helm; I’ll grapple with the skipper, if they show fight.”

On came the lugger. I thought it very unlikely if Myers was on board, from his well-known character, that he would fail to show fight; indeed, it seemed much more probable that he would do his best to knock us all on the head, and heave us overboard again, should we manage to set foot on his deck. However, I said nothing, and felt just as eager for the fray as if such an idea had not crossed my mind.

Hanks had been taking a steady look at the lugger through his spy-glass. “Well!” he exclaimed, “hang me if I don’t think, after all, that she’s one of those French chasse marées. Our lugger hasn’t yet come out.”

“D’ye think, sir, that they chaps was deceiving of us?” said Jack. “They be up to all sorts of dodges.”

“Oh, hang it, no; I hope not,” answered Hanks, with considerable doubt, notwithstanding, in his tone. “The Commander cross-questioned them a great deal too close for them to deceive us. We shall see the right craft by-and-by.”

We were soon convinced, however, that the lugger in sight was a chasse marée. She hauled her wind, and stood along shore. Had she observed us she would probably have had no little suspicion of our business out there.

After watching for the lugger to no purpose for three hours or more, the moon rose out of the dark water, and gave us a wider range of vision. Hour after hour passed away, and still she did not appear. We began at last to be afraid either that the smugglers had deceived us, or that she had slipped out and passed us unobserved. As our blockade might be somewhat long, Hanks divided the crew into watches; he taking command of one, and I of the other. When it was my turn to sleep, I rested as soundly as I usually did in my own berth, though I dreamed that I had caught sight of Myers, and that I was chasing him round and round the world with a pair of ten-league boots on my legs. How he kept ahead of me I could not tell. Hanks awoke me to take some breakfast, and then let me go to sleep again, for I was so drowsy that I could not keep my eyes open. While I was still more asleep than awake, I heard Jack’s voice exclaim—

“That’s her, sir, I’ll take my davy.”

“Yes, that’s her, and no mistake, this time,” added Hanks.

I was on my feet in a moment, and looking towards the French coast, I saw a lugger about two miles off, running down to us. All hands were on the alert, and every preparation was made to ensure the success of our enterprise. We hauled our wind, and steered a course so as to intercept her, without, if possible, exciting the suspicion of the smugglers till we were alongside. As the sea was perfectly smooth and the wind light, we should have no difficulty in getting on board. Hanks, Jack, and I alone showed ourselves; the rest were ordered to lie down in the bottom of the boat. The lugger, we could see, was heavily laden, and her general appearance betokened her to be French.

“Remember, my lads, we shall have to give and take some hard blows; but sharp’s the word, and she’ll be ours before her people know what we are after,” exclaimed Hanks, in an inspiriting tone. It was an exciting moment. As we drew near, we could count some twelve men or more on her deck. We were by this time well over on the British half of the Channel.

“Keep her away a little, D’Arcy,” said Hanks. The smugglers had been watching us without apparently suspecting our intentions. “Now, hard up!—ease off the mainsheet!—hook on!—follow me, my lads!”

As Hanks uttered the last words we had run alongside. The next moment he leaped over the bulwarks of the lugger on to her deck, and grappling with her captain, a Frenchman, tripped him up. Jack at the same time knocked down the man at the helm with a boat’s stretcher. There was a mighty deal of jabbering and swearing in French, and some round oaths uttered in English, when, as Hanks was working his way forward, some of the crew, plucking courage, made a rush, and, seizing him, bore him overboard, fortunately on the larboard side, on the same which the wherry was: small thanks to the smugglers on that account. We were going through the water, it must be remembered, though not very quick. Hanks made a desperate attempt to clamber on board again by the lugger’s forechains, but missed his aim; then, giving a glance of defiance at the rascals, he kept himself afloat while he sung out, “Hillo, D’Arcy, lend me a hand here!”

Directly I saw what had happened I seized an oar, and thrust it out towards him. He grasped it as we passed by, and quickly clambered into the wherry. The moment after, with the stretcher, which he had never let out of his grasp, he was again on the lugger’s deck, belabouring both right and left those of the crew who still resisted. As none of the smugglers had seen him get out of the water, they were completely taken by surprise, and without striking another blow, sung out for quarter.

“You don’t deserve it, you blackguards, for daring to resist a king’s officer in the execution of his duty,” cried Hanks, flourishing his stretcher. “But, forward with you, there, and don’t move till I give you leave.” The Frenchmen did not understand him, but the English smugglers did, and his action showed what he desired. The crew were soon penned up in the fore part of the vessel, with the exception of the captain and the man Jack had knocked down, who were sitting on deck rubbing their eyes, hardly yet recovered. Scarcely three minutes had passed since we ran alongside, and the lugger was ours. I was still in the boat, waiting for orders.

“Come on board, D’Arcy,” said Hanks at length, looking over the side. “We’ll lower the wherry’s sails, and tow her astern.”

I gladly jumped out of her when we had stowed her canvas and made fast the painter. Our prize turned out to be a valuable one, for she had not only spirits, but silk and lace on board. Her papers clearly proved also that these goods were intended to be smuggled, so I remember Hanks saying; but how that was I did not trouble myself, nor do I to this day know. The smugglers, as well as they might, were certainly sulky; and Hanks, as a gentle hint for them to behave themselves, stationed a man with a double-barrelled pistol in his hand close to them, while they stood huddled together on the little forecastle. I took the helm, while the sails were trimmed and a course shaped for the Needles. In a short time a breeze sprang up, and we spanked along at a furious rate. The French skipper had now recovered, and getting on his legs, with a polite bow, expressed a hope, in tolerable English, that we would make ourselves at home on board his vessel.

“No fear of that, monsieur,” answered Hanks. “Cool, is he not, D’Arcy?”

“You no have taken dinner, sare,” continued the skipper. “I will tell de cook to make dinner ready.”

“Not a bad idea, monsieur,” said Hanks. “Which of you chaps is cook?”

The Frenchman pointed to the fellow whose head Jack had nearly broken. He spoke a few words to him, and the man—having got up and stretched himself to ascertain, I suppose, that no bones were broken—dived below, and presently returned with a white cap and apron, and several pans and dishes, and began busying himself in the mysteries of his art. Again he dived, the fire in the forepeak burned up brightly, and savory smells began to ascend therefrom. In about an hour the skipper, with another bow, invited us into his little well-like cabin aft, where a collation, such as an epicure might envy, was placed before us. What were its component parts I did not inquire. They may have been cats and frogs, but neither Hanks nor I were in any way particular, and no dreadful surmises crossed my mind. An Englishman would have broached a keg of brandy, but our friend, Monsieur Didot, placed a bottle of fine-flavoured claret and a variety of first-rate liqueurs before us, not that either Hanks or I was well able to appreciate the former.

“Come, monsieur, hand us out a bottle of some real stuff or other; I’m not fond of your pink vinegars,” exclaimed Hanks, as he tossed off a tumbler of the claret. “This isn’t bad for washing the dust out of a fellow’s throat on a hot day, but there’s no life-blood in it.”

The skipper, with a twinkle of his eyes which betokened mischief, though unfortunately Hanks did not perceive it, produced a large square bottle, thick at the top, from which he poured out a glass of first-rate Scheidam. Hanks smacked his lips as he tasted it.

“Take care, Neil, my child,” said he, “you don’t swallow much of that stuff; it’s too good. I’ll just smack at another glass, and then we’ll go on deck out of the way of temptation.”

The Frenchman looked mightily disappointed when he saw that Hanks was not so easily taken in as he doubtless expected he would be. I happened to look round as we left the cabin, and saw him shrugging his shoulders and making hideous grimaces, and no very complimentary gestures at us. Before this little incident I had thought him the pink of politeness. He wore love-locks and rings in his ears, and was dressed with the most accurate French nautical precision; in fact he looked thoroughly unlike an English seaman. In his manners he was a very mild man, and certainly he had nothing of the ruffian about him. I cannot say as much for his crew, some of whom were very ill-looking dogs. It would have been wiser in Hanks to have handcuffed them all, including the skipper and cook (though we should thereby have gone without a good dinner), and stationed a sentry with a loaded musket over them, with orders to shoot the first who should attempt to escape.

The French skipper, when he found that his plan to obfuscate the brains of the knowing old Hanks had totally failed, went and sat himself down forward among his people, apparently in a fit of the sulks.

Hanks, who was in high spirits at the success of our enterprise, walked the deck with me, looking out for the high land of the Isle of Wight above the Needle rocks, which we were approaching. The breeze had increased and kicked up a little sea, and we were running fast through the water.

“D’Arcy, my boy, this is a fine haul, isn’t it?” exclaimed my superior, rubbing his hands. “Credit and prize-money together. Both good things. When I was a youngster I thought something about the first; but now, do you see, Mrs Hanks and I have a fancy for t’other. It keeps the pot boiling, do ye see? I should think your uncle, by this time, was much of my way of thinking, though he’s a round number of years younger than I am.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said I. “My uncle thinks a good deal of gaining honour, and I believe he’d rather take an enemy’s frigate after a hard-fought action, than capture a Spanish galleon without a blow.”

“Well, it’s the proper spirit,” said Hanks, with a sigh. “The revenue service don’t nourish it much, though. Take my advice; get out of it as soon as you can; or,” he continued with much feeling, “it will spoil you otherwise, depend on it.”

We continued walking the deck for some time longer. We then sat down to rest, watching the coast, from which we were about three miles distant.

Jack was at the helm, and the rest of our people were giving a hand to the sheets, as the wind had veered a little to the westward.

The smugglers were seemingly fast asleep, with the exception of the skipper, who had lighted a cigar to console himself under his mishap.

Chapter Ten.

The Tables Turned—Console Myself with the Fiddle—Set the Frenchmen Dancing—Captain Didot—My Place of Imprisonment—Escape—Greater Danger—Frighten my Friends.

Everything was going on as tranquilly as possible. Hanks was sweeping the horizon with his glass, looking out for the cutter, when suddenly, without the slightest warning, I saw the sentry’s pistol knocked out of his fist, and he himself hove headlong into the sea. Away flew the skipper’s cigar, and up he jumped as lively as a cricket, and, with two of his men, threw himself upon Hanks, who, taken unawares (his eyes engaged in his telescope), was bundled overboard. I tried to catch him by the leg, but his old blue trousers tore in my grasp, and a big Frenchman dealt me such a blow on the head that I was for an instant stunned.

When I came to my senses, I saw the wherry dropping astern, and the Frenchmen, with pump-handles and boat-hooks, striking at the poor fellows they had hove overboard, with the foul intent of drowning them. I observed that somebody was in the wherry, for her sails were being hoisted, and I was bolting aft for the purpose of jumping into the water and swimming to her, when the skipper caught me by the arm. “Stay, my little fellow,” he exclaimed; “we don’t want to hurt you, and don’t want witnesses to this work. You must go with us.”

While he was speaking, some of the smugglers had got hold of the muskets which our people had brought on board, and presenting them at the wherry, snapped the locks. Fortunately they were not loaded, or the priming had fallen out, and the villains were saved from the perpetration of further crimes.

The men in the water swam towards the wherry, and I judged from her movements that those in her were engaged in picking them up. I sang out and struggled in vain; but the Frenchman held me fast, and finally, to save himself further trouble, lifted me up by the collar and shoved me down the companion-hatch into the cabin, closing the slide over me. There was I, like a mouse caught in a trap. At first I burst into a fit of tears, more from rage and indignation at being outwitted and surprised by the Frenchman than from the prospect in store for me, which was not, however, very pleasant. I might expect to be kept a prisoner in some out-of-the-way place in France, or perhaps, to be shipped to the other side of the globe and to be unable to return home for years to come. I made ineffectual attempts to get on deck to see what had become of Hanks and our men; but as I could not move the slide, I was obliged to sit down quietly in the cabin. My melting mood was soon over. “Better now,” thought I to myself. “I won’t let these big blackguards of Frenchmen see me down-hearted, any how. For the honour of old Ireland and the name of D’Arcy, I’ll put a bold face on the matter,” and I began to sing.

There was a row on deck, and a great deal of jabbering; and the little vessel heeled over to the breeze; but I had no means of discovering what was taking place, nor where we were going.

The only light let into the vessel was through a bulls-eye in the deck, so that at first I thought I was shut up in darkness. As, however, my sight got accustomed to the glimmer, I discovered a fiddle and bow hung up against the bulkhead.

“Come,” thought I, “I’ll show the froggies that, though they may shut me up, they can’t damp my spirits in a hurry,” and seizing the instrument, I struck up an Irish jig. It was the most jolly tune I could recollect, and seldom failed to move the heels of all who heard it. I played away for some time without any notice being taken of my music; then I heard one fellow begin to shuffle away overhead, and then another, and presently it appeared as if the whole crew were toeing and heeling it in fine style. Then there were loud fits of laughter; and afterwards the slide was withdrawn and the skipper descended into the cabin.

“Vell, you are, bon garçon, one merry fellow,” he said, laughing. “You make good use of my violin.”

“I am fond of music, and play when I can,” I answered in an indifferent tone; “but I’m tired now, and intend to go to sleep.”

“Well, but I have come to take you on deck to play to my people,” said he. “They are pleased with you, and it will be better for you if you do.”

“What! you ask me to play for the amusement of the men who have been ill-treating my shipmates, and murdering them, for what I know to the contrary,” I answered, indignantly. “No! I played for my own amusement, and do not intend to play any more.”

“Your shipmates attacked us first; and besides, my little man, we have not murdered them, or done them much harm either, except depriving them of your company, and of a few muskets and pistols,” he answered. “Take my advice: be as obliging as you can; they will be civil to you in return.”

“Well, monsieur, I believe you are right,” I replied. “If they really have not hurt my brother officer and our men, I will fiddle for them as long as they like.”

Saying this, I followed him on deck, where I seated myself on the companion-hatch; and as I played away, in spite of the tumbling of the little vessel in the heavy sea running, all the Frenchmen, including Monsieur Didot, kept skipping, and jumping, and whirling about, hugging each other like bears, and shouting with glee at having saved their cargo from the clutches of the revenue people. We were standing, close-hauled, towards the French coast. I looked anxiously for the wherry, for I thought Hanks would have followed; but she was nowhere in sight. One of the Englishmen was at the helm, and the other two were forward. They were sulky brutes, and seemed much more bitter against me than were the Frenchmen. Whenever I ceased playing, the skipper gave me a hint to go on again; and there sat I, one of His Majesty’s officers, scraping away on an old Cremona for the amusement of a set of smugglers and outlaws. The scene struck me as so ludicrous that I burst into a loud fit of laughter till the tears began to stream down my cheeks. I fiddled all the faster, till the delight of the Frenchmen knew no bounds; and as a proof of their regard, some of them came up and actually almost hugged the breath out of my body, calling me a brave garçon, a jolly garçon and an ornament to my country. This fun continued till we made the land, about dark. Some time afterwards, I found that we were running into a small harbour, with a pier on one side and a lighthouse on it. Its name I could not learn; but I supposed it was somewhere to the eastward of Cherbourg. I was trying to make out the look of the place, when the captain, touching me on the shoulder, said, “Go down below, my boy; when I want you I will come for you.” There was that in his tone which showed me that it would be useless to dispute his orders; so I returned to the cabin. Finding a berth with some bed-clothes in it, I crept in, and coiling myself away, was soon, fast asleep. I was awoke after some time by the skipper’s voice. He was holding up a lantern, and looking round, seemingly much surprised at not seeing me. He laughed as I poked my head out of my crib.

“Ah, mon petit, you make yourself at home wherever you go,” he exclaimed. “But get up; you must come with me, and I will find a worthy lady who will take good care of you for some time to come.”

I answered that I was very much obliged to him, but that I wanted to return home as soon as possible.

“Ah, that cannot be,” said he, in a quiet tone. “I am sorry to inconvenience you; but you will allow that it is better to be kept a prisoner than to have been thrown overboard as food for the fish.”

“Much obliged to you, monsieur,” I replied. “I cannot dispute your reasoning; so just be good enough to tell me what you want me to do.”

“To get up and come with me,” said he; “and listen, my young friend,—if you attempt to run away, I will simply blow your brains out. I don’t wish you any harm, as I have proved; but necessity compels me to be explicit.”

I did not know whether or not he was in earnest; but as it is dangerous to trifle with a man who has the power to put so unpleasant a threat in execution, I thought it wisest to obey him. I accordingly followed him on deck, when he took my hand and led me along a plank which was thrown from the vessel to the shore. We walked through the narrow street of a village odoriferous of fish, and then out into the country, which in agreeable contrast smelt of fresh grass and flowers. Proceeding along a road which, by looking at the stars overhead, I judged ran inland, we reached a farm-house, standing a little back from the road. The smuggler knocked with his fist at the floor, but no one answered, nor was any light seen through the windows. We waited some further time without receiving any answer to our summons.

“Morbleu! I forgot the hour; they have all gone to bed. I must knock again,” said he, giving several thundering blows on the door.

At length a female voice asked who was there.

“It is Captain Didot and a friend; open quick, good Madeleine,” he said in French. “We are tired and hungry and sleepy, and wish to be inside instead of outside your door.”

“Ah! it is you, Monsieur Didot, I know full well,” answered the voice. “I will let you in.”

We were, however, kept some time longer, and at last the door opened, and a young woman made her appearance, dressed in a high white cap and short petticoats, dark woollen stockings, and wooden shoes, but very neat and trim. I had never before seen a woman in so odd a rig. She smiled a welcome to my companion, and shutting the door behind us, a good deal of talking took place; but though I could manage to make out Captain Didot’s French, I did not understand a word she said. We then went into a nice clean parlour, with a red-brick floor, and sat down and talked again. Suddenly, up jumped the lady in the high cap, and after an absence of ten minutes or so, returned with a tray covered with eatables and drinkables. I instinctively drew my chair to the table at the sight without waiting to be bid, whereat our hostess smiled, and observed that the pauvre enfant was hungry. Captain Didot took the hint and helped me; nor did he forget himself; and setting to work, we made a very capital supper.

“I must now be off,” observed Monsieur Didot, as he came to an anchor; “but before I go, I must give you a caution, Monsieur Englishman. You are not to make your appearance outside these garden walls for the next fortnight. If you attempt to get away, ill-will come of it. Remember that madame here will take care of you, and you may have as much fruit to eat and wine to drink as you like; and now, good night, my friend. You hear, do you not?”

I did hear; but I was so very sleepy that I could not recollect enough French to answer him. While he continued talking to madame, I dropped off asleep in my chair, and for long in my dreams I heard the buzz of their voices. When I was at last awoke, by feeling a hand placed on my shoulder, the smuggling captain was gone.

“Come,” said the good-natured woman; “you want rest, my boy;” and taking a candle, she led me into a neat little room with a comfortable bed in it, where I very soon forgot myself in slumber.

The next morning, when I turned out, I found that I was an occupant of a comfortable farm-house, with a garden attached, full of fruit-trees and vegetables. An old man and his wife made their appearance, and I discovered that the young woman who had received us the previous night was their daughter. While we were at breakfast, I heard the old couple complaining of Captain Didot for having brought me there. They evidently fancied that I did not understand French.

“He will be getting us into trouble with his tricks, one of these days,” remarked the old lady. “Ah! Madeleine, my daughter, it would be much wiser in you to have nothing more to say to him.”

Mademoiselle looked very glum, as if she did not like the counsel. I pretended to be deeply absorbed, discussing the fresh eggs and other eatables placed before me.

“Ha, ha!” thought I to myself; “I see how the wind blows. They will not dare, then, to keep me a prisoner longer than I like to stay. Well, I’m very comfortable here at present; so I will spend a day or so with the good people.”

I saw that I was narrowly watched wherever I went; but I did not forget the French skipper’s advice to take advantage of the fine fruit with which the garden abounded. When Madeleine saw that I was apparently contented, we became very good friends; and I must own that I spent the day not unpleasantly. I began, however, to reflect that I had no business to remain where I was if I had the power of getting away; so I turned in my mind how I could best make my escape. I guessed that to do so would not be quite so easy as at first appeared; for I had observed a labourer continually near me, and I remarked that whenever I went to a distant part of the garden his occupation invariably took him in the same direction.

“Somehow or other I must manage to make a run for it,” thought I to myself; but when I came to examine the locality, I found that the garden was surrounded with fields and ditches; and though I might swim across the latter, I should certainly have been caught and made very uncomfortable and dirty into the bargain. I therefore gave up that idea, and amused myself in the best way I could. I helped Mademoiselle Madeleine in her poultry-yard and dairy, looked in on the old lady employed in her culinary affairs, walked over the farm with the old man, and chatted in my somewhat unintelligible French, with every one I met. Happening to go into my own room in the evening, I found the window open, and looking out, I saw that the height from the sill to the ground was not more than from twelve to fifteen feet.

“Ho, ho!” thought I; “it will be a foolish bird which can’t get out of a cage like this; but I will bide my time.” I hurried away, and ran downstairs, where I was soon after summoned to supper. I made myself quite at home, and did not fail to do justice to the meal. The household went to rest early, and as soon as I fancied every one was asleep I got up from my bed, where I had thrown myself, and reconnoitred the ground. To avoid the risk of laming myself by a jump, I tied my sheets together, and secured them to the leg of a table, which I managed to jam between the shutter and the wall so as to prevent its slipping; and placing my hat tightly on my head, and buttoning up my coat, I let myself quietly down to the ground. I was afraid of awakening some one in the house should I run, as I felt inclined to do; so I crept softly away, till I had got to some distance, and then took to my heels, as fast as I could go, in the direction of the town or fishing village where I had landed. After going for some distance, I thought that I must have missed my way; but the murmur of the water on the beach assured me that I had taken the right direction. At last I found myself among some straggling cottages, my nose helping me to find the locality I was in search of. My first care was to look out for the lugger, to avoid her. Much to my satisfaction, she was not there, neither was any one moving on the quay; so I walked about till I found a shed somewhat less odorous than its neighbours, where I determined to take up my abode till daylight. Here I quickly made myself a nest with some ropes and spars—albeit not a very soft one,—and fell fast asleep. Having the necessity of being alert on my mind, I awoke just as dawn was breaking, and, jumping up, I ran down to the quay. The flapping of a sail told me that some one was astir, and, looking round, I saw at the end of the quay a cutter preparing to get under weigh.

“Cutter ahoy!” I sung out, running the chance of anybody understanding me. “Where are you bound for?”

“Hillo; who are you?” asked a voice in English.

“I want a cast across the Channel,” I answered.

“Well, come aboard, and we’ll see what we can do for you,” said the same speaker.

I accordingly ran along the quay, and jumped on the cutter’s deck just as her last warp was cast off. I had a rough Flushing coat buttoned up close round me; and as I had on also a low tarpaulin hat, I thought I looked the character I wished to assume. The people on board were likewise too busy to afford me more than a passing glance as I sprung on deck. A rough, weather-beaten old fellow, with one eye, who, from the orders he issued, I knew to be the master, stood at the helm. His crew consisted of seven hands—strong, active-looking fellows,—many more than the craft required to work her. This circumstance at once made me suspect that she was not over honest.

“Faith,” thought I to myself, “this isn’t the best place in the world for a revenue officer to find himself in.”

But it was now too late to get oh shore again. The headsheets were let draw, the main eased off a little, the peak hoisted up, and, with a fair breeze, the cutter glided out of the harbour.

“Well, youngster, you were not long in making up your mind about coming,” said the old skipper, scrutinising me, I thought, pretty narrowly from head to foot. “What place are you bound for, eh?”

I told him Ryde, in the Isle of Wight.

“Well, we’ll put you ashore at the back of the Wight; I suppose that will do for you?” he answered, in a good-natured tone.

I thanked him for his offer; and we went on talking very amicably for some time, till we had run some fifteen miles from the coast. I think, from the first, the old man had some suspicions of me; but I had acted my part well, and I fancied that I had succeeded in lulling them.

Just as I thought all was right, as ill-luck would have it, I happened to want to use my pocket-handkerchief, and in searching for it I incautiously threw open my jacket and exposed my uniform buttons to view.

In the first place, the sort of boy I pretended to be would not have possessed such an article as a pocket-handkerchief; and I ought to have remembered that the sight of the crown and anchor would not be acceptable to persons of my friends’ vocation.

“Why—hullo, youngster! who are you, I should like to know?” exclaimed the old skipper, seizing me by the arm, and giving me no gentle shake.

“He’s a spy, surely, and no mistake,” cried several of the crew. “Heave the young shrimp overboard.”

“Overboard with him!” exclaimed the rest in chorus. “We’ll teach the Government to send their whelps to hunt us out in this fashion.”

I own that I began to feel very uncomfortable; for the threatening looks of the fellows were in no way calculated to lessen my apprehensions. Now my feelings always prompt me to try and escape from a dilemma by at once candidly confessing the truth. I therefore acknowledged that I belonged to a revenue cutter, and explained what had occurred.

“I only obeyed the orders of my superior officers in attacking the lugger,” I observed, in as bold a tone as I could manage to muster. “Her people carried me off against my will; and, as I wanted to get home, I came aboard you; but I never thought of doing you or any of your friends harm, if I could help it. How am I to blame, then?”

“Never listen to his chaff; heave him overboard, I say,” growled out one of the men.

“Thank you all the same, master,” said I, looking him as boldly as I could in the face; “but I’d rather stay aboard till I can get put decently on shore, and not have to swim there, as you would have me do.”

“Swim! By God, you wouldn’t swim long, I expect,” said the ruffian.

“Faith, I’ve no fancy for trying, either,” I answered. “If I intended treachery, do you think, masters, I should have put myself in your power as I have done? just answer me that.”

“Well, now, I don’t think as how you would,” exclaimed the old skipper. “You’re a brave lad anyhow, and deserve a better calling than trying to injure poor fellows who are just doing their best to make a honest livelihood for their families.”

“Well,” said I, seeing the favourable impression I was making, “I’m going soon to be appointed to a frigate on a foreign station, so there’s little chance of my falling in with you again. If you kill me you will be hung, that’s certain, for murder is always out some day or other.”

“Don’t be coming any of your Irish blarney over us,” growled out a sour-looking ruffian. “If you’re a spy, overboard you go, that’s all.”

“I’m no spy,” I answered in an indignant tone. “All I ask of you is to put me on shore anywhere at the back of the Wight, and I’ll give you my word none of you will be the worse for my being here.”

The skipper gave an approving nod as I pleaded for my life. Some of the ruffians seemed to give way.

“Just tell me, then, what harm can a small chap like me do you?” I continued. “How do I know what you’ve got on board, or what you’re going to do with it. Be good-natured fellows now, and if I can ever do you a good turn, I will.”

“Oh, come, let the little chap alone; there’s no harm in him, I’m sure!” exclaimed one of the smugglers, slapping me on the shoulder. “Cheer up, my lad; we’ll do you no harm.”

The others soon came round, and shaking me by the hand, declared that I was a brave little cock, and they only wished I was one of them.

A coarse but plentiful dinner was soon afterwards placed on the deck, the chief part of it appearing in a square iron pot, round which we sat as merry as crickets; and there was I hob-nobbing with a band of smugglers as if we were the best friends in the world.

Towards evening we made the land, no cutter being in sight. I had a sovereign and a few shillings in my pocket, which I offered the old skipper, but he would receive nothing; and, as good as his word, as soon as it was dark, he ran in and put me on shore not far from Shanklin. As there was some sea on the beach, all hands got not a little wet, but they took it in good part, and wished me a hearty good-bye as I set off to clamber up the cliffs. I at length found a path which took me into the high road; as soon as I reached it I began to make the best of my way towards Ryde. My legs ached, but I ran and walked as fast as I could. I had not proceeded far when I heard the sound of wheels coming along the road. A cart soon overtook me.

“Is this the road to Ryde?” I asked.

“Yes, it be,” said the driver. “Be you going there?”

“If I can manage to get as far,” I answered.

“Well, if you be tired, jump in, and I’ll gie ye a lift; I be going most of the way,” replied the good Samaritan. I obeyed with alacrity, and took my seat by his side. He was one of the substantial farmers who abound in the island. I gave him an account of my adventures, at which he was much amused; nor did he seem to have any very great antipathy to my smuggling friends.

“Lord bless ’e! they wouldn’t have hurt your little fingers,” he remarked, when I told him how the crew of the cutter had threatened my life. He would not part from me till he had deposited me at the gates of Daisy Cottage. The lights were shining through the drawing-room windows. My aunt was sitting working, and sweet Alice Marlow had a book before her. They both looked very sad, I thought. I tapped at the window, which opened to the ground, to call their attention, and grinned a “How-d’ye-do” through the glass. No sooner did Alice see my face, than letting her book fall, she gave a loud scream, as if she had seen a spectre.

“Hillo! what’s the matter?” I exclaimed, shaking the handle of the window. “Let me in, aunt, please; I’m not a thief or a ghost, on my word.” My aunt, more courageous than the little girl, had risen from her seat, and my voice assuring her of my identity, she opened the door, and I very soon convinced her and Alice that I was a living being by kissing them both, and then devouring every scrap of supper she set before me. I found that, from Hanks’ report, they had been led to believe that the Frenchmen had knocked me on the head; and were mourning for me accordingly. My aunt was, I verily believe, employed in making a black gown to put on for my sake. My uncle had sailed again to look after the lugger, so that I was able to enjoy the height of a midshipman’s felicity, a holiday on shore. Three days afterwards the Serpent came back, having re-captured the lugger and two hundred tubs. I saw Captain Didot, who was very angry at finding that I had escaped, and vowed he would pay me off in a different coin, if he ever caught me again. I told him he might, if he ever did.

Chapter Eleven.

Hanks and my Ghost—Hanks’ Learning—Myers again—Escapes once more—Appointed to a Frigate—Prepare for Sea—My Shipmates—Sail from England—Messrs Trundle and Chissel—Dicky Sharpe and a Tale of a Beef-Bone.

On reaching Portsmouth, I took a boat and pulled off to the cutter, which was lying out in the middle of the harbour. Hanks was walking the deck as I came alongside, but something having attracted his attention in the direction of Gosport, he did not observe me. Handing the boatman a shilling, I jumped on board unnoticed, and just as Hanks turned round, I stood before him, with my hand out ready to grasp his. For an instant the colour forsook his cheeks, and he stared at me without speaking, rolling his eyes round as if he saw my wraith.

“Why, Hanks, old fellow! don’t you know me?” I exclaimed, bursting into a loud laugh at his extraordinary way of receiving me. My voice convinced him that it was not my ghost which was offering to shake hands with him.

“What, D’Arcy, my boy! is it you, indeed, come back to us after all?” he cried, seizing both my hands in his own well-hardened paws. “I’m glad to see you, that I am, lad; we thought those scoundrel smugglers had done for you. It would have been just like them, to kill the smallest of the lot. But how did you escape? Come, tell us all about it. We’ve had another brush with that rascal Myers: we are certain it was him. He had the daring to fire into us; killed one of our people, poor Tom Darling, and wounded two, getting off into the bargain. But we will be even with him before long, and when we do catch him, we’ll pay him off, that’s all. Well I’m glad you escaped, that I am; but come below, and let us hear the whole story.”

In this way the kind-hearted fellow ran on. Having been welcomed by Growl, Scriven, and the rest of my shipmates, I went to report myself to my uncle, who was in his cabin. He seemed truly glad to find that I had not become food for fishes, though he did not exhibit his pleasure exactly in the same way Hanks had done. When I was dismissed by him, I dived down into our berth, and there, over a glass of his too-favourite beverage, old Hanks listened to an account of my adventures. “It was the Cremona did it, after all!” he exclaimed, slapping my shoulder. “I told you it would stand you in good stead. Stick to it, my lad, and you’ll become as great a man as that old chap Orpheus, I’ve heard tell of, who made the beasts jig when he fiddled. Who the gentleman was, I can’t say, except that he was one of Julius Caesar’s generals, wasn’t he?”

I must observe that Hanks’ knowledge of history, both ancient and modern, was somewhat limited and confused; indeed he was impressed with a notion that Julius Caesar, for whom he had a high respect, came over to England somewhere in the last century, and having taken possession of the country, was in his turn thrashed by William the Conqueror. Of all subsequent events till the time of Nelson, he professed total ignorance.

“Ah, Nelson was the chap who made the English!” he used to exclaim in triumph; “and as for Nap, whom they talk so much about, what was he to him, I should like to know. Why, the little Frenchman couldn’t put a ship about in a steady breeze, I’ll warrant; and as for handling her in a gale, I doubt if he could have done it even if his crown depended on it.”

Hanks had no very great respect for science either.

“What do I care for your algebra and your trigonometry?” he one day observed. “I take my John Norie and my Gunter’s Scale, and I work out my day’s work as well as any man; and what more should I want to know, tell me? Your mathematicians are all humbugs in my opinion, and that’s a fact.”

I mention these little traits in Hanks’ character, because I shall now have to bid him farewell for a season. He was a worthy fellow, nevertheless; not without sense of a practical sort; a curious specimen of a school now rapidly becoming obsolete.

Soon after this we were once more on our old cruising ground, to the westward. We had been a week or more knocking about, when it came on to blow very hard from the south-west. My uncle was not a man to be frightened by a capful of wind; so, getting our storm-sails, we stood off shore, and faced the gale like men; for this was just the weather smugglers would choose to run across Channel, when they think no one will be on the look-out for them. Towards evening, however, it came on to blow harder than before; so that at last we were obliged to up-helm and run for shelter into harbour; but just as we were bearing up, a sea struck the cutter, carried away our stern-boat, and stove in one of those on our quarter. In this squall the wind seemed to have worn itself out; for before we had made the land it suddenly fell, and by daylight a dead calm came on, followed by a dense fog. When it cleared somewhat, we found close to us another revenue cutter. Her commander, Lieutenant Simmons, came on board and told my uncle that he had been directed to cruise in search of the Kitty lugger, commanded by the notorious smuggler Bill Myers. “He has been adding wholesale murder to his other performances,” observed the lieutenant. Two weeks ago, a boat from the Hawk cutter fell in with him at night. He gave her the stem and cut her in two. Three of her crew climbed up the lugger’s bows, but were instantly knocked on the head and hove overboard. The rest were drowned, with the exception of one who clung to the wreck and was picked up by the cutter the next morning. This account made us more eager than ever to catch Myers. Another cruiser was sent down to assist us in our search; but, though for several weeks we kept a sharp look-out after him, he managed to escape us; and neither he nor the Kitty was again heard of on that coast. I was destined, however, to fall in with him again in another clime.

We were not sorry to get back to Portsmouth after all this knocking about. The first person I met on going on shore was Larry Harrigan. He had seen the cutter coming in, and had hurried down to the Point to meet me.

“Oh, Master Neil, I’ve good news for you,” he exclaimed, as I jumped out of the boat and found myself in his arms, for he still looked on me as the baby he had so carefully watched over. “You are no longer to be kept in that tub-hunting service, saving his honour your uncle’s pardon; but you are to go to sea in reality, in a fine, smart frigate, which won’t be letting the grass grow under her keel, I’ll warrant.”

“That’s good news, indeed, Larry; where did you learn it?” I asked.

“From no less a man than the Captain himself, and that’s good authority, you’ll allow,” he answered, in a tone of no little satisfaction. “He’s a friend of your honoured grandfather’s, and was a midshipman and lieutenant on board two ships I served in. He has been lodging in my house for some months back; and when he heard who you were and who had brought you up and given you your sea-learning, says he, ‘Larry, you’ve made a seaman of him, that I’ll answer for. The lad shall go along with me when I get a ship, for his grandfather’s sake and yours too, old friend.’ Those were his last words, Master Neil, they were indeed; and he’s kept his promise, as I knew he would.”

This very satisfactory information Larry communicated on our way to Southsea. It was confirmed soon afterwards by my uncle, who followed me up to Larry’s house. He, as I suspected, had also made an application in my favour, and had just received a letter from Captain Poynder—which was, I found, my future commander’s name,—desiring me forthwith to join his ship, the Harold, which was, however, still in the hands of the dockyard people. Though I would rather have gone afloat at once, this was, I found, a great advantage, as I had thus an opportunity of seeing her masted, rigged, and fitted for sea. Officers are often glad to shirk this, for it is far from pleasant work, and Portsmouth is not the most delectable of residences. I should advise all midshipmen not to miss an opportunity of seeing a ship fitted out, if they possibly can. They will find it will save them an immense deal of after trouble, and prove the quickest way of gaining a knowledge of their future home. Meantime Larry was as busy as a bee in getting my kit in order, aided by his better half; and few midshipmen ever obtained so good an insight at so cheap a rate. I got leave to run over to Ryde for a couple of days to wish my aunt and young cousins good-bye. I asked after Alice Marlow. I was in hopes of hearing that she was coming back to Ryde, that I might see her before I sailed. I blushed as I mentioned her name, and had a curious palpitation about the region of the heart. My aunt smiled as she replied, “I am afraid, Neil, that I shall not be able to get my young friend to come here again for a long time. Mr Marlow writes me word that he proposes going abroad and taking her with him. But cheer up; she will return here some day, I hope; and when you came back from one of your voyages, you will find her with us, perhaps. I should be, indeed, very sorry if I did not expect to see the dear little girl again.”

My aunt was the kindest creature alive; and I was very certain that she regretted that Alice was not there to bid me farewell. I wished her and my cousins good-bye. They all cried a little, and so, in truth, did I; for they were the only creatures I had to love in the world. I, however, quite recovered my spirits before I got half-way across to Portsmouth. My uncle came several times on board the frigate, and, had I been his own son, he could not have taken more interest in me than he did. As for Larry Harrigan, he was on board every day, and all day long, following me about to show me how everything was done, and why it was done. The first-lieutenant was a very worthy, kind man; and as soon as he had heard Larry’s history, he used to talk to him and encourage him to come on board. Greatly to Larry’s delight, he gave me leave to spend an evening sometimes at his house, and very pleasant evenings they were. The officers now began to join fast. Lieutenants, mates, and midshipmen were every day arriving. We soon had our full complement of men, and having got clear of the dockyard people, were ready to go out to Spithead.

I was now to turn over a new page in the history of my career. Although I had gained a considerable amount of nautical knowledge, my experience of life was somewhat limited; but henceforth it was to be enlarged and extended, I trusted, over the greater part of the surface of the globe. For the present, the lands of the myrtle and vine were to be our destination—the shores of the Mediterranean; and the man must indeed be difficult to satisfy who is not pleased with their varied and glowing beauties. Our gallant ship; our berth, so long our home; my messmates, as well as our superior officers and men, merit description. I will touch on each of them in their turn. First I will speak of our berth, which was in truth somewhat different to the abodes of the naval heroes of Great Britain of the rank of midshipmen, with which the public are familiar. Few, perhaps, are like it, though after we had been a year or two at sea it had sadly been shorn of its glory. Its brilliancy had departed, and its polish was no more. We happened to have a caterer, who liked to have everything very natty about him, and who had accordingly taken on himself to spend a few pounds in having our berth neatly done up. The bulkheads were painted of a salmon colour; there was a gilt and blue moulding; a neat oilcloth over the table and lockers; and at one end a buffet filled with plated dish-covers and dishes, tumblers and wine-glasses, forks and spoons, and China teacups; while two swing-lamps hung from the deck above. It afforded a contrast, certainly, to the times of the old school, when a purser’s dip was stuck in a black bottle, and battered tin cups served alternately for grog and tea and soup; but though the language of the occupants of our berth was somewhat more refined, and our opinions more liberal, I will venture to say that the spirit to will and to do deeds of daring burnt not the less brightly in our bosoms than in those of midshipmen of former times. While I was at Ryde the ship’s company moved out of the old Topaze, alongside of which we were lashed, into the frigate; and the day after several mates and midshipmen, with somewhat aristocratic pretensions, joined us. I got a hint, when I came back from Ryde, that they were rather inclined to look down upon me as having been a cutter’s midshipman.

“They shan’t cut me, at all events,” said I to myself. So as soon as I got on board I went below, and taking the fiddle old Hanks had given me, I sat myself down on my chest, and began playing away with all my might a merry Irish jig.

“Hillo; who is the jolly fellow out there?” asked one of the new mates from the berth.

“Oh, that’s the Irish midshipman, D’Arcy,” answered Onslow, a mate who had sometime joined. “Give us another tune, Paddy, that’s a good boy.”

On this I forthwith struck up “Saint Patrick’s Day in the Morning,” and half a dozen other Irish airs.

“If no one objects, I’ll sing, too, mates,” said I, when I had played out my tunes.

Without waiting for an answer, I locked up my fiddle, and taking my seat at one end of the berth, I trolled out, with a very fair voice, several songs which used to delight old Hanks and my other shipmates in the cutter. The effect was evidently good. I showed my wish to please; and though afterwards a few attempts were made to snub me, I took them all in good humour, as if they were intended as jokes, and finally established myself as a favourite with the mess, and I may, I believe, honestly say, with nearly everybody on board.

As soon as possible we went out to Spithead, and joined a large squadron under command of Sir Peppery Portfire. We mustered altogether some eighteen sail of vessels or more, and a very warlike appearance we made. We were bound, we knew, for the Mediterranean; and we all looked forward with no little satisfaction to our visit to that most favourite of stations.

Our powder was next taken on board, with a further supply of stores, and more midshipmen. Among the latter, who should climb up the side but my quondam friend Dicky Sharpe. He did not see me, as I was aloft at the time, and before I came on deck, he and his traps had gone below. When my watch on deck was over, I descended to our berth, where I found him busily employed in cramming his new messmates, and endeavouring to raise himself to a high position in their estimation.

“You see, my good fellows, it isn’t everybody has got a Minister for a cousin, and a Lord of the Admiralty for an uncle,” he remarked in a consequential tone, as I got to the door of the berth.

“And I don’t think you have either, Dicky, my boy,” said I, laughing. “But I am very glad to see you, notwithstanding; but don’t be after bamboozling us jolly greens now.”

At first he attempted to look very indignant at the attack made on his veracity; but no sooner did he recognise me than his good feelings got the better of his love of trying to make himself of importance; and jumping up, he seized my hand and wrung it warmly.

“Why, D’Arcy, is it you yourself, indeed?” he exclaimed. “I am delighted to find you here, I am indeed. Why, messmates, if it hadn’t been for D’Arcy I should have been food for fishes; I should, on my word. Think what a loss the service would have had.”

A loud laugh from all hands followed this remark, though I verily believe Dicky spoke in all gravity; but the fact that I had been the means of saving his life thus came out. It raised me, I had afterwards reason to know, in the good opinion of all on board; and Dicky himself gained many friends by the feeling way in which he spoke of it. I was very soon seated alongside him in the berth, and our tongues were rattling away as fast as they could wag.

Dicky’s propensity to brag, amusing as it was to others, was continually getting him into scrapes. We had an old mate, Adam Stallman by name, who was proportionably as tall, grave, and silent, as Dicky was little, merry, and loquacious.

One day Dicky having thrown a biscuit at me, which, unfortunately, hit Adam’s nose, the latter looked at him sternly.

“Sharpe, you are small,” he exclaimed; “but cobbing was invented to make midshipmen grow, and I intend to make you grow.”

“Then, faith, Stallman, I suspect your mother began cobbing you as soon as you were born,” answered the undaunted Dicky.

Adam’s hands had been busy under the table with his handkerchief; now, suddenly leaning forward, he grasped Dicky by the crop of the neck, and before he had time to expostulate, he had him in such a position that he could apply with the greatest effect the instrument of torture he had manufactured. As all the oldsters sided with Adam, the youngsters dared not interfere; and poor Dicky was held in that undignified position while other handkerchiefs were knotted, and before he was cast loose he received a cobbing which made him treat ever afterwards all the oldsters with abundant respect. But Dicky, if he did not forget, did what was as wise, he forgave; and I do not think he nourished the slightest ill-will against his cobbers.

Of Captain Poynder I have spoken. He was a worthy man and a good officer; and if he had a fault, it was not being sufficiently strict.

Then comes Johnny Du Pre, our gallant First. I have still an affectionate regard for Johnny, though many an hour have I spent at our masthead at his instigation; while Dicky, promoted by the like authority, was taking sights at me from another. We were sent there not without cause, I own, and still the amount of moral turpitude which gained us that elevated distinction was not such as to make me blush as I think of it, or to make me anxious to conceal it from the public. Neither as a first-lieutenant nor as a man was Lieutenant Du Pre perfect; but who is there with whom one cannot find a fault. He was kind-hearted, a fair seaman, and anxious to do his duty.

But our second lieutenant, Basil Vernon, was still more worthy of notice. Refined and elegant both in person and manners, he appeared, at first sight, to be what is called a fine gentleman; but kind-hearted, brave, and generous almost to a fault, a first-rate seaman and officer, a better fellow never stepped, nor one more beloved by all classes afloat, as well as by all who knew him on shore. I soon became very much attached to him, and would have gone round the world to do him a service. Many times did he save me from punishment when I specially deserved it. He was indeed very far from being one of those fine fellows whom no ordinary mortals can approach; for he had a heart tender as a woman’s, and he would as readily sympathise with the grief of the smallest middy, as with the sorrow or suffering of the roughest tar on board. He was a sincere Christian too, and, what was more, was not ashamed of his Christianity. He exhibited his principles in his practice—in the daily duties of life,—till he taught the most profane and profligate to respect him, if not to adopt them. I wish there were more Basil Vernons in the service. Thank Heaven! there are some shining lights to lighten us in our darkness—leaven, which gradually, though slowly, may, by God’s providence, leaven the whole mass.

Our third lieutenant, Hugh Summers, wrote poetry, talked sentiment, and dreamed dreams, and required a flapper to remind him when to put the ship about at times; but when once aroused into action, he was as energetic as any one, and had plenty of resources on an emergency.

The master, surgeon, and purser, were also very good fellows in their way, and if not shining ornaments, were no disgrace to His Majesty’s service.

At last the pay-clerks came on board, and paid the ship’s company. A fine bright morning saw the signal flying from the admiral’s ship for the fleet to weigh and work out to Saint Helen’s. There was a nice working breeze, a blue sky, and the water just rippled enough to reflect with more dazzling splendour the rays of the glorious sun, as he shed them almost along the path we were to pursue. It was, in truth, a beautiful sight; and considering the number of ships—some eighteen sail or more, all beating out together within so narrow a channel,—it was surprising that much damage was not done, especially when it is remembered that the crews of half the ships had never been to sea before, and that the ropes were stiff and new, and did not work well. One ship, I believe, carried away her flying jib-boom against the stern of another; and with that slight loss, and a small expenditure of abuse from the respective crews, who thought each other to blame, we reached Saint Helen’s. The next day we were fairly off to sea; the fleet formed in two lines, the White and the Blue Squadrons, which Sir Peppery manoeuvred with much skill, to the no small trouble of the signal midshipmen. The second day, Ned Lenny, the young gentleman on board the Harold who held that office, vowed he must leave the service and go into the Dragoons, if it was to be carried on in that way; though the following morning he thought better of it. He gained, however, the sobriquet of the Heavy, which, as he was a cocksparrow of a fellow, he retained ever afterwards. Captain Poynder was not inclined to save either officers or crew till we got into good order, which we accordingly did our best to accomplish.

After cruising for six weeks, we were ordered to Spithead to complete our provisions, water, and stores; and then, having taken some passengers on board, made all sail for our station in Mediterranean.

We had not been long at sea when Dicky and I, wearying of the daily routine of duty, began to play pranks which were calculated to bring us into trouble. The boatswain, who rejoiced in the name of Timotheus Trundle, was one of the most extraordinary of his class, though not a bad boatswain for all that. His appearance in foul weather was that of a short lump of big coats and trousers, with a small red pumpkin growing out of them. On a nearer approach, one discovered in the said pumpkin a pair of red, ferrety eyes, an excrescence for a nose, and a hole into which his whistle fitted for a mouth, and on either side of it, on a Sunday morning, two very high shirt-collars, they towards the end of the week gaining a darker hue and an outward curve. On the top of the pumpkin was a round Spanish hat, the fluff of the catskin which composed it being long enough to make a dozen beavers. He wore, with considerable pride, round his neck a handsome silver call and chain. But with all his oddities, his enemies—and he had a few—were obliged to confess that he knew and did his duty as well as any man in the ship. Among his other qualifications, he was a bit of a sea-lawyer; not of the cantankerous sort, however, for it might be more justly said that he preferred sitting on the judicial bench, and he was ever ready to settle all disputes either by arbitration or the rope’s-end; indeed, in most cases he had recourse to the latter, as being the most summary mode of proceeding. When his duty did not require his presence on his own territory, the forecastle, he was fond of taking a walk on the main-deck, alongside the carpenter’s bench, for he was of a social disposition, and delighted in what he called ‘rasheral’ conversation.

Now, Ichabod Chissel, our carpenter, was another of those heroes of the tongue, who pretend to know everything, and never fail in a story for want of a little invention. By his own crew, who looked up to him and esteemed him for his sterling qualities, he was considered a first-rate politician. The two officers were tolerably good friends in general; but a very slight thing would make them fall out, though they as speedily patched up their quarrels again.

One day there was a light breeze and a smooth sea, and Trundle, not expecting to be wanted, had repaired to the main-deck, where Chissel was superintending his crew at work. Dicky Sharpe and I happened to be near, and observing that they were both more than usually excited, we drew closer to see the fun going forward.

“Well, that was a storm as fierce as ever I did see,” remarked Chissel. “Why, there was a thunderbolt as big as six of my fists put together, fell right through the decks, and out through the ship’s bottom; and if I hadn’t been there to plug the hole, we should all have gone to Davy Jones’ locker, as sure as fate. You was there, Trundle, and you know, old ship, that I speak true.”

“I was there! Yes; but I know you speak a hanged lie, if you say that,” exclaimed Trundle.

“What’s that you say?” shouted Chissel, highly indignant at being told he lied before all his crew, though he doubtless would have cared very little about the matter, had the polite remark been made when the two were alone.

Just then Mr Summers, who was the officer of the watch, sung out, “Hands about ship! Where’s the boatswain?”

“Never in his station,” observed Chissel, as Trundle, call in mouth, was making his way forward. “And very little use when he is there,” he added, either thinking the boatswain would not hear him, or caring very little if he did.

Trundle caught the words just as he was going up the fore-ladder, and though he could not just then take his pipe from his mouth to utter a retort, he gave a fierce look with one of his ferrety eyes, which showed that he acknowledged himself deeply in his messmate’s debt. His pipe sounded more shrill than usual, as he could not give any other vent to his feelings.

“There’ll be a row before long between those two heroes, just you mark that,” said I to Dicky, as we both hurried off to our stations.

“Ay,” said he, giving me a wink; “and I think I can put a spoke in their wheel to help them along.”

It was near twelve o’clock, the ship being put about, the decks cleared up, and grog served out preparatory to dinner, when the boatswain made his appearance before the carpenter, his anger in no way appeased.

“What’s that you were saying about me, Mr Ichabod Chissel, I should like to know?” he exclaimed, in an irate tone.

“Why, Mr Trundle, no man likes to have his ferocity (veracity?) doubted, and if you goes for to affirm that I’m a liar—I don’t mince matters, you’ll understand me,—why, all I’ve got to say is, that you’re the biggest speaker of untruths as ever was born, whoever the mother was who got you. Put that in your pipe, Mr Trundle, and smoke it.”

This most insulting of all remarks increased tenfold the boatswain’s rage, and the two would have come instantly to fisticuffs, but that, fortunately, at that moment the order to pipe to dinner was given. The boatswain’s call came into requisition, and all hands, except the watch on deck, were soon busily employed in discussing the contents of a cask of beef, boasting of but a small proportion of fat or lean and a considerable superfluity of bone.

Now it happened to be Dicky Sharpe’s watch on deck while dinner was going on, and at one o’clock, being relieved, he came down to his own repast, which he was not long in discussing. While he sat turning a large rib-bone over and over, in disgust at finding so little meat on it, and waiting for the boy to clear away, the boatswain, whose cabin could be seen from the berth on the larboard side, roused up from a nap, and began to contemplate his visage in his glass, to discover if he looked in any way as if he had been asleep. It must be understood that it is contrary to the principles of a boatswain worthy of the rank ever to require sleep. He would consider himself disgraced in the eyes of the whole crew, if he were caught taking a wink. A regular-built boatswain is often on deck from half-past three in the morning till eleven at night, and should it be bad weather, or from any other cause, frequently two or three times during the night also; and as to his cabin, he merely looks in occasionally and keeps his donnage there.

Now, to do him justice, Trundle was a thoroughgoing boatswain. While he was rubbing his eyes, to get the sleepiness out of them, pulling up his shirt-collar, and brushing back his hair, the demon of mischief put a thought into Dicky Sharpe’s head. To conceive, with Dicky, was to execute. I happened to be descending from the main-deck, when I saw Dicky standing at the door of the berth, with the rib-bone in hand, and a wicked look in his eye. I instantly perceived the state of affairs, and divined what was to happen. Away flew the bone across the deck, with so good an aim that it made a cannon against the boatswain’s nose and his glass, breaking both one and the other with a loud crash, which was followed by a volley of oaths. The steerage of a frigate, even when a sunbeam penetrates through a scuttle, is not over and above brilliantly lighted; and on the present occasion a purser’s dip here and there just enabled us to grope our way about the deck. Now it happened that the carpenter at that moment was coming out of his berth, which was nearly opposite the boatswain’s.

“Oh! you blessed Chissel; I saw you heave that, you aggrawating so-and-so,” exclaimed Trundle, in a towering rage, exhibiting his bleeding nose and broken glass.

“I never hove anything, and that you know, you so-and-so,” answered Ichabod, drawing near to his adversary.

“You did, though, you so-and-so,” cried Trundle, doubling his fist, and dealing Ichabod a hit on the eye which almost stove it in.

The blow was given back, and returned with interest, with expressions not fit for ears polite, till the noses of both heroes were streaming with blood, and their voices were hallooing away at the highest pitch. Dicky was rubbing his hands in high glee at the successful result of his experiment, when the captain, aroused by the hubbub, rang his bell to know what was the matter. This sound, like that of Oberon’s magic horn, instantly paralysed the combatants; and the sentry having put his head into the cabin, and made some report which apparently satisfied the skipper, the two warriors, like a couple of lions growling defiance at each other, retired to their berths, to staunch their bleeding wounds, and wash away the stains of the fight from their faces.

Here the first thing which met the eye of the boatswain, as he stooped to pick up the fragments of his glass, was the missile which had inflicted the injury. Now, as the officers generally choose the long ribs of beef for roasting, for which they pay one pound in six for the good of the ship’s company, and the boatswain had actually seen the carpenter’s servant carrying a piece of rib-beef for his master’s dinner, he felt perfectly satisfied who had thrown the bone. Seizing it, therefore, in his hand, with the fragments of his glass, and his nose still bleeding, he rushed on deck, and halted, quivering with rage, on the quarter-deck, in presence of the first-lieutenant.

“By Jupiter, what a wigging I shall get,” whispered Dicky, in a terrible funk. “I say, D’Arcy, my boy, don’t ’peach, though.”

I cocked my eye, and, pointing to the masthead,—“Six hours a day for the next week, eh!—pleasant, Dicky,” I answered.

Master Dicky dared not show his face, lest his consciousness of guilt might betray itself; for, though unable to resist doing a piece of mischief when the temptation came in his way, he had not got the brazen front of a hardened sinner. I also, anxious as I was to learn the result of the trial, was afraid of showing too great an interest in it, lest suspicion should fall on me, and therefore walked the quarter-deck at a respectful distance, picking up what information I could on the way.

“What is this you have to complain of, Mr Trundle?” asked the first-lieutenant, as he stood at the capstern-head, with the enraged boatswain before him.

“Why, sir, as I was a-cleaning myself just now in my cabin, a-thinking no harm of nobody, Mr Ichabod Chissel, the carpenter of this here ship, sir, and my brother officer, thinks fit to heave this here rib-bone right across the steerage against my nose and my glass, and breaks both on ’em. If that ain’t enough to aggrawate and perwoke and—and—and—(he stopped for a word) flabbergast any one, I don’t know what is, sir, you’ll allow.”

“Very much so, I grant,” observed Mr Du Pre, taking the bone between his fingers and holding it behind his back. “Send Mr Chissel here.”

The carpenter soon made his appearance.

“Pray, Mr Chissel, what part of the meat had you for your dinner, to-day?” asked Mr Du Pre.

“The tail, sir,” said the carpenter.

“What became of the bone after dinner?” asked the first-lieutenant.

“The boy cleared it away with the rest of the things, sir,” was the answer.

“Let the boy be sent for,” said Mr Du Pre.

Bobby Smudge soon came rolling along, hitching up his trousers as he approached the capstern.

There was a wicked look in the young rascal’s eye, which made me suspect he knew all about the matter. He was the most complete little Pickle in the ship, and was continually getting punished, and most deservedly too, by his master. The very day before, the carpenter had reported him, and he had got eleven finnams on the hand for having, in conveying Mr Chissel’s grog from the tub to his cabin, being detected in the very act of taking a hatchway nip—the said hatchway nip, let it be understood, being a sip snatched furtively by the bearer of a glass of grog on the ladder descending from the main to the lower deck. A finnam, I must also explain, is a blow inflicted on the hand, with a cane generally, by the master-at-arms or the ship’s corporal. To the said finnams poor Bobby Smudge’s black paws were well accustomed.

“Boy, what was done with the bone after your master’s dinner?” asked Mr Du Pre, in a severe tone.

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” replied Bobby Smudge, in a long drawl, worthy of a London professional street-beggar.

“Should you know it again if you saw it?” asked the first-lieutenant.

“Oh yes, sir; I’m sure I should,” replied Master Smudge, brightening up and looking the picture of innocent simplicity.

“Well, my boy, what do you say to this?” said Mr Du Pre, producing the bone from behind his back.

All eyes turned towards Bobby Smudge: the carpenter’s fate hung on his decision. The young monkey felt his importance, and determined to exert it. Chissel knew it was the very sort of bone he had scraped not an hour before. Bobby took it, and, turning it round, examined it narrowly.

“Oh yes, sir; I’ll swear to it, that I will,” he exclaimed, holding up his blistered hand behind his back so that the carpenter might observe it. “As I was a-trying to get my dinner off it, I notched it with my knife, I knowed I did, ’cause there was so little meat on it.”

“Oh, you wretched young liar,” muttered the carpenter, for he dared not speak aloud; “won’t I pay you off, that’s all?”

The boy heard him, and gave a grin of defiance.

“Mr Chissel, go to your cabin, and consider yourself under arrest,” said the first-lieutenant; “I must report this affair to the captain. The discipline of the ship cannot be thus trifled with; and officers especially, who ought to know better, must not be allowed to set the men so bad an example with impunity.”

Saying this, Mr Du Pre resumed his walk on the quarter-deck, and I hurried down to report what had occurred, to my chum Dicky. At first he was highly delighted at having escaped detection.

“Stop a bit, Dicky,” said I; “I don’t think you are quite out of the fire yet. It will never do to let the carpenter be disrated or dismissed the ship for conduct of which he is innocent. The truth must come out; and, to my mind, honesty is the best policy.”

“Well, but don’t you see, D’Arcy, I shall get mast-headed and have my leave stopped, and I don’t know what else—all for shying a bone across the steerage,” argued Dicky. “What business had the boatswain and carpenter to hit each other, I should like to know. If that stupid Trundle had taken the joke in good part, there wouldn’t have been all this row.”

I laughed outright at Master Richard’s style of reasoning.

“That argument won’t stand good with the skipper,” said I. “Now, come, let me do the only thing which can set matters to rights; because it is the right thing. I’m a bit of a favourite with Mr Du Pre, I suspect; and I’ll go up to him at once, and tell him the truth. If anything can get you off, that will; and if the affair reaches the ears of the captain, there will be a very serious row, I’m certain.”

At last Dicky consented to my plan, and without waiting to let him change his mind, I went on deck, where I found the first-lieutenant.

“I’ve got something to say about that beef-bone, sir,” I began.

“What’s that, Mr D’Arcy,” he exclaimed, turning sharp round. “When am I to hear the last of that beef-bone?”

“Why, sir, it wasn’t the carpenter threw it, but one of the midshipmen; he couldn’t help it, though. No one could, I’m sure,” I rapped out.

“Why, Master D’Arcy, I verily believe you’re the culprit,” he exclaimed, looking at me steadfastly.

I detected, however, a smile in his eye, which showed that his anger was not very serious; so I at once told him exactly how the matter had occurred, and that Dicky had begged me to come and confess the truth and intercede for him. Master Sharpe was therefore sent for; and having been severely reprimanded, was told that as soon as we got into harbour his leave would be stopped, and was then ordered to the masthead for a couple of hours, to sit there instead of on the stool of repentance. The carpenter was released from arrest, on condition that he should keep the peace. The boatswain’s nose mended in the course of a few days; and though reminded of the outrage every time he attempted to shave before his broken bit of looking-glass, he and Chissel soon patched up their quarrel and resumed their former intimacy. The person who fared worst was Bobby Smudge, who, never a favourite with his master, now obtained a double allowance of finnams, and a sly rope’s-ending whenever opportunities offered. Bobby began to discover that revenge, though sweet, may recoil on the head of the avenger, and become very bitter. More ultimately came out of the beef-bone affair.

Chapter Twelve.

Reach the Mediterranean—Malta—A Ride on Shore—A Ball—A Heroine—Our Partners—Mr Nip and his Partner—An Odd Egg Hatched—Adam Stallman’s Advice—The Right Thing the Best Thing.

Nothing of importance occurred that I remember during our passage across the Bay of Biscay. We had the usual heavy swells (though I have found it as level as a fish-pond), a stiffish breeze for a day or so, which gave us a cheery shove on our way, and light and variable winds and calms, which latter let us roll till our yard-arms almost touched the water, and effectually turned the landsmen inside out. Ten days after leaving Plymouth, we were in the latitude of Lisbon. It was early morning, and the land we were approaching was shrouded to common eyes by a soft silvery haze, which allowed only a circle of blue sea to be perceived round the ship, and a patch of about the same size of clear sky overhead. On the larboard bow was perceived a darker mass of mist, which after some time resolved itself into the well-known form of the Rock of Lisbon. The wind being light and variable, we drew very gradually inshore, till the mist suddenly lifting, as if at the command of a magician, disclosed to us the splendid and fantastic scenery of those rocky heights, as they rose proudly from the glittering ocean, which was dotted with numerous sails of fishing-boats and coasters, and here and there the canvas of some loftier merchantmen, making for the mouth of the Tagus. On the lower land, to the north of the Rock, was seen the royal palace of Mafra—a curious huge pile, imposing from its height and the large extent of ground it covers. I do not, however, intend to bother my readers with accounts of places and scenery, which they may find much better described in numberless books of voyages and travels. The wind freshening and coming fair, we continued our course, and, passing the Capes of Ortegal and Finisterre on the second day after leaving the Rock, were off Cape Saint Vincent, immortalised in naval memories by Sir John Jervis’ great action, and since then, by the way, by a very pretty bit of fighting under Charlie Napier, when he took possession of Don Miguel’s fleet with one half its size. Cape Trafalgar next came in sight, and was eagerly viewed by all hands, for, often as one may gaze on its dark blue cliffs, the deep interest they inspire can never fail; one is reminded that in their neighbourhood the glorious navy of England, under the greatest of its chiefs, secured the freedom of the world, and struck the blow which stopped the victor of continental Europe in his wild career of conquest. Peace to the names of England’s gallant defenders, who died for their country off Trafalgar’s Cape! and sacred be the memory of the immortal Nelson, our meteor-flag of victory!—But, little Neil D’Arcy, where are you steering for? Has the sight of Trafalgar made you fancy you can do a bit of fine writing? Just get back, boy, to your usual style, and leave such attempts to the pens of novelists and travellers.

It was near nightfall when we made the Rock of Gibraltar; and as we passed through the Straits when I was snug below in my hammock, my journal contains no description of that wonderful fortress. When the morning dawned, the high mountains of Spain were just visible in the horizon; and the next land we sighted was the coast of Barbary, somewhere to the westward of Tunis. Six days after that we were in sight of Sicily, when, after hauling off the coast, a gale sprung up, and such thick and cloudy weather came on, that we could take no observations. The ship was therefore hove-to; and while sail was being taken off her I got an ugly fall, which laid me up in my hammock for several days. During my illness, Dicky Sharpe was constantly with me, whenever he was off duty, and we became greater friends than ever.

“Do you know, D’Arcy, I am really very much obliged to you for having got me so well out of that scrape with the boatswain and the beef-bone!” he said to me in a tone of confidence one day, after we had reached Valetta harbour. “I have not ventured to ask Mr Du Pre leave to go on shore. Do you think he would give it me?”

“I rather think not, Dicky,” said I. “Don’t say a word about it for some time to come, and then you can begin to look dull and melancholy, and to pine for the shore; and perhaps his heart will soften with compassion, and he will give you leave.”

“Capital advice! Won’t I look melancholy, that’s all, when the time comes?” he exclaimed. “How soon ought I to begin?”

“Not till I’m well and can go on shore to look after you,” I answered.

The fact was, I wanted Dicky’s company when I could go on shore myself, which the surgeon told me I might do in a few days; and when asking for myself, I intended putting in a word with Mr Du Pre in his favour. When I crawled on deck I found the ship had taken up her moorings in Dockyard Creek, a branch of the Grand Harbour, from which it runs at right angles, on the opposite side to Valetta. Most deservedly is the Grand Harbour so called, for in beauty, size, and security it is unsurpassed; and it is singular that it should exist in an island of dimensions so limited. Malta has an individuality of its own. It is like no other spot in the world; and when one looks at the magnificent lines of batteries, bristling with cannon, and the mass of churches, monasteries, and houses, which towers above them, one can scarcely believe that the whole has been hewn out of the solid rock of which the island is composed. But I am not going to describe Malta. In three or four days more I was quite well, and having succeeded in obtaining leave from Mr Du Pre for Dicky to accompany me on shore, we landed at the Nix Mangiare steps, and took our way through the town. The first thing we did was to hire horses to take a ride into the country. Both of us could stick on pretty well (what midshipman cannot?); but as for science, we had none of it. At first we trotted on gaily enough, and then our horses broke into a gallop, which we enjoyed very much.

“Capital goers, these!” exclaimed Dicky. “If they keep up at this rate, I vote we take a regular circuit of the island.”

“Faith, then, I’m ready for that same,” said I; and on we galloped.

So delighted were we at the way our steeds went, that we sat the saddles and held our reins rather loosely. On a sudden they both came to a full stop, and up simultaneously went their heels in the air. Over their heads we flew, and alighted some dozen yards off; while the well-trained beasts, with neighs of derision which were truly provoking, galloped back to their stables, leaving us to find our way into Valetta as best we could. By-the-bye, the horse-master had taken very good care to get paid first. Dicky sat up on the ground and rubbed his head, to discover if it was broken. I followed his example, and finding no bones dislocated, my spirits rose again. We looked at each other, when there appeared something so ludicrously forlorn in the expression of our countenances, that we both burst out into fits of laughter. We indulged in our mirth for some time, and then got up and commenced our walk back into the town. Fortunately we had not got any very great distance from the walls, so the walk was easy of accomplishment. We had proceeded about a mile or so, when two midshipmen hove in sight, galloping along in high glee on the very horses which had just disburdened themselves of us.

“Hillo! you fellows, those are our horses,” sang out Dicky; “just get off now, will you?”

But he might as well have called a whirlwind to halt; for helter-skelter, past us they dashed, without minding us a bit. Dicky was highly indignant.

“Well, I never was so treated in my life!” he exclaimed.

“Wait a bit,” said I; for I had a shrewd suspicion that the horses would play their present riders the same trick they had served us; and sure enough, in about ten minutes, we heard a clattering of hoofs behind us, and, looking round, saw the knowing old steeds coming, galloping along by themselves.

“Now, now’s the time, Dicky,” I sang out. “You catch one and I’ll catch the other, and we’ll still have our ride out. The horses are ours, there’s no doubt of it.”

Sooner said, however, than done. The beasts came on very steadily till they got close to us, and then they began rearing and frisking, and kicking up such a dust that it was impossible to catch hold of their bridles; and, it must be confessed, we were glad enough to get out of their way without being trampled over.

“Where are the brutes?” I asked, feeling very foolish.

“Where are they?” echoed Dicky, looking the same. “There they go, as steady as cart-horses. Hang it! they knew we were midshipmen.”

Our only satisfaction was to see a third set of riders come out on the same brutes, and to be able to laugh in our sleeves, while we wished them a pleasant ride across the island. What became of all the riders I don’t know. The steeds again passed us just before we reached the gates.—Three or four evenings after this, the officers of the ship were asked to a ball, and the captain took Dicky and me. We did not know anybody, and were hard up for partners, till the skipper introduced us each to a Maltese girl. They were both very short, though that was a fault on the right side; but they were also very fat and very dark, and could not speak a word of English; and one squinted, and the other had lost an eye. Their noses turned up, and their lips were thick and large. They were not beauties, certainly; but we danced with them all the evening, changing every now and then for variety, though I had to look hard to make out which was my original partner, as I only knew them apart by the defect in their eyes. Dicky asked me if I didn’t think them as pretty as Alice Marlow, at which I very nearly knocked him down in the ball-room. But he appeased me by assuring me with the greatest gravity, that he admired the squinting one very much, and should certainly, if he were older, make her Mrs Sharpe. He did nothing but talk about her for two days afterwards; and, as we did not know her real name, we called her Miss Smaitch, which, though not euphonious, did as well as any other. On the third day he dined with an officer in the dockyard who had a numerous family of daughters, to one of whom he transferred his affections, and they remained steady for nearly a week, about which time we left Malta. To return to the ball, however. When Dicky and I were not dancing, we amused ourselves by watching what was going forward, especially in observing the occupations of our superior officers.

“I say, D’Arcy, who is that young lady Mr Vernon is dancing with, I wonder? She is a stunner, isn’t she, my boy?” said Dicky, sidling up to me, and pointing with his chin towards a very beautiful girl, to whom our second lieutenant had just then given his hand, and was leading up to form a quadrille.

There was a roseate blush on her cheek, and a brightening glance in her eye, as she looked up at the gallant officer, which betokened more than ordinary satisfaction at being chosen his partner in the dance. The colour increased, and the eyes brightened still more, while a smile played round her ruby lips, as Mr Vernon uttered, in a low tone, a few words in her ear.

Dicky observed it. “I twig something there,” he whispered. “What will you bet me, D’Arcy, that Mr Vernon doesn’t splice that same young lady, now? It’s a regular case, depend on it. I thought there was something going on, he’s been so constantly on shore since we came into harbour. He’s a right good fellow, and I wish him joy.”

“I hope, if it is a case, that he’ll not marry till the ship is out of commission,” I remarked. “I should be sorry indeed to lose him. But we must not talk so loud, or we shall be overheard.”

Just then the captain came up, to make Dicky dance with Miss Smaitch. I was left alone to watch proceedings. From what I saw, I was fully convinced that Master Sharpe’s conjectures were well founded, and that Mr Vernon and the fair unknown were certainly deeply in love with each other, and most probably engaged. She certainly, as far as I could judge from mere appearance, was well worthy the love of any man. Young as I was, she made a deep impression on me; and even at this distance of time I can bring her Hebe-like figure before me, with almost the vivid colours of reality. She was not tall, but her figure was full of grace and life. Her complexion was beautifully fair; her eyes were blue; and the expression of her countenance was soft, feminine, and full of sweetness; at the same time, the arch smile which occasionally played over it showed that she was not destitute of sense and wit.

While I was looking on, I was joined by Adam Stallman, one of the senior mates of the Harold. I have slightly mentioned him before. He was of a somewhat grave and taciturn disposition, but generous and kind, and as brave and honourable as any knight sans peur et sans reproche. He read much and thought more, and was ready to give good advice when asked for it; but innate modesty prevented him from volunteering to afford it, except on rare occasions, when he saw that it was absolutely necessary to preserve a person from following a path which might lead him to ruin.

Dicky and I were favourites of his; for though he kept us in order, and more than once had inflicted a sound cobbing on my chum (certainly well deserved), he was very kind to us.

“I say, Stallman, can you tell me who the young lady is with whom Mr Vernon is dancing?” said I.

“Why do you ask?” he inquired.

“Because she is very beautiful,” I replied.

The colour heightened on his generally impassive, well-bronzed features, as his eye fell on the lady whom I indicated. “Yes,” he answered, with a firm voice, “that lady is Miss Blanche Norman, the daughter of Major Norman, who is out here for his health. But wouldn’t you like to dance, youngster?”

I told him that I had been engaged by the captain to dance with Miss Smaitch Number 2.

“Well, come to me if you want a partner,” he said, and moved on.

I saw him soon afterwards go up and shake hands with Miss Norman. His lip momentarily quivered, I saw; but his countenance otherwise remained firm. She received him as an old acquaintance, and seemed glad to see him.

I took it into my head that Adam was in love with her, or had been; but that, as he had little besides his pay to depend on, he could not indulge a dream of marrying. From what I afterwards learned, I was right in this conjecture. Poor fellow! he had loved her well and deeply, but he had never told his love. She might have suspected his attachment, but with the tact and delicacy of a right-minded woman, she did not allow him to discover that she did so, but endeavoured, by the frank kindness of her words and manner, to take away the bitterness from the wound she was inflicting. I do not mean to say, however, that at the time I knew this, but I made a pretty shrewd guess at the truth.

In a little time Dicky came hurrying up to me with a look full of importance.

“I say, D’Arcy, I’ve found out all about it. I heard our medico tell Old Nip (meaning the purser) that Vernon proposed a few days ago to Miss Norman, and was accepted; so they are regularly engaged, you know, and he has a right to dance with her as often as he likes. What fun for him! I know that I should like to be in his place. That’s her father: not the tall man with the white hair, but the shorter one next him. He looks almost too young to be her father, doesn’t he? Perhaps his being ill makes him look so. They are soon going home; but they are to stop at Gibraltar, so the doctor says.”

“I am afraid you’ve been an eavesdropper, Dicky, to hear all this,” I observed; “and that, you know, is not a very creditable character.”

“I know that as well as you do,” he answered; “but I could not help myself, for I was jammed up in the refreshment room between two fat Maltese ladies and the supper-table, and I couldn’t have moved without the risk of staving in their sides with my elbows. Old Nip and the medico were on the other side of them, sipping their negus, and didn’t see me.”

“That’s all right; and small blame to you, Dicky,” said I. “Well, I heartily wish Mr Vernon joy; and if his love don’t run smooth, and he ever wants a helping hand, I only hope he’ll let me give it him.”

“There’s nothing I should like better too, independent of my regard for Mr Vernon,” observed Dicky, pompously.

I remember that we long discussed the probabilities of Mr Vernon’s requiring our services; and we came to the conclusion that, though we should be delighted to help him to obtain the lady’s hand in any way he might require, in principle the running away with a lady was decidedly wrong.

The subject was changed by our seeing the purser lead out one of the fat ladies, behind whom Dicky had been hid, to attempt a waltz. Never was there a more extraordinary performance. Neither of them had a notion of the dance. They floundered and flolloped, and twisted and turned, and tumbled against all the other couples, till they spread consternation around; and at last found themselves the sole performers in the room. As poor Nip went twirling round, much in the way that a child’s humming-top does when it begins to stagger preparatory to stopping, he perceived a suppressed laugh on the lips and in the eyes of the surrounding spectators; and suspecting that he might be the cause of it, gave a convulsive gripe at his partner’s waist, or at the part where her waist should be, in order to bring himself to an anchor. The effort was too great for his powers, and both he and she came with a run to the floor, close to where Dicky and I were standing. There they kicked and struggled in vain efforts to rise. At this Dicky could no longer contain himself, but, regardless of the purser’s anger, burst into a loud fit of laughter. However, we ran forward to do our best to get the hero and heroine on their legs again, though we were too much convulsed to be of much assistance.

“I’ll pay you off for this, Master Sharpe,” whispered the purser, looking up fiercely.

“I couldn’t help it, indeed I could not,” answered Dicky in an apologetic tone; “you did look so funny.”

“I’ll wring your ears off, you young puppy,” cried poor Nip, rising and shaking himself, in his rage forgetting the fair sharer of his misfortune.

“Look to your partner, Mr Cheesnip,” said Captain Poynder, coming up, and guessing the cause of the purser’s anger. “Here, Sharpe, help me to put the lady on her legs.”

By some pulling and hauling, and by others shoving behind, we got Madame Cheesnip, as we ever after called her, into a perpendicular position; but she was too much shaken to dance again, especially with the cause of her misfortune. Indeed, for the rest of the evening the ladies fought very shy of poor Nip, and we took good care to keep out of his way. Dicky and I stayed to the last, spending our time very satisfactorily between our two partners and the refreshment and supper rooms; and I am afraid to mention the vast amount of sandwiches, cakes, and bonbons which Dicky consumed, washed down by cups of coffee, lemonade, and negus. At length, when nearly everybody was gone, with the exception of a few other midshipmen, and the musicians could no longer wag their bows, we deemed it time also to retire. We had got leave to stay on shore, but it just then occurred to us that we had forgot to order our beds.

“Never mind,” said Dicky; “we are certain to find them at some hotel or other.”

As we were putting on our cloaks, we found that there were five or six more midshipmen belonging to other ships in the same predicament as ourselves. To get beds at that hour of the morning, we discovered was not so easy, as all the Hotels, from some cause or other, were full. We hunted about for some time, and were proposing trying to get on board our ships,—though Dicky Sharpe declared he should take up his berth inside one of the casks generally found down on the shore of the harbour, with their heads off; but we advised him not, as they are the usual abode of the beggar boys who infest Nix Mangiare stairs, and would be apt to have more inhabitants than one,—when some of the party who were on ahead, shouted out that they had found as cozy a place of shelter as they could wish. We were in the upper part of the town, which, as most of my readers probably know, is at a considerable elevation above the water. As it had lately begun to rain hard, and we had no desire to wander farther, there was a general rush made to the front. The cozy place to which we were invited, turned out to be an old family coach, which was standing at the top of a narrow lane intended to be used only by foot passengers. However, it was a place where some midshipmen had lately amused themselves by galloping up and down; but, to prevent such an exhibition of horsemanship, a guard had been stationed at the bottom, to prevent any similar attempt for the future. But to return to the coach. The first comers had taken possession, and one after the other the rest scrambled in, till by the time Dicky and I, who were rather behind, got up, it could hold no more: at all events those inside decided that such was the case. This was not what we had bargained for, and neither of us was inclined to yield his right to a share and shelter without a struggle. The doors had not been shut; and while Dicky boarded on one side, I tried to get in on the other. Wet caps and fists were dashed in our faces, but, undaunted, we strove on. I had actually forced my way in, and was stretching over my hand to my chum, who had got his feet on the step, when some one exclaimed, “By Jupiter! she is under way.” And, sure enough, our struggles had set the lumbering old vehicle moving. On it went, rolling and rattling down the steep pathway, which we had totally forgotten. To get out was impossible, without the certainty almost of knocking our heads against the walls of the houses on either side, of being jammed between them and the wheels, or of being run over. We hauled Dicky in to save his life, and away we all went together, the vehicle every moment increasing its velocity. The path, from sloping from each side to the centre, kept her on a straight course, or we should have brought up against some steps, or a kerbstone, and been saved from the approaching catastrophe. But no such good fortune was in store for us. Rolling and rattling, and screeching and creaking, and bumping and thumping, downward went the carriage, we inside keeping up a chorus of shouts and shrieks. Most of us laughed; but one or two, who were strangers to the place, were in a mortal fright, not knowing whether we might find a precipice at the bottom, and be shot over, perhaps into the sea. Very soon, too, we reached some steps, down which we went, of course faster than ever, with terrific bounds, till the cranky old vehicle could no longer stand the unusual movement.

“Who goes there?” shouted the sentry at the bottom of the steps.

“Turn out the guard,” echoed the sergeant, not able to make out the cause of the unusual commotion. Just then the carriage split asunder, and sent us flying, with swords, dirks, and hats, in different directions.

“Arrah, was ever such an egg hatched before?” exclaimed the sergeant, who was an Irishman, running up and seizing hold of the first he could lay hands on. “Come, young gentlemen, I must march you off to the guard-house.”

“March the coach off, if you please, sergeant; but we are innocent, like the new-hatched babes which we are,” cried Dicky Sharpe, who was one of those in custody. “The order is against people on horseback coming this way: we hadn’t even horses to our egg-shell.”

The sergeant, amused by the way Dicky took up his joke, and seeing there was no use detaining us, consented not to molest us. We then invited ourselves to go to the guard-house, where we passed the remainder of the night, with our cigars to comfort us. I am sorry to say that we did not go back to try and find the owners of the coach, that we might apologise to them for having inflicted so much injury on their property, which we ought certainly to have done. We none of us thought anything more would come of it.

“Oh!” said Dicky Sharpe, rubbing his hands, “the owners will think that the old coach grew tired of waiting all by itself, so ran down the hill to get warm.”

We resolved therefore to say nothing about the matter. The next day, while it was my watch on deck, we were ordered to send a boat to bring off a party of ladies from the shore. Dicky, who belonged to the boat, went in her. As they reached the ship, and the sides were manned to receive them, I saw that Mr Vernon was in the boat, accompanied by Major and Miss Norman, and several other ladies and gentlemen. The care with which he handed her up the side, and the attention he paid her, as he showed the party round the decks, convinced me still further that what I had heard last night was the truth. Adam Stallman accompanied them; he was grave, but kind and courteous as usual, and seemed to take great pains to answer all the questions, some of them not a little ridiculous, which were put to him. Mr Vernon invited him to join the luncheon-party in the ward-room, so I did not see what followed.

As soon as the boat was hoisted in, Dicky came up to me.

“I say, D’Arcy,” said he, “it’s all blown, and we are in for it, I guess.”

“What’s blown?” I asked.

“Why, the coach affair, of course,” he replied. “As we were coming off they were all talking of it, and Mr Vernon said he was very sure I was one of the chickens, so there was no use denying it. If it gets to the captain’s ears we shall have our leave stopped, and I shan’t have a chance of seeing little Miss Smaitch again.”

We consulted long what was to be done, but could come to no decision on the subject. After the guests were gone, Adam Stallman came down into the berth.

“Youngsters,” said he, “I suspect both of you were engaged in the destruction of the coach last night. Is it not so?”

We confessed the truth, and told him exactly how it happened.

“Did you endeavour to find out the owners, and to make them all the amends in your power for the mischief you had committed?”

We owned that we had not.

“You neglected your bounden duty, then,” he observed. “You should recollect that every act of meanness committed by a British officer brings discredit on the cloth. When a man is guilty of a fault, he but increases it if he neglects to make reparation for it. Now, if I get leave for you to accompany me on shore, will you follow my directions?” We promised we would. “Well then, we will find out the owners of the coach, and you must go and tell them that you are very sorry for the mischief you committed, explain how it happened, and beg their pardon. I do not think you can exactly offer to give them a new coach; nor would they expect it, probably.”

At this Dicky looked very blue; but he could not escape from his promise, and he soon mustered a sufficiency of moral courage to carry him through the work. I was, I own, very glad in being thus supported in doing what I felt was right.

In the afternoon we went on shore, and set off at once to the scene of our adventure: The fragments of the coach had been removed. Climbing up the lane, we made inquiries at the top—at least Adam, who spoke Italian, did—for any family from the country who might be stopping at a house near at hand.

“Oh, you want Signora Faranelli, whose coach was run away with last night by some ragamuffins!” said the master of a small shop where we inquired.

“The same,” answered Adam.

“She and her daughters are staying with Signor Bianconi at the big house, there.”

Adam led us to the house indicated.

“I feel in a great funk,” whispered Dicky; “don’t you, D’Arcy? What shall we say?”

“The truth,” said I. “It’s the only thing we can say. Tell our tale from beginning to end.”

We sent in our cards, with a message to say that two naval officers wished to speak to Signora Faranelli. Adam said he should wait outside for us, and told us to make haste. We were speedily requested to walk upstairs, and were ushered into a room full of company, when a very pleasing, kind-looking lady came forward and inquired to what cause she was indebted for the honour of our visit. As I knew Sharpe would make some mistake, I had offered to act as spokesman, and at once told the whole of our tale.

“Oh, it was very naughty in the carriage to run away with you,” she replied, in a good-natured tone, in somewhat broken English; “and it was very stupid in my servants to leave it standing on the top of the hill, though but natural that you, on a rainy night, should take shelter within it. I had been told that it was purposely sent rolling down the hill by a party of tipsy naval officers, and I was resolved to complain of them; but the frank way in which you have come forward to explain the matter removes all disagreeable feeling on the subject, and I am very happy to make your acquaintance.”

Dicky Sharpe drew a deep breath, as if some dire forebodings were removed. I don’t know what he thought was going to happen to us.

“I must now introduce you to Signor Bianconi, and I am sure he will have great pleasure if you can remain and spend the evening with us,” continued the lady. “I shall hope also to see you shortly at my house in the country.”

We thanked Signora Faranelli very much for her kindness, but explained that we had a friend waiting outside for us, who had, however, nothing to do with the carriage affair. Of course Adam Stallman was requested to come in, and, to my surprise, he consented.

“I like what you tell me of the people, D’Arcy, and their acquaintance must be worth making,” he observed.

We spent a very pleasant evening, got on board in good time, and the next day, meeting some of our companions in the carriage adventure, were able to relieve their minds from certain apprehensions of the consequences, and to tell them of the satisfactory results; nor did we fail to give Stallman credit, which was his due. They, the rogues, were now in a great hurry to go and apologise also; but their impudence, for a wonder, would not carry them up to the point for action.

Whenever we put into Malta, Dicky and I did not fail to call on Signora Faranelli and Signor Bianconi: and many a happy day we spent at their houses. Often and often I have since seen that, by acting with truthfulness and candour, very much inconvenience, and even misery and suffering, might have been saved, and much good obtained. There is a golden rule I must urge on my young friends ever to follow: Do right, and leave the result to God.

Chapter Thirteen.

Sailing of the Ariadne—Chissel’s Cruelty—Loss of Bobby Smudge—A Heavy Squall—Bobby Smudge’s Ghost—Reflections thereon.

Shortly after this we were ordered to get ready for sea, though our destination was not known. Before we sailed, Major and Miss Norman again came on board, and we heard that, his health being re-established, they had taken their passage in a brig bound for England. We were very sorry for this, as we feared that Mr Vernon would be wishing to go home to marry, and that we should thus lose him. The next morning the Ariadne, the brig in question, a remarkably fine vessel for an English merchantman of those days (for a more detestable fleet of tubs were never sent afloat), was seen to be getting up her anchor and loosing topsails. Mr Vernon had gone away in the second gig at an early hour; and she was now alongside, while he, with his boat’s crew, were on board. We could see him standing with Miss Blanche Norman on deck.

“More gallant knight or fairer lady never trod this mortal world,” quoth our poetical Third, as he took a sight at his brother officer through his spy-glass.

I heard a deep sigh, and looking round, I saw Adam Stallman standing near me; but his countenance was unmoved, and turning on his heel, he continued pacing the deck as if he had been an unconcerned spectator of what was going on. The anchor of the brig was run up to the bows and catted; sail after sail was dropped from its brails and quickly sheeted home; and under a wide spread of canvas the gallant craft came standing out of the harbour.

“A prosperous voyage to you,” shouted Mr Du Pre through his speaking-trumpet, as she passed us.

He and all the officers took off their caps. Major Norman and the master of the Ariadne did the same, and Miss Norman bowed. It was a trying moment for her, poor girl; for in a few minutes he whom she had so lately learned to love must quit her for an indefinite period, to buffet the rude winds and waves of the ocean, or, perchance, to endure the dangers of the fight,—so said our third lieutenant, or something to that effect. We watched the Ariadne, as long as her topsails appeared above the horizon, with no little interest, for Mr Vernon’s sake. He at length came back, after a long pull, and was for several days somewhat grave and abstracted at times; but that mood wore off by degrees, and there was a buoyancy in his step, and a light in his eye, which showed that he loved, and was conscious of being beloved in return.

It would be impossible to give an account of all the minor adventures I met with in the Mediterranean; but such as I can I will narrate. Captain Poynder was very anxious to make his midshipmen gentlemen, and to give us a knowledge of polite literature, as well as to instruct us in navigation and seamanship. Accordingly he got a Maltese on board to teach us Italian. Poor Signor Mezzi had never, I believe, been at sea before; and though we tried to make him comfortable, and Dicky Sharpe generally resisted the temptation to play him tricks—for he was certain to be cobbed by the oldsters if he did,—I fear that his life was far from a pleasant one. When we had completed our refit, and had stowed away a supply of provisions, despatches were sent on board, and we were ordered to proceed to Tripoli and Tunis. We made a very quick passage to Tripoli, which is the capital of the most easterly of the Barbary States. It boasts of a castle and port, and has a large harbour, defended by a moat and batteries, capable of containing a considerable fleet of merchantmen. We remained there a very short time, so I do not remember much about the place, nor exactly for what purpose we went there. There is another town of the same name in Syria, and they are often confounded. Leaving Tripoli, we made sail for Tunis. It was on this trip, if I remember rightly, that a circumstance occurred, which for some time appeared wrapped in mystery. The adventure of the rib-bone, in which Dicky Sharpe played so prominent a part, will be remembered. Since that time, Ichabod Chissel, the carpenter, had led his unfortunate boy, Bobby Smudge, a very dog’s life. I fully believe, however, that Master Smudge richly deserved every rope’s-ending he got. He was always dirty: he loved dirt, and nothing could keep him clean. His honesty also was doubtful. While in Malta harbour, some of our plate had disappeared. Our boy accused Bobby of taking it, though he denied this, and, to our surprise, confessed that he knew where it was.

“Why, do you see, sir,” he said to Stallman, who sat as judge on his trial, “it somehow or other got into my tub of hot water, and I never knowed it; and when I went to heave the water overboard, I then see’d the glitter of it in the sea, as it sunk to the bottom.”

The defence was ingenious, and as there was no witness to prove to the contrary, Bobby escaped punishment on that occasion; though, as he had been seen in deep confabulation with an ill-looking Jew a short time afterwards, suspicion went much against him. From bad, things grew to worse with Bobby Smudge. Not a day passed, scarcely an hour, that he did not taste the flavour of a rope’s-end—most frequently bestowed by his master, the carpenter.

“You will be the death of me, I know you will, Master Chissel,” he groaned out one day, when his castigator was even severer than usual. “I’ll go and drown myself, that I will, if this goes on much longer—you’ll see if I don’t. I won’t stand it, that I won’t;” and he blubbered as few have blubbered before.

“You will, will you, you young scamp?” exclaimed the carpenter, seizing a rope’s-end. “Take that, then, and remember, when you come back from the drowning of yourself, I’ll give you six times as much.” And poor Bobby got it worse than ever.

I think Chissel was very wrong in the way he treated the poor wretch. Had he been tolerably kind and considerate, he might, I am certain, have worked on his good feelings, and certainly have improved him; but the unhappy lad had from his earliest days been so constantly knocked about, and so accustomed to receive more kicks than halfpence, that all his better feelings had been pretty well beaten out of him.

It so happened that one evening, as the ship was running pretty fast through the water, and as darkness was coming rapidly on, a loud splash was heard alongside, and that cry, so startling to a seaman’s heart, was raised—“A man overboard!”

“Silence, fore and aft,” sang out Captain Poynder, who at the same moment appeared on deck. “Does anybody see him?”

There was no answer.

“Does anybody hear him?”

There was an ominous silence. A pin might have been heard to drop on deck. The life-buoy had been let go at the first by the officer of the watch. Its signal fire now burned bright astern, but no one was seen clinging to it. There could be little doubt that the poor fellow, whoever he was, had sunk at once. The ship had been running at the time a few points off the wind. She was now brought close on a wind, and then the helm was put down, and she was hove about with her head towards the life-buoy. While she was in stays, the two quarter-boats were manned and lowered. Mr Vernon jumped into one of them, and the master into another; and as the frigate lost her way, they shoved off and pulled in the direction of the spot where the man was supposed to have fallen.

“Who can it be? Who is missing?” was asked by all hands, while we were anxiously looking out towards the boats, to see if they were picking up anybody.

When the ship reached the same locality, she was hove-to, and there we remained till the boats, having picked up the life-buoy, returned on board. They brought, however, too probable a sign of some one having been lost—a boy’s hat. It had been picked up exactly at the spot where the ship was supposed to have been when the alarm was first given. The ship’s muster-roll was now called over, to ascertain who of the ship’s company was missing. One after the other had answered to their names, and it had so nearly reached the end, that we began to hope there might be some mistake after all, when that of Bobby Smudge was called. There was no answer. Poor Bobby! There could be but little doubt that the unfortunate wretch had put his threat of making away with himself into execution, rather than longer endure the tyranny of Mr Chissel. I hoped that the carpenter’s accusing conscience would make him repent of his cruelty. This surmise as to the poor boy’s fate was confirmed the next morning, when some of his clothes were discovered under the forechains. The next day the chief conversation among the men was about Bobby Smudge’s suicide, and of the threats he had uttered of haunting the ship. This led to the recounting of similar circumstances; and many a forecastle yarn was spun that evening, abounding in horrors sufficient to make the hairs of a less stout-hearted auditory stand on end. From the extraordinary remarks I heard as I passed about the decks, I declared, when I went to the berth, that I believed that some of the men fully expected to see poor Bobby Smudge come in at one of the ports and drive all hands out of the ship. A seaman will encounter anything living and tangible with a hearty good-will; but he has a mortal antipathy to meet any spirit, black, blue, white, or green, from the nether world.

“I say, D’Arcy, it would be great fun if we could just manage to give some of these fellows a fright,” whispered Dicky Sharpe. “A white sheet and a howl would do it. I could manage to imitate Bobby Smudge’s voice, and I should just like to look in on old Chissel when he is taking his first snooze. I’d just mutter, ‘Bobby Smudge’s ghost come to fetch you away, you old sinner,’ and his villainous conscience would do the rest.”

“Don’t play any such foolish trick, Dicky,” said I. “You would certainly be found out in the first place, and get severely punished into the bargain. Besides, the matter is too serious to be turned into a joke. Think of that poor unfortunate wretch, driven to despair, and plunged suddenly into another world, through the cruelty and tyranny of one who ought to have protected him, and tried to make him better!”

“But he was plunged into the sea,” said Dicky, interrupting me; “and as for the cruelty he received, I don’t think he was so very much worse off than numbers of other fellows in his position.”

“I tell you, it is not a subject for joking on. Perhaps poor Bobby Smudge had a mother and sisters who will mourn bitterly when the ship returns home, and they find he is not in her.”

“Dirty drabs, in all probability, who won’t care a rap what has become of him,” persisted the incorrigible Dicky.

“For shame, Sharpe—for shame,” said I; thinking how my cousins would grieve for me if I were to be lost overboard. I began to feel a strange sort of satisfaction at the idea. Sentiment, or whatever it might be called, was very quickly put to flight by the shrill sound of the boatswain’s whistle, and the hoarse cry of “All hands—shorten sail!”

We were hurrying to our stations aloft as fast as our legs could carry us—for the tones in which the order was issued showed us that there was not a moment to be lost,—when, just as we were springing into the rigging, a squall, which had but the moment before been perceived by the officers of the watch, struck the ship. As ill-luck would have it, it was the third lieutenant who had the first watch, and he happened to be in a poetical mood, and deeply absorbed in composing an ode to Queen Dido, or the Dodo—I don’t remember which it was reported was the case—one or the other, I know. The squall was a very heavy one: if not a white squall, not inferior to it in strength and suddenness. The ship rushed through the water, which was lashed in an instant into a sheet of foam; the masts bent like wands, and looked as if they would instantly go by the board. The helm was ordered to be put up; but before she could answer it—stiff as she generally was—over she went, as if she had been a mere skiff, till her yard-arms almost touched the water. It appeared as if she would never right herself again. Then many a stout heart quailed, and many a brave man gave himself up for lost; but, dreadful as was the scene, discipline triumphed speedily over all unworthy fears. Some of the ports were open, and the water rushed through them in torrents. Such was the case with the one in our berth. Poor Signor Mezzi, our Italian master, was sitting there. Never was a poor wretch more completely horrified. He gave up all for lost, and fancied that every moment the ship, and all in her, were going to the bottom. The assistant-surgeon and captain’s clerk, who were at the time in the berth, each seized a pillow from the hammocks, which had just before been piped down, and cramming them into the port with tolerable effect, stopped the gush of water; but terror had too completely mastered the poor dominie to allow him to observe what was going forward. He shrieked out for mercy from every saint in the calendar, and entreated one or all of them to carry him on shore, even if it was but to the sandy coast of Africa. “Ah! misericordia, misericordia, misericordia!” was the burden of his plaint.

“E impossible, signor. If you do go to the bottom, heretics though we are, you will be in very goodly company,” exclaimed Tourniquet. “And then think of the magnificent feast we shall make for the fishes. Let that be your consolation.”

But poor Signor Mezzi refused to be comforted even by such a prospect; and even our medico himself, when he found the ship still remaining in her unusual position, and heard the uproar going on overhead, began to entertain some very disagreeable doubts as to the possibility of the event to which he was alluding actually occurring, and looked very blue about the gills; whereat little Scribble, the clerk, laughed heartily at him, and seated himself on the table, with his feet on the side of the ship, affirming that he was not afraid, and was as contented and happy as ever—the truth being, not that the young donkey was a bit more brave than the other two, but that he had not the sense to know the danger he was in, and that not a seaman on board but saw that the next moment might be his last. Tourniquet had not the heart to move and give Scribble a thrashing, or he would have done so. But to return on deck. The instant the squall struck the ship, Captain Poynder hastened from his cabin, and, seizing his speaking-trumpet, in a calm tone issued the necessary orders.

“Down, every youngster, from the rigging. Clue up—haul down—let fly of all!”

It was too late. Before the words were out of his mouth, the ship was over on her beam-ends, and lay like a log, neither sails nor rudder having longer power over her. To describe the wild horror of the scene would be almost impossible. The rent sails flashing and flapping in the gale; the ropes lashing furiously, as if in an attempt to seize some one within their deadly coils; every timber quivering and groaning; the wind roaring; and the foam in thick sheets flying over us. Though the helm, as I have said, was hard up, still she lay in the trough of the sea, without a hope of once more rising.

“Send the carpenter and his crew aft, with their axes,” shouted the captain.

Chissel and his mates quickly obeyed the summons, for he had seen from the first that his services would too probably be required.

“Stand by, to cut away the masts,” added Captain Poynder.

It was a melancholy alternative, but the only one to save the ship from foundering. Afterwards we must trust to our anchors; and if they failed to hold with the wind as it then was, we could not fail of being driven on the inhospitable coast of Africa. And who could tell how many might reach the shore alive!—perhaps none. The uplifted axes gleamed in the hands of Chissel and his mates, as they stood round the mizen-mast; others were sent to cut away the shrouds, and clear the wreck of the mast as it fell. Once more Captain Poynder raised his trumpet to his lips. It was to give the dire orders to cut, when, at that moment, the ship with a violent jerk righted herself, and, speedily answering to the helm, away she flew before the wind. As such a course would very quickly have brought us up, sail was taken off her; and then, merely under her spanker and fore-staysail, she was brought to the wind, for it was discovered that the bowsprit was badly sprung, and that the topsail sheets were carried away. Happily the squall, having vented its fury on our heads, quickly passed over, and we were left with much less wind than before.

“This is all that young beggar Bobby Smudge’s doing, I’ll warrant,” I heard Ned Grummit, a topman, exclaim, as he came down from aloft. “I never knowed a chap of that sort who went for to go for to drown hisself, if he threatened to do mischief, but found means to do it. I knowed it would be so from the first, and we shall be lucky if worse doesn’t come of it.”

I tried to expostulate with the man, for whom I had a liking, for he was an honest fellow; but to no purpose. He still persisted in the belief that poor Bobby, who, while alive, had never done anybody harm, was destined to work us all sorts of mischief.

Everything had been made as snug as circumstances would allow. The watch below had been piped down, and had turned in; and silence reigned on board, and on the face of the ocean around us. It had been my watch on deck, and I was just about being relieved, when the silence was broken by a loud, unearthly cry; and the carpenter rushed on deck in his shirt, his hair standing on end, and his eyeballs starting from their sockets. Had not several men laid hold of him, I believe he would have thrown himself overboard. He was carried back to his cabin, and the doctor was summoned. All Chissel could say was, “Bobby Smudge! Bobby Smudge! you young villain, be off with you!” The doctor gave him some stuff or other, and the carpenter went off into a sound sleep; but a man was ordered to sit up by his side, and watch him.

“Now,” thought I, “this has been one of Dicky Sharpe’s tricks, and all my good advice has been thrown away.” But when I looked into Dicky’s hammock, he was sleeping away with such unfeigned soundness that I could scarcely fancy that he had played any trick; and the next morning he assured me, on his word of honour, that he knew nothing whatever about the matter. I had never known Dicky to tell an untruth, and I felt very sure that he would not conceal anything he had done from me; indeed, the great pleasure he had in playing any mischievous prank was, to tell me of it afterwards, if I happened not to be a partaker of it,—a very rare occurrence, by-the-bye.

“Suppose you had played your trick on old Chissel, and what he has seen was really an evil spirit, how very dreadful it would have been for you to have met the unnameable thing at his bedside!” said I.

“Oh! don’t talk of such a thing,” exclaimed Dicky, shuddering. “I am sure I will never again think of carrying out such a joke as I contemplated. The idea is too frightful.”

I advised him not; and, after talking the subject over, and turning it in every way, we came to the conclusion that, as no one else was likely to have tried to frighten old Chissel, if he had not really seen a ghost, his terror had been the result of his own evil conscience.

“Yes, it is a dreadful thing to have a bad conscience,” said Dicky, with a sigh. “Do you know, D’Arcy, I sometimes wish that I had not played so many wild pranks in my life. I know that they will some time or other bring me into trouble; and yet, when the fit seizes me, I cannot help it. I wish that you would remind me of my good resolutions when I next propose anything of the sort.”

I promised that I would, but suggested that unless he had some higher motive than the fear of being brought into trouble, he would in all probability continue as great a pickle as ever, if he did not go on from bad to worse. Indeed I read my chum a very severe lecture, which he took with perfect composure, feeling at the time that he fully deserved it; though I fear that he was not in the end very much the better for my sage advice.

We were busy all day repairing damages as well as we could at sea; but it was found that they were so considerable that the captain resolved to return to Malta, instead of pursuing our course to Tunis. While the work was going forward, a man in the forechains discovered a jacket and waistcoat, which were known to have belonged to Bobby Smudge. This was considered still stronger proof that the poor lad had destroyed himself, as no doubt he had hung them there before jumping into the sea. Seamen are certainly the most superstitious beings alive, for this trifling matter made them talk the whole evening after they had knocked off work about Bobby and his ways; and scarcely one but believed that his spirit would haunt the ship as long as she remained in commission. The crippled state of the ship prevented our making much sail on her, and as we had frequently baffling winds, our voyage to Malta was considerably prolonged.

Dirty Bob, as poor Bobby Smudge was generally called, excited far more interest after his death than he had done during his lifetime, as is not unfrequently the case with much greater men. The night succeeding the squall passed off, as far as I know, quietly enough; but the next morning I saw several groups of men talking together, as if something mysterious had occurred.

“I knowed it would be so,” said Ned Trunnion, as I passed by. “He was as bold a topman as ever stepped. I knowed the little chap wouldn’t let us alone, after he’d given Mr Chissel a taste of his quality. No, no; depend on’t he’ll haunt the ship for many a long day, if he don’t manage to run her ashore, or to send her to Davy Jones’ locker outright.”

“What’s that about?” I asked, for I suspected the observation was intended for my ears.

“Why, sir,” said Tom Barlow, another topman, “Dirty Bob (saving your presence) has been aboard again, a playing off his pranks, and many of us see’d him as clear as we see you.”

“Nonsense, man,” said I. “If you mean Bobby Smudge, he’s snug enough at the bottom of the sea, fifty miles astern of us, by this time; besides, if any of you saw him, why did you not catch him?”

“It wasn’t ’xactly him we saw, sir,” blurted out Ned. “It was his spirit or ghost like; and a chap might just as well try to catch one of them things as to grip an eel with greased fingers.”

“How do you know it was his spirit, though?” I asked; for I suspected that the men had been working on each other’s imagination till all fancied they had seen what perhaps only one had dreamed of.

“Why, sir,” replied Tom Barlow, with a hitch to his waistband, “we knowed it was him, because it was as like him as he could stare, only a good deal blacker and dirtier even than he was in his lifetime. It had just gone two bells in the middle watch, when three or four of us who was awake saw him as plainly as we do you, sir, now—creeping about for all the world like a serpent, in and out among the hammocks. It was more, just then, than any one of us wished to do, to speak to him; but, thinks I, there can’t be any harm telling him to cut his stick, just civilly like; so I lifts up my head, and sings out, ‘Be off, you dirty son of a sea cook!’ But scarcely was the words out of my mouth, than he was away like a shot up the main-hatchway, and through one of the ports, or right through the bottom of the ship, for what I knowed; for I couldn’t see, you may suppose. All the others who saw him said, too, there was a strong smell of sulphur, wherever he’d been, and that he vanished away in a flame of fire; but I can’t ’xactly swear to that myself.”

I laughed outright at the absurdity of the story, and was more convinced than ever that the men had allowed their imaginations to be worked up to a pitch which would make them believe anything.

Dicky Sharpe and I talked the matter over, and agreed not to say anything about it, as were the circumstances to get to the ears of the captain, it would certainly make him very angry.

I thought we should hear no more about the matter; but two days after this I found the people more busy than ever talking about Bobby Smudge’s ghost. Numbers declared they had seen it. Some described it as having one shape, some another. Not a few gave it a tail, and horns, and fiery eyes. All described it as black; and several were ready to affirm on oath that it smelt strongly of sulphur and other horrible odours. At length many of the men showed a great unwillingness to go below, and to turn into their hammocks.

Old Chissel had become a completely altered character. His conscience told him that he was the cause of poor Bobby’s death. He grew thin and pale; his voice was no longer heard in loud dispute with his brother officer, the boatswain; and even his manner was softened towards his inferiors. The men remarked the change; and all argued that the ghost had done him some good at all events, though it certainly confirmed them in their belief of its existence. Night after night, no sooner was it dark, and the watch below turned in, than Dirty Bob’s ghost was sure to appear to some one or other; till at length the gun-room officers heard of the matter, and ultimately the captain himself was informed of it.

At the same time a curious circumstance occurred. Every morning one or other of the messes had to complain that their bread-bags had been rifled, and different sorts of eatables had disappeared in a most unaccountable manner. None of the men suggested for a moment that the ghost had anything to do with the matter—for what could a ghost want with biscuit, bacon, or cheese; but Captain Poynder, who at length heard of this also, had, it appeared, formed a different notion on the subject.

Two of the marines—steady old hands—who were ready to believe or disbelieve in ghosts or spirits, and to fight carnal or spiritual enemies in any shape or of any colour, as their superior officers might command them, were sent for into the cabin. What their orders were I do not know; but one of them, Jabez Cartridge, was placed that night as sentry on the lower deck.

The first watch had nearly run out, and Jabez, who had his eyes about him in every direction, had seen nothing of the ghost, when, as it had just gone seven bells, he fancied that he observed a dark object gliding about under the hammocks. He stood as upright and stiff as his own ramrod. So immovable was he, that any one might have supposed him asleep on his post; but his little black eyes were not the less vigilant. The dark object moved slowly and cautiously on till it reached the lockers, where the men’s mess things were kept.

Jabez saw that it had hands, and, by the peculiar movement of those hands, he came to the conclusion that it had pockets. Still a ghost might have hands, and trousers too, for what he knew to the contrary. To convince himself, he sprang forward, and the ghost, with an unearthly shriek, took to flight; but Jabez was too quick for the phantom, and grasping him tight, he sung out, “I don’t care if you be a ghost or not, but I’ve got you, at all events.”

“Oh, let me go, let me go! and I’ll lie snug and quiet till we get into harbour, and then I’ll leave the ship and never come back—that I won’t,” answered the ghost, in piteous accents.

But Jabez was inexorable, and dragging him to the sentry’s lantern, by its sickly light discovered features which belonged to no other than Bobby Smudge.

“Why, where have you been, you young scoundrel, all the time?” asked Jabez.

“In the coal-hole,” blubbered out poor Bobby. “I never thought of doing harm to no one; but I can’t live without eating. Oh! let me go back,—oh! do, now.”

“My order is to take you to the captain,” replied Jabez, unmoved; and forthwith to the captain’s cabin the unhappy Smudge was led captive.

He was soon, however, sent out again under charge of the sentry, and kept in durance vile till the next morning.

After breakfast the men were called aft; and the captain appeared on the quarter-deck with Bobby, in the same garb and condition in which he had been captured. He was truly a wretched object, as he stood trembling, and blubbering, and covered with coal dust and dirt, before all the crew.

“I have called you aft, my men, to show you how foolish you have been to allow yourselves to be frightened by the equally foolish trick of this miserable lad,” said Captain Poynder. “I am not angry with you; but I wish you to learn, from this event, that all the ghosts you are ever likely to see will turn out to be no more ghosts than is this poor fellow at the present moment. He confesses that to avoid punishment, and in the hopes of ultimately escaping from the ship, he devised the scheme for making it appear that he had destroyed himself. He managed, it seems, to get a lump of coal in the forechains, and after heaving it into the water, and crying out that a man was overboard, to get in at a port, and to stow himself away in the coal-hole. Trusting to the superstition and folly which the people have exhibited, he thought he might venture out at night to supply himself with food. His plan succeeded; and had the story not come to my ears, I conclude he would have kept up the farce till the ship got into port. I ask, my men, do you think it possible that God, who made this mighty universe, and governs it by just and wise laws, would allow a mischievous imp, who could do no harm while alive, to return to earth, merely for the sake of wreaking his own petty malice, or for troubling and frightening a number of grown men such as you are. To believe such a thing is both wicked and absurd, for it is mistrusting God’s wisdom and providence; and I hope, when you come calmly to consider the matter over, you will think as I do. I have another word to say, both to petty-officers and men. The lad must have received much cruel treatment to make him attempt to escape from it by the expedient he followed. Remember, for the future, I will have no bullying. The discipline of the ship will be kept up far better by strict justice. Had it not been for this, I should have punished the lad severely for the prank he has played. As it is, he has pretty well suffered already. But beware. If anybody attempts to imitate his example, he will find I do not overlook the matter so easily. Now pipe down.”

The captain’s speech did much good in several ways. It put a stop to any outrageous bullying for some time; for the men knew perfectly well that what he threatened he would effectually carry out. It also tended to cure some of them of their superstitious belief in ghosts and goblins.

“Well, I never heard the like afore,” said Tom Barlow, as he and his messmate, Ned Trunnion, were talking over the affair of the previous day. “The skipper says as how there is no such thing as ghosts; and I suppose, seeing as how he has as much larning as a parson, he knows all about it. It don’t come within my category, though.”

“What he says is all shipshape,” replied Ned. “I never yet met the man who really did see a ghost, though I’ve met scores who’ve heard of some one who’s seen them, and for that matter come to fisticuffs with them; and certain sure I never see’d one myself till that young cheese-nibble made himself into one. Then, if he hadn’t been found out, I’d have staked my davy that he was one in reality.”

“That is what the captain says,” I remarked, as I stopped a moment. “All the ghosts which have been seen will turn out to be only shams after all.”

But enough of Bobby Smudge and his ghost.

Chapter Fourteen.

Letter from my Uncle—Chase of Myers—Supposed Loss in Portland Race—Good Advice—The Ariadne Missing—Mr Vernon’s Anxiety.

Two days after this, much shorn of the pride and beauty with which we left it, we entered Malta harbour. As may be supposed, Mr Vernon hastened to the post-office as soon as he could get on shore. I accompanied him, with a note Captain Poynder had to send to the governor. His eye brightened as it glanced at the superscription of a letter which was handed to him. He read it over eagerly.

“I hope, sir, that you have good accounts from your friends,” I said.

“They have had most provoking light winds and calms; and, when this letter was written, had not made good half the distance. Heaven grant that the Ariadne may have escaped any squall such as crippled us.”

“Indeed, sir, I trust so,” I replied; but as he again turned to his letter, I made no further remark. I found a letter also for myself, to my no little surprise, for I thought no one would take the trouble of writing to me. I did not deserve a letter, I felt, for I had not written a line to any one since I left England. It was from my uncle. I put it in my pocket, to read at my leisure when I returned on board. It ran as follows:—

“My Dear Nephew,—As a word or two now and then from those who are deeply interested in your welfare, will but tend to keep them in your remembrance, and to cheer your spirits, should you find yourself surrounded by troubles or hardships, your aunt and I hope occasionally to send you a sheet of paper, with an account of what is going on at home; and I must beg you in return to let us know how the world speeds with you. Your aunt and cousins are well, and one day passes with them so like another, that I have little to tell of them. Terence grows apace, and seems resolved to go to sea. I will not baulk the lad of his wish when he is big enough; and I hope better times will come in the navy, both for you and him, than I have seen for some time past. I have given the cutter plenty of work, and have made several captures; but the prize I most covet, that villain Myers, has again slipped through my fingers. I must tell you all about it. It is supposed, indeed, that he has at length gone to render up his final account in another world; but even now I can scarcely believe but that he will yet turn up somewhere or another in this. I had received notice that he had been again seen in England, and that he had got command of a cutter of about sixty tons,—a very fast craft, which nothing could come up to; so, of course, I resolved to try and catch him. I soon found that he was visiting his old haunts. I conclude that he fancied no one would believe he would have the audacity to go there after all the crimes he had committed, and that therefore no one would be on the watch for him. He had succeeded in running two cargoes, and all the goods were got up to London. He had gone away for a third, and I learned that preparations were made to receive it in West Bay, not far from Beere. For two days and nights we had been cruising about, just far enough out not to be seen from the shore, in the best spot for cutting him off, when it came on to blow very hard from the north-west. It had blown long enough to kick up a heavy sea, when, just as it had gone three bells, in the middle watch, we caught sight of a cutter standing in for the shore, and going along at a tremendous rate, not the eighth of a mile to the eastward of us. We were on the larboard tack; but we were instantly about, and in chase of her. We could just make her out through the darkness; but I do not think many eyes could have seen her, but those long accustomed to such work as ours. It was some time before she perceived us; for, from the way we were standing, we were end on to her. As soon, however, as she saw us, she kept away, and off she went like a shot before the wind. We packed everything on the cutter she could carry, and rather more canvas, as you may suppose, than under ordinary circumstances I should like to set; but the stranger, at all events, seemed resolved not to be outdone; and though by this time it was blowing half a gale of wind, had not only his whole mainsail, but his square-sail and gaff-topsail all set. This circumstance made me pretty certain that Myers was on board, for he knew well that a halter would be his lot if he was caught. I think he would have done better by keeping on a wind, for before the wind her larger size gave the Serpent a decided advantage over him. After an hour’s chase, if we had not overhauled him, he certainly had not increased his distance from us; and we had great hopes, should the wind increase, or the sea get up any more, that we should at last catch him. It was a trial of the strength of our sticks, and the goodness of our rigging. I had every confidence in ours; but I also knew that the smuggler would not fail to have got a tough stick for a mast, and sound rigging also. Another half-hour passed, and Hanks agreed with me that we were certainly gaining on the chase. To give us a chance of winging him, we now ran a gun forward; but with the heavy sea there was, and the way both vessels were pitching into it, there was very little probability that we should do so. We, however, fired several times; but with no effect. Only think! the fellow had the audacity to run out a couple of guns, and to return the fire. To be sure, it was his only chance of escaping; for if he could manage to knock away any of our spars, he would, he thought, show us a clean pair of heels. His practice was not a bit better than ours; indeed, it would only have been by chance that a shot could have hit its mark. However, we both of us kept blazing away at each other with hearty good-will. In the meantime the wind and sea, already high, were getting up very much. At any other time I should have hove the cutter to; but now, follow I must; and I hoped, from our greater power, we should be able to hold out the longest, and that at last the smuggler must give in. We were now nearing Portland Race, and never in my life had I observed the sea running higher on it than it now did. ‘The fellows will never attempt to cross it,’ observed Hanks: ‘they’ll be swamped if they do; and if they haul up to round it, we shall catch them to a certainty.’ ‘Cross it they will try, at all events,’ I replied; ‘they can never carry canvas on a wind, in a breeze and with a sea like this. See, they are standing into the very thickest of the breakers.’ Sure enough, there was the cutter approaching the most dangerous part of the Race. The spring-tide was making down, and the wind, meeting it, threw the foaming breakers higher up than usual. Still it was possible, if everything was battened down, that the cutter might shove through them. We all held our breath. If she got through, we also must follow. We had everything secured, and were better prepared than she was. On she went—her white sails appearing against the dark sky—her whole hull enveloped in foam. For some seconds she pushed on bravely. I never took my eye off her. Suddenly the white canvas seemed to bend low down—the breakers danced on as before. I rubbed my eyes, but without avail: the sail had disappeared. There was a cry of horror on board the cutter, but no shout of triumph, though our long-sought-for foe was no more. He and everybody on board must have been swallowed up in those foaming billows. We had barely time to shorten sail and to haul off, to avoid sharing the same fate; for I scarcely think, on that day, that even we could have run through the race. Some days after this I was on shore on Portland Bill, and the lighthouse-keeper told me that he had witnessed the catastrophe. He told me, also, that several planks and spars had shortly after come on shore, and with these the body of a man. When, however, he went down to the beach to look for the body, he could nowhere find it; so he concluded that it had been swept away by the tide. Such is the fate of the smuggler Myers, and certainly no one ever deserved it more richly. I have no other events to narrate.

“I should like to give you some good advice, Neil; but I am so little accustomed to lecture others, I cannot find words to do it. I will try, however. Never forget that you were sent into this world to do your duty to Heaven and to man; not to amuse yourself, but to obey God’s laws,—to prepare for another world, which will last for ever. Remember always that this world is only a place of trial—of probation. Trials of all sorts are sent on purpose to prove us. When man, through disobedience, fell, and sin entered the world, the devil was allowed to have power over him. He would have gained entire power, and man in his fallen state would have been inextricably lost for ever; but Christ in his mercy interfered, and by His obedience, His sufferings on earth,—by His death on the cross,—was accepted by God as a recompense for all sinners who believe in Him. By His resurrection, He became a mediator for us, showing us also that we too shall rise, like Him, from the dead, in the bodies in which we died. Thus a pure and just God, who cannot otherwise than hate sin, was able at the same time to show forth his justice and his mercy,—to punish those who go on in their wickedness, but to pardon those who believe in their great Mediator, and repent of their sins. I remind you of these important truths, Neil, because I know all men are too apt to forget them. Endeavour always to remember them, and I am sure that they will keep you from evil more than any other safeguards which I can offer you. I do not tell you, my boy, not to do this, or not to do that; but I remind you that Christ came down on earth, on account of the sins of mankind, to teach men His laws; that He suffered pain, toil, and disgrace, and a dreadful death; and that, in gratitude to Him, we are bound to do our utmost to obey Him. Read your Bible constantly—not now and then, but every day; learn what His will is, and do your best to follow it. Remember, also, that the devil is ever at your elbow, endeavouring to persuade you not to follow it,—telling you that sin is sweet and pleasant; that God will not be angry with you if you sin a little; that hell is far off; that God would not be so cruel as to send you there; and that it is cowardly to be afraid. Oh, my boy, let me entreat you to pray to God for grace to enable you to resist those temptations. Come they will, assuredly; and never trust in your own strength to resist them. Christ will give you strength. Fly to Him in prayer. Go to your Bible,—read that, and you will be strong to resist all temptations. Of course, never mind what your companions may say or think on the subject. I ask, are you to be biassed by the opinions of poor, weak, sinful mortals; or to obey the laws of the great all-powerful God, who made the whole universe—the innumerable globes you see in the sky—the world we inhabit, with all its wonders—man, with his proud intellect—the animals of the forest, the birds of the air, the creeping things innumerable, scarcely the nature of one of which you can comprehend,—of the merciful Saviour, who died for you, and who is eager to preserve you and all who believe on him? Still I know that, with a full consciousness of God’s greatness and goodness—of Christ’s mercy—man is so weak that nothing but constant prayer for grace will enable him to keep in the right way. I feel, my dear nephew, that I could not write too much on this all-important subject; but still I must conclude. Keep my letter by you, and look at it at times when you are inclined to forget its advice. Your aunt joins me in earnest prayer for your welfare.

“Your affectionate uncle,—

“Terence O’Flaherty.”

I am most grateful to my kind uncle for having sent this letter to me. It had a very beneficial effect on my mind. I do not mean to say that at the time I received it I thought as seriously of its contents as I did afterwards; yet I tried somewhat to follow its advice,—not as I might have done; but I read my Bible more frequently, and prayed more earnestly than I had ever done before. I do not mean to say that I knelt down by the side of my hammock to pray, as those on shore are able to do by the side of their beds; but I found many an opportunity to offer up my prayers during a watch on deck at night, and on those occasions I felt more freedom and earnestness. Also I often would do so after I had turned into my hammock, and before I turned out in a morning. I own that when I was first observed to read my Bible I was frequently called by my messmates a Methodist and a saint, and Dicky Sharpe was especially liberal in his application of such epithets to me; but Adam Stallman soon silenced him as well as others.

“Let me ask you, Master Dicky, what you mean by a Methodist?” he inquired. “If it is applied to a man who acts the part of a consistent Christian, and does his duty methodically—with system, and not by fits and starts,—it is a very high compliment you pay him; and as for the term saint, let me assure you that those who do not become saints have their souls in a very perilous condition.”

These remarks of Stallman’s, though my young messmate tried to look unconcerned and indifferent to them at the time, had, I believe, a very beneficial effect on him. I will not, however, dwell longer on this subject, important though it is, or my readers may declare that, instead of writing my adventures for their amusement, I am giving them a book of sermons. I will not do that; but still I must urge them to pay attention to what I have said—never to be ashamed of their religion; far, far rather to be proud of it, and ever to make God’s word the rule of their conduct.—To return to my narrative. The repairs of the frigate having been completed, we once more put to sea, and made sail for Tripoli and Tunis. Our poor Italian master, Signor Mezzi, had declared most positively that nothing would ever again tempt him to venture on the treacherous ocean; but a few weeks on the smooth water of Malta harbour had wonderfully reassured him, and he continued therefore with us, to our somewhat problematical benefit. Nothing occurred on our passage to and from those places.

We were once more entering Malta harbour. Mr Vernon at once went on shore, and I again accompanied him. He repaired to the post-office, but there were, to his evident disappointment, no letters for him. He considered for a moment. “We’ll go to the agents of the Ariadne; she must have arrived at Gibraltar long before the last mails left.”

The agent’s office was close to the harbour. We threaded our way to it among bales, and casks, and packages.

The senior partner, Mr Dunnage, received us very politely; and when Mr Vernon inquired for the brig, his countenance assumed a grave look.

“We must hope for the best,” he replied; “but she is, I own, very long overdue, and we have had no tidings whatever of her. She may have put into some little-frequented port, with the loss of her spars or masts, and the master may not have been able to communicate with us.”

“Nay, I am sure it must be so,” he continued, seeing the agitation into which the information had thrown my lieutenant.

“Was the master a steady and good seaman?” asked Mr Vernon, in a voice husky with emotion.

“Not a steadier man nor a better seaman comes to this port,” replied Mr Dunnage. “If his craft was caught by a squall, or got into any other difficulty, I am sure he would have done all that could be done for her.”

“We fell in with a terrific squall soon after she was at sea,” mused Mr Vernon. “Heaven grant that she was not exposed to it.”

“It is impossible to say,” answered the merchant in a kind tone. “I feel more than usually anxious, on account of her passengers, I own. Sailors are accustomed to hardships; they expect to meet them in their career; and they are aware, when they go afloat, that they must be prepared to lose their lives in the gale or the battle.”

Mr Vernon shuddered. He began to realise the possibility of the loss—the dreadful death of her he loved. Still he was a right-minded, brave man, and what is more, a sincere Christian; and he resolved not to give way to despair.

Mr Dunnage perceived, at length, the effect his information had produced, and he now did his best to mitigate the anxiety of my lieutenant, entering warmly into all his plans for gaining information as to the fate of the brig.

It was agreed that he should write round to all the ports on the shores of the Mediterranean, near which it was possible the Ariadne could have been driven; and that his correspondents there should send boats along the coast from port to port, so that no part should remain unexplored.

“I should advise you also to see the Admiral; he will, I am sure, take a warm interest in the matter.”

No sooner said than done. When sensible men are in earnest about an affair, they do not lose time by talking, the plan of action being at once decided on.

Mr Dunnage having penned the draft of a circular letter to be sent to the ports, left it to be copied by his clerks, while we set forth to see the Admiral, who was, fortunately, at Malta.

The worthy old man at once entered into all the proposed plans for searching for the brig, and suggested others.

“We’ll send the Harold to sea at once; and I’ll despatch all the small craft I can spare on the search. Stay,—you shall take an order to Captain Poynder to sail forthwith. I suppose he’s ready to go?” said he to Mr Vernon.

“We are well supplied with provisions, and can soon fill up with water; we can be off this evening, I know,” replied Mr Vernon.

“Away with you! and may your search be prosperous,” said the Admiral, with much feeling.

The order to go to sea again was at first received with no little surprise on board; but the fact that the Ariadne was missing being generally known on shore, and the blue-peter being hoisted, the officers who had gone on leave came hurrying back.

That night, with a fine breeze we had run Malta out of sight.

Chapter Fifteen.

Sail in Search of the Ariadne—Fall in with a Boat and Crew—The Master of the Helen—His Narrative—Attack of Pirates—Captain Delano—Can he have seized the Ariadne?

“Something black and low over the starboard bow,” sung out the man stationed on the main-topgallant-masthead.

“How far off is it?” hailed the first-lieutenant.

“Two miles or thereabout, sir,” was the reply.

“What does it look like?” was again asked.

“A boat, I think, sir, as much as anything,” answered the look-out.

Scarcely had the seaman aloft hailed the deck, than Mr Vernon, his countenance paler than usual, showing the agitation within, had slung his glass over his shoulder, and was on his way up the rigging. At the topgallant-masthead he now sat, eagerly looking out towards the point indicated. The ship’s course was instantly directed towards it. It was an exciting moment. It might prove to be a boat, keel uppermost, and have no tale to tell, except to let us surmise that she had proved no ark of safety to those who had trusted to her; or she might have living beings on board, whom our discovery of her might rescue from starvation and death. Other officers followed Mr Vernon aloft.

“She is a boat afloat, and pulling towards us,” sung out one of them.

Everybody on board was looking over the sides or out of the ports at the boat, which we neared rapidly. We soon made out that there were several people in her besides those who were pulling; but whether there was a lady or not, we could not discover. I pitied poor Mr Vernon’s feelings all the time very much. He came down on deck again, and stood at the gangway pale as death, but manfully suppressing his emotion. The boat drew near us. She was evidently belonging to a merchantman, and, from her build, and the appearance of the people, they were English; but there was no female form among them. Mr Vernon scrutinised the countenances of those in the boat as she came alongside; but he soon, apparently, recognised none as those he had seen on board the Ariadne, for he drew a deep breath, and, I thought, seemed more composed.

The people from the boat now came up the side, and she was hoisted up. She was in a very battered condition, and had evidently been lately repaired in a hurried manner.

They were received at the capstern by Captain Poynder. An honest, sturdy-looking gentleman stepped forward as spokesman.

“I see that I am fortunate enough to have got on board a British man-of-war,” he began. “Well, sir, I have a pretty account of piracy and attempted wholesale murder to give.”

“Let me hear it at once, sir, that I may judge what is to be done,” said Captain Poynder.

“Yes, sir, certainly. My name is Hudson, sir. You must know that I am, or rather was, master of the Helen brig. We sailed from Liverpool, where we took in a valuable cargo of manufactured goods, chiefly silks and fine cottons. We were bound for Leghorn. While we were taking in our cargo, there lay alongside of us a fine new brig, the William, owned by some very respectable merchants of our port. Her master was a certain Captain Delano, a very well-spoken, fine-looking man. I cannot say that I ever liked him. There was something in his eye, and way of talking, which made me doubt him. Not but that he said many things that were very good and right, but there was nothing hearty in them; and now and then he let out opinions which made me sure he was a bad man, notwithstanding the way he had managed to come over his owners. There were several suspicious things which I had heard of him from time to time. He was an American, hailing from New York; yet he fought very shy of all masters coming from thence, and had refused, on some excuse or other, to take charge of a vessel going there. He, two years ago, had command of a barque, the Brunswick, trading up the Straits. Some queer things were said to have taken place in her; and I’m very much mistaken if the black flag did not fly aboard her more than once. At last this Mr Delano was caught attempting to carry out a large smuggling transaction in Malta harbour, as, perhaps, you may have heard, sir, when you have been there. He was convicted, and thrown into prison. After having been shut up for a year, he was liberated, ruined in character, and without a penny in his pocket. Any other man, almost, would never again have been able to lift up his head; but his tongue served him in good stead, and finding his way to Liverpool, he had the impudence to present himself before his owners, and the wit to persuade them that he was a much-injured individual, and innocent as the new-born babe of all the charges brought against him. They gave him in consequence, as I said, the command of the William, a new brig just off the stocks. On some pretext or other, he was constantly aboard us as we were taking in our cargo; and, with the thoughts I had of him, I cannot say that I quite liked it. I understood also, from my people, that four of the Brunswick’s crew had found him out, and shipped with him; and the night before he sailed another very suspicious-looking character shipped aboard, and, as the vessel went out of harbour, was seen doing duty as mate. I mention these things, sir, that you may judge whether I am likely to be right in my conjectures as to what afterwards occurred. I will not now keep you longer than I can help. We had a fine passage to the Gut, though with three or four days of light and baffling winds. We had got through the Straits; and about a couple of days after we had passed them, we made out on our weather-bow, a brig, under easy canvas, standing across our course.

“‘Where can she be bound to?’ says I to my mate, here.

“‘Only to the coast of Africa,’ says he; ‘for you see, sir, she had a fair wind up or down the Mediterranean.’

“‘She is in no hurry, at all events,’ says I, ‘with that sail she has set.’

“‘I can’t make it out,’ says he. ‘See, sir, she looks as if she intended to speak us. She has altered her course a couple of points. Ay, I see how it is—she is short-handed, by the way those sails are set, and the ropes, too, are all hanging slack about her. Perhaps she has lost some of her people by fever, or maybe they have been washed overboard in a squall.’

“As I looked at the brig more attentively, there was a strange foreign look about the paint on her sides and figure-head which puzzled me, and still the cut of her sails and the rake of her masts was English. Presently, however, an ensign, with the stars and stripes of the United States, flew out at her peak. That seemed to set the matter at rest. The stranger soon bore down on us, and I hailed her to know who she was, and what she wanted.

“‘The Crescent, from New York, bound for the Levant,’ was the answer. ‘We’ve lost more than half our ship’s company in trying to save some people off a wreck, and have ourselves sprung a leak. Can you send any of your people aboard to help us to try and stop it?’

“‘Ay, ay,’ I answered; for you see, sir, I am always glad to lend a hand to any other ship’s company requiring assistance. To show that what he stated was true, three or four hands were working at the pumps, though I did not see that they were forcing much water over the sides. We lowered a boat accordingly, and I jumped in, with four hands, and pulled aboard the stranger. As the bowman caught hold of the main-chains—

“‘Why, she has canvas over her sides,’ he remarked.

“‘Shove off, my lads; it’s not all right,’ I sung out.

“But before the bowman could clear his boat-hook, a couple of cold shot were hove into the boat, and she began to fill rapidly. We had no choice but to scramble on board, or to go down with her. As soon as we were on the deck of the stranger, we found ourselves knocked over; and before we could get on our legs, we were bound hand and foot. The men who acted as officers, as well as the crew of the vessel, were rigged out in so odd a fashion, and their faces so covered up with hair and black patches, that I could not have recognised them had I known them ever so well; but still, at the time, it struck me that the fellow who seemed to be the captain, had a figure very like that of Delano. Of course I did not say anything, as I knew that to do so would be a sure way of getting knocked on the head, and made food for fishes. Leaving my people and me on the deck to think what we might, the villains, who had now got a boat in very good condition, lowered her, and, with pistols hid under their shirts, and cutlasses and muskets stowed away underneath the thwarts, went aboard my brig. In a few minutes they hailed, which showed me that they had made quick work in taking possession. The two vessels were now brought alongside each other, and lashed together, and my men and I were then handed on board our own craft, and carried below—I into my cabin, and the rest into the forepeak, where others of the crew had been already conveyed. I won’t attempt to tell you how I felt, as I saw the villains rifling my boxes and lockers, and carrying off everything worth having. They made quick work of it, being hurried on by their captain; and then they set-to to take possession of our cargo. They left me in my own sleeping-berth, on my back, so that I could see nothing; but, from the sounds I heard, I judged that they were handing bale after bale of our cargo into their own craft. Their cargo, if they had one, I suppose they hove overboard, to make room for ours. How long they continued at this work, I don’t know. It seemed to me an age, you may be sure, sir. At last they knocked off, and there was silence for some time. I thought they were going to leave us, when I heard them return on board; and there was a sound which I could not mistake. The murderous villains were boring holes in the ship’s bottom. I felt it was all up with us. They intended to let the brig founder, with all her crew, so that there should be no witnesses to their robbery. In vain I tried to get my hands loose. They were too well secured, and I had, therefore, nothing to do but to resign myself to my fate. It was not the first time that I had faced death; and, sirs, I knew in whom to trust. He had before preserved my life. Gentlemen, I should be an ungrateful wretch if I did not thus at once acknowledge God’s great mercy to us. He has preserved our lives, and we are here.”

The reverential way in which the worthy master spoke made a deep impression on me. There was no ostentation, no hypocrisy, no cant; but heartfelt gratitude, and humble reliance on God’s protecting hand.

“No excuse necessary. What you say is right—perfectly right. You speak as a Christian should, and I honour you for it; but go on,” replied Captain Poynder, who was evidently anxious to arrive at the conclusion of the master’s somewhat prolix narrative.

“Well, sir,” he continued, “of one thing I felt pretty certain, that Delano was the perpetrator of this horrible outrage. It was the very trick he was reported to have played before, and which, from what I had seen of him, I judged he would be ready to play again. I could hear the water begin to rush into the ship, but it did not reach the deck of the cabin so soon as I expected. There was a good deal of noise on deck, as if the pirates were knocking things to pieces; and then I judged that the vessels had separated, and that the pirate had sheered off to leave us to our fate. All was silent, and I could not tell whether my poor fellows had been carried off or been left to share my fate with the brig. Some twenty minutes or half an hour had passed in this state of uncertainty, when I heard a noise, as if bulkheads were being knocked in, and my own name was called by a voice which I recognised as that of my mate. I shouted joyfully in return, and in a few seconds he and some of the crew rushed into the cabin and released me. ‘The brig seems in no way inclined to go down, captain,’ they exclaimed. ‘If we could but get the pumps rigged, we might save her as well as our lives; but the pirate has only sheered off to a short distance, and if the villains on board were to catch sight of our faces on deck, they would soon return and put a finishing stroke to us.’ ‘Let’s see if we can do anything to keep the water out,’ said I, though I had little hope of success. On going into the hold, which was pretty well free of cargo, on examination I discovered that the holes had been bored through the timbers, instead of through the planks. ‘Either a friend or a lubber has done this,’ exclaimed my mate. ‘I think the former,’ I observed. ‘Get some plugs as fast as you can, my lads, and we’ll soon stop these leaks, and yet keep the old barkie afloat.’ The holes were bored mostly high up, so that they were easily got at, and we thus had the greater number of them quickly plugged. There is no doubt in my mind that the man who bored the holes hoped by that means to save our lives. One of the crew, who had all been shut up in the forepeak, told me that the man who had lashed his hands took occasion to pass him, when he whispered, ‘Don’t move till we’re clear off. Things are not so bad for you as they look.’ When I heard this, I was sure that all on board the pirate were not as great villains as their leaders. As soon as this man had got his hands free—which he did without difficulty, for they were purposely ill secured—he loosed the rest; and then, afraid to show themselves on deck, lest the pirates should see them, they worked their way aft to my cabin. A strong confirmation to my suspicions that the pirate brig is no other than the William, commanded by Delano, is, that as one of my people lay bound on her deck, when we were knocked down on boarding her, he observed the name of the sailmaker on her fore-topsail—John Reynolds, of Liverpool. He remarked the name particularly, because he was the maker who had furnished the sails of the last vessel he had sailed in; and he remembered that he had observed the same name on the William’s sails. We remained below for some little time after we had plugged the holes, and then we managed to wrench off the hatches of the forepeak. When we had done this, I crept cautiously out, and looking over the bulwarks, I saw the pirate about a quarter of a mile off, laying by us apparently to watch till we should go down. This made our position very perilous, for any moment the pirates might return and knock us all on the head, though, for that matter, I resolved that if they attempted it, we would sell our lives at no cheap rate. As I glanced my eyes along our deck and up aloft, a sad scene of havoc and destruction met them. Our running rigging was un-rove and carried off, our standing rigging was cut through, and what sails remained on the yards were hanging in shreds. On deck, our boats were stove in, the caboose knocked to pieces, and the cooking things gone. Indeed I could scarcely have supposed that so much mischief could have been committed by a few people in so short a time. Having made these observations, I again went below to hold a consultation with my mates as to what was best to be done. We made up our minds that as long as the water did not gain on us, and the pirate lay near us, all we could do was to remain quiet below; but we agreed to arm ourselves in the best way we could, and, if the pirates returned, to rush out on them in a body, and to attempt to take them by surprise. The arms from my cabin had been carried off; but there were three brace of pistols and a couple of fowling-pieces in a chest in the after-hold, which had escaped their notice; as also some ammunition. We had also among us a couple of axes, and some thick ends of crowbars; so that we were likely to prove pretty formidable in a close scuffle. When we were ready, we almost wished that the fellows would come back, that we might punish them for what they had done, and I believe that we should have rendered a good account of them. But at the same time, as bloodshed must have followed—and that in any case is bad,—and we could not have regained our property, I cannot say but what I am glad they did not make the attempt. If we had had the brig under control, we might have done something; but without sails, and almost sinking, we were helpless. I now returned on deck, to watch the movements of the pirate. All this time the water kept coming in, and I began to fear that our brig would not keep afloat till the pirate had sheered off, when suddenly I saw her sheet home her topsails, let fall her courses, and make sail away to the eastward. After watching her for a quarter of an hour—which seemed four times as long a period,—to make sure that the pirates could no longer see us, I called the people up from below to rig the pumps. The pirates had, however, done their utmost to render them useless, and we soon found that we must give up all hopes of clearing the ship of water. We then turned-to to examine the boats. One was so completely stove in that she was perfectly useless; and we made up our minds that we should have to take to a raft, when the carpenter reported that he could in a very short time render the other boat seaworthy. We accordingly did our best to make her fit to float, though darkness came down upon us before we had finished. We could only find one lantern, which enabled us to continue our work, but very slowly. We made a rough sort of a raft to keep us afloat, in case the brig should go down suddenly; but I never passed a more anxious night. It was noon the next day before the boat was ready. Scarcely had we got clear of the brig before she went down; and certainly it was from no mercy of Delano’s that we did not sink in her. I at once shaped a course for Malta, as the wind had shifted round to the westward, and it was the British port we could most easily reach, and where we could at the same time get aid to go in search of the pirate. What with baffling winds, we have been a long time knocking about, and might have been still longer, had we not fallen in with you, sir. All I can say more is, that the sooner a stop is put to the career of those villains, the better. It is impossible to tell what other atrocities they may have committed.”

While the master of the Helen was giving his narrative, I saw Mr Vernon turn very pale; and as he made this last observation, I thought he would have fallen. It had evidently occurred to him that the Ariadne might have been seized by Delano. By a mighty effort of self-command, however, he recovered himself.

“I am much pleased with your clear statement, Mr Hudson,” said Captain Poynder. “We will return to Malta immediately, and take steps to discover what has become of the William, or rather the pirate which plundered you. I cannot doubt that they are one and the same craft.”

“Thank you, sir; that’s what I think should be done,” said the worthy master. “I’ve no doubt the pirate will be found before long.”

“Captain Poynder, is it possible that the pirate could have fallen in with the Ariadne?” said Mr Vernon in a hollow voice, trembling with agitation.

“I trust not—I trust not,” replied the captain. “We’ll hope for the best: at the same time we will do our utmost to ascertain the truth.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Return to Malta—Sail in a Schooner—Search for the William—The Ionian Islands—Reach Smyrna—Surprise the Pirates—I Preserve the Ship from being Blown Up—Myers and his Tricks.

We had a foul wind, and it took us three days to beat back into Malta harbour. Our return caused much surprise, for it was deemed prudent to keep Captain Hudson’s narrative a secret till we had ascertained what had become of Delano, lest any of his friends should hear of it, and, by giving him notice, might enable him to escape. I was again Mr Vernon’s companion on shore, where we went as soon as we had dropped our anchor. We first bent our steps to the office of Mr Dunnage, as he seemed to take a warmer and more active interest than anybody else in the mysterious disappearance of the Ariadne. We were shown into the worthy merchant’s private room, where he sat surrounded by piles of tin boxes, with long bygone dates marked on their sides, and heaps of old ledgers and journals; with pictures of ships on the walls, and a model of one of antique build, fully rigged, over an old dark oak press at his back. Mr Dunnage had a full fresh, Anglo-Saxon countenance, which, though I at first thought rather grave and cold, after a few minutes’ conversation seemed to beam with kindness and good nature. He looked grave as we entered, and having motioned us to be seated, shook his head as he remarked, “I have no news, lieutenant, of the brig, I am grieved to say. Have you anything to report.”

“The worst surmises only, sir,” said Mr Vernon; and he then gave him an account of our having picked up the master and crew of the Helen, and of the outrage they had suffered.

Mr Dunnage listened with deep interest.

“Ah! that fully accounts for a circumstance which has puzzled me exceedingly. That very brig, the William, belongs to my friends, Hodge, Podge, and Company, of Liverpool; and I am sure they would have consigned her to me, had they intended her to come here. Here she came, however, consigned to a Jew, a man of very disreputable character; and I understand that she discharged but a very small part of her cargo. We must try and find out what has become of it, and see if Captain Hudson can identify any portion of it. When I sent down to inquire about her, I found that she had sailed again, and, it was reported, had proceeded up to the Levant. Altogether my suspicions were very much excited, especially when I found, on inquiry, that Delano was her master. Her crew, also, were said to have come on shore in gay-coloured silk waistcoats, and to have spent more money than seamen are likely to have lawfully possessed.”

“Oh, let us at once try and find out what was the nature of the cargo sold by Delano,” exclaimed Mr Vernon. “Can you tell me what the Ariadne had on board?”

“I see the drift of your question,” answered Mr Dunnage; “but I do not think that, foolhardy as Delano may be, he would have ventured to offer for sale articles which had been shipped from this, and would be so easily recognised. No; all that we can hope to prove without a doubt is, that the William is the brig which plundered the Helen; and we must then take means to find out, without delay, what has become of her, and to put a stop to her career. Stay; let me consider what is best to be done. The Admiral will, I am sure, gladly send all the men-of-war that can be spared to look out for her.”

“I have thought of that already,” said Mr Vernon; “but, my dear sir, I suspect that such would not be the best way to capture the pirate crew. They would very likely hear of our being on the search for them, or would become suspicious at the sight of a man-of-war, and contrive to make their escape. We shall require to use great caution to get hold of so clever a fellow as Delano is described to be. I would propose rather to fit out a small merchantman, a xebeque or schooner, and to man her with men-of-war’s men. We may, in a craft of that description, be able to get alongside the William, unsuspected, and to capture her without loss of life.”

“A capital idea,” exclaimed Mr Dunnage. “I have a craft in my eye, which I think you will consider suitable for the object; and I am certain the merchants here will gladly defray all expenses.”

So the matter was settled; and as neither Mr Dunnage nor my lieutenant were men who would allow the anchor to block up Mr Neptune’s cottage door for many days together, we immediately set off to have a look of the vessel proposed. She was a small schooner, the Thisbe,—most vessels in the Mediterranean have classical names; and the result of the examination was the opinion that she was well suited for the purpose.

“Now, my dear lieutenant,” said Mr Dunnage, “do you go on board and beat up for a crew. I will run round to the merchants to get them to share the expenses. By this evening she shall have her stores on board and be ready for sea. Don’t suppose I’m bragging. Where there is a will there is a way.”

Off ran our excellent friend, while Mr Vernon and I hastened on board to describe the proposed plan to Captain Poynder, and to get his leave to borrow some of the Harold’s men. As may be supposed, there were plenty of volunteers for the expedition,—indeed, everybody wanted to go; but we had to wait patiently till Mr Dunnage came on board, as he promised to do, to announce what arrangements he had made. When I got back into the berth, I found all the youngsters discussing the subject of the disappearance of the Ariadne. It was the general opinion that it was possible Delano and his crew might have fallen in with her; but still she had had ample time to reach Gibraltar. We made up our minds that Mr Vernon would be placed in command of the expedition, and we each of us hoped to be selected to accompany him. Adam Stallman, who was in the berth, did not make any remark; but after a time he got up and went on deck. He looked, I observed, more sad and full of care than even Mr Vernon. At last Mr Dunnage came on board with a despatch from the Admiral to Captain Poynder. Mr Vernon was soon afterwards sent for into the cabin. The consultation was very short. When he came out, he informed Adam Stallman that he had applied for him as his mate, and, to my great satisfaction, told me that I was also to accompany him. I was very anxious to get Dicky Sharpe; so, mustering up all my courage, I boldly asked Captain Poynder if he might be of the party.

“I suppose Mr Du Pre can dispense with his valuable services in the ship for a time,” replied the captain; “so, if Mr Vernon will take charge of him, and you, Mr D’Arcy, will undertake that he gets into no mischief, he has my leave to go.”

The truth was, the captain was glad to allow the mates and youngsters to go away in small craft, as he considered that they thus gained more knowledge of seamanship, and confidence in their own resources, than they could have done by remaining on board. Twenty picked men were selected from among the volunteers to man the schooner. Mr Hudson, and four of his crew, were also asked to go, to identify, if they could, the pirates. As soon as the volunteers had got their bags ready, and been mustered, we were ordered away in the boats to bring the schooner down to the frigate, from up a creek in the harbour where she lay; while the purser was directed in the meantime to get provisions and stores in readiness for her. Where a body of disciplined men labour with a will, a large amount of work can be done in a short time; and thus, before night set in, we had the Thisbe fitted for sea, provisioned, stored, and watered. We shipped, likewise, four light guns, and a supply of small-arms and cutlasses, that we might make sure of mastering the pirates, in case the plan of taking them by surprise should miscarry. We were also ordered to take with us our rough clothes, that we might look as much as possible like merchant seamen. Our shipmates in the Harold gave us three cheers as we cast off from her side, and, with a light breeze and a clear sky, stood out of the harbour. The merchants had left full discretion to Mr Vernon to proceed as he judged best from the information he might obtain; but they suggested, at the same time, that he should run through the Greek islands, among which it was probable the pirate would have gone; and, not finding her there, proceed to Smyrna, where it was reported one of the pirates had said they were going. Both Mr Vernon and Adam Stallman had been on shore all day picking up what information they could. Among other things, they found that the crew of the William had been very profuse in their expenditure on shore; and, as if to account for the quantity of cash they possessed, had said that they had the luck to fall in with an abandoned vessel. To show, however, how difficult it is for rogues to agree in a false story, one had said that they had met her in the Bay of Biscay, and another, inside the Straits, while a third had the audacity or blind folly to declare that the name was the Helen, though the others gave her different names. As soon as it was known that suspicions were attached to the crew of the William, several tradesmen came forward to say what they knew about them. One of these gentlemen said that he thought it rather odd, as I think indeed he might, when one of the men ordered twenty silk waistcoats of him of different gay patterns, and paid the price down at once, while another bought six green coats. I dare say Mr Snip charged him a full price. He declared that he had not sufficient reason to give any information to the police about the matter, as seamen were curious fellows, and sometimes fond of displaying fine clothes. Another had spent large sums in a jeweller’s shop, and had gone out with several gold chains about his neck. From what was reported, indeed, it appeared that the wretched crew had spent a large part of their ill-gotten wealth. To account for their having so much cash, it was ascertained that they had at first gone to Leghorn, where Delano had doubtless disposed of some part of the cargo. It is only surprising that the authorities at Leghorn had not detained her, when there were so many suspicious circumstances about her. Thus, all the time that the wretches were under the idea that their crime was unknown, and themselves unsuspected, they were insuring the means of their own detection and capture. I kept the first watch, with Adam Stallman, the night we sailed, when he made the above remark, and many others.

“You will observe, D’Arcy,” said he, “as you go through life, that evil-doers nearly always lay nets for their own destruction: I might, I think, safely say always. These men have already given us evidence which must be sufficient to convict them; and, if not, depend on it, we shall find it before long. Now, how do you think this happens? Because, as I believe the Evil Spirit is ever going about seeking whom he may devour, he tempts men to commit sin; and then so blinds their minds, that they can no longer form a right judgment, even to save themselves from the detection of their fellow men. His temptations, also, are so weak and frivolous, when viewed in their proper light, that, did not one know the folly of man, one would be surprised that he could venture to make use of them. His baits are always of a tinselly or shadowy nature, either worthless when caught, or altogether illusions, as useless to people in general as the gold chains and silk waistcoats are to these rough pirates. Should it not make our hearts sink with sorrow, when we see the worthless wealth, the empty titles, for which men barter away their souls?”

I agreed with Stallman as to the correctness of his remarks. My excellent messmate was very fond of endeavouring, in a similar mode, to give instruction to the youngsters brought in contact with him. To do him justice, he contrived to do so in a more interesting way than my account might leave my readers to suppose. We had a fair wind, though light, for the first twenty-four hours, and the schooner made good way; but at the end of that time it shifted round to the eastward, a regular sneezer came on, the sea got up, and, close-hauled, the little schooner was soon ploughing her way through the foaming waves. My long service in the cutter made me perfectly at home; but Dicky Sharpe, who had never been in a small craft in his life, was very soon done up. He threw himself down on a locker in the little cabin aft, looking the very picture of misery.

“Oh! D’Arcy, my dear fellow, do have the kindness to heave me overboard,” he groaned out. “I can be of no further use to any one in this world, and it would be a charity to put me out of it. It would, indeed, I assure you.”

“Oh, nonsense, Sharpe,” I answered. “You are speaking gross folly: only your sea-sickness excuses you.”

“Now, don’t scold me, Neil,—don’t,” he replied. “If you felt as I do, you would not be inclined to be very sensible.”

“Well, then, get up, and be a man,” said I. “If you give in like that, and fancy yourself dying, and all sorts of things, you deserve to be thrown overboard; though I’m not the person going to do it.”

“All hands shorten sail!” sung out Adam Stallman, who had charge of the deck.

I sprang up the companion-ladder, followed by Dicky, and from that moment he forgot all about his sea-sickness.

We soon got the little craft under snug canvas, and time it was to do so; for, as man-of-war’s men often do small craft, we had been treating her like a big ship, and carrying on till the last moment. Never had the Thisbe been shoved through the water, probably, at the rate we had lately been going; but more haste the worst speed, as we ran a great chance of proving to our cost, for we were very near carrying the masts over the sides, or making the small craft turn the turtle.

For two days we beat up against the gale, not one of us keeping a dry thread on our backs; but after forty-eight hours of a good honest blow, the wind seemed to have done enough for the present, and turning into a light baffling breeze, left us to make an easy, though slow, passage across the blue calm sea. This sort of weather continued till we made the mountainous and wild-looking coast of the island of Cephalonia. We ran in close along shore, as there are no rocks to bring up a vessel; and, standing up a deep bay on the western side, with Guardiana, or Lighthouse Island, on the north, dropped our anchor off Argostoli, the chief town. Most of the people were ordered to keep quiet below, while Mr Vernon, in plain clothes, went on shore in the dinghy. He came back in a short time, and reported that he could gain no tidings answering to the description of the William.

My own knowledge of Cephalonia is but slight; but Stallman, who had been there before, gave me some information about it. It is one of the Ionian Islands, under the protection of England, and had an English garrison, at that time consisting of about five hundred of the rifle brigade. Thanks to Sir Frederick Adams, the country appears to be in a flourishing condition; the roads are excellent, and the inhabitants cultivate not only the fertile valleys, but every inch of soil to be found among its rocky heights. There is another neatly-built and pleasantly—situated town, called Luxuria, about three miles from Guardiana.

If we thought Cephalonia interesting, Zante, the next place at which we touched, was far more so. Its citadel occupies a lofty hill, situated at the head of a deep bay. The citadel, bristling with guns,—the town, with its steeples and domes,—and the surrounding country, with its groves of olives, its fields of waving corn, and its villas and hamlets, presented to our eyes a scene of surpassing loveliness. Not a word of information could we obtain of the objects of our search; so we again weighed anchor and stood on towards Corfu, the most beautiful and interesting of all the Ionian Islands, within sight of the lofty and picturesque mountains of Albania. The citadel of Corfu, standing on an island on the southern side of the town, may, from its lofty position, surmounted by a lighthouse, be discovered at a considerable distance out at sea. Its southern side is completely inaccessible, and art has rendered the other sides equally difficult to ascend; so that it is almost, if not entirely, impregnable. The island is connected to the mainland by a bridge, at the end of which is the fine open place called the Esplanade, extending from the west side of the bay, to the palace of the Lord High Commissioner on the east. Most of the streets run at right angles to each other; the principal, the Strada Real, runs to the gate which forms the chief entrance to the town. The houses are for the most part built in an irregular and slovenly manner; and even the public buildings cannot boast of much beauty. The inhabitants, of the town especially, are a mixture of Greeks and Venetians. In the country the population is more purely Greek. The roads, constructed chiefly by fatigue parties from the garrison, are excellent, and extend to every corner of the island, and must contribute much to its material prosperity. At all events, British rule has been of great benefit to the Ionian people. It might have been of greater. More might have been done to educate and improve the people, both morally and religiously; but had they been left to themselves, they would most probably be in a far worse position than they now are.

Our inquiries here were as little satisfactory as at other places; and we were just tripping our anchor, when a merchant-brig, coming up the harbour, passed us. Mr Vernon hailed her, to learn where she came from.

“Smyrna,” was the reply.

She brought up near us, and he went on board. He returned shortly with more animation in his countenance than I had long seen there.

“I have at last notice of the fellow,” he said. “A vessel answering the description of the William was in Smyrna harbour when the brig came out. The crew, by their conduct, seem to have excited some suspicion; and my only fear is that they may find it not safe for them to remain, and will, therefore, take their departure.”

This information put us all in spirits, for we had begun almost to despair of catching the pirate after all. Not a moment was lost in getting under weigh, and in making all sail the schooner could carry.

We had a fair wind, and nothing worthy of note occurred on the passage, till we made the entrance of Smyrna harbour, in the outer port of which we dropped anchor. Mr Vernon then dressed himself like the mate of a merchantman, and with one of our own people, and one of the crew of the Helen, prepared to leave the schooner’s side in the dinghy. Just at the last moment I mustered courage to beg that he would let me accompany him. I had rigged myself in plain clothes, and might, I fancied, have been taken for a steward, or the captain’s son. Mr Vernon considered for a moment.

“Yes, come along, D’Arcy,” said he. “You will not do us any harm in that dress, and your eyes and judgment may be of service.”

I was delighted at the permission I had gained, and eagerly jumped into the boat. Away we then pulled up the harbour, in the lazy fashion of a collier’s crew. We scrutinised narrowly each vessel in our course, but none answered the description of the William. At last John Norris, the seaman from the Helen, exclaimed—

“There, sir, that’s her; inside the barque there. See, she’s got her fore-topsail loosed, and there’s the name of the maker on it—the very thing which first let us know that she was the William.”

To make more sure that the man was not mistaken, we pulled up the harbour a little way, and then touching the shore, so as not to excite the suspicion of the pirates, should they by chance observe us, we passed close by the vessel on our return. There was, I thought, as I watched her, a dark, ill-boding look about her; but that might have been fancy. One man only was to be seen. He was walking the deck, with his hands in his pockets, and occasionally looking over the side. He caught sight of us as we pulled by, and seemed to be watching us narrowly. I felt almost sure that he suspected something was wrong; but probably he had got a habit of scrutinising everything which approached him, as a London pickpocket does when he knows that the police are aware of his course of life. As we dropped past the brig’s quarter, I got a better view of his countenance, and I felt sure that I had seen it before. It was that of a man I supposed to have been hidden long ago, with all his crimes, beneath the waves—no other than Bill Myers. It was a countenance I could not readily forget, after our encounter in the cavern. Then, in spite of all probabilities, he had contrived to escape from the breakers of the Portland Race. I was afraid to look up again, lest he should also recognise me, and give the alarm to his shipmates; indeed, I was not at all satisfied that he had not already suspected our intentions. A small boat was floating astern of the brig. He watched us for some time, as we returned towards the schooner, and as long as I could observe him, he was keeping his eye on us. We lost not a moment, on returning on board, in getting out a merchantman’s long-boat, which we had brought with us. She pulled four oars, and was a large, roomy boat. Besides the hands to pull her, eight of our men were stowed away under a tarpaulin, which was thrown over them, to look exactly as if it were covering up some merchandise. All hands under the tarpaulin were strongly armed, and arms were placed in readiness, stowed away for the use of those who were pulling.

Mr Vernon again changed his dress, and I followed his example, lest Myers—or the man I took for him—might recognise us. With beating hearts we once more left the schooner. We pulled slowly up the harbour, and soon came in sight of the pirate brig. The people, who had probably been at their dinners when we before passed, were now some of them aloft, fitting the rigging, and others working on deck. It required, therefore, careful management on our part to take them by surprise. We pulled up, as if we were going to pass them at some little distance on the starboard side. The men imitated admirably the lubberly, sluggish fashion in which some merchant seamen handle their oars. Just as we were abeam, each of the two men pulling our port oars pretended to catch crabs, and this suddenly brought the boat broadside on to the brig’s side. Before, however, we could hook on, even the hands aloft seemed to suspect that something was not right, and came sliding down the rigging. But notwithstanding this, we were too quick for them, and before they could get below to alarm the rest, the party under the tarpaulin had thrown it off, and we all together sprung up the sides, and attacked every one we encountered. Some fought desperately. One fellow tried to throw himself overboard; but we soon overpowered them, and had them lashed hands and feet. To rush into the cabin was the work of a moment. The door was locked, but we burst it open. The noise made the captain, who was in his hammock, start up. He gazed at us for a moment, wildly and fiercely, and then drawing a pistol from under his pillow, fired it at us. The ball passed close to Mr Vernon’s ear, and buried itself in the bulkhead. With a savage oath, the pirate was drawing out another pistol, when we threw ourselves on him and seized his arms. The weapon went off in the struggle, and very nearly finished my career—the ball actually taking off the rim of my tarpaulin hat. Before he could make any further resistance, three of our people followed us into the cabin, and we soon had him, with his arms lashed behind him, and his feet secured together. While the operation was going on, he glanced at us like a tiger, but did not utter a word. The remaining few of the pirates, who had been asleep forward in their hammocks, had been secured without resistance. I looked round for Myers, or the man I had taken for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Just as we had finished securing Delano, I bethought me that I smelt an unusual sulphurous odour. A dreadful suspicion had seized me. Outside the main cabin was a door, leading to a smaller one. I forced it open, with a strength I did not think myself capable of exerting. I felt that there was not a moment to be lost. On the deck were a couple of casks, and a slow match, burning at one end, communicated with one of them. I cannot say that I thought, and yet I was conscious, that in another moment I and all on board might be blown into eternity. I know not what impulse moved me; but, bending down my mouth, I seized the burning match between my teeth, and, though it much burned my lips and tongue, held it there till it was extinguished. Then, overcome by the excitement of my feelings, I sunk down over one of the casks. There I lay for a moment, almost unconscious of anything. I need scarcely say that the casks were filled with gunpowder. I should have fainted had not Mr Vernon come in, and had me carried on deck.

“Your presence of mind has saved all our lives, D’Arcy, and I can never forget it,” he exclaimed. “But we have still more work to do. Lift off the hatches, my lads.”

This order was quickly obeyed. With eager haste he hunted through every part of the ship. I guessed at length what was in his mind. He was seeking to discover any property of the Normans, or any articles which might have been on board the Ariadne. It was a moment of dreadful anxiety. Nothing, however, was to be found which could lead us to suppose that the Ariadne had fallen into the power of Delano. Mr Vernon had directed Adam Stallman to get the schooner under way, and to bring her up alongside the pirate brig, as soon as he calculated we could have taken possession. She now appeared, and, furling sails, dropped her anchor close to us. The scuffle on board the William had attracted the attention of the crews of the vessels lying near, several boats from which presently came alongside; and it was, I fancy, at first believed that we were a band of pirates, attempting to cut out a British merchantman. Mr Vernon explained to them what had occurred, and after a little time satisfied them that we had full authority for what we were doing. I can scarcely describe events in the order they occurred. Our search over the brig having been concluded, and no one else being discovered, we made inquiries among the pirate crew, to learn who had laid the plan for blowing up the ship; but one and all denied having any knowledge of it. Even Delano was taken by surprise when he was told of it by Mr Vernon.

“Ah! that’s the work, then, of that unhung scoundrel, my mate, Dawson,” he exclaimed. “It was a thought worthy of him. What! and has he escaped?”

“We found no one who appears to be your mate,” said Mr Vernon. “But what could have induced him to commit such an atrocious act?”

“To try and save his own neck by sending us all to perdition before our time,” exclaimed Delano, evidently for the moment forgetting all caution, from his feeling of exasperation, and thus clearly inculpating himself.

“Where do you think he has gone, then?” inquired Mr Vernon, quickly, hoping to gain further information from the pirate in his present mood.

“That’s not for me to say,” he replied; but not another word could we elicit from him on the subject.

He kept his fierce eyes glaring on us as we searched the cabin. We came on a box of cigars in one of the lockers.

“Ah! bring me one of those,” he growled out. “You will let a man make himself comfortable in his own cabin, at all events.”

A seaman, as sentry, had been placed over him, with a pistol in his hand.

“May I give it him, sir?” asked the man.

“No; not on any account,” replied Mr Vernon; “but do you, D’Arcy, light one and put it in his mouth.”

As I stooped down to follow my superior’s directions, I fancied the pirate would have tried to bite off my fingers, he gave so vindictive and fierce a look at me. As I stood by him, I asked, “Has your mate, whom you call Dawson, ever been known by the name of Myers?”

“What’s that to you, youngster? Most men have more than one name,” was his somewhat equivocal answer.

His manner, however, rather confirmed me in my suspicion that the man I had seen on deck was no other than the daring smuggler we had so often tried in vain to capture in the cutter. Having thoroughly examined the ship, we transferred Delano and five of his crew into the schooner, while the remainder were secured on board the brig, into which Adam Stallman and Sharpe, with ten of our people, were sent as a prize crew. Before sailing, Mr Vernon went on shore to report to the English Consul, as well as to the Turkish authorities, what had occurred. He got great credit from the merchants for the mode in which he had captured the pirate. It appeared that even there the conduct of the crew had begun to excite suspicion; but as it happened to be nobody’s business to inquire into the affair, they would have escaped, had we not opportunely arrived, that very day.

No information could be obtained of the missing mate. He had not been seen to land, and no one had heard of him. The dinghy, however, having disappeared from the brig’s stern, was sufficient proof that he had effected his escape in her. I was too much occupied all the time I was at Smyrna, to make many observations about the place. Figs are the great staple produce and subject of conversation for the greater part of the year, enlivened now and then by a visit from the plague, and then people talk about that; but at the time I speak of, I do not know that it had ever occurred to the inhabitants that they had the means in their own hands of avoiding its constant presence by properly draining their city. I have since, from the observations I have made in my course through life, come to the belief that there is not an ill which afflicts mankind which they have not the means of mitigating, if not of avoiding altogether.—But to return to my narrative. As there was nothing more to detain us at Smyrna, the two vessels made sail, and shaped a course for Malta.

Chapter Seventeen.

Voyage to Malta—The Repentant Pirate—The Plague—A Squall—Bobby Smudge proves Useful—Attempt to Capture the Schooner—Trial of the Prisoners—Their Execution—The young Pirate’s Dying Counsel.

We had been five days at sea, and a fair breeze, though somewhat light at times, had sent us tolerably well on our course. A strict watch had been kept on the prisoners. All seemed very unconcerned as to the almost certain fate which awaited them. They ate and drank, and laughed and conversed among themselves, as if they were to be released at the end of the voyage. One of their number, however, who had received a severe hurt in the scuffle when they were captured, was in a very different temper. He kept as far apart from them as he could, and joined neither in their jokes nor conversation. He was far younger than the rest; and as I watched him I observed an expression in his countenance which would not have been there had he been a hardened villain. He seemed grateful to me also for noticing him, and I consequently frequently took an opportunity of saying a word to him appropriate to his situation.

“I should like to read, sir, if I had a book,” he said to me one day. “I once was used to reading, and it would be a great comfort.”

I promised to try and get him a book. When I told Mr Vernon of the man’s request, he advised me to lend him my Bible. “He may not care for it at first,” he observed; “but as he wishes to read, he may draw instruction and comfort from it; and it may, by God’s grace, enable him to perceive the evil of his career.”

I accordingly took the pirate my Bible—it had been my sainted mother’s. The unhappy man’s eye brightened as he saw it.

“Well, sir, I was ashamed to ask for it, and I knew not if one might be on board; but that is the book I wanted.”

I left it with him, and he was constantly reading it attentively and earnestly; nor did he allow the sneers and jeers of his companions to interrupt him. I had perceived a considerable change in him since he was brought on board; and he every day seemed to grow thinner and weaker. I thought that he was dying; and I believe that he was of the same opinion.

Some bulkheads had been run up in the after-part of the hold to form a cabin for Delano—not for his own comfort and convenience, because he was the greatest villain of the gang; but in order not to allow him an opportunity of communicating with his companions. He lay there on a mattress, with his heavy handcuffs, and his legs chained to staples in the deck, like a fierce hyaena, glaring on all who looked at him. I should not, however, picture him properly if I described him as a wild-looking savage. On the contrary, there was nothing particularly objectionable in his face and figure. His face was thin and sallow, without much whisker; his features were regular, and could assume a very bland expression; his figure, too, was slight and active, and his address not ungentlemanly: but it was his eye, when either sullen or excited, which was perfectly terrible. Conscience he seemed to have none: it was completely dead, as were all the better feelings of which our nature is capable: they were destroyed, too, by his own acts—his long unchecked career of wickedness. Once he had been gay, happy, and innocent; but no good principles had ever taken root in his heart. Very early, those a mother’s care had endeavoured to instil into him had been eradicated; and step by step—slow at first, perhaps—he had advanced from bad to worse, till he became the consummate villain he now was. But I am forestalling the account I afterwards got of him.

We had three officers’ watches on board the schooner. Mr Vernon kept one, I kept another, and an old quartermaster we had with us kept the third. Mr Vernon, in compassion to poor Bobby Smudge, had applied for him as cook’s boy, to get him out of the way of Chissel the carpenter, his master, and in hopes of improving him by a somewhat different treatment to what he had been accustomed. The good effect of considerate kindness was already apparent; and the poor lad seemed most grateful for any encouraging word spoken to him. The best of our men had been sent on board the brig, and we remained only with eight and the Helen’s crew—a very fair complement, had we not always required two to stand sentry over the prisoners. We had another and a more insidious enemy on board, of whom we wot not, and whom no sentry could control—the plague—that fell scourge of Asiatic cities. How it came on board we could not discover. It might have been in some of the pirates’ clothes, or some of our men might have caught it while they were on shore for a short time; or it might have been concealed in the schooner long before, and only brought forth by a congenial state of the atmosphere. There it was, however. It made its appearance on the fifth day, and in two days carried off three of our people and one of the Helen’s crew. The pirates escaped unscathed. It seemed, indeed, in no way to alarm them. They laughed and talked, and blasphemed more than ever. We hailed the brig, which had hitherto kept us company, and found that she was free from the affliction; so that, of course, except at a distance, we could hold no communication with her. I will not attempt to describe the appearance of that dreadful disease. It was sad to see the poor fellows attacked, with so little prospect of their recovery; while no one could tell who would be the next victim. As they died they were sewn up in their hammocks, with a shot at their feet, and at once consigned to the deep. Mr Vernon read the funeral service appointed by the Church of England for such an occasion.

After the first man was buried—a fine, active young fellow two days before, apparently full of life and strength—he addressed the crew:—

“Do not suppose the prayers I have read can do any good to him who has just gone for ever from our sight. For your benefit they were offered up. A like fate to his may be that of any one of us before another day has passed; and I would earnestly urge you, for the short time which yet may remain for you, to turn your hearts to God—to prepare for eternity.”

Something more he said to the same effect. It was good advice at the proper time. I am sorry to say that it was very little heeded, or, at all events, very quickly forgotten. Two of those who stood by and heard it, were themselves, within two days, called to their last and dread account. Mr Vernon took it very much to heart; anxious and agitated as he had been of late, his nerves were much shaken, and I feared that he would be the next victim. He bore up bravely, like a Christian, for some time; but, as one after another of the crew was taken ill, he succumbed, not to the malady itself, but to very weariness, and was compelled to take to his cot. My commander’s illness threw a larger amount of responsibility on me than I had ever before enjoyed. I felt on a sadden grown wonderfully manful, and did my best to be up to my duty. Watson, the quartermaster, was a great aid to me. The old man seemed never to want sleep. He was on deck at all hours, constantly on the look-out, or seeing that the sentries were on the alert. Perhaps he did not place full confidence in my experience. We had had light winds or calms, with a hot burning sun, and sultry nights, for nearly a week. When this weather commenced, the plague appeared. The barometer had been falling for some hours; but still there was no other indication of a change of weather. A fourth man was taken ill. I had gone below to report the case to Mr Vernon, when I heard Watson’s voice, in quick eager tones, calling the people on deck to shorten sail. I sprang up the companion-ladder. The sea was as smooth as glass, and the sky was bright and clear enough in the south-east, whence a small dark cloud came sweeping up at a rapid rate towards us. I perceived that there was not a moment to lose. The people sprang to the halyards and brails; but before all the sail could be taken off the vessel, the squall had struck her. Over she went on her beam-ends. A cry of terror was heard above the roar of the wind in the rigging, and the rattling of ropes and blocks, and the dash of the surging waves. The water almost reached the combings of the hatches: everybody on deck thought we were gone. Two of the men were washed overboard. Watson, who was aft, hove one of them a rope. He seized it with convulsive energy: his life, dear to the meanest, depended on the firmness of his grasp. We hauled him in out of the seething cauldron; but the other poor fellow drifted far away. To the last he kept his straining eyes fixed on the vessel. He was a strong swimmer, and struck out bravely—lifting himself, every now and then, high out of the water, as if that useless exertion of strength could bring him nearer to us. Perhaps he was looking for a plank, or something to make for, to support himself. Unhappily, none was hove to him in time. All hands were too much occupied in the means for preserving their own lives. Weak and ill as he was, Mr Vernon had rushed on deck as he felt the vessel going over. He had ordered the helm to be put up; and Watson had seized an axe, waiting his directions to cut away the mainmast, when the throat-halyard block parted, the peak-halyards had already been let go, and the mainsail coming in of itself, the vessel righted in an instant; then, feeling her helm, and the headsail being yet set, she flew off before the squall. While we were rejoicing at our own preservation, we almost forgot our poor shipmate. Never can I forget the cry of despair he gave as he saw us flying from him. He knew full well that it was impossible for us to return; not a spar or plank was near to support him, to prolong his life even for a few short hours. The brig, also, was too far away to leeward to render him any help; so that aid from man he had none. Lifting up his arms, with eyeballs starting from his head, he gave one last look at us; and then, uttering a cry of agony, sunk for ever. It had been dreadful to see strong men struck down by the plague, and die by rapid degrees; but I know not whether a scene like this was not still more harrowing. In the course of an hour we had run out of the squall, and the weather had become cool and refreshing. The squall had one very beneficial result, for no other persons were attacked with the plague, and the man who was suffering from it began rapidly to recover. Vernon also sensibly felt the change in the weather, and every day I saw an improvement; though the causes of his illness were too deeply seated to callow the atmosphere to have much effect on him. We very soon repaired the damages which the schooner had sustained, and by the next morning we were all to rights. Our chief anxiety was for the brig. We had lost sight of her in the squall, and we could not tell whether she had been more prepared than we were to meet its fury. Even had she not suffered from the gale, the plague might have broken out in her. Mr Vernon came occasionally on deck, but he was compelled, from weakness, to spend the greater part of the day in his cot, though this was very much against his inclination. We had in vain questioned and cross-questioned our prisoners, to discover if they knew anything of the fate of the Ariadne, but not a particle of information could we obtain; and I was myself satisfied that they really knew nothing about her. Our late peril suggested a new cause of alarm to the mind of Mr Vernon, which apparently had not before occurred to him; and he began to fear that the vessel in which the Normans had sailed might have been overtaken by one of those white squalls so common in the Mediterranean, and might have suffered the fate we so narrowly escaped. Since the squall, our prisoners had remained unusually quiet; though, while the plague was aboard, they were as noisy and blasphemous in their conversation as ever. The sick man continued in the same state as before, though he seemed more reserved when I spoke to him than he had been at one time. He continued reading all day, as long as there was light, and asked to be allowed to have a candle to read at night; but this, of course, could not be permitted. There was evidently something working in his mind, which he would gladly be rid of, but could not. Having lost so many hands, the duty fell, naturally, more severely on the survivors; and we had enough to do to keep watch on deck, and a vigilant guard over our prisoners.

One night I had charge of the deck. Besides the man at the helm there was the look-out forward, and two hands lying down by the windlass. There was no moon, and the sky was covered with clouds, so that it was very dark. As I kept moving about, now looking out to windward, now over the lee-side, and then at the binnacle, to see that the schooner was kept on her proper course, I fancied that I saw a dark figure come up the main-hatchway; and while I stopped at the waist, I heard a voice, in a low whisper, say—

“Hist, sir, hist! I want to speak to you.”

“Who is it?” said I, in the same low tone.

“Bobby Smudge, sir; listen: there are not many moments to lose, before we shall all have our throats cut, if we don’t take care.”

This piece of intelligence put me on the qui vive, though, remembering Master Smudge’s pranks, I own that I did not much credit it.

“Come here,” said I, rather impatiently, “and let me know all about it.”

“I didn’t like to be seen, sir,” he replied, coming cautiously up to me, and looking round to ascertain that no one was near. “I don’t know, sir, who’s a friend and who’s an enemy aboard here, just now.”

“What do you mean, boy?” I asked.

“Why, just this, sir. That thundering scoundrel below there, is just trying hard to turn all the men’s heads; and if we don’t look alive, he’ll do it, too.”

I now felt that there might be some truth in poor Smudge’s information.

“Go on, my lad,” said I.

“Well, sir, I has to confess that he first tried it on with me. While the people were dying with the plague, and no one was looking on, he called me to him, and told me that he knowed where loads of gold was stowed away—enough to sink the ship and freight another twice the size; and that if I would help him to get his liberty, he’d show it to me, and that I might have as much as I wanted. I listened to him, and thought there would be no great harm if I was to help him to get free, and save his neck; so I agreed to take a message to the rest of the brig’s people, to tell them to keep up their spirits, and to try and get their arms and legs out of limbo. He then told me to hunt in the carpenter’s chest for a file, and a cold-chisel and hammer. While I was looking one night for the tools, the thought struck me, all of a heap like—if this chap was to get free, what would he do with Mr Vernon and you, sir, who had been so kind to me, and saved me from so many of that Mr Chissel’s finnams? Why, he’ll be cutting their throats, to be sure, and making off with the schooner; and where should I then be, I should like to know. So I goes back to Captain Delano, and tells him I couldn’t find the tools. He swears a great deal at this, and tells me to go and look for them again; and that if I didn’t bring them, he’d be the death of me. How he was to do me any harm while he was chained hand and foot, I couldn’t tell; but still I was very much frightened. Well, howsomedever, I keeps a watch on him, and I soon seed that he was trying it on with some of the Helen’s crew; and at last, that he’d got one of our people to listen to him. How far he had succeeded in getting them over to his plans, I couldn’t tell till just now. I had stowed myself away in the coil of the hawser, just before the bulkhead of his cabin, where I lay in a dark shadow, so that no one could see me, when I heard a man talking to him. I made out that he had almost got his fetters off his limbs, and that the other people would be shortly free of theirs; and that they knew where the arms were to be found; and that as soon as they had got them, they would make a rush on deck, and throw overboard all who wouldn’t join them. Then they were to carry the schooner to the coast of Africa, to the very place where all Captain Delano’s gold is stowed away.”

How much of this story might be true, and how much imagination, I could not tell; but it was too serious a matter to allow any risk to be run; so I ordered him to slip below, and to beg Mr Vernon would at once join me on deck with his pistols. He was then to make his way forward, and to rouse up Watson, with directions to him to come to us. Bobby was so quick in his movements, that before a minute had passed they both joined me. They were but just in time, when some dark heads were seen rising up above the combings of the hatchway. Before, however, they had time to make their footing good on the deck, Mr Vernon, Watson, and I had sprung on them, and knocked them below again with the butt-ends of our pistols. At the same time, before they could make another attempt, the three men forward came running aft, and we quickly got the hatches on over them. There they and the two wretched traitors Delano had inveigled to release them remained, like wild beasts shut up in a cage,—much more dangerous, however, for they had the sentries’ muskets, and perhaps other arms which might have been conveyed to them. They were, moreover, driven to desperation, and it therefore required great caution in dealing with them. Mr Vernon had recourse to a ruse to assist in damping their spirits.

“Brig ahoy!” he sung out, “send your boat aboard here well-armed; our prisoners have broken loose. Watson,” he whispered, “go and get the people up from forward. I suppose you can trust them.”

“Ay, ay, sir, they are all true enough,” he replied; “it’s only one of the merchant-brig’s crew, and that poor fellow, Nolan, who was always weak-like. They ought never to have been placed as sentries.”

When all the people were mustered, we outnumbered the pirates; but, though we had arms in our hands, so had they; and if we took the hatches off, we could scarcely hope that they would yield without a struggle, which would very probably prove a bloody one. Still, if we let them remain below, they might commit some mischief—very probably set the ship on fire, or force their way out through the bulkheads, either forward or aft, when we were not expecting them. While this state of things was continuing, I happened to look over the side: my eyes caught sight of an object looming through the darkness.

“A sail on the weather bow!” I sung out, with no little satisfaction.

We hauled up a little, and stood for her. She had seen us and shortened sail.

“What vessel is that?” I inquired.

“A prize to his Majesty’s ship Harold,” answered the voice of Adam Stallman.

“All right; we want your aid. Heave-to, and send your boat aboard, with the people well-armed,” I sung out.

In a few minutes Adam himself stood on our deck, with four well-armed followers. The inconvenience of a lengthened quarantine, to which he would be exposed, was not, under the circumstances, to be taken into consideration. A plan of operations was soon settled on. We agreed to have lanterns ready, and by swinging them down into the hold the moment the hatches were off, we hoped to discover where the pirates were stationed, and thus, if they attempted to fire, to be able to take better aim at them in return. It was an anxious moment. At a signal the hatches were in a moment thrown off. Delano stood like a lion at bay, with a musket in his hand. He fired it at Stallman, and then attempted to spring up on deck. Happily the ball missed its aim, and he was knocked over by several stout fists, which his head encountered, and fell like a log back into the hold. Several shots were exchanged, and the four pirates fought desperately in their hopeless attempt to regain their freedom. They were soon, however, overpowered, and borne down on the deck, without loss of life to either party. The only people who did not fight were the two traitors and the sick pirate, and he remained bound as before, having refused to be liberated. Delano had been stunned by his fall, and when he regained his senses, he found himself again in irons, with additional chains round his arms. This showed him probably that all that had passed was not a dream, as it might otherwise have appeared to him. He growled out curses against his ill-luck, but he had no other means of venting his rage and disappointment. The other men took the matter very coolly. It appeared to me that their minds were too dull and brutalised, and their hearts too callous, to comprehend their awful position. Seared in their consciences, they were truly given over to a reprobate mind. The two men who had been gained over by Delano to assist him we sent on board the brig, exchanging them for two who could be relied on; and now our misfortunes seemed to have come to an end. The young man I have spoken of belonging to the pirate’s crew, after this seemed to sink faster than ever. Mr Vernon, in consideration of his condition, had him removed from the immediate neighbourhood of the others, and placed within a screen in the after-part of the hold. I then, at his request, went to visit him one afternoon. He was sitting up, with the Bible on his knees, and his back resting against the bulkhead, so that the light which came down the hatchway-glanced on his forehead and the leaves of the sacred book. His hair, which was of a light brown (almost auburn, it had probably been, as a lad), was very long, and hung down on either side of his high, smooth, and sunburnt brow. His dress was that of an ordinary seaman, and when he was first captured it was perfectly neat and clean. I went and sat down on a bucket by his side.

“I have asked to see you again, sir, for you are the best friend I have found for many a year,” he began, in a weak voice, speaking apparently not without pain and difficulty. “From this book I have discovered, at length, the cause of all my crimes, my sufferings, and ultimate doom. Disobedience brought me to what I now am. I never learned to obey or to fear God or man. I was born in the same rank of life in which you move, perhaps with far greater expectations; and when I think of what I might have been and what I am, it drives me to madness, and I wish that I had never been born. My father was a man of property and position, and much esteemed for many virtues. My mother was highly educated and refined, and of religions feeling. It might be supposed that a child of such parents could not but turn out well. Unhappily for me, they loved me much, but not wisely. I was allowed to have my own way in all things, I was never taught to obey. As I grew up, my self-willed disposition became more and more developed. I could not bear constraint of any sort. Too late they discovered their error. I had received at home some little religious instruction; I even knew something about the contents of the Bible, but its spirit was totally beyond my comprehension. At last it was determined to send me to school. I went willingly enough, for the sake of the change; but, not liking it, ran away. I was not sent back, but instead a tutor was provided for me. He was totally unfitted for his occupation, and was unable, had he tried, to make any good impression on me. We quarrelled so continually, that he was dismissed, and I was persuaded to go to school again. Once more I ran away; but this time I did not run home. I wanted to see the world, and I was resolved to become a sailor. I cannot bear to dwell on my ingratitude and heartlessness. I knew that my disappearance would almost break my mother’s heart, and that my father would suffer equally; yet I persevered. I little thought what I was to go through. A fine brig was on the point of sailing for the coast of Africa. I fell in with the master, and offered to go with him. He asked no questions as to who I was, or where I came from; but, wanting a boy, he shipped me at once. The next day we were at sea, and all means of tracing me were lost. I was not ill-treated; for the captain, though bad enough in many respects, had taken a fancy to me. We were to engage, I found, in the slave-trade. At first I was shocked at the barbarities I witnessed, but soon got accustomed to them. We did not always keep to that business. The profits were not large enough to satisfy our avarice; and even piracy we did not hesitate to commit at times, when opportunity offered. At length the brig was cast away, and many of the crew and all our ill-gotten gains were lost. I, with two or three others, who escaped, shipped on board a Spanish slaver. We changed from bad to worse. Knives were in constant requisition; more than once I dyed my hands in blood. I gained a name, though a bad one; and was feared, if not loved. Such was the training—such the scenes of my youth. After a time I began to weary of the life, and wished to see English faces, and to hear English spoken once more; so, finding a vessel short of hands returning home, I ran from the slaver, and shipped on board her. We were cast away on the south coast of England; many of my shipmates never reached the land. I was picked up by a boat’s crew when almost exhausted, and was carried by them into a cave near the shore.

“They belonged to a large band of smugglers,—their leader one of the most daring and successful on the coast. I was too much hurt to be moved for some days, and passed the time listening to their adventures, which they were at no pains to conceal. I became so much interested in their mode of life, that a few words of encouragement from their chief, who was known under the name of Myers, induced me to join them. I thought I would take a few cruises with him before I paid a visit to my home, to inquire for my father and mother. A wild life I spent for some time. Our lawless occupation led us into many acts of violence, in which I was never backward. One you are cognisant of. I was in the cavern when you and your commanding officer were brought there, and I assisted in hanging you over the pit. I was a favourite with Myers; and he trusted me entirely. When he was obliged to leave the country, I had resolved to start homeward; but was engaged in running a cargo on shore, when I was captured by the revenue men, and after an imprisonment of some months, sent on board a man-of-war. She was bound for the coast of Africa. I laughed at the climate which carried off many of my shipmates; but the discipline of a king’s ship did not suit me, and I took an early opportunity of running from her.

“I lived among the blacks for some time; but it was a weary life, and finding a trader homeward bound, I got on board, and at length reached Liverpool. I went to my father’s house. Both he and my mother were alive, but I had great difficulty in persuading them of my identity. When they were convinced of it, they were ready to receive me like the Prodigal. But I had not repented. I was not fit to dwell with them. I felt like a wild beast among lambs. I had not an idea in common with them. When the novelty wore off, my evil habits came uppermost. I asked my father for money. He told me that he wished me to embrace some regular calling, and desired to know what I would choose. I laughed at the notion. He still declined giving me the sum I asked for, but I insisted that I must have it. My looks alarmed him, and at length he reluctantly gave it me. With it I set off for Liverpool, where I soon spent it. Then the first pang of remorse came across me. I thought of the calm quiet of that home for which I had so completely unfitted myself. I was meditating returning to it once more, and asking my father to explain his wishes, when, as I was sauntering along the quays, I encountered Myers. He was much disguised, but he knew me and stopped me. He told me that he was engaged in a scheme by which a rapid fortune was to be made; that he could not then unfold it; but that, if I would ship on board a vessel with him, he would explain it when we were at sea. My impulse was to refuse; but I was tired and weary, and consented to enter a tavern with him. He there plied me with liquor till all my scruples vanished, and I became once more his slave.

“What occurred on board that vessel I cannot now tell; but you will probably know ere long. But the favour I have to ask of you is, that if I die, as I hope to do before our trial, you will find out my parents, and tell them, not all the truth, but how you encountered me on the point of death, and that I died repentant.”

I promised the unhappy young man that I would do as he desired, and, at his request, I took down the name and address of his parents.

I have often since thought, as I recollected this story, that if parents did but consider the misery they were storing up for themselves and their children by neglecting the precepts of the wise King of Israel, they would, oftener than they do, search that book for counsel and advice, and would teach their children also to seek instruction from its copious pages.

Oh! my young friends, remember that you cannot live well without some rule of conduct, any more than you can steer a ship across the ocean without a compass or knowledge of the stars. Then, let me urge you to take the best rule you can find; and where, let me ask, does there exist one comparable, in any way, to that found in the Proverbs of Solomon? If you would be truly wise, learn them by heart, and remember them always.

We were very thankful when, at length, we reached Malta harbour. Of course we were put into quarantine, but we were relieved from the charge of our prisoners. To his own surprise, as well as mine, Charles Adams—so he called himself—the young man whose short history I have just narrated, still survived, and there appeared every probability that he would be able to undergo his trial. Our first inquiry was to ascertain if any news had been received of the Ariadne; but nothing had been heard of her, and poor Mr Vernon was doomed still longer to endure the tortures of suspense.

At last our quarantine was concluded, the pirates were carried off to prison, and we returned on board our ship, which had come in from a cruise just in time to receive us. For several days we did nothing but talk about our adventures with our own messmates, as well as with various people who came off to see us. I got great credit for the way in which I had saved the brig from being blown up; though, as I was as much interested as any one else in the success of the performance, I cannot say that I thought I had done any great thing.

Poor Bobby Smudge came in, too, for his share of praise for having informed us of the plot of the pirates to retake the schooner; and most certainly he had been the means of saving all our lives. No one after this attempted to bully him, and I observed a marked improvement in his appearance and character.

The trial of the pirates came on at once; and the Harold was kept in harbour, that we might attend it as witnesses. I will not enter into minute particulars. The leading facts of the case will be of sufficient interest. Evidence had been collected to prove that the William had sailed from England with one description of cargo, and that her master had disposed of various articles not among it. To account for this, Captain Delano replied that he had fallen in with an abandoned ship, and had taken part of her cargo out of her. He stood bold and unabashed, as if confiding in his innocence; but his countenance fell when two of his own crew appeared in the witness-box, and he was informed that they had turned King’s evidence.

“Then there is a conspiracy against me, and my life will be sworn away,” was his reply.

Nothing that he could say, however, made any one doubt his guilt.

I was in hopes that the young man in whom I had taken so much interest would have been allowed to turn King’s evidence, but I found that he had refused to do so.

“No,” said he, when asked the question; “I do not wish to preserve my own worthless life by aiding in the condemnation of others. If I am found guilty, I am ready to suffer with them.”

Nothing, I found, would alter his determination. When brought into dock, he was far too weak to stand; but there was a look of calm contentment in his countenance—I might describe it almost as happiness—seldom borne by a person in his awful position. His appearance excited much interest in all those who saw him, though few were aware of the mighty change which had taken place within his bosom, and still less of the cause of that change. How different did he look from the rest! No ferocity, no callousness, no stoical indifference, no assumption of innocence could be traced in any one of his features. Calm and thoughtful, he sat watching the proceedings, as one deeply interested in their result. People could scarcely believe their senses when they heard the evidence given against him. Who more blood-thirsty, who more eager for plunder, who so regardless of the terror and sufferings of others, as Charles Adams?

From the evidence brought out in court, it appeared that Delano, late master of the William brig, belonged to New York, in the United States of America. Though of most respectable parents, at an early age he had taken to evil courses, and was at length compelled to leave his native city for some notorious act of atrocity. His plausible manners, however, enabled him after a time to get command of several merchantmen in succession. One after another, they were cast away under very suspicious circumstances. The underwriters suffered, and the owners built larger and finer vessels, while he had evidently more money than ever at command. It now appeared, by the evidence of one of the prisoners who had sailed with him, that one at least he had purposely cast away, for the purpose of obtaining the insurance, she being insured for a far larger amount than she was worth. After this he got into the employment of a highly respectable firm in Liverpool, and sailed in command of a fine brig for the Mediterranean. Here was a good opening for making an honest livelihood; but such a course did not suit the taste of Delano. Several of his crew, brought up in the slave-trade, or as smugglers, were ill-disposed men; others were weak, ignorant, and unprincipled, and were easily gained by his persuasions to abet him in his evil designs. Finding, after they had been some time at sea together, that neither his mates nor his crew were likely to refuse joining in any project he might suggest, he boldly proposed to them to turn pirates; and not only to plunder any vessels they might fall in with, whose crews were unable to offer resistance, but, by putting them out of the way, to prevent all chance of detection. They waited, however, till they got into the Mediterranean, and they there fell in with a fine brig, out of London, laden with a valuable cargo. They surprised and overpowered the crew, whom they confined below, while they plundered her of everything valuable. Some of her crew had recognised them. To let them live would certainly lead to their own detection; so they scuttled the ship, and remained by her till she sunk beneath the waves, with the hapless people they had plundered on board. Then they went on their way rejoicing, and confident that no witnesses existed of their crime. They knew not of the Eye above which had watched them; they thought not of the avenging witness in their own bosoms. In the wildest revels and debauchery they spent their ill-gotten wealth. This time they were true to each other, and if any one suspected that their gold was obtained by unfair means, it was found impossible to prove anything against them. It was before this, I believe, that Delano had attempted to carry out some smuggling transaction at Malta, and had been thrown into prison; on being liberated from which, ruined in fortune, he had taken to the desperate courses I have described. He next got command of the William brig, in which he was joined by four of his old crew. Two were put in by the owners,—the carpenter and another man. He would willingly have sailed without them. He was also joined by an old comrade, Bill Myers, who had just lost his cutter off Portland. He had no fears of finding any opposition to his projects from his scruples. The William lay alongside the Helen, which vessel was taking in a rich cargo. He easily excited the cupidity of his crew by pointing it out to them. His own vessel had a cargo of very inferior value—chiefly, I believe, of earthenware. The William sailed a short time before the Helen. He first proposed the plan of plundering her to the four old pirates. They did not offer the slightest objection, but expressed their doubts whether all the crew would join them.

“They must be made to do it,” answered Delano, fiercely.

Myers at once acceded to Delano’s proposal. Charles Adams was the next to join them. They now felt themselves strong enough to talk openly of their project. Each man boasted of the deeds of atrocity he had committed with impunity, especially of their last act of piracy, and of the mode in which they had spent the proceeds of their crime. They told tales of the buccaneers of old—of the adventures of pirates in their own day, of which they had heard, and of some with which they were acquainted—of the hoards of wealth they had acquired. When they found that these stories had not sufficient effect with some of their shipmates, they applied to Delano, and liquor was freely served out. Most of those who had before resisted now consented, in their drunken state, to join in the proposed scheme. The most persevering and eager tempter was the mate. If he could not persuade, he laughed away the scruples of the more honest or more timid.

“Detection! nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Who can ever find it out? Who can know it, unless you go and talk of it yourselves? What’s the reason against it? Let’s be men! Let’s be above such folly! If they go to the bottom—why, a gale of wind and a started butt might easily send them there; so, where’s the difference? In one case, their rich cargo would go with them; now, you see, shipmates, we shall get it. So, hurra for the black flag, and overboard with all scruples!”

Now, however glaring the folly and wickedness of such reasoning may appear to us, it seemed very tempting and sensible to the miserable men to whom it was addressed. The carpenter only, and another man, refused to drink, or to participate in any way in the project. They could not, however, turn the rest from their intentions. The treacherous mode in which the Helen was taken possession of, I have already described. The carpenter alone held out; the other man pretended to join them, with the hope, it appeared, of saving the lives of their prisoners. When they had mastered the crew of the Helen, the pirates jeered and laughed at them, as they were removing the cargo, and, bound as they were, even kicked and struck them, and treated them with every indignity. They then compelled the carpenter to accompany them on board with his tools, and, holding a pistol at his head, made him bore holes in the ship’s bottom. No one appeared to have been wilder or more savage than Adams. Having completed this nefarious work, as they thought, effectually, the pirates left their victims to their fate. They would certainly have returned to remedy their mistake, and to send the Helen more speedily to the bottom, when they caught sight of a ship of war in the distance. They watched impatiently, but still the Helen floated. At length the strange sail drew near, and, fearful of being found by her in the neighbourhood of the plundered vessel, they stood away under every stitch of canvas they could set. Scarcely had the deed been committed, than each began to fear that the other would betray him; and, as if oaths could bind such wretches effectually, they all agreed to swear, on crossed swords, that they would never divulge what had occurred. They compelled the carpenter and the other honest man to join them in their profane oath, threatening to blow out their brains forthwith, if they refused. It seems strange that men guilty of such crimes should make use of the sign of the cross to confirm their oaths, and call God especially to witness their misdeeds. What extraordinary perversity such is of reason! Yes; but are not those we mix with every day guilty of similar wickedness and madness, when in their common conversation they call on the name of the most high God to witness to some act of folly, if not of vice, of extravagance, of cruelty, or senselessness?

The pirates sailed first for Leghorn, where they sold part of the plundered cargo, and spent the proceeds in a way to excite much suspicion. They then sailed for the island of Sardinia; but they there found that they were already suspected. Nothing could be more foolhardy than their visit to Malta, where the crew spent their money in rigging themselves out in gold chains, silk waistcoats, and green coats. How their conduct should not have excited suspicion, I cannot say; but it does not appear that the people with whom they dealt thought anything was wrong. It is one of the numberless examples to prove that criminals are deprived even of ordinary wisdom. Delano, however, saw, from the way his crew were behaving, that if he remained long at Malta, they would inevitably bring destruction on themselves. Having, therefore, got them on board, he sailed for Smyrna. On the voyage Myers tried to induce them to plunder other vessels; but none they could venture to attack fell in their way. Their rage against Myers was excessive when they found that he had attempted to blow them up, and that he had done so doubtless for the purpose of getting possession of a considerable amount of treasure which had been left on shore in the hands of an agent of Delano’s. I afterwards heard that he had in all probability succeeded, as the agent had stated that he had presented an order from Delano for its payment about the very moment we were taking possession of the brig, and, as he thought, being blown into the air. Search was made for him throughout Smyrna before we left the place, and continued for some time afterwards; but the last accounts had brought no intelligence of him, and it was concluded that he had escaped in disguise.

During the greater part of the trial, Delano had maintained his confidence and composure; but at length the evidence of his own people, and the master and crew of the Helen, became so overwhelming that he lost all hope, and, overcome by the most abject fear, sunk down, and would have fallen, had he not been supported. Recovering himself a little, he broke forth into earnest petitions that his life might be spared. He made the most trivial and weak excuses for his conduct, utterly unlikely to avail him anything. He declared that he had been led on by Myers; that his crew had forced him to consent to the piracy; that he had endeavoured to dissuade them from it, and that the fear of death alone had induced him to consent. Nothing he could say could, of course, alter the decision of his judges; and he, with six of his companions, was condemned to be hung at the fore-yard-arms of the William, then lying in Quarantine Harbour. It was dreadful to hear the shriek of despair to which Delano now gave vent.

“Mercy! mercy! mercy!” he cried. “Oh, spare my life! I am unfit to die! Send me to toil from day to day in chains, with the meanest in the land; but, oh, take not away that which you cannot restore!”

“Let him be removed,” said the judge of the court; and he was borne away, still crying out for mercy.

The miserable man, who had never shown mercy to others, still besought it for himself. The other prisoners said not a word in their defence. One only voice was heard when all others were hushed in the court. It was solemn, though hollow and weak.

“Our doom is most just. We suffer rightly; and may God have mercy on our souls,” were the words spoken.

I recognised the voice of Charles Adams. I saw him the night before his execution. He was calm and happy.

“O that my fate,” said he, “might be a warning to others! and I should feel still more contented to die.”

He begged to keep my Bible to the last, promising to give it to the chaplain to be delivered to me. I will not dwell on the dreadful particulars of the execution. No Maltese could be found willing to perform the office of executioner. The chief of the police, therefore, ordered a swinging stage to be formed on either side of the vessel, on which the criminals were placed with ropes round their necks, secured to the fore-yard-arms, three on each side. These stages were secured in their horizontal position by ropes rove through blocks made fast to the fore-rigging, with lanyards at the end. As the chaplain reached a certain word in the Service, the seamen stationed at the lanyards were ordered to cut them. This was done, and the stages sinking from under their feet, the miserable men were launched into eternity. A barge was then brought alongside, into which the bodies were lowered, and carried to Fort Ricasoli, at the entrance of the great harbour. Four of the bodies, being sewn up in tarred canvas, were hung in chains to a lofty gibbet; while two were buried beneath it. For many long months afterwards the four pirates hung there,—a terrible and disgusting sight, and an awful warning to all who might be inclined to pursue the same evil course.

The chaplain returned me my Bible the following day. Within it I found a note from Adams, first, thanking me warmly for my attention to him; and it then continued,—“Shameful as is my merited fate, I would that all my young countrymen may know it. Tell all you meet that they are sent into this world, not to live for themselves, but for others,—as a place of trial, not of amusement; that if they would secure contentment now, and happiness for the future, they must, first of all things, learn to conquer themselves; they must overcome their tempers—their passions—their love of ease—of self-indulgence; they must remember that they are surrounded by snares and temptations of all sorts, all allowed to exist for the purpose of trying them; that the devil is always going about, ever ready to present the bait most likely to lure them to destruction. I entreat you—I adjure you—to make this known wherever you can. The knowledge of this may save numbers from ruin. It cannot too often be brought before the minds of the young. I was ignorant of it. I thought that I had a right to follow my own inclinations,—that it was manly to do so; and, oh! how sorely have I suffered for my ignorance!—how bitterly do I repent my infatuation. Yet, miserable as is my fate, if I can but prove a warning to others, I shall not have lived in vain.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Can she be the Ariadne?—Sail for the Reef Coast—Discover the lost Vessel—Make a Prisoner—Adventures on Shore—Visit the old Sheikh—Find Jack Stretcher—How we did the Reefians—Jack and his Hornpipe—Our Flight—Pursued—Escape.

So completely had Mr Vernon’s health and spirits given way, that we on board the Harold were afraid he would have to leave the ship and go home. At this juncture a merchant-brig came in from the westward, and the master reported that, having been driven close in on the African coast, he had seen a vessel, apparently a complete wreck, on shore. He stated that he had stood-in to examine her more closely, when, seeing through his glass a number of armed men come down and prepare to launch their boats, he judged it prudent to stand-off out of their reach. Mr Dunnage obtained this important information, and instantly brought it on board. Mr Vernon’s eye brightened as he heard it; for hope, almost extinguished, once more dawned within him.

Captain Poynder, who felt a deep interest in the fate of Major Norman and his daughter, easily managed to get ordered down to the Barbary coast to examine into the matter. Having ascertained from the master of the merchantman the spot, as nearly as he could describe it, where he had seen the wreck, we made sail for the westward. We came off the coast about dusk, and then hove-to. “Boats away!” was on this occasion a welcome sound; for we knew that it portended that there was work to be done. Mr Vernon commanded one of the boats, and I went with him. Stallman had charge of a second, and Dicky Sharpe, who since our trip to Smyrna had much improved in steadiness, accompanied him; while Stanfield, another mate, went in a third. A light gun was placed in the bow of each boat; and each man had a musket and brace of pistols, as well as his cutlass; so that we were well-armed and ready for anything. We were in high spirits, though we knew full well that it was no party of pleasure we were on; for, if discovered, we might expect some pretty sharp fighting, as the inhabitants of that part of the coast are the most warlike and determined pirates along the shores of the Mediterranean. With muffled oars and in perfect silence we pulled towards where the wreck was supposed to be. There was no moon; but the stars of a southern clime were shining—as they well know how to do in that region,—so that we could distinguish the dark outline of the coast, backed by a range of high mountains. The only sound was from the splash of our oars, which, as they rose rapidly from the water, let drop a sparkling shower of phosphorescent fire. I steered, while Mr Vernon with his night-glass swept the coast, in the hopes of discovering the wreck. We got close in with the shore; but not a sign of her was to be seen.

“Avast pulling, and let the other boats close up,” he whispered.

When the boats had got near enough, he ordered Stallman to pull to the eastward, and directed me to steer to the west, and Stanfield to follow us. That the coast was pretty thickly inhabited we had strong evidence; for so close in with it were we, that we could hear dogs barking, and music, and even human voices; while now and then the report of firearms showed that some Arabs were coming home from hunting, or were firing off their muskets at some festival or other. We had pulled at least five miles along the coast, when I fancied that I discerned, still further on, some dark object on the sands. We pulled up to it, and there, sure enough, lay a stranded vessel. Mr Vernon now directed Stanfield to wait off about a quarter of a mile, while we went in and tried to board the vessel, to ascertain positively what she was.

“Should any accident happen to us, or should we be taken prisoners,” he continued, “you will wait till nearly dawn to render us assistance, in case you have an opportunity, and then make the best of your way back to the ship. Captain Poynder will then, without doubt, devise some plan for rescuing us or any other persons we may find on shore.” Stanfield, of course, knew very well what he meant by this, and promised to keep a bright look-out, whatever might occur. Using still more caution than ever, we approached the vessel. She lay with her head inshore, in a small inlet, and it appeared much more likely that she had purposely been hauled in there, than that she had been driven on shore. There was ample water for our boat right under her stern. The stern-windows were open. Holding on by the rudder-chain, Mr Vernon climbed up, and got in at a sternport. Without asking leave, I followed his example, and the bowman then handed us up a lantern. I had a match-box in my pocket. We struck a light and lighted the lantern, and then commenced an examination of the cabin. At the first glance we saw it was that of an English merchantman. There were the state-cabins on either side, the buffets for plate and crockery, the neat book-case, the racks for charts and telescopes, the sofa at one end, and the fireplace, all showing an attention to the comfort of any passengers who might be on board. Everything valuable had, however, been carried away, the more cumbrous articles alone remaining. Mr Vernon looked round with deep anxiety depicted on his countenance. “Yes, D’Arcy, this is indeed the Ariadne. I know her well,” he whispered. “I myself put up that book-case, and screwed in those hooks for a cot in the state-cabin. Oh! what can their fate be? I must ascertain it without delay.”

“It would never do to go on shore as you are at present, sir. You would be taken prisoner or murdered outright, to a certainty,” I replied. He was silent for a minute.

“You are right, D’Arcy, you are right,” he replied, in a dejected tone. “The affair requires time and great circumspection. These people are not to be trifled with, I know. Force alone will not succeed, or I am certain Captain Poynder would land every man who can be spared from the ship, and would compel these Reefians to let us know what has become of their captives.”

“Yes, sir, and every man would gladly follow, wherever you might lead,” I replied.

“I know they would—I know they would, D’Arcy,” said he. “But let us take a look over the ship, and perhaps we may find out something to direct our proceedings.”

We opened the cabin-door cautiously, and crept up the companion-ladder. The hatch was off. We got on deck: no one was there. Shrouding the lantern, we crept along the deck, and descended into the main-hold. The entire cargo had been removed. We concluded that the vessel had no one on board, and were about to return, when I suggested that we should look into the forepeak. We therefore moved cautiously, as before, along the deck, and were descending the ladder, when Mr Vernon touched my leg.

“There is some one breathing down here,” he said. “Be prepared for a rush.”

When we got to the bottom of the ladder, as he threw the rays of the lantern round the place, they fell on the sleeping form of a young Arab, dressed in a turban, and his white haick folded gracefully round him. The instant the light fell on his eyes, he started up with a look of mute astonishment, and laid his hand on the hilt of a dagger by his side. Before he could unsheath it, Mr Vernon had thrown himself upon him, and wrenched it from his grasp, while, I following, we without much difficulty secured him; for, though graceful and active in appearance, he had not much muscular power. He did not call out. Perhaps he disdained to do so. But to prevent him, should he show any inclination to call for help, Mr Vernon rather unceremoniously thrust a handkerchief into his mouth.

“Now, hurry, D’Arcy, and call up one of the men to help carry this lad into the boat. Here is a prize worth having indeed,” he said. “He may be of incalculable service to us.” I did as I was ordered, and he quickly got the lad securely bound and up on deck. As we were dragging him along, the handkerchief fell out of his mouth, and he gave a shriek, which showed that he was no willing prisoner. The noise, however, only made us hurry him along the faster down the companion-ladder, and out at the port into the boat. We handed him along into the stern-sheets, and then, Mr Vernon giving the order to shove off, we backed out of the creek, and got the boat’s head round, to pull out to sea. We were only just in tune, for the lad’s cry had attracted the notice of his friends; and we could hear people shouting, as they ran down to the beach, to learn who it was that had cried out. Unfortunately the splash of our oars attracted their notice, and they began firing away at us, as fast as they could load their matchlocks. “Give way, my lads, give way!” cried Mr Vernon, more from habit than that the men required any inciting to pull fast, as the shot came splattering about us. The young Moor made one or two attempts to rise, evidently with the intention of springing into the water, and swimming on shore again; but we held him down; and, as we got further off, he either saw that the attempt would be useless, or, from something he learned from the shouts of his countrymen, he thought it wiser to remain quiet. We were congratulating ourselves on none of the shot reaching us, and fancied that we were getting out of danger, when we saw a dark object glide out from a creek or harbour to the westward, followed by another, and then another, which we at once made out to be row-boats, pulling probably some twenty oars or so, and famed for their speed. We had the start of them, however, by half a mile or more; and, as our two gigs were far from slow coaches, we did not altogether despair of escaping. Still the odds were fearfully against us; and, even if we were not killed outright, potato-digging and water-drawing for the rest of our days was not a pleasant prospect for contemplation, independent of failing in the object we had in view. This made all hands bend to their oars with redoubled vigour. Happily the row-boats had no guns in their bows, or if they had, the people had forgotten their powder or shot, as the few bullets which reached us now and then were the only missiles we had to dread. Well, away we pulled, with the Reefian row-boats after us, our great hopes being that we should decoy them within range of the Harold’s guns, and then, if we could bag a boat-load, we might hope to treat advantageously for any prisoners they might have taken. We made the dark, smooth water hiss and bubble under our bows, as we clove our rapid way through it, throwing up a mass of shining foam before us, and leaving a line of liquid fire in our wake. We soon gained more hope of escape, from the rate at which our pursuers came on; and we began to suspect that the boats, probably in the hurry of the moment, were manned with old men and lads, and any one who was at hand; and that they were likely rather to fall off than to increase their speed. This proved to be the case. We gained on them slowly at first, but more rapidly by degrees, till we actually ran them out of sight. Our next business was to find our ship; and I kept a bright look-out for her. Our young captive, meantime, lay at the bottom of the boat, and when he found that we had escaped from his countrymen, he seemed to take things very coolly; and when Mr Vernon assured him that we meant him no injury, he replied, that if we took his life, his tribe would some day cut us up piecemeal, and throw the bits to the jackals. As we were pulling along, we heard a shout, which proved to come from Stallman, who had, of course, seen no wreck; but he had discovered a spot where the water was deep up to the shore, and where there appeared to be no inhabitants, so that he had been able to pull close in, and could have landed, if necessary. We now altogether pulled out to sea, and in another hour fell in with the frigate. She then stood off shore, and by daylight we were out of sight of land, so that the Reefians could not have guessed who their visitors could have been. I think that I before have said that Mr Vernon was a great linguist. He spoke Arabic perfectly, and was thus able to hold communication with our young prisoner, whose fears, before long, he succeeded completely in silencing, and whose confidence also he soon appeared to have gained. All the morning Mr Vernon was in earnest conversation with the young Reefian, and, by his countenance, he appeared to be gaining information of a highly interesting character. He then went into the captain’s cabin, and after a long conversation with him, the ship’s course was shaped for Tangiers.

Just before we reached that place, he called me to him.

“D’Arcy,” he said, “I have remarked your steadiness and discretion above your years; and as I have a difficult and—I will not conceal it from you—a hazardous expedition to make, in which a companion to assist me would be very valuable, I wish to know whether, if the captain will allow you, you would be willing to accompany me?”

Where is the midshipman who would not have answered as I did, and say that I should be delighted, and that the more danger the better fun? In fact, my heart almost came into my mouth at the proposal; and my only fear was that the captain might put his veto on it.

“Oh! just tell him, sir,” said I, “that I have neither father nor mother, nor brother nor sister; and I don’t think that the great Counsellor D’Arcy would break his heart if anything happened to me, nor bring an action against him for expending a midshipman uselessly. My other uncle is a naval officer, and he would never dream of objecting.”

I do not know if these reasons had any weight with the captain, but he granted his consent to my accompanying Mr Vernon, who forthwith gave me a sketch of his proposed plan of proceeding.

“You must know, D’Arcy,” said he, “that the young Reefian informs me that the Ariadne was driven inshore by a heavy gale; and that before she had time to haul off, a calm came on, when several boats, manned by his people, pulled off to her. The master, who seems to have been a brave fellow, had no notion of yielding without a blow, and, arming his crew, gave them a warm reception. Several of the Reefians were killed and wounded before they could make good their footing on board. The gallant master was killed, and so were more than half his crew. Major Norman and the rest of the people escaped without a wound, though they expected to be cut to pieces; but their defence had so excited the admiration of their captors, that they were, instead, treated with considerable kindness, though ultimately marched off as prisoners. Miss Norman was discovered in the cabin; but when it was known who was her father, he was allowed to accompany her. The people who captured the brig belong to a tribe ruled over by a powerful chief, who resides some miles along the coast. He seems to have claimed the brig as his own perquisite; and this youth, who is a relation of his, was living on board to take care of her. Miss Norman and her father likewise became his property, but I cannot speak my gratitude to Heaven, on finding that she is treated with the most perfect respect, while her father is employed in the gardens of the Kaid. His young nephew describes him as a fierce, despotic old fellow, not at all likely to give up his captives, unless compelled by force. He says that he is so very wealthy, that no temptation of a high ransom will influence him. This, however, I am resolved, without delay, to ascertain, and to employ every means in my power to liberate my friends. He seems to owe no allegiance to the Emperor of Morocco, or to any other acknowledged potentate; so that I will not attempt the long business of negotiation, which would, too probably, end in disappointment. At first I thought of taking the lad with me, but then I considered that he would be of more service as a hostage on board; and I have promised him that, if his information be correct, and I succeed in recovering my friends, I will give him an unerring rifle and a silver-mounted dagger, so that I have won him over completely to our interest. As I speak Arabic as well as any Turk, I have resolved to assume the character of a Turkish jewel-merchant on a journey to buy precious stones for the Sultan. I feel that I can act the part very well. How does the plan strike you?”

“Very good; capital, sir,” I answered, the romance of the thing taking my fancy immensely. “But, as I do not speak a word of Arabic, or any Eastern language, I do not see how I am to help you.”

“I have thought of that,” said Mr Vernon. “You must pretend to be dumb; I hope that you will not have to hold your tongue long. I wish you also to take your violin. I do not know that the Turks ever play it; but you must be my slave, you know—a Christian slave, not long captured,—and that will account for your knowledge of so Nazarene-like an instrument. Miss Norman heard you play once on board, and you will thus certainly attract her notice, and be able to hold communication with her.”

“Oh! excellent—excellent,” I exclaimed, enchanted at finding the very event I had once dreamed of about to be realised. “When are we to commence our adventure?”

“As soon as I can arrange our costumes, and make other necessary preparations. Captain Poynder, after he has landed us, intends to watch off the coast, and to stand in at night, to be ready to render us any assistance we may require.”

Two days after this conversation, a party of travellers were seen issuing from the ancient gates of the city of Tangiers,—in days long gone by, when Charles the Second ruled the land, held by a British garrison, till delivered over to the Portuguese. He who seemed to be the leader of the party rode a strong, active horse, and was habited in long, dark, flowing robes, a turban of many folds of muslin, long yellow boots, and spurs of great size. A large moustache, and a beard bushy and long, almost concealed his month. The ink-horn at his waist, and his want of weapons of defence, showed that he was a peaceable character. A lad also, in an Eastern dress, though of simple and somewhat coarse materials, followed him on a stout mule, which likewise carried a pair of saddle-bags, and a small square chest secured in front. Slung over the back of the youth was a long case, of curious form. A dagger at his side was the only arm he wore. A tall man, well-armed with matchlock and scimitar, rode ahead on a stout nag. On his head was the high red Moorish cap, with many folds of muslin twisted round it. The flowing hair fell over his shoulders, above which he wore a soolham of red cloth, while gaily-worked yellow boots, and a pair of spurs of cruel length and sharpness, adorned his feet. He evidently felt his importance, as the protector and fighting-man of the party. Another personage followed, of inferior rank, with a mule, which carried the chief part of the baggage. The country through which they travelled was of an undulating character, but parched by the suns of summer, the beds of the winter torrents being now stony ravines, and the only green visible being furze and palmetto, and here and there patches of Indian corn not quite ripe, though the stubble of fine wheat and barley extended over a considerable portion of the ground.

“D’Arcy, my boy, how do you like being turned into a young Turk?” said Mr Vernon, calling me up to him, after we had proceeded some way.

I touched my mouth, and pointed to out escort.

“Never mind them,” he replied; “they are, I am assured, faithful to the backbone, and know how matters stand. There is little use of giving such men half-confidences.”

“Then,” said I, “I’ll make play with my tongue while I can. I like the fun amazingly. What do you propose to do, sir, next?”

“In the first place, when we get up to the territory of the old chief, Mulai Mohamed, we must leave our escort and proceed alone to his village. We must present ourselves at his residence, and, inquiring whether he has jewels to sell or wishes to buy others, must endeavour to gain access to the inmates of his harem; or, at all events, we must try to meet with Major Norman, or some of the crew of the Ariadne. However, we must be guided entirely by circumstances.”

It was a great satisfaction to me to be able to talk, for I fancied that I should have had to hold my tongue from the moment I set foot on shore. I wish that my space would allow me to describe my journey, for it lasted a considerable number of days, and was very amusing. We pushed on as rapidly as the strength of our steeds would allow, though that was far from fast enough to suit Mr Vernon’s impatience. We met with a variety of adventures also. At night we used to halt, and pitch our tent, and fetch water, and cook our supper; while our followers would sit before the fire, recounting their adventures, or boasting of the deeds of their ancestors or friends, or telling tales of genii or ghouls, and a variety of other beings, in whose existence they firmly believe. As we journeyed on, we killed a quantity of game, chiefly partridges, which crossed our path in great numbers; and now and then we got a shot at a wild boar, and knocked him over. At night, watch was always kept with a good fire, or we should have had the jackals, who were always howling round us, paying us a visit. These beasts the Moors do not object to eat, though they will not touch pig. We one day fell in with an encampment of a powerful tribe, the Sheikh of which insisted on my master, Taleb Moostafa, otherwise Lieutenant Vernon, dining with him. I accompanied him for the pleasure of looking on, though, of course, I was not expected to eat likewise. On arriving at the tent of the Sheikh, we found him seated within it, on a cushion, covered with thick skin, another being placed for the Taleb, or scribe, for to that learned profession Mr Vernon thought he might venture to belong. A variety of compliments having passed, a table was brought in and placed between them. It was circular, about two feet in diameter, and scarcely more than six inches from the ground, richly inlaid and painted in arabesque. A large bowl, full of a highly-seasoned soup, with some sort of macaroni in it, was first placed on the table. The bowl contained spoons, with which the guests were to help themselves at the same time. Next came a plate of beef, much stewed, and garnished with melons; and lastly a huge dish of kesksoo,—a thick porridge, made of wheaten flour piled up, which the Sheikh attacked most vigorously, while my master attempted to follow his example. When dinner was over, some of the tribe assembled on horseback, and played all sorts of pranks. Some stood on their heads while their horses went; they charged each other at a rapid speed; they changed places with their companions at full gallop; then they would dash up to where we stood, and, discharging their muskets, wheel about and give place to others, who followed at their heels. Some would dash their haicks or turbans on the ground, and leaning from their horses, would pick them up, without for an instant slackening their speed. Next they shot at a mark, a flower on a pile of stones being their target; and certainly they managed to hit it in a wonderful way. The same men, however, would probably have but a poor bag of game to show after a day’s walk over the moors in Scotland. Our friendly Sheikh accompanied us some way on our journey on the following day, with many good wishes for our welfare. I must leave out the rest of our adventures, till one evening, Hamed, our chief guide, pointing to a line of lofty mountains which fringed the coast, exclaimed—

“There, most learned Taleb, at the foot of yonder mountains, you will find the residence of the fierce Sheikh you seek. Further we dare not go, as we have no wish to feel our throats being cut. Here we will remain till you return, if you ever do return, which Allah grant may soon be, though I am doubtful of it. If you do not come back, we will report your loss to your friends, and trust they may find means to avenge you.”

Taleb Mohammed laughed at this speech, though he saw the difficulties in our way; and next morning, leaving our tents and heavy baggage, we entered the district of the Reefian chief. It was towards evening that we approached his dwelling, which we discovered from its superior size to the rest of the neighbouring sun-dried brick cottages, thatched with reeds. It was surrounded by a garden, full of melon plants and vines, and many other fruits, delicious in a hot climate; and backed by fields of Indian corn. Before entering the village, we ascended a height, whence Mr Vernon took a long anxious glance over the blue sea with his telescope, which he had brought with him.

“There she is, D’Arcy,” he exclaimed at length, in an animated tone, pointing to a white speck just seen above the horizon, which I made out to be a ship’s royal. “I knew that Captain Poynder would be up to his time. Now we can depend on help from without, if we can but find our friends.”

It was near the time that the voice of the Mueddin, from the summit of the village mosque, announced that the hour of evening prayer had arrived, and called on the faithful to worship Allah, when we entered the village. Without halting, we rode at once up to the entrance-gate of the great man’s abode. Cool confidence afforded us the best chance of success. We were brought up at a porch, with a closed gate, in a high wall which ran round the mansion. We knocked loudly, and after a time the gate was opened by a slave, who salaamed low as he demanded our business.

“To see your great, powerful, and most illustrious master, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera,” said Mr Vernon, in Arabic. “Tell him that I have come to treat with him about a matter of great importance.”

The slave on this disappeared, keeping us outside, though he shortly returned, with two or three more slaves and a couple of armed men. Two of the slaves taking our steeds, the first signed us to advance, and led the way through a garden full of sweet-scented plants, the verbena, the jessamine, and rose, and shaded by luxuriant vines, trailed on bamboo trellice-work over head, the fruit hanging down in tempting bunches within our reach. In front of an alcove, or summer-house, on a rich carpet, sat a stout old man, in flowing robes, and long white beard, which hung down over his breast. We bowed low, and then stood still before him, for he did not offer us cushions to sit on; while Mr Vernon, paying the fullest compliments his knowledge of the language could command, opened his business.

“I do not understand clearly what all this is about,” said the old Sheikh, in reply. “Jewels to sell and jewels to buy. Perhaps to-morrow I may understand better. Come again in the forenoon, and show me your wares, and we will see what is to be done.”

Taking this remark as a signal that we were dismissed, we salaamed as before, and retired down the garden. We had reached the entrance, when a slave overtook us, and informed us that his master would allow us to sleep in a guest-room, opening into an outer court-yard, on one side of the main entrance. Mr Vernon told me afterwards, that not having any definite plan, he thought it would be wise to accept the Sheikh’s offer with a good grace, as more likely not to excite suspicion. The room to which we were shown was a small one, without windows or furniture, some little apertures over the entrance alone admitting light and air when the door was shut. It had the advantage, however, of enabling us to get out without being observed. Still a great difficulty remained—how we were to obtain any information about Miss Norman in the first place, and how we were to gain access to her in the second. In my character of a slave, I assisted the Sheikh’s slaves in bringing in the box of jewels, the saddle-bags, and saddles, and horse-cloths, as well as our blankets, which we had brought to form our beds at night. Our room being arranged, Mr Vernon told me to remain within, while he went out to try and obtain some information in the village, advising me in the meantime to amuse myself with my fiddle, which had already delighted the ears of many of the believers of the Prophet of Mecca during our long journey. I had some misgivings about his going, for I was afraid that the villagers might suspect his character, and might ill-treat him. For myself I had no fear as long as I could continue to feign dumbness, as my character was easily kept up. He had told the Sheikh’s people that I was a Nazarene lad, who was ignorant of their language. Being dumb, they considered me under the peculiar care of Providence.

After a little time, having recovered my spirits and cast all forebodings from me—which are, after all, but the result of a morbid imagination, or of a want of trust in God’s providence,—I sat myself down on the chest, and pulling my fiddle out of its case, began playing away most vigorously some of the old tunes Hanks had taught me. I had gone through some five or six of them, when a voice, which I felt sure I had often heard, hailed—

“Hillo! shipmate, what part of the world do you come from?” The faint light which came through the door was obscured by the figure of a seaman.

“Why!” I exclaimed, forgetting that I was dumb, as he stepped into the room,—“why, if I can believe my senses, there is Jack Stretcher himself.”

“What! is that you, Mr D’Arcy?” he answered; coming up to me, and taking my hand. “I should not have known you in that rum rig, sir, if it hadn’t been for your voice, I declare.”

Our errand was soon explained; and he then told me that, having been offered a berth as second mate of the Ariadne, he had obtained his discharge from the cutter. To my great satisfaction, he told me that Major Norman was really a slave in the Sheikh’s house, and that his daughter was in the harem. What had become of the rest of the crew he could not tell.

While I had been speaking, I had been scraping away to drown my voice, in case anybody came near. I now urged Jack to go and find the major, to let him know that help was at hand.

“Time enough by-and-by, when he comes in from the fields, where they’ve sent the poor gentleman to work. They put me to field labour at first, but they found out that I was handy as a rigger, so they’ve put me to refitting some of their craft. They’ve given me to understand that if I’ll consent to turn Moor or Turk, or somewhat of that sort, and worship their Prophet, they’ll make me a captain, or admiral for what I know, and will give me one of their black-eyed young women for a wife; but I’ll see them all triced up at their own yard-arms before I changes my religion, or forgets my own faithful rosy-cheeked Poll at home.”

I applauded his resolution, and charged him to adhere to it in ease he should not escape.

“No fear of me, sir, I hope,” he answered. “But, I say, sir,” he added, in a serious tone, “I hope Mr Vernon, who used to be a very nice young gentleman when I knew him in the Turtle, ain’t turned Turk in earnest.”

I assured him that he was only acting the part for a short time, which, I believed, was lawful.

“Well, I’m glad of that, sir,” he replied. “But, I say, sir, what do you think?” He looked out of the door, and then came back, and continued,—“I see a number of these Moorish fellows coming here, drawn, it’s pretty clear, by your music. Now I’ll just see if we can’t astonish the natives. Do you strike up a right jolly hornpipe, and I’ll toe and heel it till all’s blue, and see if I don’t make them understand what a real sailor can do with his feet when he’s inclined.”

The idea pleased me amazingly; so I came to the door, and began to scrape away right merrily, while Jack commenced one of the wildest hornpipes I ever saw danced. How he cut and shuffled,—how he crossed his feet and sprang up in the air, and kicked and capered,—it is almost impossible to describe. I could scarcely forbear laughing myself, especially when I saw a number of grave long-bearded Moors assembled round him, with looks of mute astonishment and admiration at his agility.

Mr Vernon soon joined them, and was as much astonished, evidently, as the rest. At last even Jack’s physical powers could hold out no longer, and, exhausted, he threw himself down on one of our horse-rugs near the door. He had, however, not remained there long, when one of the Sheikh’s slaves made his appearance, and, salaaming Mr Vernon, said that his master had been informed that his young follower possessed a wonderful instrument, and a wonderful talent for playing on it, and that he wished to hear him. He intimated also to Jack that he must get up and go through his hornpipe again. Jack, nothing loth, sprang to his feet, and, as he passed Mr Vernon he whispered, “Now’s your time, sir; look about you.”

We and several of the spectators were now forthwith ushered into the presence of the great chief. We found him seated in the garden-porch of his house, a number of lamps hanging from the trees around him. It was a picturesque and romantic scene. Four or five persons—mostly grave old gentlemen with long white beards—sat on cushions on either side of him; while others, in rich dresses, which betokened some rank, stood behind him. He had evidently been having a dinner party, and now wanted an evening entertainment. Mr Vernon salaamed before him, and asked what was the pleasure of so generous, magnificent, and grand a chief.

“Why, this: Understanding your young slave can play in a wondrous manner, I wish to hear him,” said the Sheikh. “But tell me, O merchant! how is it that he can communicate with my captive, as I am told he does. They must have been acquainted before.”

This question at first puzzled the pretended Turk, but he promptly replied, “O most wise and sagacious chief, worthy of being monarch of the faithful, know that these Nazarenes are in their youth instructed in many arts and sciences. Some play on instruments, some dance, others sing, or paint likenesses of men and beasts, strange abomination as that may appear. Now my slave is one who has learned to play on an instrument, and he who has the happiness to be owned by your highness, is one who has learned to dance.”

“I see, I see,” exclaimed the chief; “and it is a sin that two such accomplished slaves should belong to different masters; therefore, merchant, what price do you fix on yours? for, if he answers my expectations, I intend to become his purchaser.”

This announcement puzzled Mr Vernon somewhat; but, of course, he could not refuse at once.

“He is unworthy of being possessed by your highness,” he replied; “for nature has not allowed him the power of speech. But, rather than speak of that matter, let him show you a specimen of his art.”

He then made a sign to me, and I struck up Jack’s favourite hornpipe; the Moors, old and young, black beards and grey, short and long, forming a circle round him. Up he jumped, and, with arms akimbo, commenced his dance. If he had before shuffled, and kicked, and capered, he now redoubled his efforts, snapping his fingers, clapping his hands, turning and twisting in every conceivable way. Scarcely ever before was such a hornpipe danced. It drew forth rounds of applause from even the gravest of the spectators. The chief was delighted. Turning to one of his attendants, he gave an order, which I did not then comprehend. Mr Vernon had kept outside the circle, to be ready for any emergency which, as Jack hinted, might occur. I, meantime, played away a variety of other tunes, till Jack, jumping up from the spot where he had thrown himself, made a sign to me to begin another hornpipe. This time he even outdid either of his former attempts; indeed, before, I believe that he was only shamming being tired; for my fingers and elbows began to ache before his legs or breath gave any signs of his wish to end the dance.

“Change the tune, Mr D’Arcy. Wallop-ahoo-aboo! I’ll just give them an Irish jig to keep them staring.”

A jig I played, and a jig he danced, with agility enough to win the heart of any Nora Creina in old Ireland. Then I tried a Scotch reel, and he almost outdid the jig: nor did he cease till he saw Mr Vernon rejoin the circle.

“Now if we haven’t bamboozled the old gentleman famously, my name’s not Jack Stretcher!” he exclaimed with a loud laugh, slapping his thigh; an action which was naturally supposed by his audience to mark the finale of his barbaric dances.

Exclamations of wonder broke from the lips of all around; and I, having played a few more airs, we were dismissed, graciously, to our dormitory.

Mr Vernon then told me that, while Jack was dancing, he had managed to speak both to Major Norman and his daughter, the chief having sent for the inmates of his harem to witness the strange seaman’s dancing.

It was arranged that we should the following night try to communicate with the frigate’s boats; and if they could manage to send a party on shore, that we should scale the walls of the harem, and carry off Miss Norman—they being ready to support us. She, at at all events, would be prepared for the emergency.

Mr Vernon told me that, from what he heard, there would be no use negotiating, as the old chief boasted that he never had given up a slave he had taken, and never would. He was also subject to fits of fury, so that no time was to be lost in carrying out our plans. The great difficulty was to communicate with the boats, but Jack undertook the task. While employed in the harbour he had observed where some small skiffs lay, and he declared that he could easily steal off with one of them, and should without difficulty fall in with the boats. The next day was to be spent in marking out our line of retreat, and in settling the spot at which the boats were to land.

In the afternoon Mr Vernon was sent for to exhibit his jewels, and I went with him. The Sheikh laughed at the idea of he himself having any to sell, but he had no objection to buy some; and that the ladies of the harem might select for themselves, we were ushered to the entrance of its sacred precincts. I kept my eyes very sharp about me, and I saw that, by scaling a not very high wall, we could easily get up to the very door of the harem, which was separated from the main building. I at once recognised Miss Norman, though she was veiled like the rest of the ladies. She came forward to examine the jewels, and looked at several which the Sheikh offered her. One after the other she put them back into the box, till at last Mr Vernon contrived, unobserved, to slip a paper into her hand.

“It’s all right,” thought I. “Miss Norman will now be prepared when we are ready to help her to escape.”

A few jewels were bought; but Mr Vernon signifying that he would be happy to return on the following day, should any of the ladies desire to change their mind, they unanimously declared that he must certainly come.

Several times during the day Jack made excuses for coming up from the harbour, and each tune brought his ample pockets full of rope. As soon as it was dark he came cautiously into our chamber, where we all set to work, and in a short time had manufactured a rope-ladder quite long enough to go over the garden wall.

“Now,” said he, “I must be off, and try and fall in with the frigate’s boats. I have a skiff all ready, but I may have some way to pull; so don’t, sir, make a start till I come back and let you know all’s right.”

Several very anxious hours passed away after Jack’s departure, and Mr Vernon and I at last began to fear that some accident had occurred to him, or that he had missed the boats, and that we should have to risk another day within the old Sheikh’s power. Major Norman and his daughter must have been still more anxious, for they were separated from each other, and less able to account for the delay than we were. At length our anxious ears caught the sound of a light footstep, and Jack poked his head in at the door.

“All right,” he whispered. “The boats are ready to pull in when I signalise them. While you, gentlemen, go and get the young lady, I’ll be off and call the major.”

Eagerly Mr Vernon and I hurried out, carrying the ladder between us. It was a wonder some of the numerous dogs, found in every Moorish village, did not give tongue at us. We reached the part of the wall nearest the harem. Mr Vernon soon clambered up it, and, hoisting up the ladder, secured one end on the garden side, by pegs in the ground, which we had before prepared; while I held down the outer side. I heard him give a low whistle, as he had arranged. While I was anxiously waiting his return, I felt a hand placed on my shoulder. I started with horror, and almost let go the ladder, for I thought it was a Moor come to capture me, and that our enterprise had failed; but, looking up, I saw Jack’s honest face, and Major Norman behind him.

“I think, sir,” said Jack, “if you were to go over the wall, and help the lady up, it would make quicker work, and it won’t take you long to follow.”

His advice seemed so good that I did as he recommended. Fortunately I did so, for I do not think otherwise the ladder would have kept in its place. I found Mr Vernon waiting at the door of the harem, in despair almost at the non-appearance of Miss Norman. At length the bars within were gently removed, and, the door opening, she stepped forth into the garden. There was no time for greeting. Closing the door, Mr Vernon took her hand, and hurried on to the ladder. Climbing up, he had lifted her over the wall, and placed her in safety in her father’s arms, and I was following, when a door in another part of the building flew open, and a bright light streaming forth, I saw the old chief and a number of his attendants, with arms in their hands, rush out into the garden. I was over the wall in an instant, pulling the ladder after me, and not waiting to see which way they came.

“Fly, sir, fly!” I exclaimed. “The old tiger is after us.”

No second warning was necessary, and Mr Vernon and her father, lifting Miss Norman between them, hurried along the road towards the beach, Jack and I bringing up the rear, to keep our pursuers at bay. Lights now appeared in different parts of the village, and just as we turned a corner we saw the old Sheikh and his people in hot pursuit of us.

“Run, sir! run as fast as your legs can carry you, and bring up the people from the boats,” cried Jack, as he saw our enemies coming after us, and drawing a cutlass with which he had provided himself from the boats, and buckled to his side. “I’ll keep these chaps off from the young lady till help comes to us, I’ll warrant.”

I darted forward as fast as my legs could carry me. I was afraid every instant of being stopped by some Moor who might dart out from his house; but happily at that time the inhabitants of the village were fast asleep, and as yet there had been no noise to awaken them. Fortunately the old Sheikh was too fat to move fast; and his slaves, probably, had no fancy to encounter the formidable Englishman, whose agility of heel had made them fancy him little short of a Gin, or evil spirit of some sort. At last I reached the little creek where the boats were lying, the men resting on their oars, ready to shove off at a moment’s warning.

“Help! help!” I exclaimed, panting for breath. “Help! or Mr Vernon will be retaken.”

In a moment Adam Stallman, and a dozen men from the different boats, were by my side. All had been arranged for the emergency which had occurred. On we ran, in close order, at a double-quick step. Scarcely were we in time. The Moors were up to our friends, but Jack was laying about him in such gallant style, that no one could manage to lay hold upon them. His sword flew round his head like a flash of lightning; and though his opponents cut and thrust at him from all sides, he remained unhurt, while he had drawn blood from several of their sides. He shouted, and shrieked, and leaped about, springing now on one side, now on the other, yet back again in the middle of the road, if they attempted to press too much forward. Stallman, seeing at a glance how affairs stood, divided his people, so that they could encircle Mr Vernon and his friends; and then, coming up to Jack’s assistance, for a moment entirely drove back his assailants. By this time the whole village was aroused, and the Moors, collecting in numbers from the houses, attacked us furiously on all sides. Our brave fellows, however, kept them at bay, and retreated in good order towards the boats. We had no time to lose, in truth, for they were making for the boats themselves, and, if they got in our rear, might cut us off, and overpower also the party left in the boats. It was with no small satisfaction that I heard the voice of Dicky Sharpe shouting out to us to come on; and then a brisk fire from the men with him cleared the intervening space of Reefians, who had got ahead of us. The old chief and his slaves had hitherto not fired, either for fear of hurting Miss Norman, or because they had no powder or firearms. Now, however, the blood of all parties was up, and pistols began to flash, and sabres to clash, and a hot fight was going on, as we made a dash for the boats, and Miss Norman was lifted safely in. The Reefians now rushed furiously down on us. Adam Stallman and Jack Stretcher were the last men in, they keeping a whole host of Moors at bay, while the boats were being shoved off; then, by a desperate leap, Jack, by Stallman’s order, got into one of the boats, while he himself sprang into another. Alas! at that moment a volley came rattling down among us, and before Stallman could take his seat he fell into the bottom of the boat. It was the one I had reached. I stooped down.

“Where are you hurt, Stallman? Oh! tell me, tell me,” I exclaimed, taking his hand.

“In my side; lend me a handkerchief, pray,” he answered, faintly. “But give way, my lads—give way; never mind me.”

The men had stopped in their exertions for a moment, and were leaning forward to discover if he was much hurt. They needed not, however, a second order, for volley after volley came rattling over us; while the foremost and more daring Reefians in their rage rushed into the water, in the hope of seizing us. Some who grasped the gunnel had reason to repent their temerity; for we dealt them such blows with our cutlasses, that they were compelled to let go, every wound they received increasing their fury. Others waded after us up to their arm-pits, firing their pistols, and cutting at us with their scimitars, shouting fiercely at us all the time, and grinding their teeth with rage and disappointment. It was no child’s play; for, had they caught us, they would have destroyed every one of the party. By dint of great exertion the boats were at length got clear and into deep water. By the flashes of the firearms I could see the old Sheikh standing on the beach, and trying to urge his followers to pursue us still further. When they found that all hope of preventing our embarkation had gone, they hurried of to the harbour to launch their own boats for the pursuit. We had a long way to pull, several of our people were hurt, and the boats were likewise full of men; so that we felt we were far from certain of escaping after all. Mr Vernon ordered the gun in the bow of his boat to be fired, to draw the attention of the frigate, should she not have heard the sound of the musketry; and I followed his example. By this time we were a couple of miles or more away from the shore, but the frigate was still some five or six miles from us. Before long, by the light of the dawn just breaking, we could see the Reefian boats stealing out from the land; but we had now no great fear of being caught. Still our enemies pulled very fast, and were animated with every feeling of rage and revenge to excite them to exertion. Hitherto there had been a dead calm, which much facilitated our progress; and as the gloom of night cleared away, we could see, in the grey of the morning, the frigate’s topsails hanging uselessly in the brails. I kept anxiously looking back at our pursuers.

“Do they gain on us?” asked Stallman, who sat propped up in the stern-sheets.

“I fear so,” I replied; “but the frigate is still not so very far off.”

“If they overtake us, I will ask you, D’Arcy, to drop astern a little, and try and keep them at bay, so as to afford the first gig a better chance of escaping,” he said, faintly.

This was the boat Miss Norman was in.

“Of course, Stallman,” I answered, “every one here will do their best to defend the young lady. Won’t you, my lads?”

“Ay, ay, sir; never fear,” replied the men, with one voice, at the same time giving a cheer. “Hurra! hurra!”

The enemy’s boats were now drawing uncomfortably near, and the headmost ones had begun to fire, though their shot did not reach us. Still it was too evident that they would be up to us before the frigate could come to our assistance. There she still lay, like a log on the water. I did not much fear the enemy; but I knew if they overtook us, even if we escaped, it would be the cause of much more bloodshed. Presently, as I was thinking of this, I saw a light ripple curling over the smooth, shining surface of the leaden-coloured sea. Another and another cat’s-paw followed; the frigate let fall her topsails—they were sheeted home; sail after sail was set; and just then, as the sun rose in a blaze of glory, our gallant ship was seen standing towards us—a magnificent and welcome sight—under a press of canvas, lighted up by the bright rays of the warmth-giving luminary. A simultaneous cheer rose from the boats’ crews as they beheld the spectacle; and, with redoubled efforts, they gave way to meet the ship. The Reefians saw that their prospect of catching us was gone; and giving us a parting, though happily harmless volley, they pulled round, and made all haste to the shore, to avoid being themselves in their turn pursued and captured. We were, soon after this, on board, and heartily welcomed. The poor fellows—there were four or five of them who had been badly wounded—were carried to their hammocks, and tended carefully by the surgeon. Adam Stallman was conveyed to Mr Vernon’s berth in the gun-room. He was evidently more hurt than anybody else. The doctor gave a very unfavourable report of his case to the captain from the first. Every one on board grieved much to hear of his danger, for he was much beloved; but he seemed calm and contented. When I saw him his looks were cheerful—a smile was on his lips. Few would have believed that he was a person about shortly to die, and that he full well knew it. It was not a stoical indifference to death; not the courage of a man endowed with physical hardihood; but true Christian fortitude and resignation to the will of God, trust in his Maker’s promises, hope in the future, which supported him. We were now returning to Malta; for Captain Poynder saw that there would be no use of attempting to punish the Reefians for their late acts, and that we should certainly only be the chief sufferers if we attacked them.

One day Adam Stallman sent for Dicky Sharpe and me.

“My dear boys,” he said, “I have sometimes given you good advice, and I much regret that I have not given you more, as you always took it well. I may never have an opportunity of speaking to you again.”

“Oh! don’t say so, Stallman,” sobbed my young messmate. “Don’t die! You must recover, and stay with us.”

“Life and death are in God’s hands alone,” replied Adam Stallman. “As you have a regard for me, promise me that you will try not to forget what I say to you. Remember always that you were sent into this world as a place of trial—that you have numberless bad propensities existing in you, and many temptations constantly offered to you—that your trial consists in the way you conquer the one and resist the other; but also recollect that you have no power whatever of yourselves to do this—that of yourselves you would not even know how to resist—you would not know that it was necessary to resist. But then you must know that God is just, merciful, and kind; that He has given mankind a guide, not only to tell them that they must resist, but to show them how to resist temptation—how to conquer evil propensities; that if they will pray to Him, He will give them knowledge and grace, and strength sufficient for all their wants. In that guide—that Book of books—He tells them that He sent His only Son, that His sufferings and death might be accepted instead of their eternal suffering and death, to which their sins would most justly have consigned them. Therefore, my dear boys, I want you to study, that book, day after day—never give it up. But, at the same time, do not fancy that you are doing a meritorious act by merely reading it. You must examine it, and treasure it, as you would a precious gift. You should read it with thankfulness and joy that God has given you that precious gift. You are not doing him any service by reading it. The acts alone which result from reading it do him any service; and, after all, those acts are only your bounden duty. Common gratitude demands them from you. Never forget. You must pray daily—pray for grace, and faith, and strength, and knowledge; and be assured that God will give them to you at last. Never cease praying. What I have said may seem hard to you, my dear boys; but it is the truth; and I could not have died happy without saying it, as I felt that it was my duty to say it. Be religious, and never be ashamed of your religion. Hoist your colours in sight of the enemy, and fight bravely under them wherever you go.”

Much more our friend said, but the above was the pith of his discourse. I believe that neither my young messmate nor I ever forgot what he said. By following his advice, we have found a comfort, a joy, a strength, which we should never otherwise have known. Our kind friend’s forebodings were speedily fulfilled; and before we reached Malta he had, in perfect peace, yielded up his life to the God who gave it.

“What! did the good Adam Stallman really die?” some of my young readers may ask. Yes; good and bad, rich and poor, of all ranks and stations in society, are often summoned in their joyous youth, their flowering manhood, by a just God, to render up an account of their mode of life. Oh! my young friends, remember that you, too, may be summoned away from this bright world, and all you hold dear, in an hour, a day, a year—at a moment you think not of; and that you, too, must render up an account of how you have lived on earth before the great, the just, the All-seeing Judge; that every thought of your heart, every action you have performed, will then be laid bare; and that, unless you can say, I did my duty to the best of my power and knowledge, and I trusted to Christ to save me, it were better, far better, that you had never been born. I shall be glad to find that my adventures amuse you, but I should also deeply blame myself if I did not try and make you understand these things; and I should feel that it were also far better that my book had not been written.

Chapter Nineteen.

Return to England—Appointed to the Opossum—The Commander’s Oath—How he Kept it—The Gale—Loss of Masts—Old Popples—Death of Commander—The Pirate—End of Myers.

I forgot to say in the last chapter, that before shaping our course for Malta, we ran a little way down the coast, and landed our young Reefian prisoner. It might have been better had Captain Poynder endeavoured, through his means, to treat with the old Sheikh for the liberation of his captives; but, probably, the success of such a plan was considered too doubtful to be attempted. What became of Mr Vernon’s jewel-box I do not know: I fancy the contents were of very little intrinsic value. We carried Major Norman and his daughter to Gibraltar, whence they went to England. Mr Vernon did not marry for upwards of a year after this. He and his wife are among my most intimate friends. We met with no more adventures worth recording in the old Harold. At length we returned to Portsmouth, and being paid off, I was once more a gentleman at large. I did not long remain so, for my kind uncle took care to get me another ship as soon as possible. In the meantime, I accompanied Dicky Sharpe to the home of his father and mother, Sir John and Lady Sharpe. They were excessively kind, and made a great deal of me; and so did the Misses Sharpe, who, being a good deal older than Dicky, treated us somewhat like little children, petting and humouring our fancies, which did not altogether please me. It made me much more inclined to act like a child, and to join Dicky in any pranks he proposed. I was very sorry, however, to have to go away. It was, at the same time, no little satisfaction to both of us, that we found ourselves appointed to the same ship—a fine sixteen-gun brig, just fitting out—the Opossum, Captain Cranley. Dicky, however, got leave for two or three weeks, while I had to join at once. His friends got him the appointment because it was considered better that he should see some service in a small craft, with a smart officer, which our commander was said to be; while I joined because I was not likely to get a better. I had gone to see Larry as soon as I reached England, and found him and his wife flourishing. When I got back to Portsmouth, while the brig was fitting out, I paid him frequent visits, to the old man’s great delight; and he used to tell everybody he met what a first-rate sailor I had become, winding up invariably, with a look of no little pride, “Ay, sir, and ’twas I taught him—didn’t I, Master Neil?”

I must not forget to mention my kind uncle and aunt, and Daisy Cottage, where I was always a welcome guest. He had paid the cutter off, but expected soon to obtain another appointment. Of the Marlows I could only hear that they had gone abroad; but as Miss Alice had promised to write to my aunt as soon as they had settled, I was in hopes of hearing about them. But I must get on with my story. The Opossum was at sea, running down Channel, with orders to wait at Falmouth for despatches and mails for Halifax, Nova Scotia. With the exception of Dicky Sharpe, all my brother officers were strangers to me, and mostly to each other, so it took a little time before we became acquainted and shook into our places. Captain Cranley, I found, was somewhat of the old school—very kind-hearted and simple-minded, and not less strict towards himself than towards others—with a nice sense of honour, and very sensitive of rebuke. I was very glad to find that my old friend Jack Stretcher had volunteered, with the hope of one day becoming a warrant-officer. I must also mention the boatswain, who, though an oldish man, had not long taken out his warrant. He was a prime seaman, with nothing very remarkable in his appearance, except that he was tall and thin, and had a long bushy beard, now somewhat grizzled. The aforesaid individual, Mr Popples, was neat and clean, and had really good manners; his great ambition being to rise in the world, though he had begun to ascend rather late in life. We youngsters had a great respect for him, notwithstanding some of his peculiarities, and should never have dreamed of playing him the tricks we did old Chissel and Trundle in the Harold. Two days after we left Falmouth, the wind, which had been from the eastward and moderate, chopped round to the westward and north-west, and began to blow very heavily. Our commander, however, was not a man to be frightened by a capful of wind; so we close-reefed the topsails, and lay upon our course as near as we could. The gallant little brig headed the seas bravely, and gave us every reason to hope that we might weather out the gale without damage. Towards the evening of the third day, however, it came on to blow harder than ever; the clouds came gathering up in thick masses, as if hurried one on the other, without the means of escaping, and the sea rose higher and higher. Mr Pullen, the master, kept glancing to windward in a significant manner.

“What do you think of it, master?” asked Captain Cranley.

“Why, sir, the sooner that we up-helm, and run into port, the better for the ship and ourselves,” replied Mr Pullen. “There’s no use straining a vessel till every timber in her creaks and groans with pain,—that’s my opinion.”

“A very just one, master, and I’ll follow your advice,” said the captain. “All hands wear ship.”

The delicate, operation was successfully performed. The helm was put up—the aftersails were brailed up and furled—more headsail was got on her. For an instant she rolled heavily in the trough of the sea; then her headsail, feeling the full force of the wind, carried her head away from it, and, like a sea-bird released from imprisonment, off she flew on rapid wings before it. A number of vessels, driven in by stress of weather, were collected in Falmouth Harbour as we entered. We ran by them, past the flag-ship, for the purpose of bringing up, when we were hailed with—

“What! Captain Cranley, are you afraid of a capful of wind? There’s nothing to hurt you now outside; so go to sea again without bringing up.”

These words stung our old captain to the quick.

“It’s the first time James Cranley was ever taunted for being afraid of anything, much less a gale of wind; and it shall be the last time, too, whatever comes of it, so help me Heaven!”

Fearfully did the old man keep his vow. Accordingly, we forthwith stood out again to sea. When we were clear of the land, we found the gale completely abated, and we had a very fine passage, till within about a hundred miles of our port, when it fell calm. Never do I recollect a more perfect calm. The sea was like lead in colour, but as smooth as glass, though every now and then there came a long, slow, gently-moving undulation, as if there were some unseen power beneath the water. There was something, I thought, very ominous in the whole appearance of the atmosphere. The barometer, the seaman’s warning friend, began also to sink, and each hour the quicksilver got lower and lower. Thus passed two days, but not a breath of wind came. Captain Cranley paced his deck with uneasy steps. The master likewise looked far from satisfied, I thought, with the appearance of the weather, and kept continually glancing round the horizon, in search of the expected sign of a change. The sails hung idly down against the masts, every now and then flapping loudly, as the vessel rolled slowly in the swell. It would have been more seamanlike had they been furled; but, to tell the truth, our commander appeared seized with a fit of infatuation, which deprived him of his usual clear judgment on professional matters. He had not got over his late unjust reprimand. With a morbid feeling of injured honour, he allowed it to rankle in his bosom. People are apt to have a foreboding of evil; but on the present occasion there were ample reasons for dreading mischief.

“To my mind, if we were to furl every stitch of canvas, and send down our topmasts, we should be acting like seamen,” said old Popples, as I was forward, attending to some duty.

“Why do you say that?” I asked. “The sea is like glass, and there’s no wind, nor chance of any, as far as I can judge.”

“Because I haven’t sailed round the world for the last forty years with my eyes shut, Mr D’Arcy,” he replied. “Be sure, when the weather’s like this, there’s no slight gale coming on; but the commander is a good seaman, and I suppose he’ll give the order soon.”

The commander, however, did not seem to apprehend any immediate change of weather. Not so Mr Pullen. Whenever he went into the cabin, he found that the silver in the barometer had sunk lower than ever; and each time he came on deck, looking more anxious than before. After some time spent in watching the sky to the northward, he walked up to the commander.

“Captain Cranley, sir,” said he, “it’s my duty to tell you that, in my opinion, this weather won’t last many hours longer—not to say minutes, perhaps; and if the squall I look for catches us with all this canvas set, it will carry the masts over the side to a certainty.”

“It’s the custom in the service generally for officers to wait till their opinion is asked,” replied the commander, turning on his heel, and taking a few more turns on the quarter-deck. At last he stopped, and looked out towards the northward and westward, where a thick mass of clouds was banking up, each instant rising higher and higher.

“Mr Fairman,” he said, to the first-lieutenant, “call all hands to shorten sail; put the brig under double-reefed topsails. Whichever way the squall comes, we mustn’t be frightened at it this time, eh?”

The command was quickly obeyed, but the air remained as stagnant as ever. Still old Popples was not satisfied.

“We are better so than we were before, I’ll allow,” he remarked; “but the gale, when it does begin to blow, will, to my mind, be a regular hurricane, and we shall be glad to run before it under bare poles. Mark my words, Mr D’Arcy!”

Boatswains do not always deliver their opinion thus freely about their captain; but old Popples was privileged, at all events with us midshipmen. Mr Pullen shrugged his shoulders and said nothing, though he evidently held the same opinion as the boatswain. The commander had just retired to his cabin, while the master continued his walk, turning his eye every now and then towards the quarter whence he expected the wind to come. Suddenly he stopped.

“Here it is!” he exclaimed. “Up with the helm—square away the afteryards.”

Scarcely had he spoken, than a terrific roar was heard, and down came the gale upon us with unbridled fury, driving before it vast masses of spoondrift, and tearing up the water into huge waves, which every instant rose higher and higher. Off flew the brig’s head, however, before it, and it seemed like a race between her and the dense sheets of spray which careered over the seas, and the clouds of scud which chased each other across the sky. Her course, however, was to be suddenly arrested. The commander made his appearance hurriedly on deck.

“What means this?” he exclaimed. “There’s our port, sirs,” pointing to the north-west. “Bring the ship on a wind—down with the helm—brace up the yards!”

The officers stood aghast, but the order was not to be disputed.

No sooner did the brig feel the full force of the wind, than she heeled over, till her lee guns were buried in the waves, and the spray came flying over us, fore and aft. Still we looked up to it, and, had the wind not increased, we might have weathered it very well; but it was evident that the gale had not yet come to its height. Magnificently the brave little brig dashed through it; but it was fearful work,—the timbers groaned, and the masts bent, every instant threatening to go by the board. Once more Mr Pullen urged the commander to bear up.

“No, no, master,” he answered, shaking his head; “I’ve sworn that no power shall ever again turn me away from the port to which I am bound; and James Cranley is not a man you would ask to break his oath, I hope.”

“Well, sir, but the brig will hold her own better under closer canvas, you’ll allow,” urged the master.

After some time the commander permitted the topsails to be close-reefed, but not another stitch would he take off her. Still the brig had too much sail set; and wearily and heavily she laboured through the yet fast rising seas.

I had been on deck for some hours, and, drenched to the skin, was shivering with cold, when Mr Pullen, with whom I was a favourite, told me to go and lie down in his berth, our own not being tenable, from the water which the straining of the ship allowed to run into it. All the officers and the watch were on deck. In spite of the heavy pitching of the ship, I soon fell asleep. How long I remained so I know not, when a terrific noise awoke me. I felt the suffocation of drowning, and for a moment saw the water in dark green masses rushing into the cabin. In another instant it was all dark. I uttered a prayer for mercy, for I felt that the brig was on her side and sinking. Still the love of life did not desert me. Through the darkness I discerned one bright spot overhead. I made for it, and as I found my hands grasping the combings of the gun-room skylight, the brig, with a sudden jerk, righted again. I thought it was only preparatory to going down. Still I held on. The water rolled away, and disappeared from above and beneath me, and I was able to obtain a clear view along the deck. What a scene of destruction and horror met my view! Of all those living men who lately peopled her decks, not a soul was there—not a mast was standing—not a boat remained—as if the destroying sword of the Archangel had swept over them. The decks were swept clear of everything; while the green foam-topped seas, in mountain masses, rose above them, threatening every instant to overwhelm my hapless vessel. A glance showed me all this. Looking forward, I saw another head rising from the fore-hatchway; it was that of old Popples, the boatswain.

“What! are they all gone?” he shouted; “then I’m captain. Lend a hand, Mr D’Arcy, and we’ll try and get the ship before the wind.”

“Captain of a sinking ship you may be, Mr Popples,” I answered, amused, even in that moment of horror, at the old man’s extraordinary ambition.

But there was no time for talking. I sprang on deck, as he had done, and at the same instant a cry reached our ears, and looking to leeward, we saw the faces of several of our shipmates, clinging to the spars and rigging, which still hung on to the ship.

At first, surrounded as they were with the seething foam, their countenances convulsed with terror or agony, as they clung with their death-grasp to the rigging, it was difficult to recognise them; while, one by one, they were torn from their uncertain hold, and borne far away to leeward. Still some clung on. I trusted my friend Dicky Sharpe might be of the number; for even then, strange as it may seem, I pictured to myself the grief and misery his loss would cause at that home where I had lately seen him the hope and joy of a loving mother and affectionate sisters. These thoughts occupied scarcely a second. In a few moments I recovered from the sensation of almost overwhelming horror which the scene had caused; and, as I gazed more attentively, I recognised Dicky himself, with Captain Cranley, and the master, yet clinging to the rigging.

The watch below, whom the boatswain had summoned, joined us without delay; and I must do him the justice to say, that no one could more nobly have exerted himself than he did in trying to save those who would speedily deprive him of his new-fledged honours. The foremast and its rigging, in falling, had torn away the chain-plates and everything which secured it forward; and the whole tangled mass of spars and ropes now hung on by the after-shrouds, and had both served to put the brig before the wind, by holding back her stern, while it allowed her head to pay off, and acted also as a sort of breakwater, which saved us from being pooped. The poor fellows in the water were crying loudly for help as they caught sight of us on deck. One of the nearest was Dicky Sharpe. Calling Jack Stretcher to my aid, I got him to heave a rope with a bight at the end which I had made. It fell close to Dicky’s head. He grasped it with one hand, and slipped it over his shoulders. We hauled on it till we got him near the side. Just then the foreyard came surging up, and I thought would strike him.

“Give me your hand!” I shrieked out.

I caught it barely in time. Stretcher leaned through a port, and we got Dicky in at the moment that the yard came thundering against the side, almost grazing his foot. All this was but the work of a second. Popples had in the meantime, by great exertions, managed to get the master on board; and his next attempt was to save Captain Cranley. He, however, was much further out, hanging on to one of the topmasts. None of the ropes near him which we could reach would come home. There appeared to be no means of saving him. Two other men were, however, got in.

“Come, I can’t bear to see our old skipper washed away before our eyes. What will his wife and children do?” exclaimed Jack Stretcher. “I’ve no one at home to care for me; so some on you clap on here, while I just make a fly out, and see if I can’t get hold of him.”

The gallant fellow had made a rope fast to his waist, and was on the point of making his perilous attempt by springing into the raging sea, when a terrific wave came rolling up astern. Its curling crest lifted high the spar to which the commander clung. I fancied that I could see his starting eyes take one last earnest glance at the ship, and his lips moved as if imploring us to save him. Then down came the wave; and as the ship was hurried on before it, its broken waters tore away his already failing grasp, and in a moment he was buried from our sight. We had no time to mourn for him then. Mr Pullen instantly took command, and Popples was fain to act as his first-lieutenant; while Sharpe and I did our utmost to make ourselves useful.

The wreck of the masts, as I have said, kept the brig before the wind. While some hands set to work to rig the pumps, others got up a bit of a jury-mast, secured to the stump of the foremast. On this we managed to spread a topgallant-sail, which helped her along famously. All hands who could possibly be spared were required to work the pumps, spell and spell; and the wonder was, when we found the immense quantity of water she had taken on board, that she had not gone down. As it was, her deck and upper works leaked in every direction; and we all felt that such, even now, might be our fate. I shall never forget the anxiety of that first night, as, amid the raging seas, with the gale howling round us, our near sinking ship, battered and dismasted, ran through the darkness, every sea, as, foam-crested, it came rolling up astern, threatening to overwhelm us. Who but fools would not, on such occasions, feel the utter helplessness of their own arm to help them, or would fail to put their trust alone in Him who is all-powerful to save. Yes; it is amid the raging storm and on the battered wreck that the seaman, if his mind be but directed aright, gains a practical knowledge of the value of religion. But alas! how few—how very few—are taught religious truths; and the very men who wander round the globe, and might act as important pioneers of civilisation and Christianity among the heathen, are allowed, for the most part, to remain ignorant and profane—a disgrace, instead of an honour, to the Christian nation to which they belong. Such a state of things ought not to exist; and I ask you, my young friends, to aid in conveying the blessings of the gospel to our gallant seamen, and, through their means, to the far distant nations of the earth. But to return to the brig. For two days we ran to the southward, without any change in the weather. At length it began to moderate, and in three days more we had run into comparatively a smooth sea.

No one would willingly have blamed our late unfortunate commander; but we all felt that, had he bore up in time, as a seaman should have done, instead of obstinately persisting in holding his ground, he would have saved his own and many valuable lives, and the brig would have escaped the disaster she had suffered.

Mr Pullen had shaped a course for the Bermudas; but, low as they are, it was necessary to keep a very sharp look-out, to prevent running past them, or on to the coral reefs by which they are surrounded. Our landfall, however, was better than we expected; and one of the fine pilot-boats, for which the islands are so deservedly noted, coming off to us, we were safely towed into harbour. The brig was some months in the hands of the dockyard people before we were ready for sea, our despatches, after some weeks’ detention, being sent on to their destination.

During the period of our stay, the merchants, as well as the military officers, were very kind to Dicky and me. The Bermudas are also called Somers’ Islands, because Sir George Somers was cast away on them in 1609, since when they have been inhabited by English settlers. Their productions are very similar to those of the West Indies. There are a number of blacks on them, who at the time I speak of were slaves, but are now, of course, free. They consist of four principal islands, the chief of which is called Saint George, and other smaller ones. They take their name from Juan Bermudez, who discovered them in 1522. I have no time to say more about the place.

Before we were ready for sea, a new commander was sent out from England—Captain Idle. His name was very far from appropriate to his character. He brought us the pleasing information that we were destined for the coast of Africa, where some fast cruisers were much wanted to put down the slave-trade.

Captain Idle had seen some service. He had been thirty years at sea, out of which time he had not probably spent two on shore. He had been in the North Seas and West Indies, in the Antarctic Ocean, and on the coast of Africa, in the Indian seas, and in every part of the Pacific. There was not an unhealthy station in which he had not served. He had served for ten years as a first-lieutenant. He had been three times wounded, and had obtained his rank, both as lieutenant and commander, for two remarkable deeds of gallantry; and now, as a special reward for his services, I suppose, he was sent out to the coast of Africa.

A first-lieutenant also joined us—Reuben Spry by name,—and two mates, the senior of whom did duty as second lieutenant—Holland and Waller. The very day we were ready for sea we went out of harbour, and made the best of our way towards the coast of Africa. A succession of easterly winds had kept the Opossum more to the west than she would otherwise have been. We were about the latitude of Barbadoes, when, having run on during most of the night with a fair breeze, towards morning it dropped altogether, and we found ourselves rolling away in a tropical calm. As we were already in the seas where slavers are to be found, a bright look-out was kept, in the hopes of our falling in with a prize, though as yet not a sail had been seen to which it was thought worth while giving chase. As morning broke, of a day I shall not easily forget, there appeared to the southward, not four miles from us, two vessels becalmed like ourselves. One, a large barque, somewhat the nearest to us, was clearly an English merchantman; the other, a low, black schooner, had the wicked, rakish appearance of a Spanish slaver. The look-out from the foretopmast-head gave notice at the same time that he could see two boats pulling from one vessel to the other. The captain and all the officers were speedily on deck.

“There’s some mischief going on there,” exclaimed Captain Idle, after a look at the vessels. “Mr Spry, call the boats away; we must send and overhaul these fellows.”

Three boats, under the command of the first-lieutenant, were speedily in the water, and manned, all hands being well-armed. Waller had charge of one boat, I of the third,—and not a little proud did I feel of the honour. A cup of cocoa and some biscuit being first served out to each of us, to give us strength for the work to be accomplished, away we pulled towards the barque. It was hot enough when we started, but as the sun rose higher it grew hotter still, and the glare on the smooth water became so bright as almost to blind us; but nothing relaxed our exertions, all hands feeling that there was some work before us. The other boats had reached the barque when we were yet three miles off, and very probably had not observed us, although the people from the rigging of the merchantman must have done so. The report of firearms was now heard, and this made us redouble our efforts to get up.

“The merchantman is attacked by pirates; there is not a doubt of it,” shouted Mr Spry. “Fire off your muskets, my lads; it will give both parties notice that we are coming to put a stop to their fun.”

Those not pulling blazed away right merrily for a few minutes, and then watched for the result. It seemed to have encouraged one party and to have disheartened the other, for the boats we had before seen were observed pulling back to the schooner.

“Follow me, Waller. After the boats, my lads!” shouted Mr Spry. “D’Arcy, do you board the barque. See if any assistance is required, and if not, pull for the schooner.”

It took me but a short time to find myself alongside the barque, while the rest of our party were in chase of the strange boats. So eagerly were those on board looking out at the chase, that they did not observe me step on board. Alas! the appearance of the deck showed too plainly that mischief had already been done. One man lay dead, and two more sat on the deck, supported by their shipmates. But there were two persons in a group standing aft, whom I thought I recognised. I looked again. I was sure I could not be mistaken, and running up to them, I found myself shaking hands most warmly with Mr Marlow and his daughter. He did not recognise me; but she did in a moment, and told him who I was.

“Again you have helped to save our lives, Mr D’Arcy,” he exclaimed; “for, thanks to our brave captain here, we were able to resist a band of villainous pirates who attacked us, till your appearance frightened them off.”

I of course told them how happy I was to be of service, and then, finding that my presence on board the barque was not required, I tumbled into my boat, and gave way after my shipmates. The pirates’ boats had gained the schooner about ten minutes before they had. I was not long behind them, and the aid of my boat’s crew was very welcome. The deck of the schooner was crowded with men, who were making a desperate resistance. The most prominent of them fought more like a demon than a human creature. With desperate energy he wielded a huge cutlass, with which he kept the deck clear around him. His men, however, a mixture of Spanish, Portuguese, blacks, and a few English or Americans, were falling thick on either side, and several had actually been driven overboard. My gallant fellows gave a loud shout as we scrambled on deck, and, led by Jack Stretcher, they cleared everything before them. Some of the pirates were forced down the hold, others overboard, and several sunk on the deck to rise no more. Still the captain stood at bay. I now had a better opportunity of observing him, and at once I recognised my old enemy, the villain Myers.

“Your time is come at last, Bill Myers,” I shouted.

The words seemed to have a paralysing effect. What thoughts they called up, I know not. Perhaps he had not for long been known by that name. He made a few steps backward, and then, with one bound, cleared the side of the vessel and leaped overboard. There was no land to swim to—no boat to pick him up—but ravenous sharks surrounded the scene of strife, already collected by the taste of blood. In another instant the long-sought-for smuggler, murderer, and pirate was their prey. The remainder of the pirates yielded without another blow. We found that they had shipped for a slave voyage only; but had been induced by Myers, who had lately got command, to commence a course of piracy, which, by our appearance, had happily been cut short. After some hours, a breeze springing up, we brought the vessels together. Waller and I were ordered to take the prize into Barbadoes, where the barque also was bound; while the Opossum cruised outside to look out for slavers.

Mr Marlow was going to spend some time at Bridgetown, where he had a house of business. He received Waller and me most kindly, and nothing could exceed the hospitality of the inhabitants generally when they heard of our exploit. Captain Curtis, also, the master of the barque, got great credit for the way he had defended his vessel till we came to his assistance. Miss Alice Marlow had grown somewhat, but still she was very little for her age. She was, however, as kind as ever, and I, for one, was very sorry when the Opossum came in with another prize. The survivors of the men who had boarded the barque were hung, and the schooner herself was condemned. This business being accomplished, the Opossum once more made sail for the coast of Africa.

Chapter Twenty.

Look out for Slavers in a Boat—Weary of Waiting—A Sail in Sight—Capture her—Attacked by a Larger Slaver—Desperate Fight—Beat her off.

We had been some weeks on the coast without having taken a prize, although we had chased several suspicious-looking craft, which had contrived to get away from us. At Sierra Leone we had shipped a dozen Kroomen, to get wood and water for the ship, a work which Europeans in that climate are unable to perform without great risk. At length Captain Idle began to grow impatient. One day he sent for Waller, who had been on the coast before with him, and was a very clever, active fellow.

“Waller,” said he, “I want you to go away in the pinnace, and while some of these slaving gentlemen are running away from us, perhaps you may be able to render a good account of them. You will require a companion. Will you like to take D’Arcy with you?”

Waller expressed his readiness to go, and to have my society; and so it was settled. Among his other accomplishments, he was a first-rate shot with a rifle, and it was reported, when he was before on the coast, that he used to pick off the men at the helm, and any of the crew who went aloft or appeared above the bulwarks, and had thus caused the capture of several slavers. I was to see this talent exerted. Jack Stretcher, who was a capital companion, went with us as coxswain. We were all dressed in thick flannel shirts, and had blankets in which to wrap ourselves at night. We had water and provisions for ten days, and a small stove, with which to warm up our cocoa and tea, and to make a stew or a broil on occasion. I do not remember that we had any other luxuries. Towards the end of the afternoon watch we shoved off from the brig’s side, having wished our shipmates “Good-bye!” with a sort of feeling that we might not meet again. While the Opossum stood away on a bowline to the northward, we shaped a course for the mouth of the Gaboon river. We arrived at our cruising ground before daybreak. Waller then ordering the men to lay in their oars, which had hitherto been kept going, and lowering the sail, told them to wrap themselves in their blankets, and to lie down under the thwarts. I kept watch while he also slept. The night was bright and beautiful, and the sea, smooth as a mirror, reflected the glittering stars which shone forth from the dark blue heavens, while our boat lay floating idly on its slumbering bosom. So deep was the silence which reigned around, that the breathing of the sleepers sounded strangely loud, and I fancied that I could hear vessels, even though out of sight, passing by, or fish rising to the surface to breathe, or cleaving the water with their fins. At other times my imagination made me fancy that I could hear beings of another world calling to each other as they flew through the air or floated on the ocean; and I almost expected to see their shadowy forms glide by me. About an hour before dawn, Waller got up and told me to take some rest. I was not sorry to lie down, albeit my rest was far from refreshing. I soon began to dream, and dreamed that I was a plum-pudding, and that Betty, the cook at Daisy Cottage, had fastened me up in a flannel pudding-bag, and put me into a pot to boil. The water soon began to simmer, and I to swell and swell away, till the string got tighter and tighter round my throat, while a thick black smoke arose from some coals which she had just put on. I was looking out of the pot, and meditating on the proverb, “Out of the frying-pan into the fire,” when, being unable to stand it any longer, I jumped out of the pudding-bag, and found myself rolling at the bottom of the boat.

“Why, D’Arcy, I thought you were going to spring overboard,” said Waller. When I told him my dream, he laughed heartily, and agreed there was ample cause for it.

Our blankets were wet through and through, and a dense black fog hung over us, through which it was impossible to discover the position of the sun, which had some time been up, or of any object ten fathoms off; while the sea was as smooth as a sheet of glass, and as dull-coloured as lead. As I awoke I found my throat sore from the unwholesome moisture I had inhaled. We had nothing, therefore, to do but cook and eat our breakfast, and practise patience. There was little use exhausting the men’s strength by pulling, as we were as likely to pull from, as towards, a vessel. Hour after hour thus passed away, till at length the sun conquered the mist, and gradually drew it off from the face of the deep, discovering a wide expanse of shining water, unbroken by a single dot or speck which was likely to prove a sail; while to the eastward arose a long dark line of mangrove-trees, at the mouth of the Gaboon river. The land-breeze came off to us, smelling of the hot parched earth; and we turned our eyes anxiously whence it blew, in the hope of seeing some white sail dancing before it over the bar of the river; but we were doomed to disappointment. The hot sun struck down on our heads, and tanned and scorched our cheeks, and the upper works of the boat cracked with the heat, till a beefsteak might have been broiled on the gunwale. At last the land-wind died away; there was again a dead calm, in which we roasted still faster, till the sea-breeze set in and somewhat cooled our parched tongues. Now we looked out seaward, in the hopes of finding some slaver, unsuspectingly standing in, either to ship the whole or the portion of a cargo, having already, perhaps, taken some on board at another part of the coast. Nothing is more trying to the temper than to have to sit quiet and do nothing; yet such was our fate from day to day, as we lay like a snake ready to spring on its prey. The sun rose, and roasted us, and set, leaving us to be parboiled, and rose again, without a sail appearing. We ate our breakfasts, and dinners, and suppers, and smoked our pipes, and sat up, and went to sleep again, in the same regular manner for several successive days.

At length, one morning, a light breeze sprang up; and, as the fog was blown off in dense wreaths, the topsails of a schooner were seen rising above them.

“Out oars, my men, and give way with a will!” exclaimed Waller, in an animated voice. “We are not yet seen, and may get alongside before they find us out.”

The men, in their delight at the prospect of having something to do, would have cheered, but he silenced them. We hoped that she was a slaver; but she might, after all, be only an honest Liverpool trader. When first seen, she was little more than a mile off, to the south-west of us, running in for the land with the wind, which was from the northward abeam.

“What do you think of her, Jack?” asked Waller, after Stretcher had been eyeing her narrowly.

“Why, sir, to my mind, those topsails have only been cut by Spanish fingers; so I make pretty sure she’s nothing else than a nigger passage-vessel.”

This announcement made the men give way still more heartily, for, though the wind was fair, we did not make sail, as we should thereby have been more quickly seen. Away we pulled, the water bubbling and hissing under our bows as we cut through it. When we got within a quarter of a mile of the chase, she saw us, we judged, by hearing a musket fired and seeing a bullet strike the water near us.

“That proves he has got no guns on board. Give way, my lads!” shouted Waller.

The men cheered, and bent to their oars with greater vigour. We then hoisted the British ensign, and fired a musket to make the fellow heave-to; but, taking no notice of the signal, he held on his course. The wind continued so light, however, that we were overhauling him fast; but there were signs, both on the sky and water, that it might again get up, and afford him a better chance of escaping. At all events, he was evidently not inclined to give in.

“I must teach the fellow that the British flag is not to be trifled with,” said Waller, taking up his rifle. “I have no compassion on these slaving villains.”

Scarcely had he spoken, when a man, whom we both took to be the captain, jumped into the netting abaft the main-rigging, and made some very significant gestures to us to be off; and directly afterwards, seeing that we continued our course, several of his crew let fly their muskets at us.

“You’ve brought it on your own head,” exclaimed Waller, loading his rifle. He fired. The next moment we saw the man fall back upon his deck. There was then a great deal of shouting on board the schooner; her helm was put up, and, the breeze freshening, she began to pay off before the wind. She had not got round, though, before we were under her quarter.

“Hook on to her main-chains, my lad,—hook on fast!” cried Waller.

Unfortunately the bowman missed his aim; and the schooner, falling off, brought the stern of our boat in contact with her counter. Without a moment’s thought, Waller had sprung over her low bulwarks, followed by Stretcher and me. In an instant we were attacked by the whole of the slaver’s crew, who, with loud shouts and ferocious gestures, rushed aft, fully hoping, as they saw that the pinnace had dropped astern, to make us an easy prey.

The mainsheet of the schooner had been eased off, the foreyards had been squared, and, with the now strengthening breeze, the schooner was running fast through the water. Waller took one glance over his shoulder, and that showed him that there was scarcely a chance of the boat overtaking us. Our fate was sealed: no mercy could we expect from the slaver’s crew. One hope only remained,—Waller had thought of it.

“Knock down the man at the helm, and jam the tiller down hard!” he sung out to Stretcher. “We will keep the other fellows at bay in the meantime.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Jack, as coolly as if he had been merely ordered to give a pull at the main-brace.

There was a cry, and the next moment the body of the helmsman dropped on the deck. Jack had literally cut his head off with a sweep of his cutlass. The sight had the effect of making the Spaniards hang back for a moment, when Jack, putting the helm hard down, made the sails all shiver, and finally got her fore-topsail aback. Seeing what had occurred, the crew of the pinnace cheered, and, giving way, were soon clambering over the counter, while we made a dash at the Spaniards, few of whom attempted to oppose us even for a moment; most of them, indeed, throwing away their arms, made their escape to the forecastle. The rest followed their example; and in two minutes the schooner Zerlina, with a hundred and fifty slaves on board, was ours. Besides the captain, and the other man who was killed, there were twenty stout fellows, two or three only being out of fighting order with their wounds. We had difficulty enough to keep the rest quiet. They were, in truth, very sulky, and inclined to revolt, when they had recovered from their fright, and saw to how few they had succumbed. Curses, loud and many, escaped their lips, and showed that, if they had an opportunity, they would murder us, and retake their vessel, without scruple. We therefore kept four of our men as a watch over them, with loaded muskets, with orders to shoot the first who showed signs of proving mutinous. Having made these arrangements, we turned our attention to the living cargo crowded between her decks. It was a sickening sight, as we got the hatches off and looked down upon the mass of black faces which, with their white eyeballs rolling and mouths agape, gazed up at us, wondering what was next to happen. There sat a hundred and fifty human beings chained down to iron bars running across the deck—men and women of all ages, their chins resting on their knees, without space to stretch out their limbs, or to alter their position in any way; a rag round their loins being their only covering. They were in good health, not having been out many days; and there was a good supply of water and farina on board. We did our best to make them understand that we were friends, and would set them on shore again, and make them free, as soon as we could.

During our examination of the schooner, we had discovered a number of spare handcuffs. Jack Stretcher brought them from below, and threw them on the deck, with a significant look at the Spaniards, who, in defiance of orders, had made several attempts to come out on deck.

“I think if we was to clap ’em on to them Spanish lubbers, it wouldn’t be amiss, sir,” said he to me, holding up a pair before me.

I mentioned the suggestion to Waller, who at length agreed that it would be safe to follow it, taking one-half at a time, while the rest remained in their berth under the forecastle. Jack received the necessary orders.

“Ay, ay, sir,” he answered. “Senhor Dons, understando, move forewardo instanto, or I’ll drive the pointo of my cutlasho into vostros sternosos.”

The prisoners understood his actions more than his words, for he fully suited the one to the other, and they showed no inclination to dispute them, he having evidently made them respect him, from his strength, and the daring he had displayed on boarding. Some we confined forward—some in the after-cabin; and most fortunate it was that we did so.

It was some time before all our arrangements were made. About an hour before dark we tacked, to stand inshore again, Waller intending, should we not fall in with the brig, to shape a course for Sierra Leone. We tacked again about midnight; but when daylight came, not a sign was there of the Opossum; and, accordingly, towards the above-mentioned place we steered. We had the pinnace in tow; but we had taken the gun out of her, and placed it amidships on the deck of the schooner. Overcome with fatigue, Waller had thrown himself down aft, wrapped up in his blanket, while I stood near him, with my eyes winking, and trying in vain to be wide awake, when I was startled by the cry of “A sail on the weather-bow!”

“Which way is she standing?” asked Waller, springing to his feet.

“Right down for us,” answered Jack, who had gone aloft. “I was hoping she might be the brig, at first; but she’s a large square-topsail schooner, and, by the cut of her canvas, she looks like a Spanish or a Portuguese slaver.”

As the stranger drew near, no doubt as to what she was remained on our minds. Waller took his measures accordingly, with perfect coolness. Seeing that the prisoners were thoroughly secured, we got ready all our arms, and supplied ourselves with ammunition. The gun amidships was also loaded to the muzzle, and covered with a tarpaulin. With the calm courage which British seamen on all occasion display, our men waited the approach of the stranger. As she drew near, we made out that she had three guns on each side, and that her decks were crowded with men. Notwithstanding this overpowering disparity of force, our men looked at her in no way daunted; and I felt sure that what men could do they would for our defence. Waller, however, judged that it would be as well to animate their courage with a few words.

“Now, my men,” said he, “we are but ten of us on board this craft, but we are true and honest; and though there are probably fifty or sixty Spaniards in yonder schooner, they are a set of slaving scoundrels, who cannot stand up a moment before British seamen. They will not attempt to hull us with their shot, because they will wish to get back the schooner uninjured; so they will try to take us by boarding. I hope they may, that we may show them that they have caught a Tartar. All we have to do is to blaze away with our muskets till we can give them a taste of our cutlasses. Our big gun we’ll keep for a last dose; so now, my boys, trust in a righteous cause, and huzza for Old England and victory.”

Our men cheered long and lustily, and the sound must have reached the ears of the Spaniards, and at once showed them, had they before doubted it, that the schooner was a prize to a British cruiser. They forthwith began to blaze away with their guns; but, as we had expected, they fired high, in the hope of cutting away some of our rigging, that they might the more easily lay us aboard. We replied with our musketry as soon as they got within range, and Waller picked off several of their people with his rifle, so that they probably fancied we had some good marksmen concealed under our bulwarks. When they drew nearer, however, they could not have failed to discover the smallness of our numbers. As they sailed faster than we did, all we could do to prevent their raking us, which more than once they attempted to do, was to keep away when they endeavoured to cross our bows, and to luff up again when they threatened to pass under our stern. Seeing, therefore, that the quickest way of deciding the engagement was to run us on board, they bore right down upon us; and, unable to avoid them, the fluke of our anchor became hooked on to their fore-rigging. At the same instant full thirty swarthy figures were seen crowding into the Spaniard’s riggings and nettings, brandishing their swords, with fierce cries of vengeance, thinking to terrify us into surrendering.

“Now, my lads! give them the dose I spoke of,” shouted Waller.

The enemy leaped down on our deck, and were already in possession of the forecastle. The tarpaulin was cast off from the gun, and the muzzle, loaded as it was with missiles of all sorts, was turned towards them, and fired right in among them where they mustered the thickest. Scarcely a man escaped being hit; five were killed outright; and so astonished were the rest, that, thinking probably that the vessel herself was blowing up, they tumbled, scrambled, and clambered back into their own schooner in the greatest confusion.

“On! my boys, on!” shouted Waller; and, making a dash at the fellows, we much expedited their movements. In an instant not an enemy was left alive on our decks.

“Up with the helm!” sung out Waller; and at the same time Jack and another man cutting away at the fore-rigging of the enemy, we sheered clear of him; while he, backing his fore-topsail, dropped under our stern without firing a shot. We therefore hauled our wind, and kept on our course, and soon afterwards he filled his sails, and stood away to the southward. He had enjoyed a sufficient taste of our quality. Not one of us was hurt, while a quarter of his people must have been killed or wounded.

Our men gave a loud huzza as they found themselves free. To me it seemed like a wild dream. A few minutes before we were engaged in a desperate struggle for life; and now, uninjured, we were sailing gaily over the calm water, victors in the strife. Had it not been for the dead bodies of our foes remaining on the deck, we could scarcely have believed our senses. This action is considered one of the most gallant that has occurred on the coast.

The next day, to our great satisfaction, the Opossum hove in sight. Captain Idle, having taken our prisoners out of us, ordered us to proceed forthwith with the negroes to Sierra Leone for adjudication.

Chapter Twenty One.

Blown off the Coast—Waller’s Kindness to the Negroes—Run Short of Provisions and Water—Vessel Leaking—American Hard-heartedness—Waller’s Noble Resolve—Beach Bahia—Audacious Trick of Brazilian Slave-dealers.

We had parted from the Opossum about a couple of days, when we observed signs of one of those terrific easterly gales which sometimes blow off the coast of Africa. Waller, from his previous experience, knew them, and remarked them in time, so that we were able to get all snug to meet the wind when it came. On a sudden the hitherto calm leaden water was covered with a foam-drift, like the fine sand swept across the stony desert. The only sail we had set was a close-reefed topsail and storm-jib; the helm was put up, and away she flew before the gale, swift as the albatross on its snowy wing. Away, away we sped, and soon, leaving the African coast far astern, were ploughing the water of the South Atlantic. The Zerlina, though a beautiful model, as are most of her class, was flimsily built, and far from a good sea-boat, speed only having been cared for in her construction. As we got away from the land, we met a good deal of sea, in which she laboured much; and Ned Awlhole, one of the carpenter’s mates, who was acting carpenter, came one afternoon with a very long face into the cabin, where Waller and I were sitting at dinner, to inform us that she was making far more water than was satisfactory.

“Get the pumps rigged, then, and we must try and keep her clear till we can manage to beat back to Sierra Leone,” said Waller, as coolly as if it were a matter of slight importance.

“It is rather a serious thing this, is it not?” I observed. “I wonder you make so light of it.”

“Very serious; and on that account it behoves us, as officers, to keep up our own spirits, and to cheer up the men,” he replied. “I am sorry to say also, that I very much fear we shall fall short of water before we get into port, if this wind continues; and, with all these poor blacks on board, that will indeed be a very serious thing. Good seamanship may enable us to keep, the ship afloat, but God only can provide us with water.”

“What must we do, then?” I asked.

“We must place all hands on short allowance, and we may fall in with some vessel which may supply us; or showers may come, and we may collect enough for our more pressing wants,” he replied. “We must keep the poor negroes on deck as much as possible—with fresh air they may exist with less water.”

Waller had speedily won the confidence and affection of the negroes, by his kindness and considerate conduct. At first, when we had taken possession of the vessel, they looked upon us as enemies, for the Spaniards had told them that we should cook and eat them; but Waller, who could speak a few words of their language, soon tranquillised their fears on that account. He then got upon deck the sick, and those whose limbs were chafed or bruised, and gave them medicines, and dressed their wounds with his own hands. He told them that they should be set free to go where they wished, and should, if possible, be enabled to return to their own country. Few, however, had any hope of being enabled to do the latter, for they had mostly all been taken in war, or kidnapped from districts away from the coast, the wars being undertaken by the chiefs nearer the sea for the express purpose of making prisoners to sell into slavery. Two or three of those who had been kidnapped had already been at Sierra Leone, or other British settlements, and as they understood a good deal of English, we were able to communicate pretty freely with them. We found them, poor children of Ham, very intelligent fellows, and as capable of receiving instruction as the people of any other race I have ever met. Waller’s good example was followed by the crew, and at last each man vied in showing kindness to the poor wretches, so that they learned to look on us truly as their friends and protectors. We did but our duty. They were our fellow-creatures, and we were soon to be fellows in suffering. At first I own it was very trying, and more than once, as I was dressing their wounds, I turned sick; but I recollected that they were fellow-beings, with human feelings, and souls to be saved, like ours, and I returned to my duty with renewed strength to perform it. At length we found that we could, with perfect safety, allow all the blacks to come on deck as they liked. Whenever Waller appeared, they shouted after him—“How do, Masser Waller? Bless ’um, Masser Waller!” And some would come and kneel down, and put his hand on their heads, with a look of affection which was unmistakeable.

“I believe, sir, it’s all very right with these poor fellows, and there’s no harm in them,” said Jack Stretcher to me one day. “But, to my mind, it doesn’t do to trust these strange niggers too much. They sometimes, I’ve heard, rises and cuts the throats of their friends.”

I agreed with Jack that it was necessary, in most cases, to be cautious; but in the present instance it was evident, as things turned out, that it was owing to Waller’s judicious treatment of the negroes that all our lives were preserved.

All this time the wind was blowing so strongly from the eastward, that we found it impossible to beat up against it, so we had nothing else to do but to continue running before it. Every day matters were getting more and more serious; our own provisions were growing shorter. Of anything like luxuries we had none—salt beef and pork, hard biscuit and rice, and a little tea and sugar, with a cask of rum—none of the best either, by-the-bye. Waller called me into the cabin for a consultation.

“To get back to the coast is now impossible,” he remarked. “If this wind holds, and we can keep the craft afloat, our best chance is to try and make the coast of Brazil. The port of Bahia is the nearest, and I propose steering for that place.”

I agreed with him; but we neither of us had any very strong hopes of being really able to make it in time to save our own lives and those of the negroes. On carefully examining our stock of provisions, we found that only by the most economical expenditure of them, and with the most favourable weather, should we be able to reach our destination in time. A foul wind, or a day or two of calm, would ruin us; and a gale would in all probability send us to the bottom. The blacks, of their own accord, took their spell at the pumps, and finally relieved our men entirely of the labour. Had they been compelled to continue pumping, it would, I am certain, have worn them out. We most dreaded a want of water. Not a cloud appeared from which we might draw it forth, and scarcely could we expect a shower. Though constantly on the look-out, not a vessel could we see, from whence we might get provisions. At length, one morning, as Jack Stretcher had gone aloft—

“A sail on the weather-bow!” he sung out, in a cheery tone, which gave hope to all our hearts. “She’s standing across our course, so we can speak her without altering it.”

In about two hours we were up to her. She was a good sized brig, and the ensign, with the stars and stripes, which flew out at her peak, showed that she hailed from the United States. We had a signal of distress flying, in addition to the British ensign.

“Hillo! what are you?” sung out a man in her main-rigging.

“A prize to His Britannic Majesty’s brig of war Opossum,” answered Waller. “What are you?”

“The Go-along, from Baltimore, bound for Rio,” answered a person on board the brig, through a speaking-trumpet.

“Heave-to, if you please, sir, and I will pay you a visit—we are in great distress,” said Waller.

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the reply from the brig, as she was speedily brought up on a wind and hove-to.

So soon as we could get a boat in the water, leaving Jack in charge, Waller and I went on board the brig. The master, a tall, thin, sallow man, with a pointed beard, no whiskers, and a hooked nose, with a huge cigar in his mouth, a straw hat on his head, loose nankeen trousers, and a gingham swallow-tailed coat, received us at the gangway.

“Walk into the cabin, gentlemen, and let’s liquor a bit,” said he, as we stepped on board, showing us the way before we had time to reply.

The cabin, to our eyes, looked luxuriously furnished, and not unwelcome was the repast of cold beef and ham and fine biscuits which the steward placed speedily before us, not forgetting a spirit-stand with four tall bottles. We did ample justice to the good things placed before us.

“And now, what’s your pleasure, Mr Lieutenant?” laid the master of the brig.

Waller explained exactly what had occurred. “And now,” he continued, “we are in a sinking state; we have neither provisions nor water to last us till we can reach a port; and the destruction of all these poor people is sealed if you do not help us.”

“What! take all them dirty niggers aboard my craft?” exclaimed the skipper, with a look of ineffable disgust. “You Britishers have rum notions, I calculate.”

“No, pardon me,” said Waller. “I only ask you to preserve from almost certain destruction a number of our fellow-creatures; and any remuneration which you may require will certainly be paid you.”

“What! do you call them black niggers fellow-creatures, master? That’s a rum joke, I guess,” exclaimed the skipper. “I should be happy to be of service to you, but you are so unreasonable,—that you are.”

“Scarcely unreasonable, sir,” urged Waller, mildly. “Can you not name a sum for which you could land all the people I have on board at Bahia, or the nearest port we can make.”

“No, sir; I guess no sum would pay me to defile my vessel in the way you propose,” said the Yankee. “I’ll take you and your own crew with pleasure; but the niggers are out of the question.”

“What! would you leave the poor wretches to perish in the most horrible way, with thirst and starvation?” exclaimed Waller, shuddering at the thought.

“They are niggers,” said the Yankee, coolly puffing forth a cloud of smoke, and leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied look.

“Hear me, sir!” exclaimed Waller, rising, a flush mantling on his brow. “I have six thousand pounds of my own in this world. That sum I will make over to you, by every legal means you can devise, if you will take these poor people on board your brig, and land them in a place of safety. This shall be over and above what my Government may award you. I entreat you, as you hope for mercy here and hereafter, to do as I ask.”

“Not if you were to go down on your knees and pray till to-morrow morning,” replied the Yankee, slowly. “Niggers are niggers, and they can’t be otherwise. If you and your people like to come aboard, you are welcome. You’ve got my answer, Sir.”

“Then, sir,” exclaimed Waller, rising from his seat, “I’ll trust to the negroes’ God, to mine, and to yours, for that help which you deny them. May you never be in the same strait and seek in vain for help. Good day, sir.”

The Yankee looked at us with an expression more of surprise than anger as we left the brig’s deck.

“Stay! you are not a bad chap, I guess. Here, just take these things; you are welcome to them.”

Saying this he ordered a cask of water, some beef and biscuits, and a few little luxuries, to be put into the boat. We were not in a position to decline the gift; and, to do the Yankee full justice, he would receive no remuneration. We thanked him sincerely; and assured him that we regretted deeply our opinions on the nature of negroes did not coincide; at which he shrugged his shoulders, and we pulled back to the schooner.

We again made sail for the westward.

When I told Jack Stretcher what had occurred, he slapped his hand on his thigh, and exclaimed:

“Mr Waller was right, sir, that he was, not to think of deserting the poor niggers; and there isn’t a man of us but would gladly stick by him to the last.”

I told Waller what Jack had said, and he replied that he was sure all our people would have refused to have deserted the poor blacks, even if he had proposed so cruel a proceeding to them. We husbanded to the utmost the provisions we had brought from the brig; though, divided among all the people, there was scarcely more than enough to sustain life for a day. Still, not a seaman grumbled. Far from so doing, he willingly shared his own scanty allowance with any negro who appeared more particularly to require sustenance. It was amusing to see the weather-beaten, thick-bearded men carrying about the little black children, whose mothers were too weak to bring them on deck.

Though these Africans had hitherto been taught, with good reason, to look upon white men as incarnations of devils, they began to consider our gallant fellows as something approaching to angels; and, like savages in general, always in extremes, they were ready now to worship us. Providentially the easterly wind continued, and the sea remained calm, so that we made very good way, and were able to keep the leak under. It was with a sense of deep gratitude that we at length made the land, when we had not a drop of water remaining, and with scarcely food enough to sustain life for another day. We fondly believed that all our troubles were over. The negroes shouted, and clapped their hands, and laughed with joy: some of them fancied, I believe, that they had got back to Africa. The next morning we dropped our anchor in the harbour of Bahia. Waller proposed to get the schooner repaired, to take in a supply of provisions, and to return to Sierra Leone, intending, if necessary, to bear all the expenses himself. Now I am going to relate a circumstance which may seem very strange, but is, nevertheless, perfectly true. As soon as we brought up, Waller went on shore, intending to report all that had occurred to the British Consul, and to get his assistance in carrying out his intentions. I was in the meantime left in charge on board. Waller had been gone a couple of hours, and I was looking anxiously for his return, hoping that he would bring some provisions and water, when, as I was walking the deck, I observed three boats pulling off towards us. As they came near, I saw that one of them contained several men in uniform. They stepped on board without ceremony; and one of them presented a paper, in Portuguese, which looked like an official document, though, of course, I could not make it out. I shook my head to signify this, when he commenced explaining in broken English that he and his party were sent by the Governor to convey the negroes on shore, that the vessel might be the more speedily hove-down to be repaired. I was somewhat surprised that Waller had not first returned; but it never occurred to me to suspect a fraud in the matter.

While the Portuguese were speaking, three more boats came alongside, and in a very few minutes all the blacks were transferred from the schooner into them. Without an instant’s delay, the boats left the schooner’s sides; but instead of making towards the town, they pulled away to a spot some distance from it, where the negroes were landed, and I lost sight of them. About an hour after this, Waller returned.

“I have settled with the Consul, who will have a large store, where our poor blackies can be housed comfortably while the schooner is repaired; but he says we must keep a strict watch over them, for the people here are such determined slave-dealers, that they will kidnap them before our eyes.”

My heart sunk as I heard these words, and I felt like a culprit.

“Why,” I exclaimed, “the Governor has sent and had them all conveyed on shore.”

Waller could scarcely believe his senses when he found all the negroes gone. He hurried back to the Consul, who went with him to the Governor. The Governor knew nothing whatever of the matter, nor did any of the officials of the town. The Consul and some of the British in the place made every inquiry in their power, but no information whatever could they obtain. There could, however, be no doubt that some slave-dealers had carried out the nefarious plot, while, by the employment of bribes, they easily contrived to escape detection. Waller felt the matter very severely. To have the poor negroes, in whom he took so great an interest, carried into slavery, after all the toil and danger he had gone through, was almost heartbreaking. For long afterwards he could scarcely bear to speak on the subject.

It was not without difficulty that we got the schooner repaired; but at last she was ready for sea, and without further delay we made sail for Sierra Leone. We had a very fine run across. Within a day’s sail of the coast, we fell in with a slaver, which, supposing us to be of the same kidney as herself, allowed us to ran alongside; so that, without the slightest opposition, we took possession of her. Although she had no slaves on board, she was in every respect fitted to carry them. She had but a small crew, it being evidently intended to take more men on board when the slaves were shipped. Waller thought it best to remove them into the Zerlina, while he sent me and three hands, with Jack Stretcher as my first-lieutenant, to navigate the prize into port. As may be supposed, I felt very proud of my new command, and pictured to myself the satisfaction I should have in reporting my arrival at Sierra Leone.

Chapter Twenty Two.

My new Command—A Heavy Squall and Capsize—Saved on the Bottom of the Schooner—Taken off by a Slaver—Chased by the Opossum—The Spaniard’s Threat—A Hurricane—Shipwreck—My Friends the Marlows—Conclusion.

There is a common saying that “there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.” I experienced the truth of it on the present occasion. Scarcely had I got on board my new command, when one of the thick fogs I have before described came on. The Zerlina was leading, and being by far the faster vessel of the two, was already a mile ahead of us. However, I was pressing on all sail to keep up with her, while Waller shortened sail to enable me to effect this object. The fog grew thicker and thicker, and at last night came on, and we lost sight of our consort. The fog lasted two days. When at length it partially cleared, we saw a sail hull down to the southward; but not another speck was visible in the whole circle of the horizon.

“We must pack on her, and try and overtake Mr Waller,” said I to Jack Stretcher. “He will heave-to for us, probably, when he finds we are so far astern.”

Pack on her we did, in truth. If Jack had a fault as a seaman, it was a too great fondness for carrying on to the last. We neither of us took warning from our misfortune in the Opossum. The faster the little schooner ran through the water, the greater was our satisfaction.

“If we continue to make as good way as we do at present, we shall soon overtake the Zerlina,” said I to Jack.

“She’s got a clean pair of heels of her own, I’ll allow; but we have taught our little craft to go along too,” he answered, looking up with no small amount of pride at our well-set canvas.

A true sailor has a pride in the good behaviour of any craft he happens to be on board. Thus a couple of hours passed, and we certainly were gaining on our consort. I own that I had not been keeping that look-out to mark any change in the weather which I ought to have done. In a tropical climate, especially, a seaman cannot be too careful—the changes are so very sudden. I had gone below to dinner, that meal consisting of some cold salt beef and hard biscuit, washed down with rum-and-water drunk out of a tin cup. I had been off the deck rather more than half an hour, and was just putting my head up the companion-hatch, when I heard Jack Stretcher sing out, “Let go the fore-sheet!—down with the helm!—down with the—”

Before he could finish the sentence, there came the rushing sound of a heavy squall. Down bent the schooner to its fury—over, over she went. To spring on deck and to clamber up to the weather-bulwarks was the work of a moment. Still the vessel rose not: the helm had lost its power; the sheets remained fast; her sails reached the water.

“She’s gone!—she’s gone!” shouted my crew.

I still had a faint hope she might right herself again; but when she made the attempt, the furious wind beat her back, the sea washed over her sails, and in another moment she turned completely over. I can scarcely describe my sensations. I had no time, I fancy, to experience any; at all events, I do not remember what they were. I never lost hope; for, bad as things were, I did not expect to be drowned. In the meantime I had clambered to the outside of the bulwarks.

“Give me your hand here, sir!” I heard Jack Stretcher sing out, and looking up, I saw that he was hanging on to the main-chains. With his assistance, as the vessel went over, I managed to climb up on her keel, and there we together sat for the moment in comparative security. Like a true sailor, he had caught hold of a rope, and brought the end up with him. Our first thought was to look out for our shipmates. One had, unhappily, been below; the other two had been washed off the deck. They were, however, supporting themselves in the water, at no great distance from the vessel. When they saw us they shouted to us to help them, for neither of them were good swimmers.

“Keep up, my lads!” cried Jack, in return. “Get a little nearer, and I’ll lend you a hand.”

Meantime he was hauling in on the rope, and coiling it up ready to heave to them.

Just then I saw something dark moving under the water close astern of the vessel. Jack saw it also, as I guessed by the glance of his eye.

“What’s that!” I asked, a thrilling sensation of horror creeping over me, for I knew too well.

“One of those sea-devils—a shark, sir,” he answered, in a low tone. Then he shouted out, “Strike away, my lads!—strike away! you’ll soon be within reach. Never say die! Strike away! Hurra!”

Inspirited by these words of encouragement, one of the men at length got within reach of the rope. Jack hove it to him. He made a spring and grasped the end, and without difficulty we hauled him up, he little suspecting the terrific danger he had for the present escaped. The strength of the other poor fellow was evidently fast failing. The dreaded monster of the deep was not far from him. Still, happily, he did not know of its presence, and the exertions he made kept it at a distance.

“I’m afraid poor Sandy will never reach us, sir,” said Jack, looking at him compassionately. “Just do you, sir, and Jim Dore, lay hold of the end of the rope, and I’ll try and carry it out to him. There isn’t much fear of Jack Shark as long as one keeps moving; and I see a bit of a stick down there, which I’ll catch hold of, and give him such a rap on the nose if he attempts to meddle with me, that he’ll remember it for many a day to come.”

He said this as he was coiling up the rope again. I could not dissuade him from his gallant resolve, and yet so dreadful seemed the risk of his being destroyed by the shark, that I almost wished he had not thought of it.

Jim and I caught hold of the other end of the rope, and seizing it without another word, he plunged into the sea, encouraging Sandy to perseverance with his loud shouts. He first grasped the piece of wood he had seen, and with it in his hand he swam towards Sandy, every now and then stopping to strike the water vehemently with it. Although the foam was flying over the tops of the waves all the time, and the sea was washing up the sides and almost sweeping as off from where we sat, under the lee of the vessel it was comparatively calm. Anxiously indeed did I watch my brave shipmate’s proceeding. Every moment I expected to see the shark make a dash at him, but his splashings and kickings kept the monster at bay. He was almost up to poor McTavish, when the latter threw up his arms and disappeared from our sight. Jack was after him, though; and, diving down, in another instant appeared holding him by the hair. Throwing the bight of the rope under his arms, he sang out to us to haul away on it. We did so, while he supported the man with one hand, and kept slashing the water with the stick which he held in the other.

Meantime I saw the fin of the shark as the monster kept swimming about in his neighbourhood, eager evidently to make a dash at him, yet afraid of approaching. At length we got the almost drowned man up to the side of the vessel, and were hauling him up, Jack still being in the water, when some feeling, I scarcely know what, prompted me to look in the direction where I had just before seen the shark. The monster was no longer there. I instantly cried out to Jack. The words were scarcely out of my mouth, when he made a spring and scrambled out of the water by the main-chain-plates. Then, turning round, he dealt a tremendous blow at the tail of the shark, who had closely followed him.

“I’ll teach you to play such a sneaking trick as that, my boy!” he shouted, as the greedy fish swam off discomfited.

I breathed more freely when brave Jack was once more seated alongside of me on the keel of the vessel Sandy McTavish, whose life he had thus so gallantly preserved, now came to his senses, and in a short time was sufficiently recovered to take care of himself. Our position, however, was far from enviable. Here were we, four human beings, seated on the keel of a vessel which might any moment go down, with neither land nor a sail in sight. For some time, after all our exertions, we sat silent, collecting our thoughts.

“Well, Jack,” said I, “what are we to do?”

“Wait patiently, till God sends us help, sir,” he replied. “We can’t help ourselves. It’s fortunate we’ve just had our dinners. We shall hold out the longer.”

We scarcely exchanged another word for some hours, but kept wistfully glancing our eyes round the horizon, in the hopes of a sail appearing. Shortly before darkness came on, and the hour of ten passed by, I began to feel rather hungry. At the same time I happened to put my hand into my pocket, and there I found the greater part of a ship’s biscuit, which, as I was quitting the cabin, I had mechanically thrust into it. I almost shouted for joy as I found the prize—though it was not much to be divided among four men. The discovery made the rest fumble in their pockets. McTavish had a tobacco-box, which he had only just filled, and Jack found a huge lump of grease, which, though not very savoury, was not to be despised. How it had come there he could not recollect. These treasures, however, we determined not to begin to consume till the following morning, for that night we had no hopes of being taken off the wreck. The squall had rapidly passed off, and the ocean was now as calm as before. The sky was clear, and the sun went down in a blaze of glory, shedding a bright ruddy hue over the wide expanse which surrounded us. Night came on, and the stars burst forth from the blue vault of heaven, and cast their reflection on the smooth, mirror-like water, as we sat on, hour after hour, afraid of going to sleep, lest we should slip from our hold, yet longing for repose. At last it occurred to me to have the rope passed from one to the other, and secured round our waists, so that if one fell asleep and began to slip, the rest might support him. Thus we got through the longest night I had ever then passed.

The grey dawn came at length, and as the light rapidly increased, we looked anxiously around the horizon, but nothing but the smooth glassy sea met our sight. Oh, then, well do I remember it! There came over me a deep sense of our utter helplessness, and of the palpable necessity of dependence on a higher power. Of what use was our strength? Of what use was our seamanship? Our strength without food would quickly leave us; while all we could do was to sit still. I spoke my thoughts to my companions. They listened attentively, and we all knelt down together on our unstable support, and prayed to God for preservation from our great peril. After this act we felt refreshed and encouraged; and I observed that the voices of my companions assumed a more cheerful tone than before. Our trials, however, were but commencing. As the sun rose in the sky, his beams struck down on our undefended heads and scorched us dreadfully, till Jack bethought him of fastening his handkerchief over the top of his, and we followed his example. Instead of breakfast, we each of us took a quid from Sandy’s box, and that had the effect of staying our appetites for some hours. This, however, did not satisfy our stomachs entirely, and a short time after noon we could no longer resist attacking our scanty store of provisions. My biscuit I broke in two, and returning one-half to my pocket, I divided the other into four parts, Jack treating his lump of grease in the same way. We ate it with a relish I can scarcely describe. It was the only food we consumed for the whole of the day. Again the sun went down without a sail having appeared. That night passed away as had the former one, though each of us got rather more sleep. The next morning there was the same dull calm. Noon came, and with a heavy heart I served out the remainder of our provisions, but none of us seemed to care much for food. Water was what we craved for. A thimbleful to moisten our tongues would have been worth its bulk in gold. A raging thirst was growing on us. I urged the men to abstain from drinking salt water, for I well knew that if they did, it would only increase their sufferings. Earnestly did I pray that we might not have to endure another night on the wreck, for I thought that we could never exist through it; but the night came, and we passed it, how, I scarcely know, for, though not asleep, I was certainly not fully awake, except to a sense of some overpowering misfortune. The day came, a day which we must pass without food or water. Our sufferings hitherto had not been great, but this morning they became very intense. Hope, which had till now never deserted us, began to grow faint, and alas! even trust in God’s providence to wane. I tried to pray, but my thoughts were confused. I could not for two consecutive minutes fix them on the same subject, and I experienced practically the folly of attempting to wait for a death-bed repentance, for sickness, or for such a moment as the present, for reconciliation with God. I speak of my own feelings, and I believe that they were not far different from those of my men. Hour after hour we sat gazing stupidly at each other. The hot sun rose and scorched us as before, while the bright glare his rays cast on the smooth ocean almost blinded our eyes. Several times I tried to rouse myself to talk to my men, and to encourage them; but I own that I failed miserably in the attempt, and, from weakness, I was scarcely able to refrain from giving way to a flood of tears. It was some time past noon, when I saw Jack’s countenance brighten up.

“What is it?” I asked.

He pointed eagerly to the southward. I turned round, and looked, and there I saw in the horizon a long, thin, well-defined, dark blue line, and in the centre of it a white speck.

“A breeze! a breeze!” I cried.

“Ay, and a sail, too,” added Jack. “She is standing this way. Huzza! my lads.”

Jim and Sandy cheered faintly. They were the first words they had uttered for some hours. We now all found our tongues, a fillip had been given to our spirits, and we thought scarcely of our hunger or thirst. The dark blue line advanced, and grew wider and wider, till it spread itself over the ocean; and the white speck grew higher and higher, till the topsails of a vessel were seen rising out of the water. Oh! with what intense anxiety did we watch her, fearing every moment to see her alter her course, or pass by without noticing us.

“Can she be the Zerlina?” said I to Jack. “I think when Mr Waller found that we were not following him, he would have put back to look for us.”

“No, sir; she has too wide a spread of canvas, to my mind, for the Zerlina,” answered Jack. “I’m doubtful what she is.”

“Maybe she’s the Opossum hersel’,” remarked Sandy. “I ken she ought to be found hereabouts.”

“No, no, my boy; that craft is a square-rigged schooner, and a big one too,” said Jack, positively.

Less than an hour showed us he was right, and a long, low, black, rakish-looking schooner, with a wide spread of canvas, everything set alow and aloft, to catch the breeze, came sweeping past us.

“She’s a slaver,” I exclaimed, with dismay.

“Ay, and has as wicked a look as I ever wish to see,” said Jack.

He was right in his description, and as she glided by us, a villainous set of ruffians of every shade of colour, of every variety of costume, appeared looking at us over her bulwarks. Still, ruffians as they might be, it appeared better to be taken off by them than to remain and perish where we were. We waved to them to come to us, and Jack and Jim Dore sung out, “Misericordia! misericordia!”

They appeared, however, to take no notice, either of our signs or our cries, and our hearts sank within us. Happy would it have been for us had they left us where we were (so it seemed a short time afterwards). However, directly they had passed us, their studding-sails were taken in, the yards braced up, and in fine seamanlike style the schooner was rounded-to, close to leeward of us. A boat was instantly lowered, and pulled up alongside the wreck. Her crew did not improve in appearance on a nearer inspection. As they made signs to us to get into the boat, we slid off the bottom of the schooner, when they hauled us in, and placed us in the stern-sheets.

While they were pulling on board their own vessel I saw them eyeing my uniform with suspicious glances, and they made remarks which I did not understand. Our condition was sad enough to excite the compassion of anything human. When we were lifted on deck we could scarcely stand, and even Jack, with drooping head, had to support himself against the bulwarks, and little would any of those who saw him have supposed the gallant deeds of which his brawny arm was capable. Our lack-lustre eyes and parched lips showed what we most needed, and at last some of the crew brought us some water in a bowl, which speedily revived us, while others came with a mixture of soup and beans. I never ate anything I thought so delicious, in spite of its being redolent of garlic, and containing no small quantity of grease. While we were being fed, the boat was hoisted in, the schooner put before the wind, and the studding-sails again set. She was a powerful vessel, and, from several unmistakeable signs, I perceived that she was full of slaves. I had done eating, and was beginning to look about me, when a little, dark, one-eyed man, who by his dress I saw was an officer, came up to me, and taking me by one of my uniform buttons, asked—

“What for this?”

“It’s the button of my coat,” said I, in a simple tone.

“I know. You officer, then?” asked my friend. “English ship?”

“I have that honour,” I replied.

“What ship, then?” he inquired.

I told him.

“How came you, then, there?” he asked, pointing to the wreck, which we were fast leaving astern.

I told him the truth.

“What say you, then, if we cut your throats, and heave you overboard?” he asked; and as I looked at the twinkle of his one eye, and the expression of his lips, I thought that he was capable of any act of atrocity; but I determined to put a good face on the matter.

“I do not see why you should murder us,” I replied, calmly. “We neither wish to harm you, nor can we; and as you have just preserved our lives, it would be something like destroying your own work.”

“We will see about that,” he remarked. “You might find us sometimes in a humour when there would not be much doubt about the matter. Your men are safe enough, as they will doubtless join us, and three stout hands will be welcome. You may think yourself fortunate, if you ever set foot ashore alive.”

I saw Jack, who was listening, put his tongue in his cheek, as much as to say, “Do not reckon on my joining your villainous crew.” I had remarked that the captain of the slaver, for such I guessed the little man to be, improved in his way of speaking English as he proceeded, and I therefore warned Jack and the others to be careful what they said, lest they should offend him. After this conversation we were left alone, and sitting down on deck, I was very soon fast asleep. I was awoke by a man bringing me a mess of some sort to eat, and when I had devoured it I should have fallen asleep again, but the captain came up and told me that I might turn into a spare cabin on deck. Taking off my clothes, I threw myself on the bed, and slept without moving till the grey light of dawn came in at the scuttle. I was awoke by a loud jabbering and swearing, and presently the sound of a gun came booming over the water. There was then the noise of blocks creaking and ropes rattling, denoting that more sail was being made on the vessel. I dressed quickly and opened the door of my cabin, but scarcely had I stepped out on deck when my shoulder was roughly seized by the captain of the slaver, while with his other hand he pointed to a large brig about three miles off, under all sail, standing directly for our larboard quarter.

“What craft is that?” he asked, fiercely. “Your men say they do not know her. Do you?”

I looked again. I had no doubt she was the Opossum. “If I am not mistaken, she is the ship to which I belong,” I replied, calmly.

“Is she fast?” he asked.

“She is reputed so,” I answered. “But I doubt it she is so fast as this vessel.”

“For your sakes, as well as for ours, it is to be hoped not,” he observed, with a grin which I thought perfectly demoniacal. “If she overhauls us, we shall be obliged to put into execution a trick we play at times, when too hotly pursued by your cruisers; only, instead of expending our negroes, who are valuable, we shall be compelled to make use of you and your people. It will be happy for you, if there are no sharks ready to grab you before your ship lowers a boat to pick you up. You understand me?”

I did, too well. The slavers, when hotly pressed by a cruiser, will throw overboard some of their blacks, one by one, lashed to something to float them, trusting that the humanity of the British commander will induce him to heave-to, and to pick them up, although thus delaying him in his chase.

I felt very sure my one-eyed friend would put his threat into execution; and though it certainly afforded us a way of getting back to our ship, the risk in the interim of being caught by a shark was far too great to be contemplated with equanimity.

“If you do throw us overboard, I only hope that you will provide us with sticks, or some weapons with which to defend ourselves against the sharks,” said I.

“You are a brave boy,” said he, “and deserve a better fate; but it cannot be helped.”

There was a fine breeze, but nothing more; and by the time the schooner’s sails were trimmed, as I looked over the side I saw that she was making good way through the water. I doubted whether the Opossum could go faster; and I saw, at all events, that, like other stern chases, this would be a long one. It very probably would last two or three days, perhaps longer. I scarcely knew what to wish. Were it not for those dreadful sea monsters, we all of us might be able to get on board the brig, and help to capture the schooner afterwards, I thought to myself. We were allowed perfect liberty to walk about the decks as we liked; so I went up to Jack, and asked him what he thought about the probability of the brig overtaking us.

“Why, sir,” he replied, after contemplating her, and looking over the schooner’s side for some time, “this craft has got as clean a pair of heels as any vessel I was ever aboard; and though our brig, I’ll allow, is no laggard, I doubt if she’ll overtake her, if the wind holds steady, before we reach the West Indies, where, I take it, we are bound.”

Jack was right, with regard to the relative speed of the two vessels, at all events. As I kept my eye on the brig, I could not but acknowledge that we were slowly but surely increasing our distance from her. This put the captain in good humour.

“Ah! my young friend,” he said, tapping me on the shoulder, “you have escaped the sharks this time, I believe.” At night I turned in and went to sleep, for I had not yet recovered from my want of rest and unusual anxiety. The next morning, there, however, was the brig, right astern of us, though we had much increased our distance from her. When I appeared, the captain gave me no friendly look; and it was only towards the evening, when we had brought her topsails beneath the horizon, that his good humour was re-established. Another night passed, and the brig was out of sight. I thought it more than probable, however, that Captain Idle was still following, in the hopes of finding us becalmed, or in some other way falling in with us. I cannot stop to describe the scenes of gambling and fighting continually going on among the schooner’s lawless crew, though their outbreaks of fury were generally repressed, before arriving at extremities, by the energy of the little captain. We got on tolerably well with them. Jack danced his hornpipe, I sang, and the other two men made themselves generally useful. I, therefore, no longer had any great fears about our present safety.

A dreadful doom was, however, prepared for most on board. One night I was awoke by a terrific noise, and, rushing on deck, I found that one of those fierce hurricanes which occur at times in the tropics had just commenced. Amid a mass of spoondrift the schooner drove helplessly before it. The night was dark as pitch, except when vivid flashes of forked lightning darted from the clouds and shed a bright blue glare on our decks, exhibiting a scene of horror and confusion seldom surpassed. The seamen ran to and fro shrieking with terror, calling on their saints to help them, and vowing candles and other offerings at their shrines, the fiercest and most quarrelsome generally showing the most abject fear. The little captain, to do him justice, kept his presence of mind, and endeavoured to restore order, but he had lost all control over his crew. Jack found his way aft to where I was standing, and I was truly glad to have him near me.

“It’s to be hoped there’s no land under our lee, or it will fare ill with us,” said he. “But I’m not quite certain. Just now, when there was a bright flash of lightning, I thought I saw something very like it right ahead of us. We must be ready for the worst, I’m thinking, Mr D’Arcy.”

I felt this to be the case, and prayed earnestly to God to stretch forth His hand to save us. Scarcely a minute had elapsed after Jack had spoken, when the tempest, thundering down on the accursed slave ship more violently than before, the lightning flashing more vividly, a terrific shock was felt, which made her tremble as if about to part asunder; the tall masts bent like willow wands, and fell with a crash into the sea; and the voracious waves came curling up, foam-crested, astern, and sweeping everything before them. The howling of the fierce hurricane overpowered the agonised shrieks of the drowning crew, as they were carried overboard; while from the hold arose the heart-piercing cries of despair and terror of the helpless negroes who were confined there, deprived of even a chance of escape. Our two shipmates had found their way aft, to where Jack and I were holding on for our lives, sheltered partly by the raised poop. Still we drove on. We had evidently been forced over a reef, and we hoped that we might reach smooth water. The sea no longer broke over us.

“What say you, lads? Let’s try to give those poor fellows down there a chance for their lives,” cried Jack.

All agreed to the proposal. There were scarcely any Spaniards left to stop us; and had there been, I do not think they would have ventured to interfere. I had observed some axes hung up inside the cabin-door, and seizing them, we tore off the hatches, and leaped down among the terror-stricken wretches below. Sandy had bethought him of securing some lanterns, for in the dark we could do nothing. As soon as he had brought them, and we had got them lighted, Jack singing out, “Amigos!—amigos!—have no fear, my hearties!” we set to work with a right good will, and knocked the fetters off a considerable number of the unfortunate negroes. The operation was nearly completed, when we felt another terrific shock vibrate through the ship. Again and again she struck. We had just time to spring up the main-hatchway, followed by the howling terrified blacks, when the sides of the ship seemed to yawn asunder; a foaming wave rushed towards us, and at the same moment a vivid flash of lightning showed us the shore, not a hundred yards off.

“There’s hope yet,” I heard Jack exclaim.

There is, after that, a wild confusion in my mind of shrieks and groans; of foaming, tossing waters; of pieces of plank driven to and fro; of arms outstretched; of despairing countenances, some pale or livid, some of ebon hue, lighted up ever and anon by a flash of lightning. I was clinging, I found, to a small piece of timber torn from the wreck. Now I was driven near the sands; now carried out to sea; tossed about on the tops of the foaming waves, rolled over and over, and almost drowned with the spray. Still I held on convulsively, half conscious only of my awful position. It seemed rather like some dreadful dream than a palpable reality. How long I had been tossing about in this way, I knew not. Daylight had been stealing on even before the final catastrophe had occurred. At length I know that I felt myself carried near the sands, and while I was trying to secure a footing, some black figures rushed into the water and dragged me on shore. My preservers were, I discovered, some of the negroes who had escaped from the wreck. I was too much exhausted to stand; so they carried me up out of the reach of the waves, and laid me on the sands, while they returned once more to the edge of the water. Their object was evident. By the increasing light I saw several figures clinging to the rocks, against which I concluded the vessel had struck. Full twenty negroes were on the beach, which was strewed with bits of plank and spars, and coils of rope, and other portions of the wreck. Presently I saw four or five of them plunge into the water together, holding the end of a rope. They struck out bravely, and though more than once driven back, they still made way, till they reached the rock, up which they clambered. The people on the rock helped them out of the water. There were several negroes, a few of whom were women, and three white men. One of the white men held a black infant in his arms, and as the light increased, I recognised my friend Jack Stretcher. “Just like the gallant fellow!” thought I. At that dreadful moment, when most people would have been thinking only of their own preservation, he looked out for the most helpless being, that he might try and save it, even at the risk of his own life. I hope the mother of the infant has escaped to thank him; but, at all events, he will have his reward. The other two men were my shipmates. Of the slaver’s crew, not a man had escaped. After this I remember nothing; for, from exhaustion, consequent on the blows I had received in the water, I fainted. I had a dreamy notion of being lifted up and carried along some distance, and of the hot sun scorching me; and then of entering the cool shade of a house, and of hearing a voice which I fancied I recollected, and thought very sweet, say, “Why, papa, it’s that little officer again. Poor, poor fellow! how ill and wretched he looks!” I tried to open my eyes to look at the speaker, but had no strength left to lift even my eyelids. How long I had remained in a state of unconsciousness I could not tell, though I afterwards found it was some weeks. The next time I recollect opening my eyes, they rested on the features of Miss Alice Marlow, and by her side was a young man in a lieutenant’s uniform while at the foot of my couch stood Jack Stretcher. “Where am I? How’s all this?” I asked, in a faint voice.

“You are in Mr Marlow’s house, in the island of Barbadoes,” said the young officer. “As to the rest, it’s a long yarn, and we’ll spin it another time.”

“Ah, and now I know you. You are Waller,” replied I. “Well, old fellow, I’m glad you’ve got your promotion.”

“But the doctor says we must on no account have any talking; so come away, Henry; and here, Jack, is the fruit for Mr D’Arcy. He may eat as much of it as he likes,” said Miss Alice.

I recollect this scene; but I fancy after it I got a relapse, through which, however, I was mercifully carried, after a tough contest with death. Oh! how tenderly and kindly I was nursed; every want was attended to—every wish gratified, almost before expressed—by an old black woman, who, day or night, scarcely ever left my bedside. I quite loved her good, old, ugly face—for ugly it was, without the possibility of contradiction, according to all European notions of beauty, though some of the descendants of Ham, in her own torrid land, might at one time have thought it lovely. She was assisted in her labours by a damsel of the same ebon hue, who had been saved out of the slave ship; and I believe that the attention of the two women was redoubled on account of the way I had treated their unhappy countrymen on board that vessel. Jack Stretcher had been obliged to rejoin the brig, and had gone away in her. I was, however, frequently favoured by a visit from Miss Alice Marlow and her kind father, in whose house I remained for many months, treated as if I had been a well-loved son. At length I was one morning riding down by the seashore, when the wide-spread canvas of a man-of-war caught my sight, standing in for the land. I recognised her at once as the Opossum, and was therefore not surprised when, some hours afterwards, Waller walked into Mr Marlow’s drawing-room. Captain Idle and the doctor followed soon afterwards, and a consultation having been held, I was pronounced fit for duty, and compelled, with many regrets, to leave my kind friends, and to go on board. The brig soon afterwards returned to the coast of Africa, where we took some slavers, went through various adventures, and lost several officers and men with fever; and I again fell sick, so that my life was despaired of. Now, entertaining as these sort of things may be to read about, no one was sorry when, one fine morning, another brig-of-war hove in sight, bringing us orders to return home. “Hurra for old England!” was the general cry, fore and aft. “Hurra! hurra!”

At length I once more found myself an inmate of Daisy Cottage, and many happy weeks I spent there—perhaps the happiest in my life—in the society of my uncle and aunt and young cousins. I there slowly, but effectually, recovered from the effects of the African climate, and the hardships I had lately gone through, and was ultimately pronounced as fit as ever for service. When Larry Harrigan heard that I was ill, he came over to Ryde, and could scarcely be persuaded to leave me for a moment, till assured by the doctor that I was in no danger whatever, but even he seemed much to doubt the judgment of the learned disciple of Galen. Afterwards he allowed very few days to pass without coming to set me, till I was strong enough to return his visits, which I did not fail to do. The good, kind old man! He never went back to Ireland, but lived on at Southsea, in perfect comfort, till he and his wife reached a green old age. He used to tell me, confidentially, that there was an honest navy agent, who had found him out, and insisted on paying him a wonderful interest for a certain share of prize-money, which he had fortunately neglected to claim in his younger days. It was, in truth, a way I took of contributing to maintain the old man in comfort, without his feeling that he was a pensioner on my bounty.

Some time after I had been at home, I heard from my gallant friend Waller, who had gone back to Barbadoes. He gave me a piece of information, at which I own I was not very much surprised, namely, that he was on the point of bringing Miss Alice Marlow to England as his bride. “I hope that she will prove worthy of him, for a finer fellow does not exist,” said I.

A short time before I left Daisy Cottage to join my next ship, I was sitting in the drawing-room, when Sir Richard Sharpe was announced, and in walked Dicky himself. We almost wrung each other’s hands off before we could speak, and then we did indeed rattle away. His father was dead, he told me.

“I have been compelled to deprive the navy of my services,” said he, with perfect gravity. “But you see that I have my estates to look after, and my mother and sisters’ welfare to attend to; and I could not fulfil my duties in these respects were I to remain afloat. Do you know, D’Arcy, I am very glad indeed that I went to sea,” he continued, more seriously. “It made me think much less of myself, and cured me of many faults; for I am very sure that I should have been spoiled had I remained at home. They always let me have too much of my own way, and that is bad for the best of us. Now in the service I got cobbed and mast-headed, and made to do what I was told; and I’m all the better for the discipline, though I did not like it at the time. Then I learned a very important lesson,—that every man, whatever his position, has his duties to perform; and that, if he does not do them to the best of his power, he must certainly expect to be disrated.”

“You mean to say that you learned this out of the man-of-war’s Homily-book,—the Station Bill,” said I, smiling at my own conceit.

I must explain that this Station Bill is a book in which is entered the place which every man on board is to occupy, as well as the duties he is especially to attend to, though at the same time he is expected to do his very utmost in performing any other work which may be necessary.

“That’s just it,” replied Sir Richard. “I used to think that the captain of a man-of-war had a good deal to do to keep his ship in good order; but I can tell you that I feel that the owner of a large estate has many more and multifarious duties; and that in a great degree every soul upon it is committed by God to his care, and at his hands will they be required.”

I fully agreed with my old messmate in these matters, and was rejoiced to find that he had really discovered the true object of life. I am happy to say that he was after this a very frequent visitor at Daisy Cottage, and that ultimately one of my cousins became Lady Sharpe. They, the Vernons and the Wallers, are among my most valued friends; and at the houses also of Admiral Poynder and Captain Idle, and most of my subsequent commanders, I am a welcome guest.

I must not forget to mention, once more, my gallant companion in so many adventures, honest Jack Stretcher. He volunteered into the next ship to which I was appointed, to my very great satisfaction; and afterwards taking out his warrant as a boatswain, he was with me for several years, and a better boatswain there is not in the service. I have never revisited my ancestral halls since I left them with Larry to go to sea; and, to say the truth, the Encumbered Estates Court knows more about them than I do. The ocean is my only heritage; my ship is my wife, and I look on my crew as my children. I went to sea again as a midshipman; then, after passing, I spent four years as a mate, and six as a lieutenant; during which time I saw a good deal of hard service. At length I got my promotion as a commander, and have still to look for my post step.

Every career has its trials. A naval life has many; but we must always bear in mind that we were sent into this world for the express purpose of undergoing them, and that while some persons are proved by hardships and poverty, others are so by abundance of ease and wealth. I, for my own part, feel that I have much for which to be grateful; and though I have neither rank nor riches, I do not consider myself unfortunate nor ill-treated. And once more I say, that, had I to begin my career again, I should prefer to every other a life on Salt Water.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Saved from the Sea"

Chapter One.

The wonderful linguist—I study Arabic—My first voyage to sea—We sail for the coast of Africa—The brig capsized—Saved on a raft.

“Never throw away a piece of string, a screw, or a nail, or neglect an opportunity, when it offers, of gaining knowledge or learning how to do a thing,” my father used to say; and as I respected him, I followed his advice,—and have, through life, on many occasions had reason to be thankful that I did so.

In the town near which we resided lived a tailor, Andrew Spurling by name. He was a remarkable man, though a mere botcher at his trade; for he could never manage to make his customers’ clothes fit their bodies. For fat men he invariably made tight coats, and for thin people loose ones. Few, therefore, except those who were indifferent on that point, went a second time to him for new ones. He repaired clothes, however, to perfection, and never refused to attempt renovating the most threadbare or tattered of garments. He had evidently mistaken his vocation; or rather, his friends had committed a great error when they made him a tailor. Yet perhaps he succeeded as well in it as he would have done at any handicraft. He possessed, in fact, a mind which might have raised him to a respectable, if not a high position, in the walks of literature or science. As it was, however, it was concentrated on one object—the acquisition of languages. Andrew had been sent to the grammar-school in our town, where he gained the rudiments of education, and a certain amount of Latin and Greek; and where he might, possibly, have become well-educated, had he not—his father dying insolvent—been taken from school, and, much to his grief, apprenticed to the trade he was now following.

Instead of perfecting himself in the languages of which he already knew a little, and without a friend to guide him,—having saved up money enough to buy a grammar and dictionary,—he commenced the study of another; after mastering the chief difficulties of which he began still another; and so he had gone on through life, with the most determined perseverance, gaining even more than a smattering of the tongues not only of Europe but of the Eastern world, though he could make no practical use of his acquisitions.

Apparently slight circumstances produce important results. Coming out of school one day, and while playing, as usual, in our somewhat rough fashion, my class-mate, Richard Halliday, tore my jacket from the collar downwards.

“That is too bad,” I exclaimed. “A pretty figure I will make, going through the streets in this state.”

“Never mind, Charlie,” he answered. “Come into old Spurling’s shop; he will sew it up in a trice. He always mends our things; and I will pay for it.”

I at once accepted my school-fellow’s offer; and we made our way to the narrow lane in which Andrew’s small shop was situated. I had never before been there, though I had occasionally seen his tall, gaunt figure as he wended his way to church on Sunday; for on no other day in the week did he appear out of doors.

“Here’s Charlie Blore, who wants to have his jacket mended, Mr Spurling,” said Dick, introducing me.

“A grammar-school boy?” asked the tailor, looking at me.

“Yes; and in my class,” answered Dick.

“Oh! then you are reading Xenophon and Horace,” observed the tailor; and he quoted a passage from each author, both of which I was able to translate, greatly to his satisfaction. “You will soon be turning to other languages, I hope,” he observed, not having as yet touched my jacket, which I had taken off and handed to him.

“I should like to know a good many,” I answered: “French, German, and Italian.”

“Very well in their way,” observed Andrew; “but there are many I prefer which open up new worlds to our view: for every language we learn, we obtain further power of obtaining information and communicating our thoughts to others. Hebrew, for instance: where can we go without finding some of the ancient people? or Arabic, current over the whole Eastern world, from the Atlantic shores of Africa to the banks of the Indus? Have you ever read the ‘Arabian Nights’?” asked Andrew.

“Yes, part of it,” I answered.

“Then think how delightful it would be to read it in the language in which it is written, and still more to visit the scenes therein described. I began six years ago—and I wish that some great man would invite me to accompany him to Syria, or Morocco, or Egypt, or other Eastern lands; though that is not likely.” And Andrew sighed. “However, my young friends, as you may have a chance of visiting those regions, take my advice: Study Arabic; you will find it of more use than Greek or Latin, which no one speaks nowadays—more’s the pity. I will instruct you. Come here whenever you can. I will lend you my books, or tell you where you may purchase others. I won’t say how soon you will master the language; that depends on capacity,”—and Andrew gave a self-satisfied smile; “but the sooner you begin, the better.”

“But, Mr Spurling, I should like much to have my jacket mended,” I observed.

“So you shall; I will do it while you take your first lesson in Arabic.” And Andrew, without rising from his seat, shuffled along in a curious fashion to a bookcase hanging against the wall, from which he drew forth a well-thumbed volume. “It’s as precious as gold,” he observed. “Don’t be daunted by the strange characters,” he added, as he gave the book into my hands. “Now, you and Master Halliday stand there; while I stitch, you shall learn the first principles of the language.”

Then taking my jacket on his knee, and needle and thread in hand, he commenced a lecture, from which, as Dick and I listened attentively, we really gained a considerable amount of information. It was, I afterwards discovered, in the first pages of the book, which he knew by heart; so he had not to draw his eyes from his work. I grew so interested, that I was quite sorry when my jacket was mended.

From that day onward, Dick and I became constant visitors at Andrew’s shop after school-hours, and really made considerable progress in Arabic. I believe, indeed, that we should before long have advanced almost as far as our master had done,—for he had three or four languages in hand at the same time, to which he added a new one every year or so. My school-days, however, came suddenly to an end. I had always had a hankering for the navy, though I did not talk much about it. An old friend of my father, who had just been appointed to the command of a frigate destined for the Mediterranean, called before starting for Portsmouth.

“I will take one of your boys, Blore, as an offering to Neptune.”

My father looked at me. “Charlie is rather too old, I fear, to enter the navy,” he observed.

“Oh no! Lord Dundonald was much older,” I exclaimed. “Let me go.”

“He will do; I will take him,” said the captain. “He must work hard and make up for lost time. He had better accompany me, and see the ship fitted out.”

My father was an old soldier; and my mother being a strong-minded, active woman, directly my future captain left us all hands in the house were set to work, down to the nursery-maid, to prepare my kit; while I ran into the town to get my measure taken by Andrew Spurling, who promised to have a “nautical cut” suit ready for me by the next day. I had, in an impulse of gratitude, begged that he might make my clothes. It was fatal to my appearance as a trim midshipman; and I had to discard some, and get others altered, before I was fit to present myself on the quarter-deck.

As I was leaving his shop, Andrew took down a volume from his bookcase. “Receive this as a parting gift from one who wishes you well, and who, although his body is chained to his counter, will accompany you in spirit to those far-off Eastern lands it may be your happy destiny to visit,” he said, as he handed the book to me, with a kind look which showed the sincerity of his feelings.

It was a grammar and vocabulary, with a portion of the “Arabian Nights” in Arabic. I promised to keep up the study of the language in which he had initiated me, and to add others as I might find opportunity.

The next night I set off with the captain to Portsmouth. As he had promised to make me a sailor, and I wished to become one, I soon picked up a fair amount of nautical knowledge; and by the time the ship was ready for sea, I could not only knot and splice, but had acquainted myself with every portion of her from “truck to keelson.”

We had gone out to Spithead, and were expecting to sail in a few days, when who should come up the side but my old school-fellow, Dick Halliday.

“When I found that you had actually gone, I could not bear the thought of remaining behind; and I so worked upon my guardians to let me go to sea, by telling them that I should be miserable if I didn’t, and fit for nothing else, that I succeeded. Moreover, at my urgent request, they, as you see, got me appointed to your frigate,” he exclaimed in a tone of triumph. “I have my chest in the boat; what am I to do with it?” he asked, after I had expressed my pleasure at seeing him.

“We will soon hoist it on board,” I answered.

The first lieutenant cast an angry glance at the chest, for it was unusually large; and before many hours were over, its owner, to his great dismay, saw it cut down into much smaller proportions.

We were at length at sea, running down Channel with a strong north-easterly breeze. I had the start of Halliday, and felt myself already a sailor, while he knew nothing about a ship; but I found that I had still a good deal to learn. I managed to keep well ahead of him while the ship remained in commission. Our captain, one of the best officers in the service, wished his midshipmen to see as much as possible of the places the ship visited, so as to gain all the information they could; and we, accordingly, had opportunities offered us of going on shore and making excursions into the interior. We visited Jerusalem, Cairo, Algiers, Athens, and many other places of interest. Halliday and I found our acquirements as linguists of very considerable value.

I cannot stop, however, to describe our adventures. Three years passed rapidly away, and we returned home nearly full-grown men, with a greatly increased stock of nautical and general knowledge.

We went, during our brief stay on shore, to visit Andrew Spurling; who listened eagerly to our accounts of what we had seen, and was delighted when I presented him with several really valuable volumes which I had picked up at Cairo. “You have amply repaid me, Mr Blore,” he exclaimed, fondly clutching the books. “I knew you would find an immense advantage from your knowledge of the chief language of the East, and let me now advise you to study Spanish; it is spoken over a large portion of the globe, and you are sure to find a use for it.”

I so far followed his advice as to send for a Spanish grammar and dictionary, which I intended to use as soon as I had leisure. My stay on shore, however, was short; for in a couple of weeks I was appointed to the Viper, a ten-gun brig destined for the coast of Africa. Her commander knew my family, and had offered to take me. And I found Halliday on board, he having been appointed to her by the Admiralty.

She was a very different craft from the fine frigate to which I had before belonged. She was of narrow beam, and carried taunt masts and square yards; indeed, we all saw that she would require careful handling to avoid being capsized. But she was a new, tidy, fast little craft, and no one on board allowed forebodings of evil to trouble his mind. The commander did not express his opinion till we were clear of the Channel, when he addressed the crew.

“You will have to be smart in shortening sail, my lads,” he said, after making some other observations. “The last man off the lower deck when the hands are turned up must look out for the consequences.”

They all knew what that meant,—a “black listing,” “six water grog,” or walking the deck with a shot in each hand during a watch. Still, though they did not like it, they knew it was for the good of all. And besides, we were continually exercised in shortening and making sail, to get the crew into proper discipline.

One day—the commander being on deck—a sudden squall struck the brig and heeled her over till the water rushed through her lee-scuppers. “All hands save ship!” he shouted. The men came springing up from below, some through the fore-hatchway, but a greater number through the main. The commander himself was standing near the companion-hatch—intended only for his own and the gun-room officers’ use. Our tall, thin commander had just turned round to take his spy-glass from the beckets in which it hung, when a petty officer,—a knowing fellow, who had slipped through the gun-room passage in order to take advantage of the other men,—springing on deck, butted right into the pit of his stomach. The blow, doubling him up, sent him sprawling over on his back, with his legs in the air. But, without waiting to apologise, the seaman sprang up the rigging like lightning, and was laying out among the others on the main-topsail-yard before the commander could open his eyes to ascertain who had capsized him. He was, naturally, excessively angry, but probably did not like to shout out, “You fellow, who knocked me over, come down from aloft.” And just then, indeed, all hands were really required for shortening sail. Few of the officers had seen the man upset the commander, and those who had could not say positively who he was. I had my suspicions; having caught sight of an old shipmate—Ben Blewett—running up the main rigging over the heads of several others in a way which showed he had some reason for so doing. All the efforts of the officers to discover the culprit, however, were unavailing; and I thought it wisest to say nothing about the matter. The commander could not justly have punished the man for knocking him down, as it was done unintentionally, though he might have done so for coming up the officers’ passage. And so we enjoyed a hearty laugh in the berth at the whole affair.

I should have said that the caterer for our mess was a steady old mate, Reuben Boxall; a most excellent fellow, for whom I entertained a great regard. He followed the principle my father had advised me to adopt, and never threw away a piece of string—that is to say, when an opportunity occurred of acquiring knowledge he never neglected it. His chief fancy, however, was for doctoring—that is to say, the kindness of his heart made him wish to be able to relieve the sufferings of his fellow-creatures; and he could bleed, and bind up broken limbs, and dress wounds, as well as the surgeon himself, while he had a good knowledge of the use of all the drugs in the medicine-chest. Boxall had indeed a good head on his shoulders, and was respected by all.

Many of us were still laughing at the commander’s capsize, some declaring that it served him right for being in such a hurry.

“Let me tell you youngsters that we must be in a hurry on board this craft,” observed Boxall. “Do you know the name given to ten-gun brigs such as ours? I will tell you: ‘Sea-Coffins.’ And the Viper will prove our coffin, if we do not keep very wide-awake, let me warn you.”

Most of the mess thought that old Boxall was trying to frighten them; but I cannot say that I was comfortable, as we had already discovered that the brig, to say the best of her, was excessively crank. The two lieutenants and the master had served chiefly on board line-of-battle ships and frigates before they got their promotion, and were inclined to sneer at the commander’s caution, and I know that during their watch they carried on much longer than he would have approved of.

We were somewhere in the latitude of Madeira, when we encountered a heavy gale which severely tried the brig. Though we saved our spars by shortening sail in time, two of our boats were lost and the rest damaged, our weather-bulwarks were stove in, and we were in other respects handled very roughly.

We had got somewhat to rights, and were running down the African coast, keeping closer in-shore than usual. It was night, and the second lieutenant’s watch. Boxall and I—who had the first watch—having been relieved, went into the berth to take a glass of “swizzel” and some biscuit and cheese, after which we sat talking for some minutes before turning in. The rest of the watch were below fast asleep. We were standing by our hammocks, about to undress, when we felt the brig heel over on her beam-ends.

“I advised him to shorten sail before he let the watch go below,” exclaimed Boxall. “It’s too late now. Stick by me, Charlie, whatever happens.”

“Turn out there, and save ship!” he shouted, as we sprang on deck; and together we made our way up to the starboard hammock-nettings, on which we found several people clinging, but in the darkness could not make out who they were. The water was rushing in fast through the hatches, and the brig was evidently sinking. Shrieks and cries for help came from the lee side, to which most of those on deck had been thrown; but the greater number of the watch had, I judged, been aloft at that moment, about to shorten sail, and were already struggling in the water.

“Now, my lads, the brig is going down, and we must find something to cling to if we don’t want to go down with her,” sung out Boxall. “Who is there will try and make a struggle for life?”

“I will,” cried a voice, which I recognised as Halliday’s.

“And I,” said Ben Blewett, who worked his way up to us with an axe in his hand.

The boats which had escaped the previous gale were under repair; so we could not trust to one of them. Making our way to the booms, Blewett cut several away; and, providentially, some planks had been left by the carpenters, which we got hold of, together with a few fathoms of rope. The planks and spars, under Boxall’s directions, we rapidly lashed together, and Halliday and I each got hold of a small piece of board. Launching our roughly-constructed raft abaft the mainmast, we threw ourselves on it and paddled away from the wreck for our lives. The officer of the watch must have been thrown to leeward when the brig went over; neither the commander nor any of the other officers had time to make their escape from their cabins. We heard several men, however, who were forward, crying out for help; but it was impossible for us to go to their assistance, and we could only hope that they were attempting to save their lives by constructing a raft, as we had done.

Scarcely had we got clear of the brig when her masts rose as she righted, and down she went, dragging with her all those on board, as well as the men clinging to the rigging.

The dark clouds passed away, and the moon shone forth brightly on the sparkling waters, revealing to us a few floating planks and spars—all that remained of our brig. Not a human being was to be seen; every one of our shipmates had been engulfed by the hungry sea. We paddled back, and getting hold of such spars and planks as we could find, placed them crosswise under our raft to prevent it from upsetting, though it was even thus a ticklish affair. Ben had taken his seat forward, I sat astride at the other end, Boxall and Halliday occupied the middle. How far we were off the coast of Africa we could not exactly tell, but we judged that we should have fifteen or twenty leagues to paddle before we could reach it. This would take us two or three days at least; and, without food or water, how could we expect to hold out? Our prospects were indeed miserable in the extreme; still, we had reason to be thankful that we had escaped the fate which had overtaken our shipmates.

On and on we paddled, till our arms began to ache. “We are making no way, I’ve a notion; and as for reaching the shore, that is more than we can do,” exclaimed Ben at length, as he placed under him the piece of board with which he had been paddling. “Our best chance is to be picked up by some passing vessel; and I hope one will heave in sight when a breeze gets up.”

“I fear there is but little chance of that,” said Halliday in a desponding tone; “a vessel may pass close by and not see us, seated as we are scarcely above the surface.”

“Trust in God,” exclaimed Boxall, pointing upwards. “See! the morning is breaking—the clouds overhead are already tinged with the sun’s rays; a breeze, too, has sprung up: let us hope that before long one of our own cruisers or some African trader may sight us and take us on board.”

Fortunately Boxall and I had had supper, and could hold out longer than our companions. Halliday said that he was not hungry; but I knew that he would be before long, when he would be singing out for food.

“When you are, sir, say so,” said Ben. “I shoved a biscuit into my pocket at tea-time last night; and I have got three or four quids in my baccy-box, so that I shall not want it.”

“Thank you, but I cannot take it from you,” answered Halliday.

“Do you think, sir, that I could munch it up and see you starving,” answered Ben. “Come, that would be a good joke. I shan’t get hungry, for you must know that I have more than once been three days without putting a morsel of food between my teeth—and wasn’t much the worse for it, either. I shouldn’t mind a drop of grog, I will allow; but what we can’t get we must do without—and, as Mr Boxall says, ‘Trust in God.’”

I was thankful that we had so right-minded a man as the old mate with us; still, I could not help thinking about the fearful probability there was that we should perish. We were already in the latitude in which sharks abound; and should those foes of the seaman find us out, they would certainly attack us,—tempted, as they would be, by our feet hanging in the water. I said nothing, however, as I did not wish to impart my uncomfortable feelings to my companions—especially to Halliday, who was already downcast.

At length the sun rose, and we eagerly looked out for a sail; but not a speck could be seen above the horizon. Eastward was a haze, which Ben asserted indicated land; and Boxall, who had before been on the coast, agreed with him, though he said it was a long way off. No remark was made about the non-appearance of a vessel; we could not trust ourselves to speak on the subject.

Slowly the sun got higher in the sky, and the outline of the land, as his rays dissipated the mist, became more distinct. This encouraged us once more to attempt gaining it. Boxall and Halliday took their turn at the paddles; but as we could not venture to shift places, they were unable to make so much use of the pieces of wood as Ben and I were, who were seated at either end. As we were paddling on we caught sight of some spars floating at a little distance on one side. We made towards them, and found an oar and boat-hook.

“These may serve us as a mast and yard; we must manage to make a sail with our handkerchiefs and shirts, and then, when the sea-breeze sets in, we shall make more progress,” said Boxall.

Having secured the boat-hook and oar, we soon fastened our handkerchiefs and shirts together; and the breeze setting in shortly afterwards, we went skimming along at a much greater rate than at first. It again fell calm, however, and we were left as before, scarcely moving unless we used our paddles. The heat, as may be supposed, was very great; and what would we not have given for a few pints of water! We should have infinitely preferred that precious fluid to the choicest of wines.

Chapter Two.

Cast on a sand-bank—Our sufferings from thirst—A happy discovery.

Boxall did his uttermost, by his cheerful conversation, to keep up our spirits; but we were little inclined to talk, and sometimes we sat for an hour together without speaking, when his remarks would arouse us. Boxall was one of those quiet, unpretending men who can dare and do great things without making a boast of it, and at the same time endure trial and suffering without complaining. He did not tell us his thoughts, but we might have supposed that he felt certain of being preserved, so calm and even cheerful did he appear.

Halliday was an excellent fellow, who had never, that I know of, done an unworthy action; but he was apt to take things as he found them, and not to look far beyond the present. When with merry companions, he was as merry and happy as any of them; but if in sedate society, he was quiet and sedate.

Ben was, like many other British seamen, indifferent to danger, of a cheerful disposition, and generous and self-sacrificing; always ready to take a glass with an old messmate whenever an opportunity offered,—though he seldom if ever got intoxicated, even on shore, and never on duty.

I may be excused if I say but little about myself. I felt our position, and could not hide from myself the fearful danger we were in, although I did not altogether despair of escaping.

We had been silent for some time, when Halliday exclaimed,—“I could stand the hunger, but this thirst is terrible. I must take a gulp of the water alongside.”

“On no account, my dear fellow, as you value your life,” cried Boxall; “it will only increase your thirst, and very probably bring on delirium. Numbers have died in consequence of doing as you propose. Bear it manfully. Providence may save us when we least expect it.”

“You had better take a bite of my biscuit, sir,” said Ben, turning round; “it will give your mouth something to do. Chew it well, though. I and four companions were once in the Pacific in a whale-boat for three days, under the line, without a drop of water to cool our tongues; and all we had to eat were some flying-fish which came aboard of their own accord—or rather, it’s my belief that Heaven sent them. Three of us who stuck to the fish were taken aboard by our own ship on the fourth day; and two who would drink the salt water sprang overboard raving mad just before she hove in sight. It has been a lesson to me ever since.”

“Thank you, Ben; we will profit by it,” said Boxall.

We were paddling along as at first, all this time,—though, as we made but slow progress towards the shore, Boxall began to suspect that the current was carrying us to the southward. Still, we hoped that a breeze would again spring up and send us along faster; at all events, should a vessel appear in sight, our mast and sail, such as they were, would afford us a better chance of being seen than would otherwise have been the case. But hour after hour passed away, and still no sail hove in sight; indeed, while the calm lasted we could not expect to see one.

“What sort of people are we likely to meet with on yonder shore, should we ever get there?” asked Halliday. “Charlie, do you know?”

“Moors or Arabs; I don’t suppose any black fellows are to be found so far north,” I answered.

“I would rather land among blacks than Moors, from what I have heard of the latter,” said Boxall. “However, we may, I hope, be picked up by some European vessel.”

It was the first time Boxall had made any remark calculated to increase our anxiety, and his words had apparently slipped out unintentionally. I remembered having read an account of the barbarous way in which the wild Arabs of the African Desert had treated some European sailors wrecked on the coast; and I could not help reflecting that the most abject slavery might be our lot, should we fall into their hands. A discussion as to the character of the natives we were likely to meet with, should we reach the shore, occupied us for some time. Again Halliday complained of fearful thirst, when Ben succeeded at length in persuading him to munch a piece of his biscuit; but he declared that without a drop of moisture he could not get a morsel down. Just then Ben sang out that he saw some round things floating in the water a short way ahead.

“It may be sea-weed—though I have a notion it is something else,” he added, as we paddled eagerly forward.

“They are oranges!” he soon shouted out; “and whether they have come from our vessel or some other, there they are.”

We strained every nerve to urge on the raft, as if they would sink before we could reach the spot. How eagerly we picked them up! There were two dozen altogether. Directly Ben got hold of one he handed it to Halliday, who began sucking away at it with the greatest eagerness. They were all perfectly ripe; and even had they been green, they would have been most welcome.

“Providence has sent this fruit for our relief,” said Boxall. “Let us be thankful to the Giver.”

There were six apiece. We stowed them away in our pockets, for we had nowhere else to put them. They might be, we thought—as indeed they were—the means of preserving our lives. By Boxall’s advice we ate only one each, reserving the others till hunger and thirst might press us more than at present. I suspect that otherwise Halliday would have consumed all of his share—as perhaps might the rest of us.

All day we were on the look-out for a sail; but the calm continuing, no vessel could approach us. We had reason, however, to be thankful that a strong wind and heavy sea did not get up, as our frail raft, on which we could with difficulty balance ourselves, would speedily have been overwhelmed. On we paddled; but, as before, we made but little progress. A light breeze springing up towards evening, we hoisted our sail; and steering as well as we could with our paddles, or rather the pieces of board which served as such, we glided on towards the still far-distant shore. Had we known more about the coast and the dangers which fringed it, we should probably have endeavoured to gain the offing, where we might possibly be seen by a vessel passing either to the north or south—which none was likely to do closer in with the shore. Still, we all agreed that if we remained at sea and no vessel should come near us for a couple of days, we must, without food and water, inevitably perish.

We were all greatly overpowered with a desire to sleep, which even the fear of falling off into the water could scarcely conquer. I know that, though I was steering, I frequently saw the stars dancing before my eyes and shining in a confused manner on the mirrorlike surface of the water, while I scarcely recollected where I was or what had happened. At last I could stand it no longer, and was compelled to tell Boxall how I felt. Though there was great risk in changing our position, he insisted on taking my place; and as he was next to me, he told me to stoop down while he crept over my head. The centre part of the raft was more secure. Halliday, who had, I found, been sleeping for some time, was being held on by Boxall, who undertook to help me in the same way. In a moment after I had got into my new position I was fast asleep; and though the wind had been increasing, and the sea was consequently rougher than before, even the tossing of the raft did not awake me.

We had been running on for some time, when suddenly I was aroused by a violent shock.

“What has happened?” I exclaimed, opening my eyes.

“We have run on a reef!” exclaimed Ben; “and it will be a job for us to get over it.”

The mast had been unshipped, and fell over Ben; but being only an oar, it did not hurt him. We found ourselves on the top of a level rock, with the water quite shoal all round us.

“What is to be done now?” asked Halliday.

“We will take our sail to pieces, and resume our shirts and handkerchiefs,” said Boxall calmly. “If the tide is at present at its height, the rock will be dry shortly, and we can remain and stretch our legs till we ascertain how far we are off the coast.”

“But had we not better drag the raft over to the other side, into deeper water?” asked Ben; “we may then be able to continue our voyage.”

“We must first ascertain where the deep water is,” answered Boxall.

“I will soon learn that,” said Ben, taking the boat-hook in his hand to feel his way. He went forward carefully for some distance. At last he shouted out,—“The reef is higher here than where we struck it, and I am pretty sure I see a sand-bank at no great distance. I will go ahead and let you know.”

Halliday was so stiff and worn out that he was unable to move, and neither Boxall nor I liked to leave him. As Ben was strong, and a good swimmer, we felt sure that he could manage by himself.

We now refreshed ourselves with another orange; and I felt that I had still some strength left for any further exertions we might have to make.

After waiting for some time, we thought we heard Ben shouting to us.

“Yes, I am sure that is Ben’s voice,” said Boxall. “Come, Halliday, are you able to move?”

“I will do my best,” was the answer; and getting up, we made our way over the rocks in the direction from which Ben’s voice proceeded. After passing over a dry ledge we found the water again deepening; but I took Halliday’s hand, and together we waded on, followed by Boxall—who was ready to give either of us assistance, should we require it. The water was growing deeper and deeper, till it almost reached our chests.

“We shall have to swim for it,” I said; “but I don’t think it will be far.” Just then we again heard Ben’s voice. “He would not call to us if there was any danger to be encountered,” I observed. The next instant we all had to strike out; but we had not gone twenty fathoms when we found our feet touching the bottom, and once more we waded on.

“I see him,” I cried out, as my eye caught sight of a figure standing, apparently on dry land. “It may be the coast itself which we have reached—sooner than we expected.”

We had still some distance to go, but the water gradually became shallower. Halliday, overcome with fatigue, cried out that he could go no further; but Boxall, overtaking us, made him rest on his shoulder. The water being now no higher than our knees, we advanced more easily; and we soon caught sight of Ben, who had gone some distance over the sand, running to meet us. When at length we reached the dry land, we all three sank down exhausted.

“But have we really reached the coast of Africa?” eagerly asked Boxall of Ben.

“I am sorry to say we have not, sir; we are on a sand-bank ever so far from it, for not a glimpse have I been able to get of the coast—though we may perhaps see whereabouts it is when the sun rises.”

This was disappointing intelligence.

“Still, we ought to be thankful that we have a spot of dry land on which to put our feet,” said Boxall. “As we have been preserved hitherto, we ought not to despair, or fear that we shall be allowed to perish. At daylight, when we shall ascertain our position better than we can do now, we may be able to judge what we ought to do.”

Of course, we all agreed with him, and at once made our way up to the highest part of the bank, which was covered with grass and such plants as usually grow on saline ground seldom or never covered by the sea. Exposed as it was, it afforded us space on which to rest our weary limbs. Led by Boxall, we returned thanks to Heaven for our preservation, and offered up a prayer for protection in the future; and then we stretched ourselves out on the ground. Having no fear of being attacked by savage beasts or equally savage men, in a few minutes we were all fast asleep.

The sun had risen when we awoke. We all felt ravenously hungry, and were burning with thirst. Our thirst we slightly quenched with another orange apiece; but as we gazed around the barren sand-bank, we had no hopes of satisfying our hunger. Unless we could quickly reach the land, we felt we must perish. Standing up, we looked eagerly towards the east; a mist, however, which the sun had not yet dispelled, hung over that part of the horizon. The sand-bank, we judged, was a mile or more long, but very much narrower. It had apparently been thrown up by a current which swept round it inside the reef; while the reef itself appeared to extend further than our eyes could reach to the southward, and we supposed that we were somewhere near its northern end.

Halliday and I sat down again, not feeling inclined to walk about. We asked Boxall what he proposed doing.

“We must return to our raft, and try and get her round the reef,” he answered. “The weather promises still to be moderate, and I think we shall have no difficulty in doing so.”

“But how are we to get on without food?” asked Halliday. “If Ben would give me another piece of biscuit I might pick up a little; but I never could stand hunger.”

We looked round for Ben, but we found he had walked away, and was, as it seemed, sauntering idly along the beach. The tide had by this time gone out, and a considerable space of rocky ground was uncovered. We none of us felt inclined to move, but at the same time we knew that we must exert ourselves or perish; we wanted water more than anything else.

“We have no chance of finding it on this barren sand-bank,” I observed with a sigh.

“I am not so certain of that,” said Boxall. “I have heard that in the driest sand, provided the sea does not wash over it, drinkable water may be procured by digging deep down. Let us try, at all events.”

Agreeing to do as he proposed, we got up and walked along till we saw some tufts of grass; they were thin, and burned brown by the sun.

“Let us try here,” said Boxall. “This grass would not grow without some moisture; and possibly, by digging down, we shall find it at the roots.”

We set to work with our knives, but soon found that we could throw out the sand more rapidly with our hands than with these. We worked away, eagerly scraping out the sand. The roots ran very deep. “This is a most encouraging sign,” said Boxall. “Observe how much cooler the sand is here than at the top.” It continued, however, to roll down almost as fast as we threw it up, and we had to enlarge the circumference of the hole. Still no appearance of water; but the roots extended even further down than we had yet gone, and we persevered. We had got down nearly three feet, when we saw that some of the particles of sand glistened more than those at the top, and were of a brighter hue.

“See—see! they are wet!” exclaimed Halliday, digging away frantically.

We now got down into the hole, and threw the sand up behind us. Halliday at length brought up a handful which was moist, and pressed it to his lips. “It is free from salt!” he cried out; and again we all plunged down, till we came to a patch of wet sand. By keeping our hands in it, a little water at length began to trickle into them, which we eagerly drank. But this process appeared a very slow one. Had we possessed a cup of any sort to sink in the sand, we might have filled it; as it was, we were compelled to wait till we could get a few drops at a time in the hollow of our hands. Slow as was the proceeding, however, we at length somewhat overcame the burning thirst from which we had been suffering.

“Why should we not try to fill our shoes?” I exclaimed, as the thought struck me.

“We might try it; but it will take a long time to fill one of them,” said Boxall; “and I am afraid that the water will leak out as fast as it runs in.”

“I am ready to devote mine to the purpose, at all events,” I said, taking them off and working them down into the sand—though it was evident that a long time must elapse before water could flow into them.

“But what has become of Ben?” I asked; “we must let him know, as probably he is as thirsty as we were.”

We looked round, and at last caught sight of him stooping down, as if picking up something at the edge of the water. We shouted to him, but he was so busily engaged that he did not hear us.

“He has found some mussels or other shell-fish,” exclaimed Halliday, setting off to run; “I am desperately hungry.”

“Depend on it, Ben will give us a due share of whatever he has found,” said Boxall, as we followed our companion.

“Have you found any mussels?” Halliday was asking as we drew near.

“Better than mussels—oysters,” answered Ben. “It’s a very hard job, however, to get them off the rock. I intended to surprise you, thinking you were all still asleep, and so I waited till I could get enough for all of us.”

He showed us his ample pockets already full; and, hungry as he was, I am certain that the honest fellow had not touched one of them. We retired to the dry sand, and sitting down, eagerly opened the oysters with our knives. How delicious they were! meat and drink in one, as Ben observed—for we could scarcely have swallowed any dry food just then. We found our strength greatly restored after our meal.

Having told Ben of the means we had taken to find water, we advised him to come back with us and get a drink.

“No, no, gentlemen,” he said; “it will be wiser first to collect as many oysters as we can secure before the tide comes back, for we shall not then be able to get them.”

So we all set to work to collect oysters, filling our pockets and then carrying them on shore, and there piling them up beyond high-water mark. We knew that we should require a large number: indeed, Boxall reminded us that we could not expect to live long upon them and keep up our strength. It was tantalising, also, to reflect that we could not carry any quantity on our intended voyage.

Boxall then proposed that we should return to our water-hole. “Though I am afraid, Charlie, we shall not find your shoes very full,” he observed.

“Perhaps not; but if we take a few of the deepest of these oyster-shells, we may get water more quickly,” I answered. The thought that they would be of use had just struck me.

Away we went, our pockets loaded with as many oysters as we could carry. When we got to the hole I was disappointed to find that Boxall was right, and that there was only just sufficient water in my shoes to enable Ben partly to quench his thirst. By further increasing the hole, however, and putting down our oyster-shells, we found that we could obtain a much larger quantity of the precious liquid than by means of the shoes. Still there was only just enough to quench our thirst; and even had we possessed a bottle, it would have required some hours to fill it.

The tide had already begun to rise, and we agreed that no time was to be lost in crossing the channel to our raft, as we should now have the advantage of shallow water; whereas, if we waited, we should have to carry the raft a considerable distance over the rocks to launch it.

“I won’t disguise from you that I consider our expedition a dangerous one,” said Boxall. “Heavy weather may come on before we reach the shore; or a current may sweep us either to the north or south on to another reef. And when we do gain the shore, we cannot tell how we shall support life, or what treatment we may receive from the inhabitants, should we fall in with any, in that desert region. We can, however, trust to One above to take care of us. Let us pray to Him for protection.”

We knelt down, and Boxall offered up a heart felt, earnest prayer, in which we all joined. Then we rose from our knees, with strong hearts to encounter the dangers before us.

Chapter Three.

We quit the sand-bank—A sail! a sail!—Saved—Don Lopez’s indignation—The ship strikes—Fire! fire!—Cruelly deserted—The wreck blows up.

We had marked the spot where we had landed on the sand-bank, and we hoped therefore without difficulty to find our raft on the top of the reef. Before starting, we swallowed as much water as we could collect, and filled our handkerchiefs and pockets with oysters—which we took out of the shells, for otherwise we could have carried but few. It was not a time to be particular, but the oysters did feel somewhat slimy, and did not look very nice. How much we wished for a bottle in which we could carry water!—but all our ingenuity could devise no means of securing any for the future. We had an orange apiece remaining, and that was all on which we could depend for quenching our thirst till we could reach the shore; and perhaps even then we might be unable to find water.

“Cheer up, cheer up!” cried Boxall. “We have thought sufficiently over the dangers before us, now let us face them bravely.” Saying this, he led the way across the channel; Halliday and I followed, and Ben brought up the rear. We were able to wade the whole distance, though in the deeper part the water was up to our shoulders. We found the raft as we had left it, for the tide, even at its height, did not reach the top of the reef. At Boxall’s suggestion, we took it apart and dragged the pieces down to the edge of the water, so that when put together again it might float as the tide came in. We also lashed it together more securely and balanced it better than before, while from one of the boards we cut out two fresh paddles; thus all hands were able to urge on the raft. Judging as far as we were able—by throwing a piece of wood into the water—that the current was setting to the southward, while we wished to go round the north end of the reef, we determined to wait till the tide slackened, which it would soon do; indeed, our raft was not yet completely afloat. The water rising higher and higher, however, we at last got on the raft and sat down. And while Boxall took the boat-hook to shove off, the rest of us paddled with all our might.

“Away she goes!” cried Boxall; and we were fairly afloat.

Just at that instant Ben cried out, “A sail! a sail! away to the north-west.”

We looked in the direction indicated, and clearly made out the top-gallant-sails and part of the royals of what was apparently a large ship, standing almost directly towards us. Our hearts leaped with joy. Instead of the weary paddling towards the arid coast, parched with thirst and suffering from hunger, we might soon be safe on board ship, with the prospect of returning to our friends and country.

“We shall easily cut her off, if we steer to the westward and make good way,” cried Ben. “But there is no time to lose, in case she should alter her course.”

“I cannot understand why she is standing in this direction,” observed Boxall. “Her commander can scarcely be aware of the existence of this reef, or he would be giving it a wider berth.”

The wind was against us, and the send of the sea drove us back almost as much as we went ahead; so that we made but slow progress. The ship, however, approached nearer and nearer, till we could see nearly to the foot of her courses. When at length her hull came in sight, both Boxall and Ben were of opinion that she was foreign,—either French or Spanish. Boxall thought that she was the latter; and indeed we soon clearly made out the Spanish ensign flying from her peak.

“I will get a signal ready,” said Ben, taking off his shirt and fastening it to the end of the oar which had served as a mast. It was still too evident, however, that we were not seen.

“If that ship were to stand on an hour longer, or even less, she would run right on the reef not far to the southward of this,” observed Boxall. “It will be a mercy if those on board see us, as we will be able to warn them of their danger. Let us, at all events, do our best to get up to her.”

Cheering each other on, we paddled away as vigorously as we could.

“I think she will see us now. Let us hoist our signal,” cried Ben; and taking up the oar which lay along the raft, he waved it, with his shirt at the end, as high as he could. Some minutes more passed. The ship had got so far to the southward that we were directly on her beam. Ben waved the signal frantically; and uniting our voices, we shouted as loudly as we could.

“I am afraid our voices don’t reach her in the teeth of the wind,” observed Boxall.

“But our signal is seen, though,” cried Ben; and as he spoke the ship’s head was turned towards us, while we energetically paddled on to meet her.

In a short time she was up to us, and we got alongside; ropes were hove to us (one of which Ben made fast to the raft), and several men came down the side to assist us in climbing up. Among the most active were two negroes—one a tall, powerful man, but about as ugly a mortal as I ever set eyes on; the other, a young, pleasant-looking lad, though his skin was as black as jet. The two seized me by the arms and dragged me up, though I could have scrambled on deck without their help.

“Muchas gracias,” (Many thanks), I said.

“I thought you English officer,” said the young black.

“So I am,” I answered. “How is it that you speak English?”

“I served aboard English man-of-war, and knew that you were English officer directly I saw you,” he answered.

This was said almost before I placed my feet on the deck—where we were all soon standing, looking around us. The ship was apparently a man-of-war; but there were a number of soldiers and people of all ranks, evidently passengers, walking the deck, besides the officers.

“I say, Charlie, as you speak Spanish, you had better tell the captain that he will be hard and fast on shore in a few minutes if he does not alter his course,” said Boxall to me.

Followed by my companions, I accordingly stepped aft to an officer whom I took to be the commander, and told him that we had only just before left a reef which ran north and south, and that he would soon be upon it unless he steered more to the westward; also that, if he kept a sharp look-out, he would see the sand-bank behind it. He seemed very much astonished, and at once gave orders to port the helm and trim the sails so as to stand off from the dangerous neighbourhood. I observed that our raft was towing astern. “We will hoist it on board by-and-by,” said the captain; “it will serve for firewood, of which we have not too large a supply.”

I heard several people talking about the reef. One very consequential-looking gentleman declared that we had not spoken the truth, and that the reef must be much further off than we had said. I took no notice of this; indeed, I thought that I might possibly be mistaken, especially as I was not accustomed to hear Spanish spoken, although, thanks to honest Andrew, I was able to express myself with tolerable clearness on simple subjects. We convinced the captain, however, that my account was true, by showing him the oysters with which our pockets were filled, and which we were very glad to get rid of. Being about to throw them overboard, the young negro stopped us and begged to have them, as they would be very welcome at the mess to which he belonged. “We no get too much food here,” he observed; “very different to English man-of-war.”

I asked the young black his name.

“They call me Pedro aboard here; but I got many names, according to the people I live among,” he answered with a laugh. “The English sailors call me Black Jack; and when I once lived with the Moors, my name was Selim; and in my own country, Quasho Tumbo Popo.”

“And what is the name of the big black man who helped me up the side?” I asked.

“Him called Antonio here,” answered Pedro, glancing round to ascertain that the person we were speaking of was not near. “Take care of him, massa; him no good. Once got flogging aboard man-of-war, and no love English officers, depend on that. He pretend to be great friend to you, but you see what he do.”

I thanked Pedro for his caution, feeling certain from the tone in which he spoke that he was sincere.

The captain seemed really grateful for the service we had rendered him by preventing him from running on the reef. He invited us down to his cabin, and asked us if we would like to turn in and rest while our clothes were drying.

“Will you tell him that we are dying of thirst,” exclaimed Halliday, “and that we should not object to have something to eat first?”

I explained that we had had no food except oysters since the previous evening, and that we should be grateful if he would order us some supper—for the Spanish dinner-hour had long passed.

“Of course,” he observed; “I forgot that,”—and he immediately ordered some water and light wine to be placed on the table. He seemed amused at the quantity we drank; having, I suspect, had very little experience of the way men feel who have been exposed to hunger and thirst, as we had been, for so many hours. Some light food was then brought in, to which we did ample justice.

On my mentioning Ben to him, he observed,—“He will be taken good care of by the black Antonio; he understands your language.”

The captain appeared to be a quiet, gentlemanly man; but it struck me at once that he was not the sort of person to keep a disorderly crew and a number of troops and passengers in order. He again expressed himself deeply obliged to us for the service we had rendered him; and taking a small telescope in a case from the side-cabin, begged I would accept it as a mark of his gratitude. “There are some aboard here who pretend to understand better than I do how the ship should be managed; and it was by their advice that I was steering the course I was doing when I fell in with you,” he observed.

I told Boxall what the captain had said.

“A pretty sort of commander he must be, to allow civilians, even though they may be scientific men, to interfere with the navigation of the ship,” he observed. “For my part, I should tell them to keep as sharp a look-out as they liked upon the spars and ship, but to let me steer the course I considered the best.”

After supper we thankfully turned in—the captain politely giving his berth to Boxall, while two of the lieutenants begged that Halliday and I would occupy theirs. When we left the deck I observed that the wind had completely fallen, and I could not help wishing that we had been further off from the reef. The frigate, I should have said, had come through the Straits of Gibraltar, from Malaga or some other port on the south of Spain, and was bound out to Manilla in the Philippine Islands, carrying a number of official persons, with some settlers of lower grade. But having told the captain of the danger near him, we hoped that he would do his best to avoid it, and so ceased to let the matter trouble us.

As may be supposed, we slept soundly, worn out as we were with our exertions; and it was daylight next morning when we awoke. I apologised to those whom we had kept out of their berths; but they were very civil, and replied that they had slept on sofas, and that we evidently required all the rest we could obtain.

On going on deck we found that the calm still continued, and the ship lay on the glass-like surface, her sails idly hanging down against the masts. I observed that a hand was in the chains, heaving the lead; and on going into the mizzen-top, I made out the reef and the sand-bank behind it,—although, had I not known it was there, I might not have been certain what it was. Going forward, I found Ben, and asked him how he had fared.

“Pretty well, thank you, sir; owing to the black Antonio, who looked after me,” he answered. “He is a rum sort of a chap, though; and I shouldn’t wish to have many such aboard a ship with me. He is civil enough, to be sure, as far as I am concerned; but he is bitter as olives against all above him: and it’s my opinion he would work you, and Mr Boxall, and Mr Halliday a mischief, if he had the power, though you never did him any harm. I see clearly enough what he is about: he wants to gain me over to side with him—and that’s the reason he’s so terribly civil. Depend on it, Mr Blore, there’ll be a mutiny aboard before long; and when it comes there’ll be murder and fighting, and we shall fare ill among the villains. I cannot say much for the discipline of this ship, either; she is more like a privateer than a man-of-war. It’s a wonder she has got as far as she has without meeting with some misfortune; and I only hope that we shall touch at a port before long, where we can get clear of her.”

“What you say is not pleasant; and, from certain things I have observed, I am afraid it is true,” I answered. “If we don’t touch anywhere, we may fall in with an English vessel; and I am sure Mr Boxall will agree with me, that we had better go on board her, even though she may be a merchant-man. But if we meet with a man-of-war, we shall be all right.”

“I hope we shall, sir,” said Ben. “Antonio tells me, too, that the ship was on fire two nights ago, through the carelessness of some of the men, when more than half of the crew went down on their knees and cried for help to their saints, instead of trying to put out the flames; and if he and a few others had not set to work with buckets and wet blankets, the ship, to a certainty, would have been burned.”

“Well, Ben, keep your weather-eye open; and if anything of the kind occurs again, we must show them what British discipline and courage can do,” I said.

Going aft, I told Boxall what I had heard; and he agreed with me that it would be well to leave the ship as soon as we could, though we ought to be thankful that we had reached her, instead of having to make our way to land on our frail raft.

We had certainly no reason to complain of want of civility from the officers of the ship; but the civilians, some of whom rejoiced in high-sounding titles, treated us with marked contempt, as beings altogether inferior to themselves. We agreed, however, to take no notice of this, and made ourselves as happy as we could. Halliday, after two or three substantial meals, recovered his spirits; and I jokingly told him that it would be wise to keep his pockets, in future, well stored with provisions, in case a similar accident might occur—though I little thought at the time that he would take my advice in earnest, and follow it.

A breeze at last sprung up, and the huge galleon began once more to glide through the water. The officers had again politely offered us their berths, but we positively refused to accept them,—saying that, as our clothes were dry, we could sleep perfectly well on sofas, or on the deck of the cabin, for that matter. The captain then begged that we would occupy the main cabin, which was only used in the daytime.

After supper, we all three walked the deck till the great men had retired to their berths. It was a lovely night; the sea was smooth, and the moon shone brightly; a light air filled the sails, while the tall ship glided calmly onward. It was indeed such a night as one might have thought it impossible any accident could happen to a ship in. While we were walking the deck, Boxall stepped up to the binnacle and glanced at the compass. On returning to us, he observed—

“It seems extraordinary that, notwithstanding the warning we gave the captain, the ship is being kept more to the eastward of south than otherwise. I should say that south or south-south-west would be a safer course.”

“I have a great mind to tell the captain,” I said. “I suspect that he does not believe we are so close in with the coast as is really the case. He seems a sensible man, and will, at all events, be obliged to me.”

I entered the cabin, but found that the captain had gone to bed. I then went up to the raised poop, on which the officer of the watch was standing, and, in as polite a way as I could, reminded him of the dangerous reef on our larboard beam. “Or rather, I may say, on our larboard bow,” I added; “and if we stand on much longer on the course we are now keeping, we shall strike on it to a certainty.”

“If there is a reef where you say, we must have passed it long ago,” answered the lieutenant carelessly. “My directions are to steer the course we are now on; and I am surprised that a stranger should venture to interfere with the navigation of the ship.”

“I beg your pardon, Don Lopez,” I answered. “I have given you what my brother officers and I consider sound advice; and we, sir, should be as sorry as you would be to see the ship cast away.”

“Really, Mr Englishman, we Spaniards understand navigation as well as you do!” exclaimed the lieutenant in an angry tone. “You seem to forget that we discovered the New World, and had explored a large portion of the globe before your countrymen even pretended to be a maritime people, as you now call yourselves.”

I saw that it was useless saying more, and so rejoined my companions. Boxall was becoming more and more anxious. “We shall, to a certainty, be on the reef before many hours are over, if the ship’s course is not altered,” he said. “I suspect that the lieutenant has mistaken east for west, and that the captain really directed him to steer south-south-west.”

I again went up to the lieutenant, and, as politely as I could, inquired if he did not think it possible that some mistake might have been made as to the course to be steered, and suggesting that he should alter it to south-west. This made him very indignant, and he hinted that if I again interfered with him he should order me under arrest. Making him a polite bow, I returned to Boxall, and we continued our walk. The air, after the heat of the day, was comparatively cool and pleasant, and neither of us felt any inclination to turn in. No one interfered with us; and we were talking eagerly about the probability of falling in with an English man-of-war, or of making our way home on board a merchant-man, when we suddenly felt a shock, but not of sufficient force to throw us off our feet.

“The ship has struck!” exclaimed Boxall. “What are the fellows about? They ought to clew up everything, and she might be got off.”

In spite of the manner in which the officer of the watch had treated me, I ran aft to him, and urged him to do as Boxall advised, “The reef, do you say!” he exclaimed; “that was no reef, but a sunken vessel. See! we are gliding on as smoothly as before.”

Scarcely had he said this when the ship again struck, and with far greater violence than before. The tall masts quivered, and seemed ready to fall. The captain, and most of the officers and crew who were below, came rushing on deck; the lead was hove, and shallow water found on either side. The captain immediately ordered the sails to be clewed up, and the boats to be lowered, that anchors might be carried astern, to haul off the ship.

“If it’s high-water her fate is sealed,” observed Boxall; “but if low, she might possibly be hauled off: and she has not, I hope, received much damage.”

I ran to the chains, and observed that the lead-line was up and down—the ship was evidently not moving. By this time the civilians and other passengers had come on deck, and great confusion prevailed. Everyone wanted to know what had happened, and what was to be done. Several came to me. “We must first try to heave the ship off,” was my answer to all.

The capstan was manned, and the crew commenced heaving; but not an inch did the ship move. The first anchor earned out, not holding, came home, and had with great labour to be lifted; the second held, though the strain on the cable was tremendous.

Boxall had carefully sounded the water alongside.

“She is moving!” he exclaimed at length. “Hurrah! work away, my fine lads!” he could not help crying out, though the men could not understand him. The water continued to rise, the ship moved faster and faster, and there appeared every probability of our getting off.

While the crew were thus busily engaged, several soldiers and passengers came rushing up the fore-hatchway shouting out, “Fire! fire! fire!” Halliday and I, who were standing together, hurried forward, hoping that it might be a false alarm, though I could not help recollecting what Ben had told me the previous day. Though no flames were visible, I discovered, even in the gloom of night, that the atmosphere was peculiarly thick, while I could smell an odour of burning wood. More people rushing up with the same fearful shouts, the alarm soon became general. Halliday and I cried out to the men nearest us to get buckets and blankets, and that we would try to discover from whence the fire proceeded, and endeavour to put it out; but no one listened to us. Some of the soldiers and passengers were rushing about the deck like madmen; others were on their knees calling to the saints to assist them; while a number of the seamen rushed below, returned with axes, and began hacking at the shrouds and stays—as if, having made up their minds that the ship would be lost, they intended to cut away the masts. Some of the officers were endeavouring to recall the men to their duty, but others seemed to have lost their senses; while the civilians were as frantic as the rest: indeed, a panic had too evidently seized the greater part of those on board.

Finding that we could do nothing, Halliday and I made our way aft to look for Boxall, and to ask what he advised we should do—feeling that it would be wise, at all events, to keep together. On our way we met with Ben. “I find, sir, that the careless Spaniards have forgotten to hoist our raft on board, as they intended doing, and she is still alongside,” he said. “Now, as I see that these fellows are not likely to help themselves, it’s our business, I have a notion, to look after number one; so I will just slip down on the raft and try what I can do to improve it, if you will send me over all the planks and spars you can lay hands on.”

Fortunately, just then Boxall found us out, and approved of Ben’s proposal. The officers, in the meantime, were lowering the boats which remained on board, the larger ones being already in the water. We offered to assist some of them who were trying to lower the starboard quarter boat; but even those who had before been civil to us now rudely pushed us aside; and we felt sure that, even should they succeed in launching her, they would refuse to take us on board.

Ben having got on the raft, had hauled it under the main chains. There was no lack of spars—the deck was piled up with a number, not only for the use of the ship, but for other vessels on the station; and there was also the framework and rigging complete of a small vessel. We quickly took from these spars and ropes sufficient to enable Ben to complete the raft—and had just sent him down the ship’s fore-royal and its yard, with a couple of oars which we found on the booms, when a number of the crew discovered what we were about, and made a rush to get on the raft. We shouted to Ben to shove off,—telling him to come back for us, or we would swim to him. Before he was clear of the vessel’s side, however, a Spanish seaman sprang on the raft; and having, as he thought, secured his own safety, he showed no inclination, notwithstanding the shouts of his countrymen, of returning to the ship.

The example we had set was immediately followed by such of the crew as had retained their senses—the boatswain and two or three more of the inferior officers taking the lead.

All this time no attempt had been made to put out the fire, which, from the slow progress it made, might, I felt sure, have easily been done. But the people now showed more energy in forming the proposed raft than they had hitherto done. It seemed surprising that the undisciplined crew did not take possession of the boats; but they were somewhat kept in awe by a party of marines or soldiers drawn up on the quarter-deck; and they had, besides, been assured by their officers that they should be taken on board when all was ready. The boats, which had in the meantime kept off from the ship, under the command of the lieutenants and other officers, were called up one by one. The barge being first summoned, the governor and his family, with several other civilians, ladies and children, embarked in her, with some provisions, and a few casks of water; more order and regularity being displayed on this occasion than on any other. The barge immediately shoved off; and then most of the civilians and naval officers hurriedly embarked in the other boats. I asked the captain if he would take us into his boat; but he replied, with a shrug of his shoulders, that it was impossible, as the Spaniards would not allow foreigners to embark while their countrymen remained on board. On hearing this, Boxall proposed to the boatswain that we should assist in building the large raft; and, as a considerable number of seamen on whom he could depend had already embarked in the boats, he thankfully accepted our offer.

Before letting ourselves over the stern, where the raft was being formed, I looked out for Ben. At length I observed him, some way off, with his companion, apparently busied in finishing the small raft. Boxall agreed with me that we should be better off with him than on the larger raft, so we hoped that as soon as he could he would come back to the ship. In the meantime we set to work energetically to assist the boatswain; while two or three of the officers remained on board, and, with the few men to help them whom they could get to work, continued heaving over all the planks and spars they could find, together with some empty water-casks and hen-coops, through the ports. We had already formed a good-sized raft, when an officer, who had hitherto been labouring on deck, slipped down and joined us, together with a number of people who were afraid of being abandoned should they not secure a place upon it.

Among the last articles sent down to us had been a top-gallant-sail, which Boxall, Halliday, and I at once got ready for hoisting on a long spar set up as a mast in the fore-part of the raft, that we might, should it be necessary, get clear of the ship; for although we were anxious to save as many people as possible, we knew that all would be lost should too many get upon it.

I had gone to the after-part of the raft, to suggest to the boatswain that we should fix a rudder, when I caught sight of the captain’s boat pulling away from the ship, leaving a number of the marines on the quarter-deck. They were shouting to the captain, asking him to come back for them. His reply was, “I will directly; but I go to call the other boats to take you on board.” This reply evidently did not satisfy the soldiers. Several of them shouted out, “We will fire, if you do not return immediately;” but no notice was taken of this threat, and the crew of the boat gave way with redoubled energy. I was expecting, the next instant, to hear the rattle of musketry, when a fearful report, like the sound of a hundred guns going off at once, rang in my ears; the deck of the ship appeared to lift, her masts and spars trembled, and bright flames burst forth from every side. It seemed impossible that any of those remaining on deck could have survived.

Chapter Four.

Meeting on the raft—an atrocious deed—A desperate fight—Swimming for life—A terrible doom.

The people on the raft, overwhelmed with horror at the fearful catastrophe which had occurred, were for a time unable to exert themselves, and had we not been astern of the ship a large portion of our party would probably have perished; but as it was, no one was hurt. The boats, instead of returning to our assistance, continued to pull away to the southward; they did not even stop to take on board Ben and his companion, who, by the light of the burning ship, could be seen at some distance.

As soon as those on the raft began somewhat to recover from their consternation, they rose to their feet, uttering the most fearful imprecations on the heads of those who, it was very evident, were so cruelly deserting them. The brave boatswain was the only one among the Spaniards who retained his presence of mind. He and I, with Boxall and Halliday, managed to hoist a sail; when a light breeze enabled us to get sufficiently clear of the burning wreck to avoid the masts and spars which came falling down, hissing, into the water. Several of the people shouted out, urging us to sail in chase of the boats; but even had we attempted it with a strong breeze in our favour, they would of course soon have got far ahead of us. As it was, the wind again fell, and we lay on the calm ocean unable to impel our raft either towards the shore or in any other direction, while we gazed with sad eyes at the burning ship.

I looked round for Antonio and young Pedro, but could discover neither of them on the raft. The friendly disposition the latter had exhibited towards us made me hope that he had escaped in one of the boats. Boxall said that he had seen Antonio not long before he himself had got on the raft, and that he was nearly certain he had been left on the burning wreck. Notwithstanding the bad opinion Ben had formed of him, we agreed that we should have been glad had he been with us, as he was certainly one of the most intelligent and active seamen on board. Boxall, Halliday, and I sat near the mast with the boatswain, who tried in vain to arouse his companions to exertion,—urging them to secure the raft more firmly, and to endeavour to pick up anything which might be floating by. Those who had at first obeyed him willingly, now only grumbled; and from words I heard spoken, I was afraid that, should he attempt to enforce his orders, a mutiny would break out. On mentioning my fears to Boxall,—“We must try and defend him then,” he answered. “I trust that some will remain faithful, and rally round us.”

The night continued calm. This was the time when, if active, we might possibly have obtained some provisions, and might certainly have improved the raft. We three did what we could, but the people would not move out of our way, and no one would lend a hand. We succeeded, however, in picking up several articles: a boat-hook, some oars, and two casks—but whether they contained water or spirits we could not be certain. Boxall said that as they floated light he believed they were spirit-casks, and suggested that it might be wiser to let them go, in case the people should get drunk with their contents; still, as there was a doubt on the subject, and we were unable at once to examine them, we secured them to the raft.

The calmness of the sea alone saved many of the people sleeping near the edge from slipping overboard, or getting their limbs jammed between the openings in the spars. It was easy, however, to foretell what would happen should a strong wind and heavy sea get up: even should the raft hold together, many of those on it must be washed away; while if all hands had exerted themselves, it might have been greatly strengthened, and made secure against the dangers it would in all probability have to encounter.

Weary with our exertions, we at length agreed to go back to the mast and rest till daylight; but on reaching the spot where we had before taken our post, near the boatswain, we found it occupied, and were compelled to content ourselves with a less secure place at some distance from him. Not trusting those around us, we agreed that one should keep awake and watch over the other two. It fell to my lot to keep the first watch; and so, while Boxall and Halliday stretched themselves lengthways on a plank, I sat by their side.

I had not been there long when some men began talking near me (probably unaware that I understood Spanish). One of the men was, I made out, the boatswain’s mate, and the others were ordinary seamen. They were speaking of the boatswain, and abusing him for what they called his tyranny. Each one had some grievance to complain of.

“We have him now in our power,” said the boatswain’s mate; “let us revenge ourselves on him.”

“But who is to take command of the raft and guide us to the shore?” asked one of the men.

“I will do that,” was the answer; “I am as good a seaman as he is. And when we get to land we will build huts and live at our ease, instead of setting off, as he will certainly wish to do, to find some port where we can start for Spain, where most of you will be sent back to the galleys.”

A good deal more was said to the same effect; and my immediate impression was that the men he was addressing were emancipated convicts, and capable of any atrocity. I longed to warn the boatswain at once of the plot hatching for his destruction; but I knew that if I moved I should be suspected. I hoped, however, that at all events the wretches would not attempt to carry their nefarious plan out that night, and I resolved to take the first opportunity of telling the boatswain what I had heard. Growing very sleepy, I was compelled at last to awake Halliday and get him to keep watch. I told him to arouse me should the men make any movement, or show that they were about to carry out their treacherous project.

I went to sleep with the thought on my mind of the boatswain’s danger; and I suppose this caused me to awake suddenly. Starting up, I found that Halliday had dropped off to sleep by my side. The raft had drifted to some distance from the ship, which was, however, still burning, the glare falling on the figures of my companions in misfortune,—some lying down, others sleeping in sitting postures. I looked around towards the spot where the boatswain’s mate and his associates had been; they were not there. I crept towards the place where I had left the boatswain; but could not distinguish him. Happening to look to the further end of the raft, I saw a hand lifted up holding a dagger, which gleamed in the light of the burning ship. I shouted to Boxall and Halliday, who sprang to their feet; while I, followed by them, rushed towards the spot where I had seen the weapon raised.

“Stop! stop!” I shouted in Spanish. “Commit no murder.” My voice aroused most of the other sleeping occupants of the raft; but before my friends and I could reach the spot the dagger had descended, and we were met by the glaring eyes of the boatswain’s mate and his convict associates.

“You have killed the brave boatswain,” I could not help exclaiming.

“You shall share his fate, whatever that is,” growled out the murderer. “Who are you, who dares to interfere with me and my friends?”

I made no answer. The man held the still reeking dagger in his hand, and I could not help fearing that, should I get within his reach, he would plunge it into me.

The people on the raft were now shouting and talking together—some arranging themselves on our side, while others appeared inclined to take part with the boatswain’s mate and his vile associates.

“Where is the boatswain? where is the boatswain? Pedro Alvez!” cried out some of the petty officers. No answer came. All the officers had their swords, and Halliday and I had got hold of two of the axes which had been taken to form the raft. Boxall told me to urge the carpenter, who seemed to be the chief in rank, to cut down the mutineers at once, and either heave them overboard or lash them to the raft, as he was certain they would otherwise take an early opportunity of attacking us when unprepared, and would put us all to death. He hesitated, however, observing that most of them had their knives, and that it would be no easy matter to overcome them.

Again voices shouted, “Where is Pedro Alvez? Let him show himself.”

“He went overboard and was drowned; and many more will follow him, if we are interfered with,” answered some one from the end of the raft occupied by the mutineers.

This answer evidently alarmed the carpenter, who was a very different sort of man from the brave boatswain.

“We will remain quiet till we are attacked, and then, of course, we will defend ourselves,” he observed in a low voice.

“Our only chance will be to keep together and be constantly on the watch,” observed Boxall. “I wish he would let me have his sword; I suspect that I should make a better use of it than he will.”

The carpenter declined to give up his own weapon, but promised to try and get one—as he was sure that the English officer would make good use of it.

Boxall had hitherto been able to arm himself only with a heavy piece of wood, but which his strong arm was likely to use with good effect. In a short time, however, the gunner brought him a sword.

“Tell your brother officer that I am sure he will fight well with it, and do his best to maintain order.”

“Thank him,” answered Boxall. “He may trust me.”

Something like order was at length restored; and the mutineers held their post on the after-part of the raft, while we kept ours round the mast. Thus the remainder of the night passed away.

The sun rose at last hot and red over the calm ocean; the heat became intense, and every one was crying out for food and water. Halliday whispered to me that he had taken my advice, and had filled his pockets with biscuits and sausages—which he invited Boxall and me to partake of. We agreed that they would be nothing among so many; still we did not like to eat them in the presence of others.

“I ate as much as I wanted during the night,” said Halliday; “and I think if you were to sit down behind me, you might be able to get some food into your mouth without being observed. I should like to give the carpenter some, though.”

I undertook to convey a small portion to him. He was very grateful for it, and did not even ask if we had any more. I then told him of the casks. He called several men whom he could trust; who went to the side and, with our assistance, got the casks on the raft. The larger one contained spirits, the other water. On discovering this, a number of the people made a rush towards them, afraid of losing their share,—and we were compelled to keep them at bay with our weapons.

“The water and spirits shall be served out so that each shall have a due share,” cried the carpenter. Some small cups were found which served as measures; and the people, awed by the bold front we exhibited, waited patiently till each person had received his proper portion. Very nearly half the cask of water was thus exhausted; and we should have acted more wisely had we waited till the people’s thirst had become greater. Some of them had apparently a few biscuits and other eatable things in their pockets; but besides this, a cask of pork, which had been thrown overboard, and hauled up on the raft before it left the ship, was the only food we possessed. Our only hope of escaping starvation was by speedily reaching the shore.

“How soon shall we get there?” asked Halliday of Boxall.

“Never—unless a breeze springs up, and these fellows act like rational beings instead of madmen,” he answered, in a more gloomy tone than I had ever yet heard him use. “We must not conceal from ourselves the fearful position in which we are placed. These ruffians will probably try to destroy the gunner and the other officers as they did the boatswain; and watchful as we may be, we shall scarcely be able to guard ourselves against them.”

“I wish we had Ben with us,” said Halliday. “A stout, brave fellow such as he is would have been of great help, and with the assistance of the better disposed we might have kept the villains at bay. I wonder what can have become of him!”

“He and his companion have probably paddled towards the shore,” answered Boxall. “Self-preservation is the first thing a man thinks of; and though he might not, under other circumstances, have deserted us, he probably thought himself much better off on his light raft than he would be on this large one,—and was afraid, if he came near us, that others would attempt to gain a footing on it, and thus overload it.”

“No, no; I do not think that Ben would willingly have deserted us,” I observed. “I am very certain that he would have done his best to help us. He probably lost sight of our raft during the night, and could not find it again; or one of the boats might have returned, and taken him and his companion on board.”

“Little chance of that,” answered Boxall. “There is no excuse for their cowardly desertion of us, and they are not likely to have come back for the sake of rescuing any one.”

This style of conversation, more of which I need not repeat, served to pass away the time. While the calm continued, our condition did not change for the better, as we could not move, and no sail could approach to our assistance. The Spaniards around us were talking in even a more gloomy strain,—uttering curses, not loud but deep, on the heads of those who had basely deserted them; while the mutineers sat together at the end of the raft muttering to each other, and, as we suspected, hatching mischief.

The day wore on, and the sun struck down on our unprotected heads with intense force; while the bright glare on the water affected our eyes, and compelled us to shield them with our hands,—for the sail, though hoisted, afforded us only a partial shade. The mutineers now began to cry out that they wanted more food and water.

“It is not time yet to serve it out,” answered the carpenter, who had assumed the command. “If we use it up now, we shall have none for to-morrow.”

“Better eat and drink while we are hungry and thirsty, and let to-morrow take care of itself,” exclaimed one of the mutineers.

The carpenter took no notice of the remark, and the mutineers remained quiet for some minutes, apparently not having made up their minds how to act.

“Depend upon it, these fellows will attack us before long,” observed Boxall; “we must be prepared. Tell the carpenter what I say.” The latter agreed with Boxall, and spoke to the few around him whom he could trust.

Boxall now suggested that we should place the three casks and some loose planks so as to form a barricade in front of us, by which means we might better resist an attack. We were engaged doing this, when the leader of the mutineers cried out,—“What are you about? Let these things remain as they are. We want food and water: if it’s not given to us, we will come and take it.”

The carpenter, instead of boldly adhering to what he knew was wise, was advised by his more timid companions, and replied that he would give them a little pork and water provided they should remain quiet. I told Boxall; who desired me to warn him that he was acting very imprudently, as they would be sure to ask for more. He persisted, however; and telling the men to come for their rations, he gave each a small measure of water and a piece of pork. On this, several who had remained neutral joined them, and also insisted on receiving their rations. Being supported by the mutineers, the rest of the people very naturally cried out that they must have their share,—fearing that otherwise the mutineers would get the whole of it.

Scarcely had the distribution been made, when the mutineers again demanded another supply.

“We must be firm, or, finding that they can overawe us, they will insist on doing whatever they please,” said Boxall.

The carpenter could not fail to see the wisdom of this advice, and replied that not another drop of water or particle of food would be served out till the next morning. The mutineers received the answer in sullen silence, making at the time no movement; and we began to hope that they would remain quiet. As, however, they soon again felt the gnawings of hunger, they began to talk together in low voices; and, influenced by the instincts of savage beasts, they seemed determined to take by force what they wanted.

Their leader, starting up, cried out,—“It’s time to have more food; come, Mr Carpenter, give it to us at once.”

“Be quiet, friends; you know that is impossible,” was the mild reply.

It failed to influence them, however; and drawing their knives, with which most of them were armed, they sprang towards us. Just at that moment some one at the other end of the raft shouted out,—“A sail! a sail!” The welcome sound arrested even the savage wretches, and, sheathing their knives, they looked round in the direction in which the man was pointing. We cast our eyes towards the spot. There could be no doubt that there was a sail, but I saw at once that it must be a very small vessel, or a boat. I thought it best, however, not to tell the Spaniards this.

The mutineers sat down, looking out towards the sail. Though the prospect of relief was sufficient, one might have supposed, to arouse every one, yet so weak and dispirited were many of the Spaniards, that they scarcely moved from their positions, but sat, as before, with their heads resting on their knees. One thing was certain—that the craft, whatever she was, was standing towards us, bringing up a breeze; yet she approached very slowly.

“I suspected from the first what she was,” observed Boxall. “Let me have your glass, Charlie, that I may be certain.” I gave him my telescope, which I had kept slung at my back. “As I thought: it is a small raft—probably Ben’s. Honest fellow, I wronged him. He calculated the direction in which we were likely to have drifted, and is coming to our assistance.”

In a short time the carpenter also observed to me that it was a raft, with our countryman on it.

“We will not tell the mutineers so—let them find it out for themselves; as they may form a plan for taking possession of it, if they think that it would serve them better than this one,” I observed.

How anxiously we waited the arrival of the raft! It came on very slowly, for the breeze was light. Our own sail remained hoisted, but as one of the sheets had been let go it remained partly furled round the mast, and did not move the raft. Looking through my glass, I made out Ben and another man. It was evident, then, that they had not succeeded in saving any people from the burning wreck; probably, therefore, all had perished.

The raft was soon visible to the dullest eyes of all on board. As she approached, Boxall shouted to Ben, and advised him not to approach too near—telling him of the disorderly state of those with us, and that they would certainly attempt to take from him any water or provisions he might have. Ben on this hauled down his sail, and we saw him apparently endeavouring to make his companion understand the warning he had received.

“We will do as you advise, sir,” he shouted in return. “We have got food and water enough on board for three or four people; and knowing that you were likely to be short of both, we came to look for you. My mate here is the brother of the boatswain, and is a very good fellow. As you say, it will be dangerous for us to come alongside; but if Mr Boxall, Mr Halliday, and you will swim off to us, we will run in closer and take you aboard.”

“No, no! don’t come any nearer; we can all easily reach you,” answered Boxall. He did not wish to let the Spaniard know of his brother’s death, in case he might be less willing to remain faithful to us.

The mutineers, as well as the other people, suspected from this conversation what we were about to do, and also from seeing that the raft did not come nearer. It struck me that, since the poor boatswain was dead, we ought to invite the carpenter to accompany us. Boxall agreed with me; I therefore asked him in a low voice if he could swim, and was willing to try and get on board the small raft.

“I cannot swim,” he answered; “and if I could, I would not desert these poor people who are trusting to me, for the mutineers would very soon put them to death. But as you are not bound to remain, I will help you to escape.”

Thanking him heartily, I said that we would leap overboard suddenly, in order that no one might attempt to stop us. We were all very sorry to leave the carpenter, for we could not help fearing that when we should be gone the mutineers would attack him, and in all probability treat him as they had done the boatswain. We were still talking to him, when once more the ruffians at the other end of the raft shouted out that they must have water and provisions served out to them immediately.

“Ask them to wait patiently till the evening, and say that you will then do as they wish; you will have fewer mouths to feed by that time.”

I little thought at the moment how truly I spoke; for scarcely had the carpenter uttered the words when the mutineers rose in a body, and, drawing their knives, made a desperate rush at us. We had only time to spring to our feet and defend ourselves. Though we might have leaped overboard and escaped, we felt that it would be cowardly to desert the carpenter and those who sided with him. As it was, three of the unfortunate people who remained neutral, and were without weapons to defend themselves, being nearest to the savages, were stabbed before we could help them. We fought with the greatest desperation. Boxall cut down one of the fellows, and the carpenter and I wounded two others. Still they came on, as if resolved to overpower us. I observed, also, that Ben was near enough to see what was taking place, and was hoisting his sail, unable to resist his desire to come to our assistance. Should he come near enough to enable any of the people on our raft to leap on to his, I felt sure that our chance of escape would be lost.

“Are we bound to sacrifice our lives for these people?” I asked Boxall.

“Not when we have lost all hope of assisting them,” he answered. “Ask the carpenter again if he will accompany us.”

I was on the point of putting the question, when the ruffians—who seemed resolved on his destruction, believing that then they could have everything their own way—made a desperate rush at him. He cut down one of them, and would have treated the others in the same way, when his foot slipped, and he fell into an opening between the spars. They immediately, before he could regain his feet, threw themselves upon him, and plunged their knives into his body.

“It is useless further to contend with the villains. Now is our time!” cried Boxall; and driving back the fellows who were attacking us, we made our way to the side of the raft.

“Now, Halliday, leap!” shouted Boxall, while he kept those who were attempting to stop us at bay. Halliday plunged into the water, letting go his axe as he did so, and struck out towards Ben’s raft.

“Keep hold of your sword, Charlie,” said Boxall; “I will defend you from these fellows.” I did as he advised me; and putting the sword in my mouth, where I held it fast between my teeth, I leaped into the water, and struck out with all my might towards the small raft. With a sweep of his weapon my brave friend drove back the ruffians, who had now turned their fury on him, and were pressing him hard; then springing overboard, he followed close at my heels. Happily, none of the savages could swim,—or, at all events, they dared not trust themselves in the water, fearing that if they did so Boxall might have attacked them with his sword; though some, in their rage, threw large pieces of wood and other articles, which came very near us; and one of the most furious flung his knife, which happily passed between Boxall’s legs. Shrieks, cries, and shouts for us to come back, were uttered by our enemies, with threats of vengeance; but these, of course, only made us strike out the faster.

Ben and his companion, in spite of the warning we had given them, had hoisted their sail, and urging on the raft at the same time with a couple of oars, were approaching us rapidly.

“Shorten sail!” cried Boxall; “don’t come nearer; we can easily reach you.”

Ben obeyed; and we had the satisfaction of seeing Halliday—who, having no weapon in his mouth, had kept well ahead of us—helped on to the raft. Just then Ben cast a look of dismay towards us. “Strike with all your might, and splash with your feet! Make haste! make haste!” he shouted frantically. At the same time seizing a lump of wood, he flung it into the water on one side of us; while he called to his companion, who had been steering the raft, to put in his oar to help us. The thought of the cause of his excitement flashed into my mind: he had seen close to us a huge shark, which he dreaded every instant would seize our legs. I had, I may say, less fear for myself than for Boxall, who was a little behind me; and I had made but a few more strokes when Ben and the Spaniard seized me by the hands, almost jerking off my arms as they hoisted me on board. The moment my feet were on the raft, my first impulse was to take my sword in my hand, ready to attack the shark should it approach.

In a few seconds, greatly to my relief, I saw Boxall hauled up likewise. Scarcely were his feet out of the water when the hideous monster made a dash at the raft, his jaws closing on a projecting part of it, which trembled with the blow. A stroke which I dealt with right good will at its throat,—for a moment exposed to me as it turned on its back to bite,—made it relinquish its hold; and it darted away.

Frail as was the structure on which we now found ourselves, we felt in comparative safety; but the impulse which had been given to the raft before the sail was lowered sent it dangerously near the big one. Judging from the attitudes of the people on it, we could make out that several were preparing to swim off to us; with the intention, in all likelihood, of making us prisoners, and taking possession of the provisions and water on the raft. On this Boxall called to Ben to work one of the oars, and Halliday and I assisted the Spaniard at the other. While we did our utmost to increase our distance from those whom we were now compelled to look upon as our enemies, they were all shouting and shrieking; some ordering us to come back, others entreating us not to leave them.

As we had to pull against the wind, we made but slow progress; and at length three of the boldest of the mutineers, urged by their companions,—probably because they were good swimmers,—leaped into the sea with their knives in their mouths, and made towards us. The attempt was a mad one, as with our swords and axes we could easily have prevented them from getting on our raft. As they evidently had not seen the monster shark which had so nearly caught us, I shouted to them, telling them of their danger, and advising them to go back; but, believing that it was merely to prevent them from attacking us, they disregarded my warning.

On they came, swimming with long powerful strokes, and threatened quickly to overtake us. Unwilling to injure them, we continued to row away as fast as we could—now and then turning our heads to watch them. They had got about half-way when a piercing shriek rent the air, and one of them, throwing up his arms, disappeared beneath the surface: a shark had seized him. His companions, seeing what had happened, turned round and endeavoured to regain the raft. We watched them anxiously, for we had no desire for their destruction, and gladly would we have saved them if we could. They had got some way back, and we hoped that they would succeed in reaching the raft; but when about a dozen fathoms from it, another huge shark rose to the surface, and dragged down a second shrieking victim. The third swam on frantically, crying out to his companions for assistance. They stretched out their arms to him, and we were thankful to see that he at length gained the raft in safety.

What the fate of those miserable wretches would be, with no one to command them, to maintain discipline, or to direct them how to gain the land, we dared not think. As for ourselves, we felt in comparative safety on our small but well-constructed raft.

Boxall consulted with Ben whether we could take off any of the unfortunate people; but the latter was strongly opposed to the attempt being made.

“In the first place, it would be impossible to get off those we might select,” said Ben. “And then,” he added, “this craft carries us very well in smooth water; but should it come on to blow, and a heavy sea get up, it’s more than she would do if we had half-a-dozen more people on board. Then, you see, we have water and provisions for ourselves; but we should be on short commons if we had more people to consume it.”

Ben’s arguments prevailed; and though we felt sad at the thought of having to leave so many people to almost certain destruction, yet we could do no more.

The wind had now completely fallen, and as Ben and his companion, as well as ourselves, had been awake all the previous night, we felt too weary to continue working the oars. We were, also, both hungry and thirsty, though we had hitherto been too much excited to think about it. Halliday was, as usual, the first to cry out.

“Of course, we will get some food for you, sir. I forgot how sharp set you must have been,” said Ben; “but as we have no galley aboard this craft of ours, you must be content to eat your supper raw.”

“We shall be content to eat anything we can get our teeth into,” cried Halliday. “Oh, do give me a cup of water, as we had only a few thimblefuls on board the big raft.”

Ben quickly drew a small-sized cupful from one of several casks ranged round the raft.

“I should like to serve out more, gentlemen; but Mr Boxall will agree with me that it’s necessary to be careful, as our stock is but small, and we shall not get more till we reach the shore—and perhaps not even then.”

Ben had secured some flour, which he rolled up into small balls. We ate these thankfully, with some salt fish, from which they assisted to take off the saltness. We made a better meal than we had enjoyed since we left the ship; but I observed that neither Ben nor his companion ate anything.

Night now came on. The ocean was as calm as a mirror, and the stare came forth from the cloudless sky and shone down upon us, their soft light tending greatly to tranquillise our spirits. One of us kept watch at a time, while the rest lay down, with the sail as an awning, on the planks with which Ben had formed a raised deck to the raft. We could dimly distinguish the large raft in the distance; while voices, borne over the tranquil ocean with peculiar distinctness, reached our ears, though I could not make out what was said. Again there came shrieks and cries, then all was quiet. Once more loud voices—as if the people were holding a violent debate, or were fiercely disputing—reached us. After all was quiet, I lay down and slept as soundly as I had ever done in my life.

Chapter Five.

A frightful encounter with sharks—A chase, and an escape—Land! land!—Breakers ahead.

I was aroused by a cry from one of my companions; and, sitting up, I saw a small raft with four men on it approaching from the direction of the large one. I at once knew that it must have been formed by them during the night, for the purpose of trying to overtake us. The men were urging it on with frantic efforts, evidently resolved to board us; so we got out our oars, and began to row away to keep ahead of them. Day was just breaking. They probably had wished to surprise us during the darkness of night, but had been unable to finish their raft in time. We were, it must be understood, to the eastward of them, and a somewhat stiffish breeze had just got up, blowing from off the shore, which, although the water remained pretty calm, impeded our progress,—for our raft, though strongly put together, and able to contend with a heavy sea, was deep in the water, and could not be impelled by rowing at much speed. If overtaken, we must expect, we knew, a fearful struggle; for though we outnumbered those who were approaching, four desperate men, all armed, might overpower us, as we possessed no missiles, not even a boarding-pike or boat-hook with which to drive them off—nor could we prevent them from getting alongside, or commencing the fight till their feet were actually on our raft.

On they came, uttering fearful oaths. “They have probably attacked the spirit-cask, and in their drunken fury are indifferent to consequences,” observed Boxall. “It will be madness to show them the slightest mercy if they get up with us.”

While we rowed away with all our might, I could not help frequently turning my head to watch their progress. They had, I should have said, stepped a mast on their raft, but had no sail; indeed, they could not have used it had they possessed one. This was another sign of the haste in which they must have embarked. Their raft was also, it was evident, carelessly put together; and as it drew nearer we saw that the men could with difficulty keep their feet on it—for the wind by this time having caused the sea to get up slightly, it rocked from side to side.

They were within half a cable’s length of us, when the feet of one of the men slipped, and overboard he fell. His companions, not seeing him, continued to row on. He shrieked to them to stop; the man next to him was stooping down, holding out his hands to haul him in, when suddenly he too was drawn into the water. Piercing cries sounded in our ears. “See, see,” exclaimed Ben; “the sharks have got them!” In an instant they had disappeared, while their companions looked on horror-struck. The next moment a huge shark rose to the surface. One of the men struck it with his oar, which was immediately torn from his grasp; and directly afterwards another shark darted at him. He seized his axe, and, holding on to the mast, attempted to defend himself, while the remaining man continued to row as desperately as before. We would gladly even then have saved the wretched men, but we were unable to do anything to help them. There must have been half-a-dozen sharks or more surrounding the raft, one after the other attacking the frail structure, and threatening every instant to capsize it. In vain the man on the fore-part of the raft attempted to turn it round; again and again the savage creatures assailed it; and at length one, more ferocious than its companions, threw itself upon the raft, and over it went—the two unhappy beings instantly becoming the prey of the monsters.

We turned our eyes away from the sight, not without a dread that we might ere long be attacked in the same way. We had, however, the advantage of a strong raft, considerably higher out of the water than the other; and thus we had less reason to fear that the sharks would succeed in upsetting it.

“It serves the fellows right,” observed Ben; “though, villains as they were, I could have wished them a better fate.”

Wearied with our exertions, and as there was no immediate necessity for rowing—seeing we could not hope to reach the shore until a breeze got up in our favour—we put in our oars to rest.

“Of course, Mr Boxall, you will take command of the raft,” said Ben, touching his hat; “and maybe you will think fit to pipe to breakfast, as, I dare say, Mr Blore and Mr Halliday are getting hungry again.”

“That I will, very gladly,” said Boxall; “and I will try, at all events, to do my best for all hands.”

“Hungry! I should think I am,” exclaimed Halliday.

We had some more fish, with some biscuit,—which, though soaked in salt water, afforded nourishment. The fish we could eat raw better than some salt pork which Ben told me he had on board. Although our food was not palatable, we had not much apprehension of starving. We were chiefly anxious about water, of which our supply was very small; and we could not help being struck by Ben’s fidelity in coming to look for us, knowing, as he must, that we should consume so much of the precious liquid, which was little more than sufficient for himself and his companion.

The day wore on, and still no breeze got up. “I wish that we had had an oar apiece, as we might then have had better hopes of making progress with the raft towards the shore,” I observed. Halliday, however, declared that he thought we were pretty well off as we were,—as it would be a pity to exert ourselves, and to find that after all it was of no use; for a strong breeze from the shore would send us back in an hour the distance we had made good during a day’s labour.

“Still, if every day we make some progress, when the breeze does come from the westward we shall be so much nearer the shore,” observed Boxall. “Therefore we ought, while we have strength, to do our best to urge on our raft.”

Though we were all agreed as to the wisdom of this, yet the sun came down with such strength on our heads that we had little inclination to exert ourselves. We had also hopes that, when the breeze did get up, a sail might come near us. This, perhaps, made us exert ourselves less than we should otherwise have done.

The large raft, I should have said, was still in sight; and, looking through my telescope, I could see the people moving about on it,—though, as far as I could judge, there were fewer than there had been when we left it. What had become of the others? Too probably many had been killed by the ruffianly mutineers; and some, having succumbed to hunger and thirst, had been thrown overboard.

As the day wore on, we could not help acknowledging that we felt weaker than we had been, while a strong inclination to sleep overpowered us. So, while we waited anxiously for a breeze, we spent some hours sleeping under the sail,—persuading ourselves that we should be better able to row during the cool hours of night, when we determined to set manfully to work.

I may venture to say, though I have not before taken notice of it, that a feeling of compassion made us unwilling to desert altogether the unfortunate people still on the raft until, for our own safety, we were compelled to do so. Before long, it was but too probable, their numbers would be greatly diminished. Already six of the mutineers had lost their lives, and their fate would, we hoped, be a warning to the others; perhaps, too, the better disposed people might gain the upper hand.

“Whether we can venture to take them off now, is a question,” observed Boxall; “but we may possibly be able to reach the shore and gain assistance for them: and it would certainly tend to prevent them giving way to despair, could we, before we leave the neighbourhood, tell them of our intentions.”

Halliday and I acquiesced in this; Ben was doubtful.

“After the spirit they have shown, I am afraid it would be of no use, sir,” he observed. “They are not to be dealt with like Englishmen; and if we go near them, they will only try to get hold of our raft. I will ask José what he thinks.”

The Spaniard shook his head. “They will not believe us, señor,” he answered. “Our officers having deserted them, they will not believe that a party of foreigners can intend to treat them with better faith. As they have killed my poor brother, one of the best of men, so they will try to kill us.”

I could not help thinking that there was much force in what José said; still, until a breeze should get up, we agreed to remain where we were.

Another day came to a close. Occasionally we could see the triangular fins of sharks gliding round the raft, their wicked eyes turned up towards us; but they made no attempt to attack us. After supper we again held a discussion as to what was best to be done. At last compassion gained the day, and we agreed to approach the large raft sufficiently near to hail the people, and to tell them that we would, if possible, send them assistance.

“You will do so at great risk,” said José. “I warn you of that; but, at the same time, I will not be the one to oppose your kind intentions towards my countrymen.”

We accordingly took our oars and began slowly to approach the large raft. As we drew near, we could hear the voices of the people on it; some shouting in hoarse tones, others shrieking and crying out, as if imploring mercy.

“It is useless to go on, señors,” said José. “They will not listen to reason.”

Still, impelled by a feeling superadded to that of the compassion which chiefly influenced us, and for which I can scarcely now account,—resembling that which is said to induce birds or other animals to hurry forward into the open mouth of the serpent,—we continued to row towards the fatal raft. Perhaps, too, Boxall, who was the person to order us to stop, still hoped that our presence, and the promise we were about to give, might induce the people to remain quiet till assistance could reach them.

At length we got near enough to hail; but it was some time before we could make our voices heard, or the uproar ceased. I desired José to tell them what we intended doing.

“Come nearer, come nearer,” was the answer. “Give us a little water and a little food; and if you will take two of our number,—only two,—who are suffering greatly, it will show us that you are in earnest, and that you wish to save our lives.”

“Don’t trust them, don’t trust them, señor,” cried José, in an agony of fear. “They don’t mean what they say. If once we get within their power, they will detain us.”

I told Boxall what José said. He still hesitated, however. Just then I felt the wind fan my cheek.

“Here comes a breeze from the westward,” shouted Ben.

“We have given our message,” I observed to Boxall; “and I cannot help thinking that José is right. We must not forget the sample they have given us of their feelings.”

“I am afraid it must be so,” said Boxall with a sigh. “For our own safety, we must make for the shore without further delay. Hoist the sail, Ben. I will take the steering-oar; José can manage the bow oar; and you, Halliday, and Charlie can tend the halyards and sheet.”

We assisted Ben to hoist the sail, which was somewhat large for the raft, except under a very light wind. Before the sail was set, however, the breeze had greatly increased, and scarcely had we brought the sheet aft when over went the mast, carried off at the heel. We of course set to work to get in the sail, while Ben, with an axe, endeavoured to cut out the broken heel from the step, in which he had fixed it. This took some time, as the raft was rocking about far more than it had hitherto done, and he could not work quickly in the darkness. Having at length succeeded, he had next to chop the heel of the mast to the proper size to fit the step. He was working away as rapidly as possible, and we were stooping down to assist him, when José shouted out, “They are coming, they are coming!” Looking round, we observed that the sail of the big raft was hoisted, and that she was coming towards us faster than we should have supposed it was possible for her to move. In little more than a minute she might be up with us; while the wild shouts and execrations of the miscreants who were on the raft rang in our ears, and showed us what he had to expect from them.

Ben worked away as composedly but as rapidly as he could, while we were engaged in taking a reef in the sail.

“It’s done,” cried Ben at last; and lifting the mast, we found, to our great satisfaction, that the heel fitted into the step. We immediately set up four stays.

“Be smart now,” cried Boxall. “Hoist away with the sail.”

He had good reason to give the order, for, as we looked round, we saw the head of the big raft with several people on it, some rowing to give it more impetus, while one stood with a boat-hook ready to catch hold of us. In another instant the fellow might have hooked on, or have run the point of it into the back of Boxall, who had again resumed the steering-oar; but, hoisting away with all our might, we got the sail up, and while Ben was making fast the halyards Halliday and I carried the sheet aft.

Over the now foaming sea we flew, while the big raft followed close astern,—those on it uttering the most fearful oaths and execrations as they found themselves disappointed in their project of seizing us. Our light raft went over the water far more rapidly than theirs, and we soon distanced them; but for long their shrieks and cries sounded in our ears.

“I thought, sir, that they intended treachery,” observed José to me; “and we may be thankful that we escaped them.” I agreed with him; at the same time, having escaped, we had the satisfactory reflection that we would have done our best to have rendered them assistance, and that we could not blame ourselves for deserting our fellow-creatures. What would now be their fate, it was not difficult to say. They might possibly reach the shore; but the large raft, hurriedly put together, was but ill calculated to resist the now fast rising sea, and we could not but fear that many of the unfortunate wretches would speedily be washed off it. Our little raft was tolerably strong, but the way the pieces of which it was constructed worked, gave us a notion what would be the fate of theirs.

We were tossed fearfully about, and had to run now to one side, now to the other, to balance it as it was lifted by the seas. Boxall kept his seat on a cask, endeavouring to steer it, but he had at length to call me to his assistance, while Ben helped José. On and on we flew. As the clouds gathered in the sky the night grew darker and darker, and we soon lost sight of the large raft, while the voices of those on it no longer reached our ears. I asked Boxall what he thought would happen to the miserable people.

“Too probably they have been washed off the raft, or it has been capsized, by this time,” he answered. “I confess, I do not like to think of what must have been their fate.”

Our thoughts were now turned towards what might happen to ourselves. We had no means of judging how far off we were from the coast, but I calculated that, as we had not seen it, we could not be within fifteen miles or so of it—an opinion which I expressed to Boxall.

“You forget that, low down as we are in the water, our horizon is very circumscribed; while for miles together, on this part of the African coast, the sandy shore rises but a few feet above the level of the sea,” he answered. “It may therefore be much nearer, than we suppose. We must, at all events, keep a good look-out; although, with the wind blowing strong, and running as we are directly before it, we shall have no choice where to land, and shall have to make good our footing on the dry land as best we can.”

We were silent for some time; indeed, we had enough to do to steer the raft.

“Keep a bright look-out, Ben,” cried Boxall. “Do you see anything of the land?”

“No, sir,” answered Ben, somewhat surprised; for he supposed, as I had done, that we were still a long way off. “I don’t expect to see it for the next three or four hours.”

“We may reach it sooner than you fancy,” said Boxall.

“Very glad to hear that, sir,” answered Ben; “for though I am very well satisfied with this craft of ours, I would sooner feel my feet on dry land than aboard of her, if it should come on to blow much harder than it does now.”

I suspect we all felt as Ben did. The sea was fast rising, and as the foaming crests of the tumbling waves came hissing over the raft, we had to hold on tightly to avoid being carried away. But our chief anxiety was about our mast. Should that give way, the raft would be left tossing helplessly amid the seas, and in all probability be washed off. We had, however, stayed it up securely, and we could only hope that it would hold.

I now proposed taking another reef in the sail.

“No, we will let it stand,” said Boxall; “we shall only run a greater risk than we do now of being pooped, should we shorten sail, and if the wind does not increase we shall easily carry it; indeed, by the look of the sky, I have hopes that the weather will not grow worse,—and perhaps by the morning we shall have it calm again.”

“We may then congratulate ourselves on having had the strong breeze which is sending us along so famously,” observed Halliday.

“We shall have reason to be thankful to Him who has caused the westerly wind to blow,” answered Boxall. “It might have come from the eastward, and we should have been driven still further off the coast—when, if not swamped, we would in all probability die of starvation, did we fail to fall in with a passing vessel.”

Fully two hours passed by, and still Ben’s sharp eyes could not detect the land. We had been steering by the stars, and though they had for some time been obscured, we had reason to believe that the wind had not changed, and therefore, being directly before it, that we had kept the same course.

I asked Boxall how fast he thought we were going through the water.

“Considering the breeze we have got, I should say five or six knots an hour,” he answered.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said Ben, who overheard him; “you forget, I dare say, that this raft does not sail like a boat. I suspect that we don’t get much more than three or four knots out of her.”

“I believe you are right, Ben,” answered Boxall. “In that case, it will take us an hour or so more than I calculated on to gain the shore. However, it may be to our advantage, for it will be far safer to land when it is calm than with so strong a breeze as is now blowing. At all events, unless the wind changes, we shall reach the shore at last.”

Another hour went by. According to Boxall’s predictions, the weather was improving. The dark clouds which had obscured the sky cleared away, and the stars shone forth brightly as before; still the wind did not decrease, and the seas kept tumbling, foaming, and hissing around us as before. More than once we looked astern, thinking it possible that the large raft might be again within sight; but no sign of her could be seen. By degrees we had got accustomed to the tossing and the occasional breaking of the seas over us, and even had we expected to perform a much longer voyage we should not have complained; indeed, it now seems surprising to me how little concerned we all appeared to be.

We were running much as we had been doing for the last three hours, when Ben exclaimed, “Land! land!”—and directly afterwards, “Breakers ahead!”

We all looked out under the sail at what appeared to be the dark outline of a hilly country,—it seemed strange that we had not seen it before,—while the intervening line of white foaming breakers stretched out parallel with the coast, and threatened our destruction before we could reach it.

“Do you see any opening through which we may pass, Ben?” asked Boxall.

“No, sir; none at all,” answered Ben. “All we can do is to hold fast to the raft, and pray that we may be earned through the breakers.”

“Had we not better lower the sail, then, and keep the raft off till daylight?” I asked.

“We may lower the sail; but all the strength we possess could not keep us out of the breakers,” answered Boxall. “We had better do as Ben suggests—stand on, and hope to be carried safe through them. Hold fast, all of you!” cried Boxall; “here we are close upon them.”

As he spoke, we saw the waters hissing and foaming and dancing up to a prodigious height, as it appeared, directly before us, while the land rose still more distinctly behind them. The next instant we were in their midst.

“Hold fast! hold fast!” again shouted Boxall, “and we shall be carried safely through.”

The breakers did not appear so high as they had done a little way off, and we all had hopes that Boxall’s predictions would prove correct. But we had not much time for thinking; my head whirled and I felt giddy as I looked at the tumbling, foaming waters surrounding us. The raft lifted on the top of a sea, and came down with a fearful crash on a rock; and I felt myself torn from the grasp I had of the raft, and carried far away from it. I looked for my companions, and distinguished Halliday struggling near me. Striking out, I caught hold of him and urged him to endeavour to reach the shore, which appeared at no great distance before us. I then shouted to the rest of my companions, and was thankful to hear Boxall’s voice.

“Strike out ahead; we have not far to swim,” he answered, and presently he was close up to us. Neither Ben nor José, however, replied to our shouts; but self-preservation compelled us to try and make the best of our way to the shore, without attempting to look for them.

We had not struck out far when I felt my feet touch something. For an instant the horrid thought occurred to me that it might be a shark; but I retained my presence of mind,—and directly afterwards, greatly to my astonishment, I felt my feet touching the ground. I told my companions; and soon we all found ourselves standing, with the water scarcely up to our armpits. Still, though we distinctly saw the shore, it appeared to be a long way off. We now stopped to look around us. Not far-off, on one side, rose a rock to a considerable height, as it seemed, above the water. Believing that we were on a sand-bank, and that we might possibly have to swim a considerable distance, we agreed to make for the rock and rest on it till daylight. Holding each other’s hands, we accordingly waded on, when suddenly we found that we had reached the rock,—on which we without difficulty climbed. The upper part of it, which was much lower than we expected, was perfectly dry; showing that the sea, in moderate weather, did not break over it. Boxall was of opinion that we had struck on a reef which extended parallel with the coast, and broke the force of the waves, and that we were in an intervening lagoon,—so that should it be now low water, which he thought probable, we could have no difficulty in reaching the shore.

We again shouted to Ben and José, but no reply came; and fearing that they must have been lost, we gave up calling to them and sat down.

The wind fell soon afterwards, and wet through as we were, by sheltering ourselves in a crevice of the rock we did not suffer much from the cold. After waiting for some time, we found that the tide was ebbing.

“If we wait till the morning we shall have high-water again; and in my opinion we shall be wise to try and get on shore at once,” said Boxall.

Halliday and I agreed with him; for, our strength being restored, we were anxious to find ourselves safe on dry ground. We could not, however, fail to grieve for the loss of Ben, who had been so faithful to us; and also for his companion, José, who seemed a truly honest fellow.

“Now,” said Boxall, “let us start.”

“We are ready,” answered Halliday; and he and I following Boxall’s example by slipping off the rock, found ourselves in water scarcely up to our middle and once more began to wade towards the shore.

Chapter Six.

A deceptive coast—What is it?—Our disappointment—A strange apparition.

An attempt to cross an unknown expanse of water, such as seemed the lagoon stretching out before us, was a hazardous experiment. Still, the water was calm, and we concluded that it was shallow, so that we hoped by perseverance to gain the dry land at last. There was no time to be lost, however, as the tide might soon rise again, and make the undertaking more difficult. I felt like a person in a dream as we waded on, surrounded on all sides by water, over which hung a peculiar silvery mist, curiously deceiving the senses,—though perhaps I was not aware of it at the time. The appearance of the shore even seemed changed. It looked altogether very different from what we expected to find it. Instead of a low sandy beach, with here and there hillocks of sand, it appeared to rise to a considerable height, with hills and intervening valleys, and lofty rocks springing directly out of the water. “We must have been further to the south than we supposed,” I observed to Boxall. “Surely we must be near the French settlements. The shore before us cannot be on the border of the great Desert of Sahara.”

“I cannot make it out,” he answered. “Still I am pretty certain as to our latitude. The country, however, is but little known, and we may have been thrown on a more fertile region than was supposed to exist.”

“I hope, then, that we shall be able to find some food,” said Halliday; “I am terribly hungry and thirsty. Don’t you think that we may by chance have got to the mouth of a river, and so may soon find fresh water?”

“This, at all events, is salt enough,” said Boxall, lifting a handful to his lips. “No; it is merely a lagoon filled by the ocean.”

We waded on and on, but the shore appeared no nearer.

“We may have a fearfully long way to swim, should the water grow deeper,” observed Halliday.

“If it does, we can easily return to the rock and wait till the low tide during daylight, when we shall be better able to judge what course to take,” I observed.

As I said this I turned round to look at the rock, and to see how far we were from it, when what was my astonishment to be unable to distinguish it! Behind us the lagoon appeared to stretch out to an illimitable distance, without a single object rising above the surface. To attempt to return would have been madness, as we should certainly have lost our way; we therefore could do nothing else than push boldly forward. The sand below our feet was smooth and even, but walking in water almost up to our middle was fatiguing work, and we made but slow progress. Still on and on we went, when suddenly we saw before us a high conical hill, and directly afterwards a bright light appeared beyond it. Presently the upper circle of the full moon rose behind the hill, though it seemed six times the size of any moon I ever saw; indeed, I could scarcely believe that it was the moon.

“I suppose that the African moons are much larger than those of any other part of the world. At all events, that is a whopper,” exclaimed Halliday, without considering what he was saying.

“It will give us light to see our way,” observed Boxall, “and we should be thankful for it. We had better keep to our right, however, where the shore seems somewhat lower.”

He was turning aside, and I was about to follow him, when Halliday exclaimed—

“Look! look! what can that terrific creature be?”

We turned our eyes towards the summit of the hill, and to our horror saw an enormous animal with arched back and glaring eyes—so we pictured it—gazing down upon us, seemingly prepared to make a terrific leap right down on our heads. Such a creature I had never even read of; for it looked far larger than any ordinary elephant, and might have swallowed us all at a gulp.

“What is to be done?” cried Halliday. “If we run, it will certainly be after us.”

“We cannot run, at all events,” said Boxall with less anxiety in his tone than I should have supposed possible, though I knew him to be a dauntless fellow. “We will keep to our right, as I proposed, and perhaps the monster won’t follow us after all. It is not likely to come into the water to get at us.”

We kept away to our right, and found the water growing shallower and shallower. It was now but a little above our knees. I confess that I turned my head very frequently, to see whether the monster was coming after us. There it stood, however, in the same attitude as before—which was some comfort, as it thus showed no inclination to act as we had dreaded.

“What can it be?” I asked of Boxall.

“A wild beast, certainly,” he answered. “I might have supposed it a part of the rock, or some gigantic figure hewn out of it, but it is too much like a real creature for that; and I begin to think that the mist which hangs over the water must have given it its supernatural magnitude. I would have said, from its shape, that it was a hyena or jackal, but neither the one nor the other approaches to anything like it in size.”

“Whatever it was or is, it has disappeared,” I exclaimed; for on looking round once more, the monster was no longer to be seen on the top of the hill. The water was now but a very little way above our knees, while the ascent was much steeper than it had been.

“I only hope we shan’t see the creature again on shore,” said Halliday.

“We have not much further to go to reach it,” observed Boxall. The last few yards we had taken we had rapidly shoaled the water. “Thank Heaven, we are ashore at last!” he added, as the light surf which rolled up slowly went hissing back and left our feet uncovered. A few paces more, and we were standing on dry sand.

“Halloa! what has become of the mountains?” exclaimed Halliday. “I thought we were going to land on a rocky country, but I see nothing but sand-hills around us.”

Such indeed was the case. As far as our eyes could reach, we could discern, in the moonlight, only a succession of sand-hills, rising but a few feet above the rest of the country.

“I suspected that we should find that to be the case,” observed Boxall. “If we were to measure the rock on the top of which we saw the monster standing, we should find that the creature’s dimensions were not quite so gigantic as we supposed. However, here we are talking away, and neglecting to return thanks for our deliverance from the dangers we have gone through, and forgetting all about our unfortunate companions.”

I felt rebuked by Boxall’s remark, and so, I dare say, did Halliday. We all knelt down, and I know that I tried to return hearty thanks for our preservation; but my mind was still in a confused state, thinking of Ben, and our long wade, and the monster which we had seen, and of what might be our future fate. My strength, indeed, was fast failing me; and though I was generally stronger than Halliday, I was the first to sink down on the sand. He imitated me, and Boxall soon afterwards sat down beside us. We none of us felt much inclined to speak; yet we were afraid to go to sleep, when we recollected the creature we had seen,—which, though it might not be of extraordinary size, would, if it were a hyena, prove an ugly customer should it take us unawares. Otherwise, we had no reason to dread it. Such creatures, indeed, seldom attack human beings unless first assailed, as they five on carrion, and act a useful part as scavengers.

Wet through as we were, the night air chilled us to the bones; but we were too much exhausted to feel inclined to move about and try and warm ourselves. We sat for some time gazing on the wild, desolate scene around us, lighted up by the rays of the full moon, which seemed to increase its aspect of dreariness. On three sides appeared a succession of sand-hills, one beyond another; while before us was seen the lagoon across which we had waded, with the tumbling seas, on the crests of which the moonbeams played, breaking on the reef in the distance. Every instant the water in front of us became more and more agitated, as the rising tide flowed over the reef; and we could not but be thankful that we had crossed the lagoon when we did, as later the undertaking would have been far more difficult, if not impossible, and we should probably have been engulfed by the foaming waters, which now with greater and greater violence rolled up on the shore.

Our thoughts naturally turned to the future. How were we to support life in this dreary region? or, supposing it to be inhabited, what would be the character of, and disposition shown towards us by, the people we might encounter? I had read of the Arabs of the Desert, and of their generous hospitality to strangers, and I had hopes that such might be the people we should find. I mentioned this to my companions.

“Poets and romance—writers may have pictured them as you describe, but I am afraid that we shall find the reality differ greatly from their glowing accounts,” observed Boxall. “My notion is that they are a set of utter barbarians, who will rob us of everything we possess, and only feed us for the sake of keeping us alive to work for them.”

This was not encouraging, and I could not but hope that Boxall was wrong.

“We shall soon find out,” said Halliday. “I only wish that in the meantime we had something to eat.”

“Well, we are better off than poor Ben and José, who have lost their lives,” I said.

“I don’t think we ought altogether to give them up,” said Boxall. “Now that we have rested, I propose that we go along the shore and look for them. They may possibly have been carried in a different direction from that which we took. I felt the current, though not very strong, setting to the southward as we crossed; and if they stuck to the raft, or any portion of it, not being aware that they could wade, they would be carried in that direction. I have been thinking the matter over, and believe that they may possibly have escaped.”

As Boxall founded his opinion on sound grounds, I began to hope that Ben might still be in the land of the living; and as Halliday said he felt strong enough to walk, we set off along the shore. We every now and then shouted out, “Ben Blewett, ahoy! ahoy!” joining our voices to send them to a greater distance. But no answer came.

“I am afraid poor Ben must be lost,” I said.

“He is not within hearing,—or, at all events, we are not within hearing of him; but let us still persevere. Had it not been for him, we should have lost our lives; and we are bound on every account to do our utmost to find him,” observed Boxall.

We accordingly dragged on our weary feet through the yielding sand. Walking was now excessively fatiguing, as the sea had come up and covered that part of the shore which had been hardened by the constant washing of the water over it. Again we stopped and shouted, “Ben Blewett, ahoy! ahoy!” We waited, hoping against hope that a reply would come.

“I am so tired, I must sit down and rest for a few minutes,” said Halliday. Boxall and I acknowledged that we felt much in the same condition, so we threw ourselves down on the sand. Scarcely had we lain down when the sound of a voice reached our ears. It seemed to come from a long way off, yet we all felt sure that it was a voice. We accordingly started up, forgetting our fatigue, and trudged on,—the sand seeming to our weary feet softer than ever.

We went on for some time, but still we saw no one. We began to fear that we had been mistaken; still we pushed on, and in another minute I saw a dark object in the water, which I took to be a rock, close to the white beach. Directly afterwards I made out a human figure, which appeared to be coming towards us. I had got a little ahead of my companions. I called to them, and we tried to hurry on through the soft sand, which seemed to mock our efforts to advance.

“Is that you, Ben?” I shouted.

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the answer, in a tone which showed that the speaker had but little strength left. We soon reached him. It was indeed Ben himself.

“I am thankful to see you, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s what I little expected, when you disappeared from the raft. But how did you get on shore?”

We told him, and then asked how he had escaped.

“It’s more than I can tell you,” he answered. “All I know is, that I found myself floating alone on what remained of the raft, away from the reef, with the mast and sail gone and the oars lost. After some time I was carried again into the breakers, and, clinging on for dear life, though I couldn’t tell where I was going, was sent right through them into smooth water. I looked about me, but could see nothing, nor hear any sounds. On I drifted, wondering what would next happen, when at last I was cast on shore,—the raft, which was turned over, being sent by a sea almost on the top of me. One of my feet, as it was, got caught; and if it had not been for the sand under it, my leg would have been broken: indeed, I had to dig it out before I could set myself free. Thinking that the tide might still be rising, and that I should be caught by it, I dragged myself on to the side of a hillock, where I lay down, and must at once have fallen fast asleep. I was at last awoke, I suppose, by your hails; though I first heard them several times in my dreams. I tried to hail in return, but felt my tongue clinging to the roof of my mouth; and it was not till after some time that I could open my eyes, and recollect where I was and what had happened. As soon as I did this, I got up as fast as I was able. And again I say, I am thankful to have found you, gentlemen; that I am.”

“And we are very glad to have found you, Ben,” I answered. “Do you think that poor José has escaped?”

“I am afraid not, sir,” answered Ben. “He could not swim, and he must have been washed off the raft on the outside of the reef.”

“Have you managed to save any of the provisions?” inquired Halliday.

“I am sorry to say, sir, that I am afraid they are all lost. The raft, however, was knocking about so much that I couldn’t get hold of it by myself, to see if anything is still fast to it; but now you have come, we will try what we can do.”

Weary as we were, hunger prompted us to exert ourselves; and approaching the raft, which was heaving up and down in the surf, we got hold of it, after some difficulty, and at the risk of being crushed, and succeeded in dragging it partly up the beach. On examining it, to our infinite satisfaction we found a pork-cask,—which Ben had fastened so securely that it had escaped being carried away. It was, however, almost crushed in two. We examined it eagerly, and found that, though part of the contents had been washed out, several pieces of pork still remained. The water-casks, which we should have been still more thankful to find, had, alas! been completely destroyed.

It required all the exertion we were capable of to secure the pork-cask, which we managed to drag out of reach of the water; and though very thirsty, our hunger induced us to eat a portion of the pork raw—which, however, we could with difficulty get down.

“Never fear! Chaw, sir, chaw!” cried Ben, as he saw me hesitating about putting a piece between my parched lips. “It will seem dry at first; but go on, and it will slip down easy enough at last, and do you good.”

I followed his advice, and found that I could get down far more of the raw meat than I could have supposed possible.

The wind had in the meantime been increasing, and the surf broke with a loud, sullen roar on the beach. Having eaten as much as we could swallow, we now turned the undamaged side of the cask uppermost, so as to cover its contents; and then, at Boxall’s suggestion, we made our way to a spot a short distance off, between some sand-hills, where, pretty well worn out, we threw ourselves down to rest.

Though thankful to get back honest Ben, we felt very melancholy at the dreary prospect before us. Strong as he was, he also appeared utterly worn out with his exertions; and, stretched at full length on the sand, he was soon fast asleep. I had rashly undertaken to keep the first watch.

“Awake me soon, and I will relieve you,” said Boxall. “I am afraid you will not be able to keep your eyes open long.”

“No fear,” I answered. “I will do my best, depend on it; for I have no wish to be earned off by a hyena, or any other wild beast which may chance to visit us.”

Boxall and Halliday sat with their heads between their knees, and very quickly dropped off. As long as I was able to remain on my legs and walk about, I proved a faithful sentinel; but feeling very weary, I at last sat down, and the natural consequences followed—I fell fast asleep. The howling of the wind among the sand-hills and the ceaseless roar of the surf rather tended to lull my senses than to arouse me from my slumber. I dreamed of the events which had occurred, and fancied that I knew exactly where I was and what was happening. Now I was looking towards the foaming sea, when I observed in the offing a vessel under all sail approaching the coast. Gradually she faded from my view. And now, turning my head, I saw to my dismay a pack of hyenas stealing silently along towards us. I started up, and was thankful to find that the hyenas had disappeared; but, near the spot where I had seen them, my waking sight fell on a strange-looking animal with a long neck, a pointed head, and huge hump on its back, which I at once recognised as a camel. It advanced at a slow pace, not regarding us, and making its way directly to the beach. Though unwilling to wake my companions, I could not help crying out, when Boxall and Halliday started up, though poor Ben remained as fast asleep as ever.

“What can that strange monster be?” exclaimed Halliday.

At which Boxall, though certainly not in a merry mood, could not help laughing loudly.

“Why, a camel, to be sure; coming down to the beach to get a lick of salt, of which most beasts are very fond,” he answered.

“I wonder if it’s a wild one, then,” said Halliday; “if it is, we may hamstring it, or kill it in some other way, and it will give us an ample supply of food.”

“There are no wild camels, that I ever heard of,” answered Boxall; “and if we were to kill it, depend on it its owners would make us repent having done so. I suspect they are not far off.”

The appearance of the camel, as may be supposed, completely aroused us, and we watched it as it stalked down to the sands.

“I propose that we catch it, and make it carry us somewhere or other,” said Halliday. “Its back is long enough to let us all ride on it: you, Boxall, on the top of the hump, as the post of honour; Ben, astern; and Charlie and I in front.”

I could not help laughing at Halliday’s proposal; Boxall did likewise.

“We must catch the beast first, then get it to lie down while we are mounting. And then, should we ever get on its back, seeing that it has no halter, it would certainly carry us—not where we wished to go, but to the tents of its masters; who would probably knock us on the head, or, if mercifully disposed, make slaves of us,” observed Boxall.

“Then I vote we don’t interfere with Mr Camel,” said Halliday. “But perhaps, if we were to follow its footsteps, it might lead us to where we could get some fresh water; or, should it go back to its owners, we might have time to reconnoitre them at a distance, and judge whether it would be prudent to trust ourselves in their power.”

“A very good idea,” said Boxall. “If, however, we are to trace its steps, we must wait till daylight; for as it probably walks much faster than we can, we should very likely lose sight of it, and get bewildered among the sand-hills.”

We were watching the camel as it came towards us, when, either seeing us or scenting us, it stopped short, poking out its head, as if wondering what curious creatures we could be. Then turning round, it stalked leisurely away, and was lost in the gloom.

“I hope it won’t go and tell its masters—unless they happen to be well-disposed individuals,” said Halliday. “I trust that they may prove friendly; and the camel, perhaps, has come to guide us to them.”

“It seems to me that daylight is breaking,” I remarked.

“We shall soon know all about the matter, then; only I do wish we could get something to eat,” said Halliday.

“So do I; but there is no use talking about it,” I observed.

“I am not much afraid of starving,” said Boxall. “We may hope to find oysters, or some other shell-fish, in the lagoon. I am more anxious about water; but even that we may possibly find by digging in the sand.”

Ben, overcome with fatigue, still slept on, undisturbed by our voices. I agreed with Boxall that he required rest even more than we did, and we therefore determined not to arouse him till daylight.

Chapter Seven.

Ben’s dream—An unpleasant discovery—A search for water—Friends or foes?—Boxall’s ingenious mode of obtaining a light—Our companion spirited away.

We lay on the ground, watching the stars gradually disappearing in the sky overhead, and still unwilling to awake Ben, who slumbered on, completely overcome by the fatigue he had endured for the last few days. At length the sun, like a huge ball of fire, rose above the region of sand-hills stretching out to the eastward. It was time therefore for us to get up and obtain a supply of pork from the store we had left on the beach, as also to commence a search for water. We called to Ben; who, starting to his feet, rubbed his eyes and looked wildly about him, as if not quite certain where he was.

“I mind all about it now,” he said, slapping his leg. “But, bless me, how I should like to have snoozed on: for I was dreaming that I was away back in Old England, in my sister Susan’s cottage, with the youngsters playing about in front of the porch, and Betsy Dawson—who has promised to marry me when I next get back—just coming in at the door to have a cup of tea and a quiet chat; and I was putting out my hand to take hers, when I found myself clutching a heap of sand.”

Poor Ben scarcely seemed to be aware that he was speaking aloud, for when he heard our voices he cast a bewildered look at us. We did not laugh at him, however,—that you may depend on.

“Well, well, Ben, we must be prepared for a good many trials and disappointments; but I hope that we shall all meet them like men,” said Boxall.

“Yes, sir, that we will; and I am ready for anything that turns up,” said Ben, giving himself a shake. “We want water and we want food, in the first place, I suspect.”

“The water, I have a notion, we can get by digging, as we did on the sand-bank the other day; and as for food, it’s hard if the sea does not give us something to eat, besides the pork,” observed Boxall.

The hot sun having quickly dried our wet clothes, we felt, as we began to move, in somewhat better spirits. We soon reached the spot where we had left the cask,—being guided to it by the remains of the raft on the beach. Halliday was the most hungry, and ran on first.

“Hallo, the cask has been overturned; and what has become of the pork?” he exclaimed, as he began hunting about in the sand. “That monster of a hyena must have been here; and I am afraid the brute has not even left us enough for breakfast.”

We hurried on, and speedily joined in the search.

“Here is a piece, fortunately, jammed between the staves,” said Halliday, dragging forth the remnant of a joint of pork.

“We may be thankful to get even that,” said Boxall.

We hunted round in every direction, but a couple of gnawed bones, with scarcely any flesh on them, were the miserable remains of the provision on which we had depended.

“There can be no doubt about the hyena being the thief,” I observed.

“I am very sure of it,” said Boxall. “Even had we buried the pork several feet deep, the creature would have dug it up; for the brutes are said sometimes to visit graveyards, and there to disinter human bodies unless carefully covered up with heavy stones.”

I shuddered, and felt but little inclined to eat the meat which the animal had left us. However, Ben was not so particular, and offered to take the bones as his share—by which arrangement he got a larger amount than either of us. Hunger had compelled us to eat the pork raw; and this having the natural effect of increasing our thirst, we agreed to lose no time in looking for water.

The staves of the cask furnished us with tolerable implements for digging; and would serve us also for weapons of defence, in default of better. We fortunately had our knives, and as the wood was hard, we could shape them into wooden swords and sharpen the edges. So we at once began to search for a spot where a little verdure might tempt us to dig. For this purpose we scattered about, agreeing to keep in sight of each other, and the person who first found a likely spot was to wave his stave above his head.

The hot sun now getting high in the heavens, his rays beat down on our heads, and made us eager to discover the refreshing fluid. Boxall said he was sure it was to be found along the coast, although he acknowledged that such spots might be miles and miles apart. “However,” he observed, “there is nothing like trying.”

We agreed to go towards the south; one taking the beach, another on his left hand on the summit of the first line of sand-hills, the third further in, and the fourth in a like manner on his left. Ben took the beach, Boxall was next to him, but I was outside of all. It occurred to me that it would be wise not only to look for water, but occasionally to turn my spy-glass to the east in the chance of any natives appearing. I scarcely knew whether or not it would be desirable to fall in with our fellow-creatures, remembering what Boxall had said about the natives; but still I thought that we might trust to the generosity and hospitality of the Arabs, and therefore should have felt no apprehensions had any appeared. As far as my eye could reach, however, with the aid of my spy-glass, wide plains of arid sand, and sand-hills rising one beyond the other, were alone visible. It was a region in which it appeared impossible that human beings could exist. At last I shut up the glass, believing that we were not likely to be molested, and that we must depend on our own exertions for support. My mouth and throat were becoming dreadfully parched, and I would have given everything I possessed for a drop of pure water; but, from the appearance of the country, I now began to despair of finding any.

We had gone on for some miles, it seemed to me, when I heard Halliday give a shout, and turning my head I saw Boxall waving his stave. I hurried after Halliday, who was making towards him. There was a slight depression in the ground, with a little verdure. Boxall had already begun digging, and we all joined with an ardour inspired by the parched state of our tongues. We exchanged but few words; indeed, we could speak but with difficulty. The staves served very well the purpose of shovels; and remembering that by perseverance we had before reached water, we dug on and on, believing that our labour would not be in vain.

We had got down fully four feet, and yet no water appeared. “Dig away,” cried Boxall; “even if we have to go two or three feet deeper, we need not despair.”

At last our efforts were rewarded by the appearance of moisture, and after we had thrown out more of the sand a whitish fluid flowed into the hole. On tasting it we found that it was drinkable, though somewhat bitter and brackish.

“I have no doubt that it is wholesome, as the water which the Arabs dig for in their journeys is described in the books I have read as exactly like this,” observed Boxall.

So thirsty were we that we did not allow it to settle, when it would probably have become more limpid. But we all felt greatly refreshed, and thankful that we had not been thrown on this desert region to perish with thirst.

Fatigued with our previous walk, we now sat down to rest. I turned my eyes in the direction of the reef,—which, however, was not visible,—and saw Ben looking in the same quarter.

“I wonder if we could repair the raft, and make our way to one of the settlements to the southward,” I said. “We might land if we saw bad weather coming on; and we should not, at all events, be worse off than we now are.”

“That’s just what I have been thinking about, sir,” observed Ben. “But then, do you see, we should not have fresh water, and we should have nothing to eat; and besides, I don’t know whether there is enough of the raft remaining to make it fit for use—though, to be sure, we might pick up some more pieces along the beach.”

“We need not give the matter much thought,” said Boxall. “We are several hundred miles from the nearest settlement, and the want of fresh water alone would make the voyage impossible, even should we succeed in putting our raft to rights. All we can do is to push boldly on to the southward; and if we can obtain oysters or anything else for food, and retain our health, we may hope, with God’s mercy, to succeed.”

We were, it must be understood, seated on a sandy mound facing the sea, the light air coming from which enabled us to bear the heat of the sun. As we were about to get up and proceed on our journey, I caught sight of some objects moving among the sand-hills in the far distance. I told my companions, who threw themselves down on the ground; while, unslinging my telescope, I turned it towards the moving objects, which I at once made out to be two camels with riders on their backs.

The strangers drew nearer, and stopping, looked about them. “I am afraid their quick eyes have caught sight of the gold on our caps or the brass on my spy-glass,” I observed. “What are we to do?”

“Remain perfectly quiet,” answered Boxall. “We might possibly improve our condition by joining them, but it might become very much worse. We can now calculate pretty well what we shall have to go through; but if we place ourselves in their power, we may be ill-treated, or compelled to labour for them, if we are not murdered.”

“Well, by all means let us keep out of their power. I for one have no wish to be reduced to slavery,” said Halliday.

“And I am sure I don’t want to work for these blackamoors,” observed Ben.

The general feeling, therefore, being against putting ourselves in the power of the Arabs, and thinking we could hold out, we remained perfectly still, completely concealed by the side of the bank. The strangers continued to approach, and it appeared very probable that we should be discovered. We lay quiet, however, and watched them; and at length, satisfied that they were mistaken, they continued their route to the southward, along the line of sand-hills which ran parallel with the coast. We watched them as long as they were in sight, and then descending to the sea-shore, the tide being out, continued our march over the hard sand. We had allowed the strangers to get so far ahead that we were not likely again to fall in with them.

“It strikes me, sir, that while the water is low we ought to be looking out for some oysters or mussels, or we shall have nothing to eat when dinner-time comes,” observed Ben to Boxall. “I see some rocks on ahead where we are very likely to find them.”

“You are right, Ben,” answered Boxall. “I ought to have thought of that myself, but I was considering how we should meet the Arabs should we again fall in with them, or what bribe we could offer to induce them to conduct us either to Magador in Morocco, the nearest place where we shall find an English consul, or else to Saint Louis, a French settlement in the south, which is, I conceive, considerably nearer. It is a pretty long march either way,—half the width of the great Desert of Sahara, north and south.”

“I can, at all events, make myself understood, and I will say whatever you advise,” I observed.

“My opinion is, that on all occasions we should speak the truth,” observed Boxall. “We must therefore say that we are British officers, wrecked on the coast, and that, if they will conduct us to any place from whence we can communicate with our friends, we will reward them handsomely.” To all which, of course, Halliday and I agreed.

We had now reached the rocks where Ben had hoped to find some shell-fish. Taking off our shoes and socks, and tucking up our trousers, we commenced our search, armed with our knives and wooden swords. No oysters were to be found on the rocks, or in the shoal water in which we waded. However, we obtained as many mussels and some other shell-fish as we could carry in our pockets; and Ben captured a large crab, which was a prize, we agreed, worth having. And as by this time the tide was running in, we were now obliged to return to the shore.

“We must endeavour to light a fire and cook this food,” observed Boxall. “If we attempt to live much longer on raw provisions, we shall be attacked by scurvy, and shall assuredly be unable to continue our journey.”

“As there are no trees hereabouts, and as we have neither flint nor tinder, I don’t see how we shall get a fire to cook our food,” Ben observed.

“But there are roots on some of the sand-hills; and here is a stone I picked up, which I think is a flint,” answered Boxall.

We could, however, find neither roots nor shrubs of any sort for fuel, and were obliged to content ourselves with chewing some of the mussels to stay our hunger as we walked along.

Having trudged on for some miles, some slight signs of verdure again greeted our eyes, although the bushes rose scarcely a foot above the ground. The branches, however, from their dry state, would, we imagined, ignite; though it would require a large number of them to make even a tolerable fire. We carried our fuel to a hole between two sand-hills, hoping that the smoke, by the time it had ascended above them, might become so attenuated as not to be observed by any passing Arabs. The difficulty was how to light our fire. We required first the means of striking a spark, and then the tinder to catch it, and finally to produce a flame. Boxall tried with his knife and the stone he had picked up, but was much disappointed when no spark proceeded from them, the knife and stone producing only a light with a phosphoric appearance. “We must not give it up, though,” he said. “I have another idea—we must form a burning-glass.”

“How is that to be done?” I asked.

“Let me look at your watch, that I may compare it with mine,” he said. The glasses exactly corresponding in size, he took them both out. “Now,” he continued, “by filling the interior with water we shall have a powerful burning-glass, which will in a few seconds set fire to any inflammable substance, or burn a hole in our clothes.”

I bethought me at that moment of the inside cotton-wool lining of my cap, on which the rays of the sun had been beating all the morning, and I felt sure that it would quickly catch fire; so teasing out a small piece, I followed Boxall down to the beach, where he was employed in filling the two watch-glasses with water. I held the wool, while he lifted the glasses over it; and in a few seconds a hole was burned, and I observed some sparks travelling round it. I rushed back to the heap of fuel, blowing as I went; while Halliday stood ready with a leaf of paper, which he had torn from his pocket-book, and with a heap of withered twigs and leaves, which with infinite perseverance he had gathered together. By all of us blowing together a flame was produced, to our infinite joy. A milky sap, however, came from the shrubs, and only a small portion of them would ignite, while the smoke which ascended was so pungent and smelt so disagreeably that we could scarcely bear it. It had the effect, however, of keeping the mosquitoes, which had hitherto annoyed us terribly, at a distance. By degrees also a few burning embers appeared, and we placed our shell-fish upon them. Seeing Ben poking in his wooden sword, I asked, “Why are you burning that?”

“I am not burning it, sir, but hardening the point and edge; and I would advise you to do the same with yours.”

And following his example, we found it greatly improved our weapons.

In a short time the shell-fish were cooked, and we enjoyed our repast, though we should have been glad to have had some substitute for bread to eat with the molluscs. Having cleaned out some of the larger shells, we cooked a further supply, which we packed within them, and then tied them up in our handkerchiefs, that we might be saved the necessity of lighting another fire. Indeed, we should, we knew, be unable to do so, except during the daytime, unless we could pick up a real flint—and that Boxall feared we were not likely to find.

Our hunger being satisfied, our thirst returned, and our next object, as we advanced, was to discover water. The tide being high, we were compelled to seek the harder ground on the summit of the sand-hills, as the mosquitoes and sand-flies rendered walking on the sand excessively disagreeable. We kept in a line, as we had before done in our search for water, at a short distance from each other,—Boxall having chosen a position on the left,—and had trudged on for a couple of miles or more, as we calculated, without discovering any signs which tempted us to dig; for we were unwilling to make the attempt without a prospect of success. I was next to Boxall; and after we had gone some way he came nearer to me, and shouted that he would diverge to the left, towards a slight elevation, desiring us to go on slowly, and to halt should we lose sight of him. “I will make a signal, should I find any sign of water,” he added. By this time my mouth and tongue had become fearfully parched, and I earnestly hoped that he would succeed. Continuing to look out for the usual signs—a little verdure, with a slight depression in the sand—I went on slowly till I got near enough to Halliday to tell him what Boxall had said; and he repeated the order to Ben. We had not gone much further when I felt great hopes, from the appearance of a spot before me, that water might be found; so calling to Halliday and Ben, they joined me. I looked round to make the sign agreed on to Boxall, when, to our dismay, we saw an Arab on a camel rapidly approaching him! We had been partly concealed by a sand-hill, and so the Arab had not, apparently, observed us. It was evident, however, that Boxall had not a chance of escape. He must have thought so himself, as he stood calmly awaiting the arrival of the Arab, who pulled up his camel as he got close to him. We stood for a minute irresolute, not knowing what to do; but as the Arab did not raise his weapon, we believed he had no hostile intentions, and was not likely to injure our friend. Boxall had now thrown down his wooden sword, and was holding out his hand as if to greet the Arab in a friendly way. The latter also stretched out his hand, and we hoped that the interview would pass off peaceably, when, to our astonishment, we saw the Arab lean over from his saddle, and by a sudden jerk seize Boxall by the arm and place him by his side; then giving the animal a blow with his spear or goad, it set off at a gallop across the desert.

We now rushed forward, Halliday and I shouting to the Arab to stop, while Ben with loud cries advised Boxall to give the black rascal a thundering clout on the head, and that we would quickly come to his assistance; but I am inclined to think that neither the one nor the other heard us. Boxall did endeavour to release himself, but the Arab held him fast. Indeed, at the rate the camel was going, he could not otherwise have stuck on.

Fast as the wind, the fleet creature, regardless of the weight of the two men struggling on its back, moved across the desert, its broad feet scarcely making an impression on the sand. We ran and shouted in vain: the camel rapidly distanced us, and making towards the south-east, disappeared at length among the sand-hills; while we, almost exhausted, sank down on the ground.

All our previous misfortunes had not weighed so heavily on me as this. As far as we could tell, our friend might be carried into helpless captivity far away in the interior of Africa. Poor fellow! my heart bled for him. He had fully expected to obtain his promotion on returning home, and to be married to a very charming girl, of whom he had often spoken to me; for he had an independent property, though, having no interest, he had long remained a mate.

We felt ourselves still at liberty, and did not consider that his fate might probably be ours before long; for how could we hope, without the help of his judgment and thoughtfulness, to make our way over some hundred miles of desert? Had we known, indeed, one tenth part of the difficulties to be encountered, we should have said that it was impossible.

“We are not going to let Mr Boxall be carried off by that black chap without trying to get him back, I hope,” exclaimed Ben at length.

“Certainly not,” I said.

“Of course not,” exclaimed Halliday. “We must follow him till we get near the Arab camp, and then try and let him know that we are near at hand to help him to escape.”

It struck me that this proposition was very good in theory, but unlikely to succeed in practice. I did not say so, however, as I was unwilling to damp the ardour of my companions, or to show any want of interest in our friend.

“If we are to overtake him, we must set forth at once,” I observed. “It will be difficult enough to trace him in the daytime, and impossible in the darkness; and that fleet camel may have passed over many miles of ground before night sets in.”

Halliday, I should have said, had a small compass attached to his watch-chain. It was a trifling little thing, and of scarcely any use at sea; but, placed on the ground, it would enable us to take the bearings of an object with tolerable accuracy. He at once put it down, and we marked the direction the Arab had taken; it was almost due south-east.

“Shall we make sail, sir?” asked Ben, who was eager to be off.

“Yes,” I said. “You, Ben, lead, and keep straight ahead for the northern end of the most distant sand-hill in sight; while Mr Halliday and I will keep twelve paces apart, and twelve paces behind you. We shall thus form a triangle, and if we see you turning we will put you straight again. I think in that way we shall be able to keep a direct course.”

“I understand, sir,” said Ben.

Having measured our distances, we set off. We were already on the edge of the level desert, so that we had no impediments to interfere with our march. Had I been more sanguine of success, I should have gone on with better spirits; but with the slight hopes I entertained of overtaking Boxall, and suffering in common with my companions from excessive thirst, my spirits flagged, and I could with difficulty drag on my weary feet over the hot sand. But having reached the point for which we had been steering, we brought up; and again placing the compass on the ground, took a fresh departure. We had now no object by which to direct our course, and had it not been for the plan I had thought of, we should have had constantly to stop and ascertain by the compass whether we were steering right. The long shadows in front of us—or rather somewhat to the left—showed us that the sun was sinking low, and that unless we could reach the neighbourhood of the Arab camp before dark we should have to pass the night in the open desert. We pushed on bravely. Still, I confess I could hardly drag my feet after me; and I observed when I turned my eyes towards Halliday, that he was walking with yet greater difficulty, though unwilling to complain. Longer and longer grew our shadows—still the apparently illimitable desert stretched out before us—but nowhere was the camel to be seen. Influenced by Ben’s zeal, I had been induced to undertake the pursuit; but I now began to repent having yielded to it.

At length Halliday cried out, “Charlie, I can do no more!” and sank on the ground. So I called to Ben to stop, and we threw ourselves down by our companion’s side.

Chapter Eight.

The search for Boxall—The Arab encampment—We find water—Ben makes a “circumbendibus” of the Arab camp—Captured by black Arabs—Antonio’s escape from the wreck—His reception by the Ouadlims.

Night found us in the midst of the vast desert, numberless low sand-hills scattered about around us, and the starry sky overhead. Here we must remain until daylight, or retrace our steps to the sea-shore. We might manage to get back, if we had strength sufficient to walk, as the stars would serve us as a guide, and a few points out of our direct course would not make much difference; whereas, should we attempt to keep to the south-east, we should very probably pass some distance either on the one side or the other of the line we wished to follow, and miss the Arab camp altogether. We could not hide from ourselves, too, the danger to which we were exposed from wild beasts; for besides hyenas—of the existence of which in the neighbourhood we had had ocular evidence—there was reason to believe that tigers, panthers, and even lions might be prowling about in search of prey; and our wooden swords, even though their points had been hardened in the fire, would be of little avail should we be attacked. I did not express my apprehensions to my companions, however, though I had no doubt they also entertained them. My duty, I felt, as the leader of the party in the place of Boxall, was to do my utmost to keep up my own and their spirits.

We sat silent for some time; Halliday was the first to speak. “I wish that I had a mouthful of water,” he said, in a hoarse voice. “Should we push on and find none to-morrow, what are we to do?”

I could not answer his question.

“But we may find some, sir,” said Ben. “The Arabs are sure not to encamp unless they can get it for themselves and their beasts.”

“But suppose we miss the Arab encampment?” asked Halliday.

Ben could not answer that question. I thought it was time for me to speak.

“I am very unwilling to give up the search for Mr Boxall,” I said; “but unless we are prepared to lose our own lives, with a very remote prospect of assisting him, I believe that our only course is to make our way back to the coast, where we have a better chance than here of obtaining both food and water. I propose, therefore, that we remain here till we are rested, and then make the best of our way to the sea-shore. We must manage, in the meantime, to do without water; and as we have a supply of cooked limpets in our pockets, we had better make our supper off them, and then lie down and rest. I am ready to take the first watch; you, Ben, shall take the second; and that will give time to Mr Halliday, who is more tired than either of us, to recover his strength.”

My companions agreed to the proposal; and hunger being our sauce, we managed to get down a considerable portion of our store of limpets.

Knowing that should I go to sleep both myself and my companions might be pounced upon by some wild beast, I did not venture to lie down, but leaned forward as I sat on the ground, supporting my hands on my wooden sword; and the moment I began to get drowsy I rose to my feet, with the intention, as long as I could walk, of pacing up and down close to them. I had just risen, when, turning my eyes to the north-east, I observed a bright glare in the sky. My first idea was that it must be the moon rising; and then I recollected that it would not appear above the horizon for some hours, and was convinced that the light was produced by an extensive fire. Never having heard of prairie fires in that part of Africa,—there being little or no grass to burn,—I came to the conclusion that there must be a camp in that direction; possibly the one to which the Arab had carried off Boxall, though he appeared to us to have taken a much more southerly route. I watched the light carefully, till I was convinced that I was right, and that it came from an Arab camp; then I at once aroused my companions.

“Now is the time to get near them, then,” exclaimed Ben. “We shall be able to see them though they cannot see us, and we shall thus have a better chance of finding out whether Mr Boxall is among them.”

We at once got up; and, guided by the light, we made our way without difficulty. It evidently proceeded from a large encampment, as the fires covered a considerable extent of ground,—which showed us that there must be a number of bushes or trees in the neighbourhood, to supply fuel. On we went, the light still increasing, till we found ourselves on somewhat rougher ground, slanting upwards, behind which we had no doubt the camp would be found. After going on for some time longer, we could clearly distinguish the forms of a number of horses standing up, and of camels lying down, with their drivers among them—the light of the fires on the further side throwing them into bold relief. As we walked side by side, with our eyes turned up at them, we were all three nearly falling down together head foremost into a deep hole, to the edge of which we had suddenly come. Ben, who was the first to see it, caught hold of me, and I held back Halliday.

“What can it be?” he asked, kneeling down and peering into the hole.

“A well,” I answered, “at which probably the animals from yonder encampment have been watered.”

“I only hope, then, that they have left us enough to quench our thirst,” said Halliday.

Ben offered to go down and explore the hole, for in the darkness we could not see how deep it was; and we knelt down, grasping him by the hand while he descended.

“It’s all right,” he said in a low voice. “I can touch the bottom—or a ledge, at all events; I will feel my way, and take care not to slip down into a bottomless pit.”

It was too dark to see him as he moved about, but presently a slight splash of water sounded in our ears; after which we could hear it, as it seemed, gurgling down his throat.

In less than a minute he came close under us. “Put down your hands,” he said; “here is something you will be thankful for.”

We did as desired, and drew up a large wooden bowl attached to the end of a rope. I gave it to Halliday first, who I knew was suffering most; and between us we emptied the contents of the bowl, and then handed it down to Ben,—who went back with the same caution as before and procured an additional supply for himself and us. Having satisfied our thirst, we hauled him up; and then sitting down on the side of the well, we consulted what we should next do. I was of opinion that Boxall had not been carried to this camp; but that the Arab we had seen belonged to some other tribe, and probably had been reconnoitring in the neighbourhood, and, catching sight of Boxall, he had hoped to gain some advantage by making him prisoner. Ben, on the other hand, who was convinced that our companion had been carried to the camp, was anxious to be certain whether this was the case or not. I warned him of the risk we should run if discovered in the neighbourhood.

“Well, they can’t do more than kill us,” he answered. “If they make prisoners of us, we must do our best to escape; and if the blackamoors have got hold of Mr Boxall, and we find him, we shall be able to help him to get off too.”

“But if we don’t find him, we shall have had all our risk for nothing,” said Halliday.

“Nothing venture, nothing win,” answered Ben. “Just let me go, and I’ll take good care that these Arab rascals don’t get hold of me.”

At length Halliday and I, won over by honest Ben’s arguments, agreed to let him do as he proposed; it being settled that we should wait for him close to the well.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “I will make a ‘circumbendibus’ of the camp; and if so be I can’t get sight of Mr Boxall, I will be back here in an hour at the furthest. If I am caught or knocked on the head by the Arabs, it will all be in the way of duty; and you will say a good word for Ben Blewett if you ever get home.”

Shaking hands with us warmly, as if he were going on a forlorn hope, he stole off round the well towards the Arab camp.

It did not occur to us at the time, but we had really chosen as dangerous a spot as any in the neighbourhood. In the first place, wild beasts prowling about at night were very likely to approach the spot to drink; and then, as a pathway led down to the well from the opposite side, the Arabs of the camp were sure, at early dawn, to come down to fill their water-skins,—so that should we, while waiting for Ben, fall asleep, we must inevitably be surprised. Fatigued by our long march, however, we could not resist the temptation of stretching our limbs on the sand, regardless of the risk we were running—but of which, as I have observed, neither of us thought at the time. We did our best to keep awake, however, and after, as we supposed, an hour had elapsed, began anxiously to look out for Ben.

The time passed by. “I say, Charlie, I am sure Ben has been gone more than an hour,” said Halliday in a drowsy tone. I scarcely understood what he said; I tried to arouse myself—he repeated his remark.

“We must wait for him, at all events,” I answered. “So, I say, keep awake, and rouse me up should you find me dropping off to sleep.” But poor Halliday was even more sleepy than I was; and in another minute we must both have dropped off.

We had been sleeping, I suppose, for some time, when I was aroused by feeling a hand on my arm; and opening my eyes, I saw a black fellow scantily clothed standing over me. He put his hand on my mouth, as a sign that I must not cry out, showing the blade of a sharp dagger—which he drew from his side—to enforce his commands. I saw that another had hold of Halliday; while, to my sorrow, I found that they had also secured Ben. His hands, poor fellow, were tied behind him; notwithstanding which, he was making the most strenuous efforts to escape—though it would have availed him nothing had he succeeded, as he could not have rescued us, and must either have fallen into the hands of other Arabs or have died of starvation.

Compelling us to get up, our captors next secured our hands in the same fashion as they had done Ben’s, and ordered us to move on. Instead of taking us to the camp, however, they began to drag us away in the opposite direction, towards the sea-shore, hurrying us along as fast as they could run,—making it evident that our captors did not belong to the camp we had seen, and were anxious to get a distance from it before daylight. In vain, therefore, did we try to get near Ben, to ask him if he had seen Boxall, and to learn what had happened.

I found, on looking up at the stars, that after going a short distance they turned off to the south-west, keeping on the harder and more elevated ground, but still verging towards the coast. This strengthened my conviction that they belonged to a different tribe from those in the camp, and that they had been on a marauding expedition when they fell in with us. Perhaps they believed that we belonged to their enemies, and hence their anxiety to hurry us away from the camp.

Day had just dawned when we saw before us a line of low dark tents, pitched on the side of a sand-hill just above the sea-shore, with camels and other animals standing near them, as if ready to receive their loads, in case an immediate start should be necessary. The light of day also revealed to us the hideous and savage countenances of our captors—their skins almost black, and in features, many of them, closely resembling negroes; though, from the dress of their chief, and their camels and tents, I should have supposed them to be Arabs. They had but scant clothing, in addition to the belts hanging over their shoulders, and to which their daggers were attached. Their other arms were short swords and spears.

Our arrival at the camp was announced by loud shouts from the people assembled in front of it; on which a number of other men, with women and children, came rushing out of the tents. Their chief, before whom we were brought, was a tall man, of rather lighter complexion than the rest, but with countenance not less hideous and sinister than those of his remarkably unprepossessing followers. He inquired, in a sort of mongrel Arabic,—which, however, I could partly understand,—who we were, whence we had come, and how we had been found. To the latter question alone, his people could give a reply. I heard him remark that there must have been a shipwreck on the coast not far off, and that we were some of the people who had escaped from it. The others agreeing that he was right, a consultation was then held as to the direction in which it had occurred. Thinking it was time to speak, I now stepped forward, and making a profound salaam—for I felt that it was wise to be polite to the savages—I said, in as good Arabic as I could command—

“Know, sheikh, that the ship on board which we were voyaging was consumed by fire; but the great Allah whom we worship allowed us to escape, and conducted us to your shores on a raft,—which, as a proof that I speak the truth, will be found a day’s journey to the north.”

The astonishment of the black Arabs, on hearing me speak in their own language, was very great.

“Who are you, and how is it that you can speak in our tongue?” asked the sheikh.

“It is the custom of my people to learn the tongues of the nations they are likely to visit, as they voyage to all the lands under the sun; and before long we hope that our countrymen will come here to take us off, and reward those who have treated us with hospitality,” I answered, trying to look as important as I could.

“O Nazarene, you speak big words,” exclaimed the sheikh. “But understand that your countrymen, however large their ships, will find it a hard matter to follow you into the Desert, should we think fit to carry you there.”

“True, O sheikh; your wisdom approaches that of Solomon,” I answered, trying to imitate the Arabic style of language. “But you will then lose the reward you would have obtained by restoring us safe to our friends. The few articles we carry about us, seeing that we could save nothing from the wreck, are not worthy of your acceptance. May I now inquire what powerful prince of the Desert I have the honour of addressing?”

The sheikh appeared somewhat pleased at this speech; but he did not relax the sternness of his features while he answered—

“Know, O Nazarene, that you are in the presence of the Sheikh Boo Bucker Saakhi, chief of the Ouadlims,” was the answer.

Though the sheikh did not appear a man likely to be won over by soft speeches, I determined to persevere. Unslinging my telescope, I held it out to him.

“Here is an instrument which will enable a person who looks through it to see ten times as far as he can with his naked eye. I will present it to you, and show you how to use it, the day a ship appears in sight, and you enable us to get on board her.”

I thought the sheikh was going to laugh; but he only grinned sarcastically as he replied—

“Know, O Nazarene, that I can at any moment take it from you, as well as everything else you carry, and strip you to the skin; so I value not your promise as you think I should.”

“But, O Sheikh Boo Bucker Saakhi, we wish you to understand that our countrymen will reward you handsomely with numerous articles such as your soul desires, if you treat us with that hospitality for which you princes of the Desert are famed throughout the world.”

“That may be true; but a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” answered the sheikh. At least, he made use of an Arab proverb of a similar tenor. “However, I will consider the matter. In the meantime, I will receive you and the other Nazarene as guests in my tent, where you will be pleased to exhibit the various articles you possess.”

Of course, I said that we should be delighted, though I suspected what would be the result of exhibiting our property.

“And who is yonder white man, who seems so greatly inclined to knock over my followers?” inquired the sheikh. “His dress, I observe, differs from yours. Is he one of your people?”

“That man, O sheikh, is a faithful follower of ours; a lion in war, and a lamb in peace when not interfered with,” I answered, looking at Ben, who was at that minute engaged in a struggle with a dozen or more Ouadlims, from whom he had broken loose, and who were again trying to bind his hands.

“Let him be allowed to come here at liberty, and I will prove that what I state regarding him is true,” I added.

The sheikh shouted to his followers, and I called Ben to come to us. As he did so, he pulled off his hat, which he flourished in the air, and made the sheikh a polite bow. Then putting out his hand, he exclaimed—

“Give us your flipper, old fellow, and we will be good friends!—only, tell your people to keep decent tongues in their heads, and their hands to themselves.”

“What is he talking about?” asked the sheikh, who, of course, did not understand a word Ben had said, and was unable to comprehend his movements.

“He says that he is ready to fight for and serve you, O sheikh, as he has served his own chief,” I answered. “You will find him faithful to yourself, and a terror to your enemies, while he remains with you.”

I said this for the sake of getting Ben well treated, though it was an imprudent observation—and I was wrong in saying what was not the truth—as the sheikh might not be willing to part with Ben again. But for the present it answered its object; for the sheikh, bidding us all three follow him, led the way to the entrance of his tent, to the astonishment of his followers. Though it was considerably larger than a gipsy tent in England, it had much the appearance of one. The cover consisted of camel-hair cloth, supported by a couple of long poles in the centre, the skirts being stretched out and fastened to the ground by pegs. Heaps of sand were also piled up, as a further security to prevent it being blown away. The ground inside was covered with a dirty piece of carpet, while a few pots hanging to the tent-poles formed the whole of the furniture.

The women of the tribe were most of them even more ugly than the men; and though they were decently clothed as to quantity, their garments were dirty in the extreme. They appeared to go about the camp as freely as the men, who showed no anger or annoyance when we looked at them,—which, as Ben observed, was not surprising, considering how hideous they were. They gathered round, looking with curiosity at our white skins and strange dresses; but, out of respect to the chief, of whom they seemed to stand in awe, they did not further annoy us.

“Come into my tent, O Nazarenes, and we will talk this matter over more at our ease,” said the sheikh, walking inside, and making a sign to Ben—who, from the character we had given of him, was looked upon as an important personage—to follow. The sheikh sank down on his carpet, and we imitated his example, endeavouring, like him, to tuck our legs under us—Halliday and Ben on one side, and I on the other. But our attempts were not very successful. Halliday tried two or three times in vain, and at last stretched them out comfortably before him; while Ben, after rolling from side to side, fairly toppled over on his nose, before he could get his legs stowed away—greatly to the amusement of the sheikh, in whose estimation he was thereby considerably lowered, I am afraid.

After we were settled, and the sheikh’s cachinnations had ceased, he clapped his hands; on which one black damsel brought him in his hookah, while another appeared with a piece of charcoal to light it. He did not, however, hand us his pipe.

“You are hungry, strangers,” he next observed.

“Yes, indeed we are, and very thirsty too,” said Halliday, who had not attempted to speak till now.

“I forgot,” said the sheikh; and calling to the black damsels, he ordered them to bring us food and water. In a short time one of them returned with a large bowl of couscoussu, a sort of porridge made of wheat beaten into powder. We had our fingers only to eat it with.

“Set to, strangers,” said the sheikh, nodding; but he took none of the food himself.

“It is not bad stuff when a fellow is hungry,” observed Halliday, stuffing the porridge into his mouth as fast as he could lift it with his fingers; “but it’s very flavourless; I wish we had some salt to put into it.”

“So do I, for more reasons than one,” I answered. “I do not quite like the appearance of things.”

“But he seems to be a pretty good-natured kind of fellow; perhaps he does not know we like our food salted,” said Halliday.

“We must take people as we find them; and I hope he has not omitted the salt intentionally, though I suspect he has not made up his mind whether to trust us or not,” I observed.

We all did justice to the sheikh’s couscoussu, however; for, notwithstanding its want of salt, we had eaten no food so wholesome since we were on board the Spanish ship. Another girl next brought in an earthen jar of water, which we in a few minutes completely emptied.

“Thank you, Mr Sheikh,” said Ben, after his meal; “long life to your honour.”

“What does he say?” asked our host.

“He hopes that your shadow may never grow less, and that you may live to be a blessing to your people for as long as the patriarchs of old.”

The sheikh seemed pleased, and answered,—“Your lion-hunter is a fine fellow.”

I explained that I only said he was as brave as a lion; but the sheikh replied that his bravery must have been proved by his hunting lions—and that he, at all events, would give him an opportunity of exhibiting his prowess.

Ben, tired of sitting so long on his feet, now got up, and, pulling a lock of his hair, walked out of the tent. Not supposing he would be molested, we sat on, wishing to practise our Arabic by talking to the sheikh, who made numerous inquiries about our country and other parts of Europe, evidently being not altogether ignorant of what had been taking place of late in the world. We at last also got up, to take the fresh air outside, when he said—

“Stop, stop! young Nazarenes. You came here to show me the precious treasures you possess; I desire you to exhibit them.”

“Of course we will,” I said, unslinging my telescope.

He looked at it, putting the field-glass to his eye, when he saw his own ugly face reflected in it.

“Bismillah! it’s wonderful,” he cried out.

I explained that this was the wrong way to use it; and inviting him to come to the door of the tent, I put it to my own eye to show him how it was to be used. As I did so, turning it eastward, what was my surprise to observe a sail standing towards the shore.

“Thank Heaven! here comes a vessel which may rescue us,” I exclaimed.

“Let me look at her,” said Halliday, taking the glass from me.

“Look again, Charlie,” he said, returning it to me. “I am afraid that it is only a small boat.”

“You are right,” I answered; “or rather, it is no boat at all, but a raft!” Indeed, by this time we could distinguish the raft with our naked eyes.

“What is all this about?” asked the sheikh, observing our agitation. I gave him the glass, but he could not fix it on the object. He saw the raft, however, without it.

“Allah be praised! yonder vessel will certainly be thrown on our shore, and we shall obtain a rich booty,” he exclaimed.

I did not undeceive him.

“Can that be the large raft, I wonder?” asked Halliday. “If so, some of the poor wretches have escaped death after all.”

I examined it attentively, and saw that it was very much smaller than the large raft, and could not support more than two or three people. I also now observed that a reef of rocks ran parallel with the coast for some distance, the sea breaking heavily upon it.

There was soon a general commotion in the camp, and all fully believing that a vessel was approaching which could not escape being wrecked, were highly delighted at the prospect of making themselves the possessors of her cargo. The sheikh was as eager as any one, and, accompanied by his family, hastened down to the beach, hoping to be among the first on board.

Nearer drew the raft, and at length I made out that only one person sat upon it, steering with an oar. The people—who were all by this time down on the beach—soon discovered their mistake, and began to vent their disappointment by uttering curses on the head of the stranger,—we coming in for a share of their anger.

On came the raft, and presently, as we expected would be the case, was dashed on the reef, suffering even a worse fate than ours—being utterly broken to pieces. Its occupant, however, sprang forward, and we saw him striking out bravely in the calmer water, into which he had been thrown, towards the shore. He was followed by fragments of the raft, which I thought would strike him; but he escaped from them, and came on with rapid strokes towards us. The Arabs, some of whom rushed half-naked into the water, waved their hands and encouraged him by their shouts. As he drew near we saw that he was either an Arab or a black man; and before he landed we recognised him as Antonio, the black we had met on board the Spanish ship. The Arabs now stretched out their hands to help him, and he was soon in their midst, supported by their arms.

Whether he had recognised us or not we could not tell, for at first he appeared to be too much exhausted to speak; and from the eagerness with which the Arabs gathered round him, and his general appearance, we suspected that he either belonged to their tribe, or to some other tribe on friendly terms with them. Such we had soon too good reason to know was the case. Presently we saw him borne to the tent of the sheikh, where food and water were carried to him. Remembering his conduct to us on board the Spanish ship, we could not but fear that his coming boded us no good; still, of course, if he was an honest man he could not fail to corroborate our story, and so we waited with some anxiety to speak to him.

In the meantime the women and children gathered round us, the latter especially treating us with scant respect; the urchins, like so many imps, grinning from ear to ear at us, pulled at our clothes and pinched our arms and legs; while several of them, pious, I have no doubt, according to their notions, spit at us to show their hatred of the Nazarenes. We knew that it would be of no use to run after the little wretches and punish them, so we bore the indignities we received with as much stoical indifference as we could assume. A big fellow whom we heard called Sinné—one of the men who had captured us—encouraged them; and at last approaching Ben, he insulted him with abusive language and gestures, snatching at his hat, and even trying to pull off his jacket. On this, Ben, without considering the consequences, lifted his fist and knocked the fellow down. Sinné got up considerably cowed for the moment, and stalked away; but, from the malignant glances he cast at Ben and us, we could not doubt that he meditated vengeance.

“Come back, old fellow, and I will do it again,” shouted Ben; but the Arab did not wish to put himself within reach of the seaman’s sturdy fists.

“I wish that you had not knocked the fellow over, Ben,” I said; “our only hope of escaping is to keep on good terms with the Arabs.”

“And so I wish to do, sir,” answered Ben. “It may be, if I knock a few more of them over, they will be all the better friends with us; and it may teach them that we will stand no nonsense!”

Certainly, Ben’s mode of proceeding appeared at first likely to answer, for both women and children kept at a more respectful distance, while none of the men seemed inclined to molest us.

Being tired with our previous exertions, we now sat down under the shade of a tent, whence we could watch the wide expanse of sea stretched out before us; but our eyelids were heavy, and, in spite of the doubtful disposition of the natives, we all dropped off to sleep.

Chapter Nine.

An unpleasant change—Ben undergoes a severe trial—The Ouadlims receive an unwelcome visit—We are made peace-offerings—A curious spectacle—I make friends with the Sheikh’s brother Abdalah—The shipwrecked party—Discover a valuable friend—Antonio’s escape from the wreck.

We were aroused by the voice of the sheikh. “Get up, you lazy sons of dogs!” he was exclaiming in an angry tone. “You have been deceiving me, I find, by passing yourselves off as people of importance, when you are mere servants of servants. Get up, I say;” and he began to enforce his commands by kicks and blows. We sprang to our feet, and Ben, doubling his fists, would have knocked the sheikh down had I not held him back.

“What have we done to merit this treatment, O sheikh?” I asked.

“Told lies, vile Nazarene,” he answered. “Henceforward know that you and your companions are to be slaves—should my people not prefer putting you to death.”

The sheikh was heard by the rest of the community, who now gathered round us, delighted at being able to renew their insults,—some of them pulling off our caps, while others tugged away at our jackets and pinched us as before, even spitting at us in their fury. At length Antonio stalked out of the tent, casting malignant glances at us as he passed.

“I say, mate, you know what better manners are,” exclaimed Ben. “Do try and teach these people to treat us decently.”

Antonio made no reply, but, without even turning his head, walked on.

“You are a pretty fellow,” shouted Ben; “I thought you would have wished to be civil, at least.”

Remembering the black’s behaviour on board the Spanish ship, however, I felt that it would be useless to appeal to him.

Presently we saw him returning, accompanied by Sinné and several other fellows, mostly as ill-favoured as himself. Approaching Ben, they threw themselves upon him, and, pinioning his arms, led him off, ordering us to follow.

“I am afraid they mean mischief,” said Halliday in a melancholy voice. “Do you think, Charlie, that they intend to murder poor Ben?”

“I hope not,” I answered, though I did not feel over confident about the matter. “I will do all I can to save him.”

We followed Ben and his captors. He turned his head towards us, and, by his look, evidently thought that his last hour had come; so indeed did we, and very sad we felt. We walked on till we had got some hundred yards from the camp, when we saw a sort of bench formed by boards on the top of a sand-hill, to which Ben was conducted. Sinné and Antonio having led Ben up to the bench, made him kneel down before it; when, to our horror, the former drew a pistol from his belt and presented it at the honest seaman’s head.

“Fire away, you rascals,” cried Ben in a loud voice, fixing his eyes on his executioners. “I am not afraid of you!”

Every instant we expected to hear the fatal shot fired, but still Sinné refrained from pulling the trigger. Feeling sure that if we rushed forward to Ben’s assistance it would be the signal for his death, we stood stock-still, not daring to move. In equally fixed attitudes stood the Arabs, evidently taking delight in our horror and anxiety. I dared not even pull out my watch to note how the time went by, but it seemed to me that a whole hour must have thus passed,—the Arab all the while standing motionless, till I thought his arm must have ached with holding the pistol. Halliday declared that he thought at least two hours must have elapsed, when Sinné, giving a self-satisfied grunt, restored the pistol to his belt, and stalked off towards the camp, followed by Antonio, and leaving Ben kneeling before the bench.

Ben, on finding that they were gone, got up and gave himself a violent shake. “I thought I was done for!” he exclaimed, with that cool air which an habitual indifference to danger can alone inspire. “I didn’t care so much for myself; but I thought the villains would treat you in the same way as they were going to serve me, and I was terribly sorry for you, that I was.”

We thanked Ben for his interest in us, assuring him how glad we were that he had escaped; and not having before had an opportunity of hearing the result of his expedition to the Arab camp, we inquired if he had seen Boxall.

“Not a glimpse of him,” he answered. “I went round and round the camp, so if he was there he must have been inside a tent; but as a number of people, whom I took to be slaves, were busy either pounding corn or cleaning their beasts, I am pretty sure that if he had been carried there he would have been among them, and I should have seen him. I believe, Mr Blore, you were right after all; and that the Arab who got hold of him must have gone off to another camp. All we can hope is, that he is among better people than these black fellows here.”

I hoped so likewise, though I began to fear that our chances of escape were very small, and that we should be doomed to perpetual slavery by our savage captors. Of course, from the first we had determined to escape if we could; but the question was, In what direction should we fly? The desert was terminable on the east by the Nile; on the north, by the barbarous empire of Morocco, or by Algiers, Tripoli, or Tunis; while to the south were hordes of savages of whom we knew nothing, with only one insignificant French settlement where we might expect a kind reception: and we should undoubtedly have many hundred miles of an almost barren region to traverse, either to the east or to the north or south, with but a bare possibility of escaping on board some vessel which might appear off the coast, provided we could keep along the shore and avoid recapture.

We were not allowed many minutes for conversation, for our savage tormentors quickly gathered round us again, and seemed to take delight in insulting and tormenting us in every way they could think of. We had been left for some time to the tender mercies of the women and children; the men having assembled together to hold, as we afterwards found, a consultation regarding our disposal—their savage yells and cries reaching our ears even above the shrill shrieks and shouts of the women. It was evident that our captors were engaged in a hot discussion, but not one of them, we had reason to suppose, was lifting up his voice in our favour.

At length Sinné appeared, and ordered us to accompany him. Advancing with rapid strides, he led us into the centre of a circle of Arabs; but as we glanced round at their scowling countenances, we observed no sign of kindly feeling or sympathy for our sufferings. The sheikh then calling to me, ordered me to interpret to the rest. He said that we were all three to be separated,—he himself intending to take me. Ben was to fall to the lot of Sinné; while Halliday was to become the slave of another chief man. This announcement affected us more than anything which had occurred. Together, we thought that we could have borne our misfortunes; but parted from each other, we felt they would be insupportable.

“You are all young and active, and can each do more work than any three women,” he observed; “let me see that you are not idle, or you will repent it. And you shall begin at once.”

On this some heavy mallets or pestles were put into our hands, and we were ordered to pound some corn in wooden mortars, which were brought out and placed before us, while our new masters looked on to see that we laboured with all our strength. Ben grumbled and growled, the only way in which he could express his feelings; but seeing Halliday and me working, he thought it prudent to obey.

I may say here that we had from the first observed that the people were in a somewhat uneasy state of mind, as if aware that an enemy was in the neighbourhood. No fires had been lighted. The tents had been pitched close to the shore, so that they and the camels were hidden, by the first line of sand-hills rising above them, from any one passing on the opposite side; while men on foot were sent out as scouts at night, to watch far and wide round the camp.

After we had finished our task we were told that we might go down to the beach and obtain shell-fish for our own supper. Our fare was not much better than we had before been able to obtain for ourselves; for, no fires being allowed, we were unable to cook our shell-fish—and only a small portion of porridge was given us, while we were compelled to drink the brackish water which we procured from a well dug in the sand some way off.

Darkness at length coming on, we were permitted to lie down, worn out with fatigue, outside the chiefs tent, thankful that we were not as yet separated from each other. The women and children, however, would not for some time allow us to go sleep; but again coming round us, joined this time by some of the younger men, amused themselves in jeering at and taunting us. But at length they retired, and we fell asleep.

Dawn had just broken, when we were aroused by the voices of the people in the camp; and on looking out, we saw a number of the scouts hurrying in, with alarm on their countenances. We were not kept long in doubt as to the cause of their agitation; for on glancing to the eastward we saw, coming over the hills of sand, several bands of Bedouins mounted on camels, their arms glittering brightly in the rays of the rising sun. On they advanced at full gallop, till they got within gun-shot of our camp, when they suddenly pulled up. The camels then slowly kneeling down, their masters dismounted, and secured fetters to their legs, to prevent them from going away. Two Arabs were mounted on each camel: the first seated on a small side-saddle, something in the style of a lady’s; and the second as a man sits on horseback. We counted nearly twenty different bands, each composed of twelve men, who took up their stations one after the other. Whether they came as friends or foes, was at first difficult for us to determine; but, from the state of agitation and alarm into which the Ouadlims were thrown, it was soon clear that they regarded the strangers in no friendly light. To escape, however, was impossible, as they were greatly outnumbered by the new arrivals; who were also better armed, and under superior discipline, than the savage tribe into whose hands we had fallen. As we stood watching them, we saw in the far distance numerous other camels, as well as horses, and apparently sheep and goats, approaching.

The Bedouin sheikh and several other principal men now advanced, being well protected by the firelocks of their men, who stood in front of the camels. The black sheikh, Boo Bucker, being summoned, then advanced to meet them, with Sinné and other heads of families, cutting a very sorry appearance in the presence of the superior tribe. They had a long discussion, after which the whole party came to the top of the hill, where they could view the coast. No one hindering us, we drew near them; when, from the remarks made, I found they had supposed that a shipwreck had taken place, and their object was to participate in the plunder, or rather, to take it away from the Ouadlims should they have got possession of it—just as the frigate-bird seizes the prey which the smaller wild-fowl has obtained.

The new-comers appeared to be somewhat angry at being disappointed in their hope of obtaining a rich booty, and from the talking and wrangling which took place we thought they would have come to blows with our captors. The latter endeavoured to pacify them, however, and I gathered from what I heard that we were to be delivered up as a peace-offering. This to us mattered very little; indeed, we hoped that our condition would be improved by falling into the hands of a less barbarous tribe than those who had first taken possession of us. Still, it was not pleasant to find ourselves handed over, like so many sheep or oxen, by one party of savages to another.

Boo Bucker then coming up, seized me by the arm and dragged me forward to the strange sheikh; while another chief led Halliday. Sinné was about to seize hold of Ben; who, however, drew back, exclaiming,—“Come, come, old fellow, you are not going to touch me; I am going where my officers go, so don’t you be afraid. And to show you that I don’t harbour ill-will, here’s my fist;” and he seized the Arab’s hand and wrung it till the fellow cried out, and seemed glad to let him go. Ben soon came up to us, laughing and slapping his legs to exhibit his pleasure at the trick he had played the ill-favoured savage.

Still the Bedouins did not appear satisfied, and more wrangling took place. At length Boo Bucker and his companions retired to their camp, and in a short time reappeared, dragging forward Antonio, who seemed very unwilling to accompany them. Notwithstanding the resistance he made, however, he was brought up to the Bedouin chief, who placed his hand on his shoulder and claimed him as his slave. Antonio was at first furiously indignant at being so treated by his treacherous friends, but seeing that there was no help for it, he yielded to circumstances.

“I say, Charlie, it won’t do to let these black fellows keep up our jackets and caps!” exclaimed Halliday. “Cannot you ask our new masters to get them back for us?”

“I will do my best, at all events,” I answered; and turning to one of the Arabs who surrounded us, I inquired the name of their chief. The Arab seemed very much surprised at being addressed in his own language, and answered,—“Sheikh Hamed ben Kaid.”

I thanked him in due form for the information he had given me; then stepping up to the sheikh, I made him a profound salaam, and addressing him by name, told him that we had been deprived of our garments, and begged that he would recover them. He at once turned to Boo Bucker, and upbraiding him for keeping back what ought to have been his, ordered him at once to bring the jackets and caps. The Ouadlim chief looked very much annoyed, as he had evidently expected to retain the articles; but a few menacing words made him hasten away, and return in a short time with the things, as well as my spy-glass,—all of which we expected would be restored to us. Such, however, we found to be very far from Sheikh Hamed’s intention. He inquired if any other articles had been taken from us; and on my replying that everything had been given back, he ordered Boo Bucker to move with his people to the northward, as it was his intention to camp in the neighbourhood. On this the two parties separated; and we were not sorry to see the last, as we hoped, of our former masters.

Sheikh Hamed now mounted his camel, and ordering us to follow, moved on to the southward—to look out for a spot suitable for encamping, as we supposed. We marched on as directed; but Antonio, who showed an evident inclination to be refractory, was handed over to the keeping of some of Sheikh Hamed’s followers. In a short time we reached a spot not far from the shore, which appeared to satisfy the requirements of the chief; and sticking his spear into the ground, he called a halt, when the various bands as they came up reined in their camels—the animals kneeling down as before, that their riders might dismount.

I looked out eagerly in the hope of seeing Boxall, but could nowhere discover him. I inquired of one of the people, who seemed inclined to be communicative, if a white man had been taken prisoner and brought to the camp. His answer fully satisfied me that the Arab who had carried off our friend must have belonged to some other tribe.

On the arrival of the baggage camels we were ordered to assist in unloading them and erecting the tents, and many a curse and blow we received for our want of skill in performing the operation. We took notice, however, of the mode in which everything was done, so that another time we should know how to proceed. The tents were quickly set up, much in the fashion of those of the Ouadlims,—though these were larger, and that of the sheikh had a somewhat better and cleaner carpet than the dirty cloth which covered the floor of Boo Bucker’s tent. Having performed this duty, we were next ordered to assist in digging wells. Fortunately, we had retained our wooden swords. At first, the Arabs looked at them with contempt; but when they saw how we used them to dig up the sand, they treated them with more respect, and inquired if we could manufacture some for them. I replied that if we could find a cask on the sea-shore we could easily do so, but without the proper wood we could not gratify their wishes.

“Then look out and find a cask speedily,” said the Arab who was superintending the operation.

The wells being dug, we had to bail out the water in wooden bowls, and carry it to the different animals. Fuel was then collected, and a line of fires kindled in order to drive away the mosquitoes and other insects, which appeared to torment the animals even as much as they did us. We were then ordered to assist the black slaves in cleaning the oxen and cows; which operation was managed in a curious way. The animals being seized by the horns, were thrown down on the sand, where they lay perfectly quiet, while the blacks with great dexterity cleansed their bodies from the insects. After this, they were washed with water from the sea. The cows were then milked.

These various processes employed the greater number in the camp till near midnight. We were then allowed to lie down inside one of the tents, already crowded with Arabs and blacks. Some sheep-skins were thrown to us for coverings; and though we did not require them for warmth—the heat was almost insupportable—they were a slight protection from the attacks of the mosquitoes which swarmed around us, and for long hours, it seemed, prevented us from falling asleep, weary as we were.

The next morning we were aroused at daybreak by several kicks from the foot of an Arab, who ordered us to go down to the shore and collect shell-fish—furnishing us with a basket for the purpose. Our taskmaster followed us, to see that we laboured diligently; and I observed that he and the other Arabs took great care not to wet their feet in the salt water. Believing that they would thus become defiled, when they were compelled to do so they invariably washed them afterwards in fresh water.

While we were thus employed in the grey dawn, the sheikh issued from his tent, and mounting the summit of the nearest sand-hill, shouted,—“Allah akbar!” (God is great!) At this summons the whole male population of the camp assembled in lines behind him, turning their faces eastward in the direction of Mecca; and as the sun rose above the horizon, they knelt down, and throwing sand over their bodies, bowed their heads to the ground, while they offered up their prayers, repeating,—“There is one God, and Mohammed is his prophet.” The women at the same time came to the front of their tents, where they performed a similar ceremony.

We stood at a distance, struck by the solemnity of the scene.

“Well, after all, these appear to be decent fellows,” observed Ben. “I only hope they will treat us in a proper manner.”

But alas for Ben’s good opinion of them! No sooner were their prayers over than the Arabs, with kicks and cuffs, set the slaves to work; while we had to return to the sea-shore to collect more shell-fish. We were thus employed for the greater part of the day, and could with difficulty obtain a little porridge, or get leave to cook our shell-fish at any of the fires.

Several days passed in a similar manner. We frequently met Antonio,—as I will still call him, though he had another name among the Arabs,—and he never failed to cast a look of anger at us, as if he supposed we had been the cause of his captivity. At length, every root and blade of grass in the neighbourhood being consumed, the sheikh gave the order to prepare for marching. The baggage camels were brought up, the tents struck, the animals loaded (we assisting), and every preparation quickly made. We had hoped to be allowed camels to ride on, but the sheikh ordering us to proceed on foot, we had no help for it but to obey.

On we trudged all day, under a burning sun, sinking up to our ankles in the soft sand. Ben did his best to keep up our spirits, talking away, and even singing; though neither Halliday nor I were able to join him. When we arrived at night, we had to assist in pitching the tents and grinding corn; while frequently we were sent to a distance in charge of flocks of goats. On such occasions, however, we were always separated from each other, and carefully watched, so that we could not attempt to make our escape.

The tribe, as it moved along through the desert, had the appearance of a large army. There were, to begin with, between eight and nine hundred camels, nearly two hundred of which belonged to the chief; and there were fully two thousand sheep, and nearly as many goats. There were also twenty or thirty horses, with a few jackasses; and numerous dogs, chiefly of the greyhound and bloodhound breed, which were used for the purpose of killing hares, foxes, and wolves. Each family possessed a tent, which, with their provisions, water, and effects, was carried by the male camels, while the young and the milch camels were not loaded. When we moved on, the sheep and goats of each family moved in separate droves—the animals keeping close together, and following their respective shepherds; but when we encamped or met with vegetation, they were allowed to spread over the country. They were again quickly collected by the shepherd’s whistle, or, if at a distance, by the sound of his horn. However far-off they might be, the instant they heard the horn in they all flocked; having been taught to do so from their earliest days at the appearance of a wild beast, when their instinct showed them that it was the surest way of escaping from danger. On encamping at night, the camels and flocks belonging to each family took up their proper position in front of the respective tents, near the fires which were immediately kindled for cooking. On several occasions, when we were in what was considered a dangerous neighbourhood, either on account of hostile tribes or wild beasts, the tents were pitched in a large circle, the camels, flocks, and herds being placed in the centre. On such occasions the male camels and horses were kept saddled, while the men lay down by their sides, ready to start up at a moment’s notice. The sheep and goats are much larger than any I have seen in England, with long legs and thin bodies; and when sufficiently fed they can keep up with the camels on a journey, and can run as fast as a greyhound. It is extraordinary, too, how long camels can go without food and water, and on what scanty herbage they manage to subsist.

From being able to talk to the people, Halliday and I had much softened their feelings towards us; and I determined to try what I could do to win the regard of the sheikh. He had a brother, Abdalah by name, a fine-looking young man, who thought a good deal of himself. Making him a profound salaam as he was passing one day, I said: “May your shadow never be less. O brother of the great sheikh, I have heard of your valour and prowess, and I doubt not that your generosity equals it! You see before you two young chiefs, who may some day become great water sheikhs, in command of many thousands of men; and knowing this, I trust you will not allow them longer to endure the pain and suffering they have gone through for many days.”

“Bismillah! is what you speak the truth?” exclaimed Abdalah.

“Your servant would not condescend to speak a lie. Among our people it is looked upon as a disgraceful act,” I answered.

Abdalah did not seem quite to understand this; but my bold address had some effect upon him, and he promised to make a request to the sheikh that we might be permitted to ride on camels when we had long journeys to take. Halliday and I thanked him; and I asked him if he had ever looked through my telescope, of which his brother had possession. He had not done so; and having described its wonders, I promised to show him how to use it the next day.

After we had performed our morning tasks, the sheikh pointed out two camels, with saddles on their backs, and told us that we might mount them. I then asked if Ben might have the same privilege.

“No, no,” he answered. “You might take it into your heads to try and gallop off; and though you would not escape, it would give us the trouble of going after you.”

As we rode along that day, I found that we were once more verging towards the sea-shore. While we were moving onwards, Abdalah came up with my spy-glass hung over his shoulder, and said that he wished me to show him its use. We soon afterwards—being a considerable distance ahead of the caravan—came to a halt, when, dismounting, I pulled the telescope out and put it to my eye. What was my surprise to see, in the far distance, a white spot on the beach, which on more minute examination I discovered to be a tent made of a ship’s sails! Instead of letting Abdalah see it, I turned the glass towards some distant camels, which appeared mere specks rising out of the sandy desert. Abdalah’s astonishment on seeing them, as it were, on a sudden brought within reach, was much greater than mine had been on catching sight of the tent.

After he had amused himself for some time, I informed him that I believed we should find some white men encamped at a distance of less than an hour’s journey, and entreated him to be merciful to them. “That will be as the sheikh thinks fit,” he answered evasively.

We were now anxious to hurry on, in order to ascertain who the people were; so, mounting our camels, we started off. I was considerably raised in the opinion of the sheikh and Abdalah when they found my prediction true. Dismounting from their camels, Halliday and I following them, they made their way towards the tent. As they drew aside a loose portion, a sad scene met the view. In the interior were a number of persons apparently in the last stage of starvation, whose haggard countenances, long hair and beards, and scanty clothing, showed the hardships they had endured. One of them coming forward, threw himself on his knees, imploring the chief in piteous accents to have compassion on him and his companions.

“Who are you?” asked the sheikh; but the man made no reply.

Halliday and I then stepped forward and looked on. I thought I recognised several of them, and at length was convinced that they were some of the people we had seen on board the Spanish ship. I then asked them if this was the case.

“Yes,” answered the poor man on his knees. “We escaped in one of the boats, and after enduring many hardships were thrown on this inhospitable shore,—several of our people being drowned at the same time.”

I told the sheikh of the sufferings they had endured, hoping to excite his compassion; but he seemed unmoved thereat, though he allowed Abdalah to show us a spot where, by digging, we could obtain some fresh water. The eagerness with which they took it when we carried it to them proved the amount of their thirst; indeed, I believe that all of them would have died in a few hours had we not arrived to their rescue, as they had long exhausted the small stock of water they had brought on shore, and had no idea that, by exerting themselves, they could have obtained a supply close at hand.

Among others I recognised the black boy, our young friend Selim, or Pedro as he was called on board. He at once came forward, expressing his pleasure at seeing us; for, believing that we had been left on board the burning ship, he supposed that we had perished. He had before shown so friendly a feeling towards us that we also were glad to meet him, especially as he did not appear to dread his future lot.

“I am at home everywhere, and I shall not find the Arabs worse masters than others with whiter skins,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

He and Ben—to whom he had been very attentive on board—at once became fast friends; indeed, he was the only person besides ourselves with whom poor Ben could converse. When the boy caught sight of Antonio, however, he looked anything but delighted. “What, he not drowned!” he exclaimed. “He too bad for that. Well, take care. He do some of us a mischief if he can.”

Having myself formed a similar opinion of the big negro, I was not surprised to hear Selim say this of his countryman; and it was very clear that we must be on our guard against Antonio, who had already exhibited his ill-will towards us. At present our attention was taken up with the castaways, who were, we felt, still more unfortunate than ourselves.

Chapter Ten.

The fate of the shipwrecked party—The well in the desert—We see Boxall—A panther visits the camp—Treachery—Selim proves himself a true friend—Antonio made prisoner—His escape—We rescue the sheikh from a mountain of sand—The salt region.

The fate of the unfortunate people whose boat, after they had escaped from the burning ship, had been wrecked, was cruel indeed; their strength, reduced by famine, made them utterly unable to work, while the hard-hearted Arabs not only refused to assist them, but threatened them with perpetual slavery. The party consisted of an officer of the ship, two seamen, Pedro the black boy, four civilians, and an unhappy lady,—the wife of a Don Fernando, the principal person among them, who had treated us with marked contempt when we were on board the Spanish galleon. His manner was now greatly changed; and we, of course, did not allude to his former behaviour, which we endeavoured to forget. It seemed wonderful that the poor lady should have survived the hardships she had already endured. They were all reduced to the last stage of starvation, with the exception of the black boy Pedro, or Selim,—as will call him in future,—who, accustomed as he was to coarse food, had flourished on the shell-fish, and the roots of some low bushes which grew in the neighbourhood.

Notwithstanding the treatment we had received from some of the unhappy people on board their ship, and though we had been intentionally abandoned, we felt bound to do our utmost to assist them. The camp having been pitched in the neighbourhood, the sheikh ordered them to pack up their tent and move to it. This they were utterly unable to do; but, after much entreaty, we obtained a camel, on which we placed the canvas, arranging it so as to form a seat for the poor lady—her husband mounting to assist in holding her on. As we placed her on it, I doubted whether she would reach the camp alive. The others were compelled to walk, and though somewhat strengthened by the food we had obtained for them, they could with difficulty drag their feet over the sand. On reaching the camp, we divided the canvas so as to form a small tent for the dying lady, and put up another for the rest of the party, who faintly expressed their gratitude to us.

We did not escape having to perform our allotted duties, for all that. The next morning, at daybreak, we were sent down with a couple of baskets to bring up shell-fish from the shore. On our return we found a party of strange Arabs in the camp, engaged in a discussion with the sheikh; and on drawing near I discovered that they were bargaining for the purchase of the unfortunate people who had just fallen into his power, and who, from their weakness, he did not wish to carry along with him.

They took the information I conveyed to them almost with indifference. “It matters little indeed into whose hands we fall,” observed Don Fernando, the chief man among them; “but I beg you to say that if they will convey us to the neighbourhood of any place where a European consul resides, they will obtain a large sum for our ransom.”

I told the strange sheikh this, and it made him ready to give a better price than he might otherwise have done, much to the satisfaction of Hamed.

On going to the tent of Don Fernando I found him stretched over the body of his wife, who had just breathed her last. Sad indeed was the poor man’s fate, and we pitied him from our hearts, though we could do little to comfort him. His once haughty spirit was completely broken down. We at length aroused him; and calling Ben to our assistance, Halliday and I conveyed the body of his wife to a distance from the camp, where we dug a grave and buried her, he attending as the only mourner. He was then delivered over to his purchaser with the rest of the Spaniards, the young black alone remaining with us. We could not help pitying the poor people as we saw them carried away, though their fate might not be worse than ours; indeed, as they had some prospect of being redeemed, it might be better.

I must now give a more rapid account than heretofore of my adventures. Again we struck the tents and proceeded more inland, over hard ground producing wild bushes, but not a blade of grass or a drop of water. We then came to a region consisting of hills and valleys of sand, over which we had to trudge on foot, suffering fearfully from thirst. After proceeding about ten miles we saw before us a low circular wall of sunburned bricks, with a few stunted palm-trees. The Arabs pointed towards it eagerly, and even the camels and other animals lifted up their heads. It marked the position of a deep well, near which we encamped; and for the remainder of that day and the greater part of the next we were employed in drawing up water, not only to furnish ourselves and the animals, but to fill the water-skins carried by the camels, on which we were to depend for several days to come. This task accomplished, we continued our route over the sand. Here we saw a few deer, of a small size and of a somewhat yellow colour, with black streaks along their sides, and small straight horns; their legs were long and slender, and they flew over the sand at a speed which the fleetest greyhound could not equal. Here and there we met with small bushes of a palm-like form. When we halted at night we were employed in getting some roots which ran along the sand, and which were about the thickness of a man’s finger. They were sweet as sugar, and the people as well as the cattle ate them. Barren as the region appeared, we saw three or four species of birds, the largest of which were bustards; and on searching in the sand we frequently came on their eggs, which afforded us the most satisfactory food we had yet enjoyed. About ten days we spent in passing through this sandy district. We then entered on a region of firm soil, sometimes presenting a hilly surface, and occasionally plains of hard clay sprinkled over with bushes, but without any other vegetation, and almost destitute of water. We were fully a month traversing this kind of country. We had left it a couple of days, when we saw before us a stream of running water. Oh, how eagerly we rushed forward, expecting to enjoy a draught; but when we knelt down and plunged in our faces, how bitter was our disappointment on finding that it was far too brackish to drink. However, Halliday, Ben, and I ran in and had the luxury of a bath; but the Arabs, being indifferent at all times about washing, would not give themselves the trouble of taking off their clothes for the purpose.

This was the first of several streams we met with of the same character. When encamping near them, however, the brackish water served to wash the cattle in the way I have before described. Again fresh water failed us, and in a short time the stock carried by the camels was exhausted, and not a drop remained in our skin-bottles. Nearly a whole day we had marched, under the fiery rays of the sun, our mouths so parched that Halliday and I thought we should sink to the ground; but knowing that we should meet with little or no sympathy from our task-masters, we did our utmost to keep up with Hamed and his brother. The ground was covered with bushes, and here and there a few stunted palm-trees reared their heads somewhat higher above the surface. At last I was obliged to cry out to Hamed that I could go no further.

“Courage, Nazarene! You will see water before long,” he answered.

Scarcely had he spoken when we caught sight of a party of Arabs approaching from the opposite direction. Hamed and his followers urged on their camels; and it soon became doubtful who would first arrive at the water. If we did, by the law of the Desert it would be for our use and that of our beasts till all were satisfied; but the law of the Desert is often superseded by the law of the strongest. The other party still came hurrying on; when all at once we saw Sheikh Hamed, who had urged on his camel ahead of us, suddenly rein it in, and wave his spear. We therefore exerted ourselves, and were soon up to him. The strangers halted at a little distance off, under some palm-trees. There were five of them, besides three men on foot. We stood thus for some minutes eyeing each other. Would they yield to our inferior numbers? They stood still, as if in doubt—perhaps intending to wait till we and our beasts were satisfied, unaware of the numerous bands in our rear.

As I looked at them I could not help fancying that one of the persons on foot was a white man. I asked Halliday if he could make him out.

“A white man he certainly is, and it is my belief that it is Boxall,” he answered.

I thought so too, but feared I might be mistaken. We waved our hands. He recognised us, I felt sure, though Halliday doubted it; at all events, we were about to hurry forward to meet him, regardless of our thirst, when the leading columns of the caravan appeared in the distance, and the strangers, seeing that they had no prospect of successfully disputing the water with us, hauled the men on foot up on their saddles, and went off at a round gallop. We were grievously disappointed at thus missing the opportunity of speaking to Boxall; and should he have failed to recognise us, the chances of our being able to hold any communication with each other would be greatly lessened. However, as he was in the neighbourhood, we might still hope to meet him, and concoct some plan for effecting our escape.

The pool over which the Arabs would have been ready to shed each others’ blood was between thirty and forty feet in circumference, five or six feet deep, and contained little more than a foot or so of stagnant water; but, stagnant as it was, we drank eagerly of it. At the edge was sitting a huge frog, its sole living occupant, as far as we could see. We were about to drive the reptile away, when the sheikh exclaimed, in an agitated tone, “Stay, Nazarenes! disturb not the creature. It is the guardian of the pool, and should it be destroyed the water may dry up for ever.” Obeying the sheikh’s commands, we let his frogship watch on; but I suspect that he must have had an uneasy time of it, while the animals of the caravan were drinking up his water till every drop was exhausted.

As we travelled on, we frequently came in sight of other Arab tribes, but though moving in the same direction we never pitched our tents near each other. Occasionally, however, when the chiefs were on friendly terms, they would ride on together; though they always parted before the time of camping arrived. This was done because of the difficulty of finding water and food for their cattle. Sometimes we fell in with hostile tribes, when the cattle were driven close together, and the armed men drew up in battle array, ready to resist an attack. The Arabs do not, however, often engage in battle with each other, unless one party can surprise an enemy, or is much superior in numbers.

In vain did we look out for Boxall; and when I tried to ascertain from the sheikh’s brother to what tribe the Arabs belonged whom we had seen at the pool, he would only tell me that they were enemies, and not good people.

At length, in the far distance, we caught sight of groups of tall palm-trees rearing their heads above the plain. At first, so accustomed were we to low bushes, I expected to see them only a little higher than usual, and was surprised at the length of time which elapsed before we reached them. We were delighted to find ourselves under their cool shade, and on the borders of a stream flowing in their midst. The Arabs, however, did not exhibit the same satisfaction; the animals were kept closer together than usual, while a vigilant watch was placed over them. I inquired the cause of these precautions, and was told that the forest was infested with wild beasts, and that we should be fortunate did we escape without being attacked. We had not gone far, indeed, when we caught sight of a lion stalking amid the trees; but after looking at us for some time, as if he would like to pounce upon some of the sheep or goats, he walked off, intimidated by the shouts and cries of the Arabs. We took warning, and did not stray from the camp.

Among many other trees in this forest, I remarked cocoa-nut, date, and wild orange trees; indeed, the region appeared so fertile, that at first it seemed surprising that the Arabs should not have taken up their abode there. There were many reasons, however, for their not doing so: the strongest was their unconquerable love of a wandering life through the desert wilds; another and very important reason was, that the vast number of wild beasts which inhabited the forest would have proved very destructive to their flocks and herds. There were also several tribes already in possession, who would have proved formidable enemies had they attempted to settle in the neighbourhood.

We had evidence the following day of the destructive power of the wild beasts. The caravan was already in motion, the chief men and the baggage camels being in front, a small guard only bringing up the rear. Halliday, Ben, and I, with our young negro companion Selim, were tending the flocks placed under our charge—several of those belonging to other families of the tribe being on the outside of us. It was about noon, and the rays of the sun struck down between the lofty branches, rendering the heat almost insupportable. As we were moving on we observed the camels ahead hesitating to advance, notwithstanding the efforts of their drivers to urge them forward. A cry was then quickly passed from rank to rank that wild beasts were at hand; and the guards looked to their firearms. Suddenly a huge panther leapt from a thicket almost into the midst of the nearest flock. Muskets were discharged from all sides, at the no small risk of hitting either the shepherds or the sheep. Several men, bolder than the rest, rushed forward with their spears to attack the panther; but, with a blow of its paw, and regardless of the spears thrust at it, it knocked over two of its assailants; and springing at a third, who was endeavouring to make his escape, brought him to the ground. The panther was now in the midst of the flock; and while some of the guards were reloading their weapons, it seized a sheep, and, before they could fire, bounded off with it as easily as a dog would with a fowl. Though several shots were sent after it, the animal, unhurt, disappeared in the forest. And this was only one of several instances of a similar character which occurred during our journey.

We now ran to the assistance of the three men who had been struck down; but they were all dead. Loud wailings arose from their comrades, who, taking up their bodies, carried them to the spot where we halted for the night. Double guards were set, and fires lighted round the camp to frighten away the wild beasts. The night was spent by the Arabs in bewailing the loss of their companions; and at daybreak the next morning the dead were carried forth and graves were dug, when they were committed to the earth—some time being spent in piling up stones over their bodies, to prevent the hyenas or other wild beasts from digging them up.

The instance I have mentioned was too common an occurrence, however, to make much impression on the rest of the people.

Antonio had of late appeared to have forgotten his former animosity towards us, and whenever he could find opportunity he entered into conversation with Halliday and me. Still, notwithstanding the friendly manner he put on, I did not trust him; for there was something so singularly repulsive in his countenance, that I could not believe he was sincere.

He told us at last that we were approaching his country. “Now will be the time for you to make your escape,” he said in a confidential tone. “You are weary of this life, I am sure; and if you will fly with me, you will be welcomed by my people, and be treated as great chiefs: besides which, as they have constant communication with the coast, you will without difficulty be able to return to your own country.”

He was one day speaking in this way, when Selim, who was near, overheard him, but pretended to take no notice. The lad, however, watched for an opportunity when I was alone, and warned me not to trust the black, “He hates you and your friends, and has resolved on your destruction,” he whispered to me. “I overheard him, when he did not know I was near, speaking to Abdalah, and it is clear that his intention is to betray you. Now, we will try to be even with him; the sheikh already mistrusts him, for he has been the cause of much trouble in the camp, about which I will tell you by-and-by. Do you therefore pretend to agree to his plans, and tell him that he must steal out first to a certain place beyond the camp, and that you will join him. I will then take care to let the sheikh know that he has gone, and that you have no intention of deserting, and will advise that men should be sent to seize him. If he is caught, it will prove that what I have said is true; and if he escapes, he will be afraid to return, and we shall be quit of him.”

“But we should thus be acting a very treacherous part, to which I can on no account consent,” I answered.

“You must leave that to me,” replied Selim. “All you have to do is to listen to his plans: and depend upon it, if you do not, as I advise, pretend to agree with them, he will find some other means to betray you.”

Notwithstanding what Selim had said, I, of course, could not consent to do as he proposed. However, I found he was not to be defeated. He managed to insinuate himself into the confidence of Antonio, and persuaded him that it would be imprudent to be seen conversing with me, but that he himself would act as go-between; and he was thus able to manage matters according to his own fancy. Had I known at the time how Selim was acting, I should have felt it my duty to put a stop to his proceedings, although they were intended for our benefit.

The very next night there was a commotion in the camp, and we heard that Antonio had been sent for by the sheikh. His name was shouted in all directions, but he was nowhere to be found. Soon afterwards a party, accompanied by Selim, set out from the camp; from which circumstance I had little doubt that the young black had carried out his treacherous plan. I could not help fearing, at the same time, that, notwithstanding his precautions, Ben, Halliday, and I might be implicated in it, and suffer accordingly.

We were still employed in our usual evening’s occupation when the party returned, bringing back Antonio, with his hands securely bound together. As the light of the fire, opposite which he was led, fell on his countenance, it struck me that it had more of an angry and vindictive than of a downcast look. He threw his fierce glance on me especially, appearing even then to be meditating a bitter revenge, as he naturally considered that it was owing to my treachery that he had been captured. He was forthwith conducted into the presence of the sheikh, who, with his brother Abdalah and other elders of the tribe, was seated by a fire beneath a group of palm-trees. Here, squatting on the ground, with a guard standing over him, he was allowed to listen to the consultation they were holding as to the punishment he merited.

Selim, who managed to get near enough to hear what was going on, told us that some were for shooting him forthwith, or cutting off his head, while others considered that a sound beating would be sufficient to keep him in order. Though the Arabs are as well acquainted with the bastinado as the Moors and Turks, policy rather than mercy decided them on not inflicting it, as he would thus be unable to march, and it would be necessary to burden a camel with him for many days to come. It was at length decided that he should receive a severe beating; and that, should he still be refractory, he should be sold to the first slave-caravan for any sum he would fetch. That might seem a light punishment; but, as strong slaves are often compelled to carry burdens as well as work hard, should he be sold he would have to march for many months over the burning desert,—and as slave-merchants keep a watchful eye on their property, he would have but little chance of escape: so the fate in store for him was calculated, it was considered, to keep him on his good behaviour.

“The camp will not be long troubled with him, however,” said Selim, when he had finished his account. “He is sure before long to create a disturbance, and the sheikh will sell him to the first caravan we meet with.”

The Arabs, however, little knew the man they had to deal with. A guard was set over him; but though watchful enough when an enemy is expected to attack them, the Children of the Desert are, when in charge of a prisoner, as liable to yield to drowsiness as other people, under the belief that he too will fall asleep. Such, probably, was the case in the present instance. When morning dawned, Antonio was not to be found. His guards declared that they had seen a thick smoke ascend from where he lay, and that when they went to the spot he had disappeared,—thus proving without doubt that the Jins (or evil spirits) had carried him off. A diligent search was made round the camp, but no traces of him could be found, and no one could guess the direction he had taken.

We now again moved forward, and were once more in the open country. By Selim’s advice, Halliday and I did our best to ingratiate ourselves with the sheikh. “He thinks well of you already,” he observed, “because you can speak his language; and if you can gain his confidence you will certainly be better treated, and perhaps be able to obtain your liberty.” We were well-disposed to take this advice. The sheikh, I considered, was only following the instincts of his nature in making us slaves; and I hoped, by working on his good feelings (supposing he possessed any), ultimately to obtain our liberty: and, at all events, we should be better off while we remained with him.

I must briefly describe the chief incidents of our journey. We had now again obtained the use of camels, and were riding on ahead with the sheikh, who usually liked to converse with us, as we could tell him of strange countries, and of events of which he had no previous conception. The noonday sun was beating down on our heads, without a breath of wind to cool the air, when we saw before us a vast, almost perpendicular wall of sand, which seemed completely to bar our way, extending as it did so far to the east and west that it might require not only one, but several days’ journeys to get round it. The sheikh, though at first somewhat daunted at the appearance of the barrier, declared that there must be a passage through it, and that through it we must go if such passage could be found.

Turning to the left, he led the way under the sand cliff, narrowly eyeing the ground in the hope of finding the footmarks of any camels which might have preceded us. On we went, the remainder of the caravan waiting for a sign from their chief to advance. At length there appeared a gap in the cliff, if I may so call it,—just as if a violent current of wind had forced its way through the barrier. The sheikh examined it, evidently doubting whether it would afford a safe passage for himself and his numerous followers, with their flocks and herds.

At last he moved forward ahead of us, to examine the passage more narrowly; now looking to the right, now to the left, as if disliking the appearance of the towering masses of sand above his head. At length he exclaimed, “If it is the will of Allah that we should perish, why longer hesitate?” and waving his spear, he urged on his camel into the centre of the gorge.

I was on the point of shouting to him to stop, for I observed the summit of the cliff begin to tremble ominously, as if it felt the effect of the camel’s feet at its base; but in another instant down came the avalanche of sand, entirely surrounding the sheikh, who in vain endeavoured to force his way out. Higher and higher it rose, his camel struggling violently—while he clung to its back, knowing that should he lose his hold he himself would be speedily overwhelmed. His brother and the rest of the leading party stood aghast, afraid of sharing his fate should they attempt to go to his rescue; while, regardless of what might be the consequences to myself, I dashed forward, calling to Halliday and Ben. Fortunately, I carried secured to my saddle a long coil of rope, which I had found useful in surrounding my flock at night; and telling my companions to hold fast to one end, I took the other, and, throwing myself from my camel, dashed into the midst of the sand. I knew, however, that at any moment, should I be completely overwhelmed, they could draw me out.

I made my way with great difficulty, almost at times covered up by the sand, till I succeeded in crawling rather than walking up to the spot where the sheikh was struggling.

“I have been sent to your rescue, O sheikh,” I cried out, throwing him the end of the rope. “Secure this to your camel’s body.” He quickly did as I advised him.

“Is it secure?” I asked. The reply was in the affirmative.

“Hold on then, O sheikh, and we will draw you forth!” I exclaimed; when, hurrying back to my companions, we fastened the other end of the rope to our three camels, which with might and main we urged away from the bank.

Faster and faster came down the sand from above; but we pulled and pulled, while the sheikh’s camel struggled, trampling the sand down with its fore feet; and in a few seconds we had hauled him out from the midst of the sand, and once more safe among his followers—who rode up to congratulate him, and to compliment us on the service we had rendered.

“You have done well, O young Nazarene,” he exclaimed, turning to me; “and from henceforth know me as your friend. Though I cannot grant you your liberty—which in this place would be of no use, as you would certainly be murdered were you to attempt to cross the desert alone—yet, on my return to the north, I will venture as near the settled districts as I can, that you may have an opportunity of reaching your countrymen.”

I thanked the sheikh in proper terms, assuring him of the satisfaction my companions and I felt at having rescued him from the dangerous position in which he had been placed.

Quickly recovering himself, and being quite indifferent to the quantity of sand clinging to his garments, he rode along in search of a more practicable opening. This at length was found; and as the valley was much broader, and the sand slanted more gradually on either side, there appeared a fair prospect of our being able to pass through. The whole caravan then entered the defile between the sand-hills; but we were fully three hours travelling between those prodigious masses of sand. Sand was below our feet, sand in front and behind, sand on each side. A sudden blast would inevitably cover us with it for many feet. It was nervous work. Fatalism alone could have induced men, fully alive to the danger they were incurring, to venture into such a position. To add to our danger, the loaded camels frequently fell down, and we were compelled to take off their burdens to enable them to rise.

At length, overcome with fatigue, the whole caravan emerged from the defile on firm ground, where we encamped,—but without a drop of water to quench our burning thirst. The only liquid that we could procure, and that in very small quantities, was milk from the camels and goats.

We at length reached a pool of brackish water, which somewhat restored us. Further on we passed over a region of salt. Here the ground, as we advanced over it, gave way under our feet, producing a crackling noise, just as snow does when trod on after being slightly melted and again hardened by the frost. I observed numerous heaps of beautiful crystallised salt, perfectly white, arranged in peculiar order and symmetry. This salt region was of considerable extent. In certain places we found that the ground had been dug up; and I heard that caravans came there for the express purpose of loading their animals with salt, to convey it to far-distant parts of the continent.

Though the sheikh may have thought it beneath his dignity to express many signs of gratitude to us for the service we had rendered him, yet our condition was considerably improved, and we had less hard work than usual to perform; still, we were by no means allowed to eat the bread of idleness.

As we were travelling on, when I happened to be in the rear I observed in the far distance a small black object, which, from its constantly appearing in the same direction, I could not help believing was some person following the caravan. The Arabs did not seem to have noticed any one; but my mind instantly fixed on Antonio, and I felt sure that he had some treacherous object in view. However, until I had ascertained that I was right in my conjectures, I thought it would be more prudent not to tell the Arabs, as, should he be pursued, he would in all probability make his escape or hide himself, and I should be accused of creating a false alarm, and might be ill-treated in consequence. I contented myself, therefore, with merely telling Halliday and Ben, who were of opinion that I was right; and we agreed to be on the watch, lest he should steal into the camp at night with the intention of murdering us, or watch for us should we venture outside. At all events, we were certain he was capable of any treachery, and that he would run any risk for the sake of gratifying his revenge.

Chapter Eleven.

Conversation on religious matters with the Sheikh and Marabouts—The slave track—At the shrine of the saint—I start on a journey—The sheikh grants me a favour—An unpleasant duty—attacked by a wild beast—Antonio haunts our camp—Arrival at our destination.

Day after day we continued to travel southward—further and further from home, as it seemed to us. Whenever we could meet, Halliday, Ben, and I—not trusting to the sheikh’s promises, of whose fickleness we had many proofs—eagerly discussed the possibility of escaping. Ben’s idea was, that if we should arrive at length at a river running into the sea, we might either steal a canoe or build a raft, and float down the stream. We might thus escape from our present masters, who, unaccustomed to the water, would be unable to follow us; but we should run the risk of falling into the hands of still greater savages, who might very likely murder us. Still, our present slavery was well-nigh unbearable, and we were ready to run every risk to escape from it. We were doubtful whether we might venture to take Selim into our counsels. He seemed attached to us, and especially to me; but then, as he had shown a readiness to act treacherously in the case of Antonio, he might, should it be to his interest, play us a similar trick, Halliday thought. I was more inclined to trust him; I liked the expression of the lad’s countenance, and he had hitherto, as far as we could judge, been faithful to us. During the time he had been on board an English ship-of-war, he had learned the truths of Christianity from the boatswain and three or four of the men, who, having become truly converted themselves, had endeavoured to win over their shipmates, and had taken great pains with him. He had been the only survivor of a boat’s crew wrecked on the northern coast of Africa—he, being an excellent swimmer, having gained the shore. He had been kept in slavery a year or more by the Moors; but he at length managed to swim off to a Spanish vessel, and afterwards entered on board the galleon where we first met with him. Accustomed, therefore, to the habits of the Moors, he was able to conduct himself discreetly towards them; and passing for a good Mohammedan, he had in a considerable degree gained their confidence. He had, however, expressed to me more than once his regret at having to play the hypocrite.

“What can I do?” he would observe. “I know that Mohammed was a false prophet; but if I were to say so I should have my head cut off—and to that I cannot make up my mind. Every time I cry out ‘Allah is great, and Mohammed is his prophet,’ I know that I am telling a lie, and pray to be forgiven. Do you think that the true God will forgive me?”

I replied that it was not for me to decide, but that I thought he was bound to try and escape from such thraldom on the first opportunity.

“That is what I shall do,” he answered; “but I will not escape without you; and as I know the ways of the country, and can speak the language of the black people further south, I may, I hope, be of use to you.”

After this conversation, he came to me one day and told me that the sheikh and two marabouts, or priests, who were in the camp, had resolved to make me and my companions turn Mohammedans. “I warn you, that you may know how to behave. Let me advise you not to show any indignation, but rather to pretend that you are ready to listen to what they call the truth.”

The very next day the sheikh summoned me into his presence. I found him seated with the two marabouts; and they at once explained the doctrines of the Mohammedan faith, and to which, according to Selim’s advice, I listened with all the respect I could assume.

“Are you acquainted, O sheikh, with my religion, from which you wish to turn me?” I asked quietly.

“Yes; you worship Jins, and have dealings with the Evil One,” he answered in a confident tone, as if he knew all about the matter.

I have since met others, in more enlightened lands, equally confident as to their knowledge of the religious opinions of those who differ from them, and equally wrong.

“You have been misinformed, O sheikh; pardon me for saying so,” I replied calmly. “I worship the one true God. Listen to the prayer I offer up every morning.” I then repeated slowly, and with all due emphasis, the Lord’s Prayer. The sheikh and marabouts listened with astonishment depicted on their countenances.

“Can this be so?” asked the sheikh. “Such a prayer as that any true believer might be ready to offer up.”

“Forgive us our offences, as we forgive them that offend against us,” I said slowly, looking at the sheikh. “Can you pray thus and expect to be forgiven?” I asked.

“Truly the young Nazarene has put a puzzling question,” observed the sheikh, turning to the marabouts. They shook their heads, unable to reply, but still unwilling to confess themselves defeated.

“Now, O sheikh, understand that we Christians desire to follow that precept, not from cowardice or a mean spirit, but from obedience to our Lord and Master; and would you therefore wish to induce me and my companions to abandon a faith inculcating so pure and holy a precept? Understand that where it is practised, blood feuds, and the many other causes which produce the quarrels and bloody wars so constantly prevailing in this region, are impossible. Peace and prosperity reign in exact proportion as the true Christian faith gains the ascendency among a people.”

“You argue well, young Nazarene,” said the sheikh. “I may not see with your eyes, but I respect your opinions.”

We said much more on the subject, and I had reason to hope that, without sacrificing my principles, I had gained the respect of the sheikh; but one of the marabouts, at least, was far from contented with the result of our conversation. He constantly afterwards attacked both Halliday and me, endeavouring to convert us, and threatening us with severe penalties if we refused.

We had now got a considerable way to the east, and were passing along the track of caravans moving northward with slaves, collected in the Black States, to the southward of the Desert. The whole road was marked by the skeletons of human beings, who had expired from thirst and hunger. As I was riding along on my camel, dozing in consequence of the heat of the sun, I was awoke by hearing a crashing sound, and on looking down I saw that my beast’s feet had stepped upon the perfect skeletons of three or four human beings, which gave way beneath them. The head of one of the skeletons, detached by a kick from the animal’s foot, rolled on like a ball some way before me. The Arabs took no notice of the occurrence, however, remarking that they were only those of black slaves, and of no account.

It was about this time that several of our camels knocked up; and seeing that they would not live, the sheikh gave the order for them to be killed. I was struck with the savage expression of the Arabs, who stood ready with their knives in their hands, waiting for the signal to plunge them into the bodies of the poor animals—which, before they were cool, were cut up to supply food for the caravan. The head of the camel to be slaughtered being turned towards the east, an Arab stuck his dagger into its heart, when it almost instantly dropped dead.

A good many camels having been thus lost, Halliday, Ben, and I were compelled, as at first, to trudge on on foot.

All this time I had not forgotten Antonio, and I was sure that I occasionally caught glimpses of him. How he managed to subsist, might seem surprising; but he had armed himself, and was thus able to kill any animals he might meet with: he might also pick up subsistence from the remains of the camels, sheep, and cattle which dropped on the road. Possibly, too, he had some confederates in the camp, who might have hidden food as well as ammunition,—which, when we moved on, he would know by certain marks where to find.

We at length reached a somewhat more fertile region, where date, cocoa-nut, and other palm-trees were once more seen; while beyond it was a large lake, on the borders of which we heard was the shrine of a Mohammedan saint, at which the people of the caravan were about to worship. Out of the lake, we learned, ran a broad river to the westward; a fact which created in us the most lively interest, for it might afford us the long-looked-for means of making our escape.

As we neared the sacred precincts, the marabouts again endeavoured to make us change our religion. On our refusing, as formerly, to do so, they became very angry, even the sheikh himself appearing to be much disappointed. While we lay encamped, a day’s journey, I understood, from the shrine,—which was to the eastward of us,—he sent for me, and expressing his confidence in my fidelity, informed me that he intended to trust to my care the widow and children of a friendly chief, who had died while visiting the tomb of the saint. “Her relatives, to whom she desires to return, dwell about twelve days’ journey off; and you will return before we again set forth on our journey northward. I will send two guides with you who know the country; but as our camels require rest, you will be compelled to proceed on foot. The widow and her children will, however, be provided with a camel; and the guides will conduct another laden with provisions and water. Here,” he said, giving me an old-fashioned, large-mouthed pistol, “is a weapon with which you can defend yourself and your charges; and here, also, is a pouch with ammunition. You will set out to-morrow morning; and may no harm befall you on the way!”

I hardly knew whether to be pleased or not at the confidence placed in me. Halliday and I had been hoping that while at this spot we might find an opportunity of escaping down the river, as we had proposed,—and should I be separated from him and Ben, our plan might be defeated. So as soon as I had left the sheikh I went in search of them, and told them of the expedition I had been ordered to make.

“I am afraid you will have to await my return before we can venture to carry out our plan.”

“I don’t quite see that, sir,” said Ben. “You are going to the west; and that is, I suppose, the direction the river takes. Now my idea is, that if we can make off while the Arabs are praying to their saint, we can meet you half-way on your return; and then we can all steer for the river together, and either borrow a canoe or build a raft, as you proposed.”

“But the risk of missing each other is very great,” I answered. “I am therefore still inclined to hold to my opinion, that it will be better to wait till I can get back; and if I can give a favourable account of my mission, the sheikh will place more confidence in us, and we shall be less strictly watched than heretofore.”

“I propose that we consult Selim,” said Halliday. “He has been making inquiries about the country, and has picked up a good deal of information which might be useful to us.”

“I am sure, from what he has said to me lately, that he can be trusted, and that he is as anxious to escape as we are,—so I agree with you, Halliday,” I said. “Perhaps the sheikh will allow him to accompany me; if so, he will be of great assistance in enabling me to find you out. I might ask to have him, on the plea that he understands the language of the people.”

My companions agreed to this proposal, and I undertook at once to petition the sheikh that he would allow me to take Selim. It was also settled that my friends should endeavour to escape from the camp exactly twelve days after I had left it, when they were to make their way along the banks of the river for six days, and then look out for me. I undertook, on my part, to return eastward for the same length of time, also keeping as closely as possible to the river. By this plan we had good hopes of meeting, though we could not conceal from ourselves that there were many dangers to be encountered; but yet no more feasible plan presented itself.

So confident did I feel in Selim’s honesty, that, without speaking to him, I at once went back to the sheikh and boldly requested that he might be allowed to accompany me. To my great satisfaction, he at once consented.

“He is a sharp lad, and you will find him of great use on your journey,” he added.

Selim, whom I soon afterwards found, was greatly pleased at what I told him.

“We may hope, then, to shake the dust of the camp off our feet for the last time,” he said quietly.

I had fixed my eyes on Selim’s countenance as he spoke. He turned his on me with so honest a look, that I was more than ever convinced he was sincere. I took his hand, and said,—“We understand each other, then; if we escape to my country, notwithstanding the difference in the colour of our skins you shall be my friend for life.”

“I hope so,” he answered. “Though we may be wide apart, our hearts may be joined; and we may meet above, in that happy land to which all Christians are bound.”

I had no longer a shade of doubt as to Selim proving faithful.

Next morning Selim and I, according to the sheikh’s directions, waited outside the camp, when he, his brother Abdalah, and two other chiefs appeared, conducting a couple of camels. On the first was placed a palanquin of wicker-work, ornamented with silk hangings, and a tuft of feathers on the top. Within it was seated a veiled lady and three small children, whose black curly heads made them look more like negroes than Arabs. There was apparently some mystery in the matter, into which it was not my business to inquire. Leading the other camel, which was laden with provisions and a small tent, were two guides, both of whom were negroes, though dressed in the Arab fashion. The sheikh then uttered a benediction on the occupant of the palanquin and her young family, and ordered us to advance. The guides, with Selim, went first, by the side of the baggage camel; and I, with the veiled lady, followed. Whether I was to see her face or not, I could not tell, nor was I very curious about piercing the mystery connected with her.

The sun was still rising at our backs, as, moving forward at a tolerably quick pace, we soon lost sight of the camp.

We had gone several miles, Selim always keeping ahead with the guides, with whom he was apparently engaged in an interesting conversation. I was already beginning to feel somewhat tired, when a voice from the palanquin desired me to take out one of the children, as the little urchin had a fancy to be carried instead of being cooped up within it. Unwilling to disoblige the lady, I obeyed; so, placing the child on my shoulder, we again moved on—though, as I dragged my weary limbs along, I felt very much inclined to let the young urchin drop. Feeling, at last, that I could no longer carry him, I begged the veiled lady to take him in again; but she, looking on me as a slave bound to obey her commands, replied that he preferred riding on my back, and that I must carry him as long as he wished. Accordingly, to avoid a dispute, I again took up the urchin and staggered on, strengthened by the hope that my days of slavery would soon come to an end.

I had not forgotten my suspicions about Antonio, and wondered whether he was still in the neighbourhood, or if he had observed us quitting the camp. If so, I had little doubt that he would follow in our footsteps, and attack us should he find an opportunity. He might, indeed, at the present moment be stealing upon us to shoot me, and carry off the lady, before the guards could be aware of his approach. As may be supposed, therefore, I very frequently turned my head anxiously round, almost expecting to see him. I also began to think that the sheikh had acted very imprudently in sending the lady with so small an escort, and I regretted that I had not begged to have a greater number of guards; at the same time, it occurred to me that I should have had more difficulty in escaping from them than from the two men who accompanied us.

The thought of the possibility of being suddenly attacked by Antonio added not a little to the annoyance I felt at having to carry the little blackamoor. Still, unwilling to offend his mother, I went on without complaining as long as I could walk. I felt very much inclined, I confess, to pinch his legs and make him cry out, especially when he amused himself by pulling at my hair, evidently thinking it very good fun.

We had gone some distance when, turning my head, I saw—not Antonio, but a large panther, stealing out from a thicket at some distance on our left, and approaching us with stealthy steps. “Now, lady, unless you wish your child to be gobbled up by yonder monster, you must take him,” I cried, throwing the urchin, without waiting for a reply, into the palanquin, and shouting out to Selim and the guides to come to my assistance, as I had only my pistol slung to my back—a very unsatisfactory weapon with which to encounter a wild beast. The guides had carbines and spears, indeed; but it was a question whether they would use them or run away.

Selim at once gave proof of his courage and fidelity, however, by snatching a carbine from one of his companions, and rushing back at full speed towards me. “Don’t fire your pistol,” he cried out; “keep that, lest my carbine fail to kill the beast.”

The panther came on, in spite of the shouts which the guides set up, while they waved their cloaks and spears, and did their utmost to frighten it away. When within about a hundred yards of us, however, the savage creature stopped. This encouraged the guides, who now moved hesitatingly towards us. But again the panther crept on, though with less boldness than at first, as if it had expected to pick off the rearmost of the party, and was disappointed in its object. Seeing that should we move on the panther would follow with rapid bounds, I ordered the guides to stand still; and snatching the carbine from Selim’s hand, I knelt down that I might take a surer aim. Knowing, however, that the Arabs’ powder is often very bad, and that, consequently, their weapons frequently miss fire, I felt very doubtful whether such might not be the case on the present occasion.

“Silence!” I cried out to my companions, who were still shouting and hurling fearful epithets at the head of the panther. “Only cry out should it attempt to spring.”

The savage brute came on, and was now within twenty paces. Two or three bounds might bring it upon us. So, praying that my weapon might prove faithful, I drew the trigger, aiming at the panther’s breast. The piece going off, I was knocked over by the rebound; for the owner, in loading it, had put in a double charge: indeed, it was a wonder that it did not burst. When the smoke cleared away, I caught sight of the panther struggling on the ground, a few paces only in advance of the spot where I had last seen it; and the Arabs, shouting “E’sheetan! E’sheetan!” now rushing forward, plunged their spears into the creature’s body, uttering a curse with every thrust they gave it.

“Allah akbar!” exclaimed one. “It was a regular Jin.”

“No doubt about it. You Nazarene have done well; for if you had not killed him, he might have carried one or all of us off,” cried the other.

I felt very thankful at having succeeded, because I had not only killed the panther, but had risen considerably in the estimation of my companions. I should have liked to have had the animal’s skin; but I was unwilling to delay our journey, and we therefore pushed on. I beckoned to Selim to walk alongside me; and I still carried the carbine, which I had reloaded from the guide’s pouch.

“I think we shall do well,” said Selim; “I have been talking to those men, and they are well-disposed towards us. We shall, therefore, have no difficulty in escaping from them; indeed, one of them was once a slave himself, and would like to leave the tribe altogether. I have been telling him of the countries I have visited and the wonderful things I have seen, and he is eager to go and see them.”

“They may be well-disposed; but we must take care, Selim, that we are not betrayed by them,” I observed. “We must first accomplish the object of our mission; and we have a good many dangers yet to encounter.” I then told him of my apprehensions regarding Antonio, and charged him to keep a good look-out himself, and warn the guides also to be on their guard.

Selim listened with attention to what I said.

“I am afraid that you are right,” he answered. “Last night, while we were encamped, I fancied that I caught sight of an object moving in the distance. I took it for a wild beast, and accordingly threw more wood on the fire and made it blaze up, and thus, as I supposed, frightened the beast away. I remarked, however, its extraordinary shape, and for some moments believed it to be a man; but as I gazed towards it, it disappeared in the darkness, and so I thought that my fancy had deceived me.”

From what Selim said I now felt perfectly sure that Antonio was following us, and so determined the next night to remain myself on the watch, with the carbine by my side. Accordingly, after we had pitched the tent and had taken our supper, I lay down close to the camel,—the palanquin, which had been taken off its back, assisting to form a screen. The other camel lay on the opposite side,—the fire being in the centre,—while boughs of prickly pear, which we cut down, formed the remainder of the circle. This was our usual style of encampment, and it afforded a tolerable protection against wild animals.

I had not been long on the watch, when, as I was looking eastward, I saw a shadowy form slowly emerge from the darkness; as it approached it resolved itself into the figure of a man of gigantic size, as it appeared to me, but having certainly the air of Antonio. He stopped, and appeared to be surveying the camp. I saw that he grasped a large scimitar in his hand; but he had evidently no firearms. This accounted for his hesitation about attacking us unless he could take us by surprise. I could have shot him where he stood, but, though convinced that he meditated mischief, I could not bring myself to do so unless he actually attacked us.

I lay quiet, attentively watching him; and at length he began to move forward, grasping his sword. On seeing this I started up, and the light of the fire behind me brought my figure into view. He immediately turned and fled, and in a few seconds I lost sight of him. He would now be aware, however, that we suspected his design, and were on the watch; which would make him approach more cautiously another time.

Calling up Selim, I told him to take my place while I got some sleep, which I much required; but the night passed away, and nothing more was seen of Antonio.

I cannot describe each day’s journey. We kept along the skirts of a woody country, occasionally crossing shallow streams which furnished us with an ample supply of water. On two other occasions we caught sight of that mysterious figure,—once in the daytime, and once at night; but we were at both times on our guard, and he did not venture to approach. Still, the knowledge that he was following us, evidently with sinister intentions, caused us great anxiety, for we could not tell at what moment he might make a dash at us, at all hazards, and wreak his vengeance on our heads. Selim and I would certainly be his first victims, and probably he would put the rest of the party to death.

At length the guides told me that we were approaching the end of our journey, and that the tents of the black sheikh were not far off. It had been arranged that we should encamp at a short distance from them, when I was to go forward with the camel, and deliver the widow and her children to her father.

I had expected to see an encampment somewhat similar to the one I had left; but, as we drew near, a few low, cotton-covered tents alone met my view. The lady desired me to make her camel kneel down, saying that she, with her eldest child, would go forward, and begged me to take charge of the younger ones. I did as she wished; and, taking a basket which contained her valuables, she advanced with trembling steps towards one of the tents. Two figures stood at the entrance: one was a gigantic negro, with about as ugly and sinister an expression of countenance as I ever saw; the other was a veiled woman, whom I concluded to be the sheikh’s wife. They received the poor lady without the slightest expression of pleasure or affection, and seemed to be demanding why she had come back; but, on account of the distance I was from them, I could not hear what was said. The widow had, I concluded, a long story to tell, and the black stood eyeing her with a look of contempt, which showed me that her reception was anything but a pleasant one. The old dame—for such, I was convinced, she was, though I could not see her features—stood quite still. At last I saw the widow go forward and kneel at the sheikh’s feet; when, lifting her up, he seemed, as far as I could judge, to be assuring her of his protection, and forgiveness for any fault she might have committed. She then turned round and beckoned to me, when I brought forward the other two youngsters. As her father did not invite me to remain, however, I made my salaam to the lady and returned to our camp.

I told Selim what had occurred.

“The sooner we are away, the better, then,” he said; “that sheikh is one of the fiercest and most barbarous in this part of the country, and it is impossible to tell how he may act towards us.”

I agreed with Selim, that if such was his character his countenance certainly did not belie him. It was then too late to move, however, so we arranged with the two guides to stop till the following morning, when we proposed setting out at daybreak.

Having lighted our fire, and formed our camp as usual, while the guides lay down by the side of their camels, Selim and I sat and talked over our plans for the future. The question to be decided was, How could we best separate from our companions without being followed? There were difficulties, but we hoped to overcome these. Selim was of opinion that the safest plan would be for me to run off a couple of hours before dawn,—when he, taking the carbine of one of the guides, would set out as if in pursuit of me. The guides, finding that we did not return, and the one afraid of losing the other, would proceed on their journey, and report at the camp that we had been lost. Should Halliday and Ben, in the meantime, have been unable to make their escape, this would prevent suspicion being cast on them.

To this plan I agreed, provided no better should present itself.

Chapter Twelve.

I escape from the camp—A terrible encounter—Selim arrived—We cross the stream—A joyful meeting.

Having but a small stock of provisions and little water to carry, Selim and I rode on one of the camels, while the guides mounted the other, and we made the first part of our return journey more pleasantly and rather more rapidly than we had come. We at the same time kept a good look-out for Antonio, but not a glimpse of him could be seen, and I began to hope that he had abandoned his design of murdering us,—if he had entertained it,—and had gone off to try and reach his own country.

We at length arrived at the spot where Selim and I had agreed to quit the camp and strike off for the river, which we believed to be not more than a day’s journey to the south of us. The country was wild and barren in the extreme, here and there a few cacti and stunted shrubs alone being visible. It would be imprudent to attempt escaping by day, with the possibility of being followed by the guides; even should they not follow us, they would naturally, on their arrival at the camp, inform the Arabs of the direction we had taken. Of course, we might have shot them, or have hamstrung the camels; but though Selim suggested that such might be necessary, I would not for a moment entertain the idea. If we were to escape, we must escape with clean hands and clear consciences. I would only consent to Selim carrying off one of the carbines, and as much ammunition as he could obtain; while I provided myself with as many dates and as much other food as I could stow away.

We determined to commence our enterprise that very night, as soon as the moon had risen. I believed that I should have no difficulty, by the aid of her light, in making my way due south; and I agreed to stop at daybreak to look out for Selim. He would follow as soon as he thought that I had got to a sufficient distance to render it unlikely that the guides, should they propose to accompany him, would overtake me; and even in that case he hoped to be able to slip away from them.

We encamped as usual, when Selim and I undertook to keep the first watch; and the guides, unsuspicious of our intentions, went to sleep. We had intentionally kept only a small fire burning, and as soon as the guides’ eyes were closed we let it get still lower. Selim might have made his escape with me, but then he would have been unable to obtain one of the carbines and the ammunition, which it was essential for our future safety we should possess,—and which, according to the Arab fashion, the men slept with close to their hands, ready for instant use.

Having fully agreed as to our future proceedings, so that there might be as little risk as possible of missing each other, I looked once more to the priming of my pistol, took a draught of water (that I might require none for some time to come), and then stole noiselessly out of the camp. I waited for a minute to ascertain that the Arabs were really asleep, and not watching me; then I took another survey in every direction, lest Antonio might possibly be in the neighbourhood; but no one appearing, I started off, running towards the south.

I had before dark carefully surveyed the ground, and ascertained that it was perfectly level, without any impediment to stop my course. As soon as I had got out of sight, however, I went on more leisurely. The moon did not rise so soon as I had expected, while clouds gathering in the sky obscured the stars, and made it more difficult to keep a direct course. Still I hoped that I was steering to the south, and so continued on. Now and then I stopped to listen, but no sound reached my ears, and I was satisfied that I was not followed. On and on I went, anxious to reach some wood or thicket in which I could conceal myself should the guides, contrary to our expectations, accompany Selim.

Often had I found trudging over the desert with bare feet in the daytime very painful, but at night, unable to discern the inequalities of the ground, and the prickly plants which grew on it, I suffered far more than I had ever done before, hardened as my feet had become by going so long without shoes. I had hitherto reached no trees, and although I tried to pierce the gloom I could discern no trace of the forest I expected to meet with in the distance. The moon now rising, enabled me better to see my way; but, though my feet pained me greatly, finding that I was making slower progress than I had calculated on, I pushed forward, still hoping before daybreak to reach some spot where I could conceal myself. At length I could bear the pain no longer, and, overcome with fatigue, a faintness seized me, and I sank down on the ground.

How long I had continued in this state I could not tell. When I came to myself the moon was high in the sky, occasionally obscured, however, by the clouds which a strong wind drove across it; now her rays cast a bright light over the desert, now all again was in comparative darkness. I could only hope that no wild beast, prowling in search of prey, might find me, as I could, I felt, offer but a slight resistance. With the thought that such a thing might possibly occur, I took my pistol, which I had carried slung to my back, and grasped it in my hand.

Again the faintness seized me, and I lay stretched out on the hard ground. As my senses returned, my ear being close to the ground, I fancied that I heard a footfall. Opening my eyes,—a cloud at that moment having passed the moon, which now shone brightly forth,—I saw approaching, a few paces off, the figure of a tall black man, with a scimitar raised in his hand—the light of the moon revealing to me the vindictive features of Antonio. In another moment his weapon, raised to strike, would have descended on my neck. His attitude convinced me of his intentions, so there was not a moment for deliberation. I was unwilling to have his blood on my head, but had I even ventured to speak my life would have been sacrificed. Suddenly lifting my pistol, I fired. The shot took effect. Raising his hand to his head, and dropping his sword, the black fell backward to the ground.

For a moment it seemed as if I had been in a fearful dream, but the still smoking pistol in my hand convinced me of the reality of what had occurred; so, rising, at length I staggered towards where Antonio lay. Not a limb, not a muscle, moved, however. He had been shot through the heart. Feeling a horror of remaining near the dead body, and knowing also that it would certainly attract beasts of prey, I was anxious, in spite of the pain my feet suffered, to get to a distance. Reloading my pistol, therefore, and taking the scimitar,—which might enable me to defend myself against savage beasts as well as human foes,—I hurried forward as fast as my maimed feet would allow me.

At length I made out a dark mass rising above the ground, which I hoped was the commencement of the forest bordering the river; and in a short time I reached the trunk of a large tree, which stood out at some distance from the others, when, unable longer to endure the pain of walking, I sank down at its base. It was just the sort of place in which I knew Selim would search for me. Suddenly the dreadful thought occurred, Had Antonio first encountered him, and taken his life? Such, I feared, was but too possible, as the savage black must have discovered our camp after I had left it, and pursued me to the spot where, intending to take my life, he had met his own doom. This idea caused me much anxiety, and greatly damped the satisfaction I felt at finding myself free. How many difficulties and dangers also yet lay before me! Should I meet Halliday and Ben? I asked myself. If not, what would become of us all? Could they find their way to the sea alone? Could I, indeed, expect to do so? How deeply I regretted having been separated from Boxall, who, with his good sense and courage, was far better calculated than any of us to conduct to a successful issue the hazardous undertaking proposed.

Afraid of going to sleep, lest Selim should approach or any wild beast find me, I watched the moon sinking lower and lower, till she gradually disappeared altogether at the break of day. As the light increased I found myself on the borders of a forest, denser than any I had yet seen in Africa; while to the north the wide plain over which I had passed lay stretched out before me. I looked out anxiously for any figure which might prove to be that of Selim. Strange birds flew overhead, and a herd of deer went bounding by at no great distance. Had I possessed a more efficient weapon than my clumsy pistol, I should have tried to shoot one of the latter, in the hope of being able to manufacture shoes or sandals out of the hide to protect my lacerated feet, which were so swollen that I felt it would be almost torture to proceed further without some protection for them. As soon as there was sufficient light, however, I employed myself in picking out the thorns, with which they were full; after which operation I felt some slight relief. I then looked around for water in which I might cool them, but no stream or pool was in sight—though I knew, from the appearance of the vegetation, that water could not be far-off; and I felt sure that if I could but drag myself to it, I should soon be able to proceed.

As the sun rose, his rays threw a bright glare across the plain, almost roasting me where I lay. To avoid the heat, I moved round to the western side of the tree, in the cool shade of which I stretched myself out at my length to rest my weary limbs, and turned my anxious eyes northward—from which direction I expected Selim would come. At length some one appeared on the top of a small hillock in the far distance, and stopped and looked about him. It must be Selim, I thought; and yet, until I was certain, I did not like to show myself. I anxiously watched the person. “Yes, it must be Selim,” I exclaimed aloud. My fear was that, not seeing me, he might go off to the east or west. I knew that my voice could not reach him at that distance. I tried to drag myself up by means of the trunk, so as to lean against it when I was on my feet; but I could stand with difficulty even then. The only means I had of drawing Selim’s attention was to fire off my pistol, but I was unwilling to throw away any of the ammunition. The person was by this time about to descend the hillock. With great pain and difficulty I got round the tree into the sunlight, and fired. Immediately the person began to run towards me; when, unable longer to stand, I sank down on the sand, fearing that after all he might be an enemy. I reloaded my weapon, therefore, and leaned back against the tree, with the scimitar I had taken from Antonio in my hand, determined to defend myself to the last.

The person approached rapidly, stopping every now and then to look about him—surprised, apparently, at not seeing any one. As he came nearer, to my great joy I saw that it was no other than the faithful Selim. He bounded forward as he caught sight of me, uttering exclamations of joy; but his joy was turned to sorrow at finding me in the painful condition to which I had been reduced.

“But still I have reason to be thankful that you are alive,” he said. “Soon after you had gone, what was my dismay to catch sight of Antonio’s shadowy form in the distance. He had apparently been watching the camp, and must have seen you leave it; but I suspect he was waiting to ascertain whether any person would follow you. Had I had the carbine in my hand, I might have been tempted to fire at him; but I should thus have awakened the guides, and your flight would have been discovered. I went up, as it was, to the sleeping men, to try and get one of their carbines, but found that I could not do so without arousing them; and when I looked again, the mysterious figure had disappeared. I trembled for your safety, but notwithstanding my anxiety I had to wait till the time agreed on. Then, arousing the guides, I told them that I thought you had escaped; and while they were rubbing their eyes, and trying to understand what I had said, I got hold of one of their weapons, with a bag of ammunition, and shouting out that I would quickly overtake you, rushed forth from the camp. ‘Take care of the camels, or they will escape,’ I exclaimed as I dashed forward. They, believing that I should soon be back, did not follow, and I was soon out of their sight.

“I was hurrying on, when I fell over the dead body of Antonio. My mind was greatly relieved, for I was satisfied that, instead of his killing you, you had killed him; and with revived spirits I pushed on till I reached the sand-hill and heard the report of your pistol. We have, however, no time to lose, for when the guides find that I do not return, they are very likely to come in pursuit of us.”

I told Selim how unable I was to walk.

“I see that,” he said; “but I must carry you till we get to water.”

“But you have not strength enough,” I said.

“Try me,” he answered, and insisted on taking me on his back; and, though I was fully as heavy as he was, he managed to carry me with far greater ease than I should have supposed possible.

We were soon making our way through the forest, which was more open than it had appeared at a distance. It contained a great variety of trees, few of which I had ever seen before. Many bore fruit and nuts, which Selim told me would furnish us with an ample supply of food. Among them were several shea-trees, from which vegetable butter is prepared; the fruit greatly resembling a large olive.

At length we caught sight of water glittering amid the green foliage. Selim staggered on towards it, though his strength was well-nigh giving way. It was a comparatively narrow stream, running, we supposed, into the main river which we wished to reach. We had great difficulty in making our way amid the tangled foliage which grew on its banks; but at last we succeeded in finding a tree which had fallen into the water, and by scrambling along it we were able to reach the edge of the stream.

“We must take care not to be picked off by any passing crocodile,” observed Selim. “Stay, I will get a long stick, and, by splashing it in the water, we shall soon drive the creatures away, should any be near.”

He did as he proposed, and then we stooped down without fear and took an ample draught to satisfy our burning thirst.

I quickly felt a beneficial effect from sitting with my feet in the stream and cooling them, Selim carefully beating the surface all the time; and being much refreshed, we soon returned to a more open part of the forest, where we sat down to rest, and to satisfy our hunger with the dates I had in my shirt, and some fruit which Selim collected. He also got some large leaves, possessing, he said, healing qualities; these he bound round my feet, and they produced even a more soothing effect than the water had done. Soon, relieved of pain, I felt excessively drowsy; and Selim promising to keep watch, in a few seconds I was fast asleep.

When I awoke I found that the day was far advanced. Selim had been busy, in the meantime, in making me a hat with palm leaves—which, he said, I greatly required to shield my head from the sun. He had also, from the same material, manufactured a pair of slippers, which assisted to protect my feet, though they could not defend them altogether from the thorns which lay on the ground.

Knowing that he must be in need of sleep, I told him that I would watch while he got some rest. He acknowledged that he should be very glad of it; and in a few seconds he was fast asleep. I sat with his carbine in my hand, ready to fire at any wild beast which might approach us; but happily none came near. And in a couple of hours or less Selim awoke, and declared that he was quite able to proceed.

Our first object was to gain the bank of the river, to look out for Halliday and Ben, whom we hoped might have found their way to it. Though I still walked with difficulty, I managed to get along. We had not gone far when Selim observed a tree from which, he said, the people in his country were accustomed to manufacture bows.

“I must make one at once,” he observed; “it will save our ammunition—which will serve to defend us from human foes or wild beasts, while we can shoot small birds or animals with arrows.”

He quickly cut off a branch which he fixed on for the purpose, and as we walked along he began to shape it with his knife.

We had followed the course of the stream, which, as we caught glimpses of it through the trees, widened considerably. We had now arrived near the point where the stream joined the larger river, but both of us felt that we could go no further. We had still a good supply of dates, and Selim quickly collected some fruit, which enabled us to satisfy our hunger. We then cut down a number of saplings and a quantity of branches, with which we constructed a hut between the buttressed roots of a gigantic baobab-tree, with a strong barricade in front. Here we hoped to rest more securely than we had done for a long time, as we could not be attacked in the rear, and we believed that no wild beast would attempt to break through it; then, as we had met with no traces of inhabitants, we consequently did not expect to be attacked by human beings. We had our hut completed before dark; and in the meantime Selim managed to collect a number of reeds for arrows, and the strong fibre of a plant to twist into a bow-string. We had thus plenty of occupation—till night coming on compelled us to retire within our hut, and build up the barricade in front of it.

When I awoke in the morning, I found that Selim had completed his bow and arrows; so as soon as we had breakfasted on our remaining stock of provisions we set out towards the bank of the main river. It should be understood that we were on the eastern side of the stream. We had not gone far down it when, coming to an opening amid the numerous trees which lined its banks, I caught sight of a human figure moving, at some distance off, on the opposite shore. Telling Selim, in a whisper, what I had seen, I dragged him behind a tree, from whence we could look out and observe the stranger. We eagerly watched him; and presently we saw him joined by two other persons.

“Why,” exclaimed Selim, “they are our friends!”

“If so, Boxall must be with them,” I said joyfully.

The uncertain light of the forest had before prevented me from distinguishing them; but as we made our way to the bank I was convinced that Selim was right. They had their backs turned towards us, and were proceeding westward, or down the river. We shouted to them; but our voices were lost amid the forest, or they did not recognise them, for they hurried on, and were soon lost to sight.

Fearing that we should miss them altogether, we now determined to swim the stream—without reflecting on the dangers we might run. Selim fastened his bundle of arrows and my pistol on his head, and lifting his carbine and bow in one hand, he boldly struck out. I followed his example; but, laden though he was, he swam better than I did. Happily the stream was not very rapid, and a draught of water which I took as I swam across contributed to restore my strength; so in a few minutes we were on the opposite bank.

Losing no time in shaking the water from our clothes, we hurried on, shouting to our friends. Again we caught sight of them. They looked round, and seeing us coming, hurried towards us.

The meeting, as we all grasped each other’s hands, was indeed a happy one. But how Boxall had fallen in with them I could not conceive.

A few words, however, sufficed to explain how it had happened. It was he, as we had supposed, whom we had seen at the water-hole; and the tribe among whom he was a captive had, like many others, travelled south to worship at the shrine of the saint. A far greater intimacy than usual had taken place between the people of the different camps which at that period had assembled in the neighbourhood, and he thus came to hear that three Englishmen were held in slavery by Sheikh Hamed. He of course guessed that we were the persons spoken of, and resolved to communicate with us, though he knew that he ran a great risk of being severely punished should he be discovered. He took the opportunity, while all the men in his camp were worshipping at the shrine of the saint, to wander as far away as he could venture without creating suspicion in the minds of those who might be watching him, in the hope of meeting with one of us, or with some of our people who might give him information and take a message from him. He had proceeded further than was prudent, when, as it happened, a party of our Arabs returning to the camp caught sight of him, and supposing, from his white skin and dress, that he was one of us, seized and bound him, and carried him off as a prisoner. His capture, as he afterwards learned, was observed by a shepherd and some boys of his own camp, who carried back intelligence of what had occurred.

Fortunately, Ben, who was outside our camp, met the party, and recognising Boxall, claimed him as a friend; telling him, without loss of time, of our intention of escaping. This made Boxall—who had been well treated by his captors, and expected to be liberated on his return to the north—abandon his resolution of going back to them, if he could escape from our camp. He pretended, therefore, to be well satisfied with his change of masters, and—as was really the case—to be delighted at finding an old friend. The Arabs, being thus deceived, believed that there was no necessity for watching him, and gave him over without hesitation into Ben’s charge.

Now, as I had left the camp secretly, it was not known by the people generally, and especially by the women, that I was absent, and Ben calculated rightly that Boxall would be mistaken for me. He accordingly conducted him boldly into the camp, where they soon found Halliday; and it was agreed that as soon as night came on they should all three make their escape together. This they had done; and having supplied themselves with food and some leathern bottles filled with water, they had pushed on during the night and the whole of the next day, till they reached the shelter of the wood. Arriving at the very stream we had discovered, and supposing that they would find us on the western side, they had crossed it, and had been waiting the whole day in expectation of our arrival.

Boxall had gone through numerous adventures; but having been fortunate enough to cure some of the sheikh’s family and several other persons by practising the slight knowledge of medicine he possessed, he had been held in high estimation, and had gained the confidence of the sheikh and all the chief people,—so that he had had few of the irksome duties to perform which had fallen to our lot.

I now fondly hoped that, with Boxall as our leader, though we might have many difficulties to encounter, we should be able to overcome them, and finally reach the sea. We all agreed, however, that, from the direction the caravans had taken, we must still be at a considerable distance from it, and that we should certainly have a long voyage to perform on the river.

“No matter how long it is,” exclaimed Ben in a confident tone; “if we can get a few planks under our feet, and a bit of canvas for a sail, with Mr Boxall as captain, we’ll do it!”

Chapter Thirteen.

The raft upset—We discover a canoe—A fight for liberty—Recaptured—The black woman’s kindness—The black sheikh better than he looks—Sheikh Hamed’s anger—A frightful doom—Rescued.

We did not spend much time in relating our adventures—knowing that we should have opportunities enough by-and-by of spinning as many yarns about them as we might.

Boxall approved of our plan of trying to find a canoe; or if not, of building a raft on which we might float down the stream until we could fall in with one; so we accordingly made our way at once to the bank of the river. It was not so broad as we expected to find it, yet the volume of water was sufficient to make us suppose that it flowed on in an uninterrupted course to the ocean. Of the character of the natives we knew nothing; indeed, we believed that no European had ever explored that part of the country. Selim alone could give us any information. His idea was that the people were among the most barbarous of any to be found on the borders of the Sahara. This was not satisfactory, but we could only hope that we might escape them.

“At all events,” observed Ben, “I have a notion that four Englishmen with a carbine, a large pistol, and a Turkish cutlass, backed by an honest black fellow with his bow and arrows, are a match for any number of savages; so if they come we must give them a thrashing—and that’s what I’ve got to say about the matter.”

Though not quite so confident as Ben, we hoped that we should be able to keep at bay any enemies who might attack us.

The bank of the river was thickly wooded, and we made but slow progress. Despairing at last of finding a canoe, we determined to build a raft. Reaching a part of the bank where a few feet of open ground gave us space to work, we commenced operations. My cutlass was invaluable, as it enabled us to cut down a number of young palms, the wood of which was soft and light. There were also plenty of creepers, which served instead of ropes for binding the logs together. We first placed a row of young trees side by side, and then secured another row at right angles upon them. By evening our raft was complete. We also provided ourselves with long poles, which would enable us to guide it in shallow water or keep it off overhanging trees; and, in addition, we formed five rough paddles—one being larger than the rest, for steering. We intended also to form a triangle, between which we could spread our shirts to serve as a sail should the wind be fair. Well satisfied with our day’s performance, we launched our raft, which had been built close to the water, and secured it to the bank. It floated us all well; and as it was likely to afford a more secure resting-place than the shore, we lay down on it to sleep—two of us at a time keeping watch, lest any wild beast might, attack us. But although lions were heard roaring all night long, and other strange sounds came out of the forest, we slept securely on our floating bed.

At daybreak, and in good spirits, we commenced our adventurous voyage. At first we floated tranquilly down the stream, having only occasionally to use our paddles to keep the raft off from the trunks of sunken trees—called snags, in America—which appeared above the water. In a short time, however, the current became more rapid, and we found, by the way the water leaped about, that we were being carried over a shallow part of the river. Our poles, too, showed that the depth was not above three or four feet. Presently the water became more shallow and more agitated, and we thought it wise to make for the bank. We were steering towards it, when the raft, striking an unseen rock, was whirled rapidly round and round: the water rushed over it, and we ourselves were swept off; while the raft, freed from our weight, was carried downwards, and quickly dashed to pieces among a number of rocks, over which the water furiously rushed, not a hundred yards below us. Happily we were all good swimmers, and we managed to reach shallow water and climb up the bank.

“What has become of our weapons?” was the first question we asked. They, with my Moorish sword, had been placed in the centre of the raft, and so had been lost. We had cause to be thankful however, for having escaped with our lives.

Undaunted by the accident, we determined to persevere, and to try and find a canoe in which to prosecute our voyage. Ben had saved one of the long poles, which, after sharpening at the end, would serve as a weapon—the only one we now possessed. Selim offered to supply us with bows and arrows, which might serve to kill birds for our meals. He showed himself one of the most active of the party, too, and as he went on ahead he looked into every little bay or hollow in which a canoe was likely to be concealed.

At length we caught sight of some low, conical-shaped, thatched huts in the distance, and Selim said he was sure he could find a canoe not far off from thence. The only doubt was whether he should take it without asking the owner’s leave, or try to obtain the loan of it: but then we had absolutely nothing to offer in return; and the natives might not only refuse to give it us, but might make us prisoners—and perhaps carry us back to the Arabs from whom we were escaping, or sell us to some other tribe.

“Beggars must not be choosers,” said Ben. “To my mind, if we can find a canoe, we have a right to her, considering that we have been kept in slavery, and worked pretty hard too, by the friends of these people.”

Certainly, I would rather have bought the canoe; but as that was out of the question, I could not help agreeing with Ben.

We had not gone far, when we came to a path evidently made by human feet. “This probably leads to some plantation, or to another village, through the forest,” observed Boxall. “We must proceed cautiously, so as not to come suddenly upon the natives.”

Selim offered to go on first and explore the way.

In a short time he came running back. “I have discovered a canoe afloat and secured to the bank,” he said. “She has paddles in her, so the owners cannot be far-off. We are indeed, fortunate, and must not lose the opportunity of escaping, as we are not likely again to meet so good a one.”

We hurried on. There lay the canoe, as Selim had described; she was large enough to hold us all—indeed, large enough to navigate the river to its mouth. Without further consideration we stepped into her, and seizing the paddles, cast off the painter, and shoved out into the stream. We did not feel quite as happy as we might have done had we been able to obtain her by lawful purchase from the owners. They would naturally be enraged on discovering that we had run off with their property, and if they could obtain the means, would, of course, follow us; we hoped, however, by paddling on, to get well ahead before being discovered. We should be in most danger when passing the village we had seen on the bank some way down the stream.

Boxall told Selim to take the helm—as his black face might make the natives suppose that we were a party of white slaves sent down the river by our owner—while we four paddled with might and main. As we neared the village we plied our paddles harder than ever. Just as we got abreast of it, we saw a native in the front of one of the huts. Discovering us, he shouted to some others, who rushed out of their huts and followed him down to the river. We did not stop to ascertain what they were about to do, but paddled on. We had not got far, however, before we saw a canoe being launched from the bank. We might easily have distanced her, and were expecting to do so, when there appeared two more canoes some way ahead of us, putting off from the shore, evidently with the intention of intercepting us. Our only hope now was that we could fight our way past them. Had we possessed our firearms, or even Antonio’s scimitar, this we might have done without much danger; but with only our paddles and Ben’s long pole for weapons of defence, we should run, we knew, a great risk of losing our lives: still the attempt must be made.

We paddled on boldly, shouting at the top of our voices, in the hope of intimidating our enemies. Those in one of the canoes seemed doubtful about attacking us, but the others came boldly on, sending, as they got near, a flight of arrows towards us. Selim shouted to them, telling them to keep off, and saying that we only wished to be allowed to pass in peace. To this they paid no attention, however, but, uttering loud cries in reply to our shouts, came dashing towards us. Ben, who had got his long pole ready, sprang up, and plunged it with such force that it ran through the body of one of the savages, who was dragged overboard. The others, alarmed by the death of their companion, paddled to a distance, and assailed us with fresh flights of arrows. Happily, they were not well aimed, and none of us were struck.

We now began to hope that we should escape, though, as we paddled on, we were hotly pursued by two canoes. We were, however, distancing them, when we found that the river made a sharp bend, and ran back close to the village we had at first seen. At the same time we caught sight of four or five large canoes putting off from the shore, evidently for the purpose of intercepting us. In vain we attempted to escape; the canoes completely surrounded us, and unless we had resolved, rather than yield, to sacrifice our lives, resistance would have been useless. We merely, therefore, warded off with our paddles the blows aimed at our heads, while we cried out to the people that we were ready to give in if they would desist from striking. Before they understood us, however, we had received several cuts and bruises, and in a pitiable condition were conducted on shore.

On landing we were placed in an open space on the ground, with guards over us; while the more influential persons seated themselves under a widespreading baobab-tree, and discussed what was to be done with us. Though we could not hear clearly what was said, from their gestures we fully believed they contemplated putting us to death.

“We might as well have made a stouter fight for our liberty,” observed Ben, who seemed to be sorry that we had yielded so easily.

“If they believe that they can make anything by us, they will not kill us,” said Boxall. “We may still, I hope, escape death.”

Anxiously we watched the gestures of the assembly. They were savage-looking fellows enough, but yet it soon became evident that some were for mild measures; and Selim, who understood better than we did what they were saying, caught a few words, and told us that they were waiting the arrival of some one, who had been sent for, and who was to decide our fate.

Some hours passed, during which we were kept without food, and exposed to the burning rays of the sun. At length there was a movement among our captors, and we caught sight of several horsemen coming through the forest, with a person, who was evidently a chief of importance, at their head. As he approached, we recognised the black, ill-looking sheikh to whose camp we had conducted the veiled lady. My heart, I confess, sunk within me, for I expected very little mercy at his hands. Without dismounting, he listened to the account the chiefs of the village gave of our capture. When they had finished, I thought it was time for me to speak, and I knew that by so doing I could not make our case worse; I therefore addressed him in Arabic, which, at our former interview, I found that he understood. I reminded him that I had conducted his daughter and her family, placed under my charge, in safety to him; and that, having faithfully performed my duty, I felt that I had a right to escape from slavery, and to try and get back to my own country; that on my way I had fallen in with my present companions, and that when we were captured we were only doing what he and any of his people would, under similar circumstances, have attempted.

He seemed more moved by my address than I had expected. “What you say is true, O Nazarene,” he answered; “but those from whom you have escaped are my friends, and they will demand you at my hands. You know the penalty you have incurred by attempting to escape, and you must be prepared to pay it.”

I felt it would be of no use pleading for mercy with the savage, or I would have entreated him to set us at liberty, and to allow us to continue our voyage down the river. I had frequently heard, too, of the fearful cruelties which were practised on slaves who attempted to escape from their Arab masters, so I could not help thinking of those we should be doomed to suffer were we to be delivered up to Sheikh Hamed.

The black sheikh now held a short consultation with the chiefs of the place and with those who accompanied him, and finally decided that we were to be carried next day to his camp. We were, in the meantime, thrust into a small hut, there to remain till the following morning, when we were to set out. Of course, we could not help being greatly cast down by the turn affairs had taken; Boxall, however, did his best to keep up our spirits, and urged us to look above for that strength and courage which we required in our time of need. “Our lives have been preserved when we expected to have lost them. Let us hope that even now some means of escape may be found,” he observed.

“I wonder whether the savages think we can live without eating,” said Halliday. “I wish they would bring us some food.”

Not many minutes after this the door opened, and a black woman appeared, carrying a couple of baskets containing a bowl of couscoussu, a calabash of water, and some fruit. Though her countenance was shrivelled, it beamed with kindness.

“I heard that there were white men starving, and in captivity, and I hastened from my home down the river to bring food to them,” she said. “Here it is. Eat, strangers, and may your strength be restored.”

We thanked her for her charity.

“I myself have reason to be thankful to white men,” she answered. “When I was young, and just married, our village was attacked by a party of Moors, when my husband and I were carried down to the coast, to be conveyed across the wide ocean to slavery in a distant land. While waiting to embark, the kind governor of the place purchased us, kept us in his house, and fed and clothed us; and at last, when the country was at peace, he sent us back to our own home. There we continued to live, and my husband is now a rich man. Our great pleasure since then has been to help those white men who have been made slaves by the Arabs, or who are otherwise in distress.”

As she said this, the hope arose in me that she might possibly help us to escape. I asked her without hesitation if she could do so. She shook her head. At last she answered:—

“My husband is now old, and has no influence with the people of this place. They respect me, so they allow me to bring this food to you, but my power extends no further; still, I will do what I can. I must not now delay, or I may be accused of endeavouring to assist you to escape.”

Of course, after hearing this we could not detain the kind negress; and wishing us good-bye, she took her departure, while we set to at the welcome food she had brought us.

“We have indeed reason to be thankful for this unexpected assistance,” observed Boxall. “He who put it into the heart of this kind negress to bring us this food, will find us the means of escape.”

With our spirits somewhat raised by this event, we stretched our weary limbs on the hard ground, and were all soon asleep.

We were awakened at daybreak by one of our guides, who told us that we must immediately set out on our journey. We had barely time allowed us to eat the remainder of the provisions the good negress had brought us, and were compelled to abandon any hope we had entertained of escaping by her assistance.

We had now to march with guards on either side, and our hands tied, two and two: Boxall and I, Halliday and Ben, with Selim bringing up the rear. The journey was a fatiguing one, for after we had left the belt of forest which bordered the river we had a wide expanse of open country, where we were exposed to the rays of the hot sun. It was not desert, however; for numerous plantations covered it.

At length we reached another woody district on the very borders of the Sahara, where the chief had pitched his camp. He had preceded us, we found; for on our arrival he appeared at the door of his tent, and called me up to him.

“I have saved your life and that of your companions,” he said; “but as you were attempting to escape from bondage, I am bound to deliver you up to Sheikh Hamed Aben Kaid, who will treat you as he thinks fit. All I can do is to report favourably of the way in which you conducted yourself towards my daughter and her children, and this may tell in your favour; but I warn you that a severe punishment awaits those who attempt to fly from their masters. You will set out to-morrow morning. And take my advice: as soon as you arrive you must express your desire to become faithful followers of the Prophet, and all will be well; if not, you may expect no mercy.”

I thanked the black sheikh for the kindly feeling which prompted his advice, but did not say whether I intended to take it. I felt very sure that my companions would suffer anything rather than turn Mohammedans, and I hoped that even the fear of death would not make me do so.

For the remainder of the day we were placed in a tent by ourselves, and were amply supplied with food. As soon as we were alone, I told my friends what the black sheikh had said. Their answers were as I expected; and we all agreed to support each other in the resolution we had formed to be firm to our faith.

Next morning we set out at daybreak on our dreary journey, escorted by a party of black troops on foot, with a few camels to carry provisions. We kept the road I had come, turning neither to the right nor to the left. Nothing occurred to us during the march worth narrating; we were not ill-treated, and were sufficiently supplied with food, our guards wishing to bring us back in good condition. We had got within about a day’s journey of the camp, when we saw a party of Arabs approaching, mounted on camels, and as our guards did not appear alarmed we knew that they must be friends. As they drew nearer I recognised Sheikh Hamed at their head; and as he saw us a frown gathered on his brow, and he inquired of the leader of our guards how we had been taken. On being told what had happened, his anger increased, his own people gathering round him and crying out that we deserved nothing but death. While he and they were discussing the matter, one of the marabouts, who had taken part in the discussion I once had with the sheikh on religious subjects, proposed that we should be forgiven, provided we would acknowledge Mohammed as the Prophet of God, and conform in all other respects to the true religion, as he called it. As the question was not formally put to us, we had no reason to reply, and therefore stood silent while the discussion was going forward. As soon as it was over, the marabout came to us and inquired whether we were willing to conform to the faith of the Prophet, promising that if we did so our lives would be spared. We answered boldly, and at once, that we would not be hypocrites, and that we had resolved to abide by the religion in which we had been brought up.

Our determined answer greatly enraged the marabout, who had expected to make easy converts of us. “Then you must be prepared for the fate you have brought upon yourselves,” he answered.

As evening was approaching, both parties encamped; and we were left during the night in doubt as to what our punishment would be.

Ben was as firm as any of us. “A pretty sort of prophet Mohammed must have been, if he could not teach his followers to behave themselves better than they do,” he exclaimed. “I cannot say but what they bow and pray enough, and go through all sorts of curious forms, but to my mind it’s all outside show; and if their religion don’t teach people to be kind and merciful, and to do to others as they would others should do to them, it’s not worth a bit of rotten rope yarn.”

Selim, who had hitherto professed to be a follower of Mohammed, declared, after hearing our conversation, that he was ready to acknowledge himself a Christian, and to die with us if we were to be put to death. Boxall thereupon spoke very earnestly to him, as he had done to us, and urged him to adhere to his resolution. “It is far better to die than to live a hypocrite, or to acknowledge that Mohammed was a true prophet of God, when we know that he was an emissary of Satan sent to deceive the world,” he observed.

Next morning, after the Arabs and blacks had gone through their usual ceremonies, we were brought out, with our arms bound to our sides.

The marabout had, in the meantime, been among the people, endeavouring to excite them against us, and they now gathered round from every side with savage gestures, hurling bitter curses at our heads, calling us vile Christians, despisers of the true Prophet, Nazarene dogs, accursed infidels, children of Satan, and similar names, till they had exhausted their vocabulary of abuse.

The two sheikhs and the other chiefs now appeared on the field, and were received with loud acclamations. “Allah, Allah! God is great, and Mohammed is his Prophet!” shouted the crowd surrounding us, while their countenances exhibited their hostile feelings.

Terrible was the doom preparing for us; whatever might have been the wishes of Sheikh Hamed and the black chief, the voices of the marabouts and the people prevailed. We were doomed to a fate scarcely less terrible than that of Tantalus. We were condemned to be buried alive, with our heads above the sand,—water and food being placed just beyond our reach, so that we might see the means of saving life and yet be unable to profit thereby. Certainly, I think, the vivid imaginations of the old heathens could not have invented a more horrible punishment.

Again the marabouts came to us, and asked whether we would become faithful followers of the Prophet; promising to receive us as brothers, and to raise us to rank and honour in their tribe, if we would do so, and pointing out the dreadful fate which would be ours if we refused. But we all remained firm, declaring that we could not embrace a religion in which we did not believe.

Selim, influenced by our example, shouted out,—“I once professed to be a follower of your false prophet, and I am sorry for it. I don’t believe in him, or the Koran, or in the wrong and foolish things it teaches. You may kill me, along with these white men; I would rather die with them than live with such wretches as you are.” The marabouts, as he spoke, rushed forward and struck him, and tried to drown his words by their shouts and execrations. Boxall, Halliday, and I, seeing no advantage in irritating the fanatical feelings of our captors, had said nothing, except that we would not turn Mohammedans; but Ben shouted out, in the best Arabic he could command,—“I believe in one God; but I know very well that Mohammed was not one of His prophets; and only blind, ignorant fools such as you are would believe in him or the stupid book he wrote. You may bury me, or do what you like; but as long as I have got a tongue above ground to wag, I will not knock off speaking the truth.—I say, Mr Blore, I don’t think they quite make out what I mean. You just tell them, please; and give them a bit of your own mind too.”

Fortunately for Ben, only the first words of his speech were comprehended, and many of the people fancied that he was ready to turn Mohammedan; so that, instead of attacking him, many of them demanded that he should be set free and allowed to do as he wished. Indeed, by his good-humour, and readiness to help any one who wanted assistance, he had become a general favourite in the camp. The marabouts, however, suspecting, from his tone of voice, that he was not very complimentary to them or their religion, answered that he must be left to share our fate. They were also greatly enraged against Selim, and decided that he (in consequence of his perversion from the true faith) and Boxall (as the eldest of the party) should be the first to suffer.

In the meantime, preparations were being made for our punishment; spades had been brought, and two holes dug in the sand about six feet apart.

While we lay bound on the ground, the marabouts again came forward, and asked Boxall if he would turn Mohammedan; reminding him that he would be the cause of our death, and that of the young black, if he refused, as we should all undoubtedly follow. It was very clear that they would rather make converts of us than put us to death.

“No, my friends,” answered Boxall calmly. “In our country each man is allowed to believe as he thinks best; and I tell you that I cannot believe as you do.”

“Then take the consequences of your obstinate unbelief,” answered the marabout, making a sign to the people surrounding us.

They instantly seized Boxall and Selim, and dragged them to the holes, into which they thrust them,—one facing the other, and with their arms bound tightly down by their sides,—till their heads alone were visible above ground. The sand was then shovelled in till their bodies were entirely buried; after which a bowl of water and two pieces of well-cooked meat, emitting a pleasant odour, were placed between them, at such a distance that they could not possibly be reached.

The Arabs had begun to dig two more holes, when we observed some disturbance among them. Presently the sheikh hurried to the top of a neighbouring mound, while all eyes were turned northward across the Desert. Leaving Boxall and Selim in their fearful position, and entirely disregarding us, those possessing firearms began to look to the priming, and all appeared to be getting their weapons ready for use, when, even as we lay on the ground, the heads of men in a long line came into view above our limited horizon. Then we could distinguish camels—of which there seemed to be a hundred or more—advancing rapidly in close order. On they came,—the ground shaking beneath their tread,—surrounded by clouds of dust stirred up by their feet.

The two sheikhs now marshalled their men, and calling on them to fight bravely and merit paradise, led them forward to meet the foe. We watched them with painful interest, for our lives depended on the result. Whether the strangers had come for the purpose of rescuing us, we could not tell; but should they be defeated, there could be little doubt that our present masters would carry out their intention of putting us to death. If, on the contrary, the strangers gained the day, we had good hopes that we should be rescued, though we might still be kept in slavery.

Sheikh Hamed and the black chief fought bravely; but they and their followers were but ill-armed, and greatly outnumbered. Back and back they were driven, and many soon lay stretched on the ground. Still others, who had remained as a reserve, advanced, rushing with their muskets and swords right up to the camels; but they too were driven back, while many of them took to flight. I prayed that the tide of battle would not sweep our way, lest we might be trampled to death. Several of the blacks, however, passed us, but these were in too great a hurry to escape to knock us on the head.

Ben, meantime, had been working away desperately to get his hands free. “Hurrah! I have done it,” he shouted, and instantly came and released Halliday and me. We then hurried to the assistance of Boxall and Selim, and with one of the spades which had been left behind we quickly dug them out. It was fortunate that we were not delayed, for they were already beginning to feel the weight of the sand pressing round them, though they might possibly have lived for many hours in that position.

We had been so eager in extricating them, that we had not observed how the battle went, till, looking round, we saw the new-comers in full pursuit of our late owners, many of whom had been cut down. No prisoners had been taken, however; for it being known that the blacks were followers of the Prophet, it was not considered worth while to capture them, as they could not be held in slavery.

Boxall, on catching sight of the victorious party, at once recognised them as his friends; and as they now halted and drew together, he led us towards them. Their leader at once knew him, and gave him a cordial welcome, expressing his satisfaction at having rescued him. Boxall then introduced us, and said that we wished to place ourselves under the protection of him and his tribe. The sheikh then ordering five of his followers each to take one of us up behind him on his camel, the victorious party rode off with us across the Desert, in the direction from which they had come, carrying away with them some of the arms and a few camels which they had captured.

The band of warriors who had so opportunely come to our rescue belonged, I learned from the man behind whom I rode, to the powerful tribe of the Sheikh Salem Alsgoon, between whom and Sheikh Hamed Ben Kaid a feud had long existed. Although they could not come to blows at the tomb of the saint, a constant watch had been kept on the movements of Sheikh Hamed; and when it was found that he had set out from his camp to meet us, an expedition had been despatched with all haste to surprise him. To this circumstance we owed our preservation. Sheikh Salem, however, would have had sufficient excuse, according to the law of the Desert, for attacking Sheikh Hamed, on account of his having, as was supposed, carried off one of his slaves; indeed, the desire to recover Boxall was one of the motives which had induced him to undertake it. Had we not been found, he had ordered his people to make a few prisoners, in order that they might be exchanged for Boxall. Thus the very circumstance which at first appeared the most disastrous to us, as is often the case in life, resulted ultimately in our favour.

Chapter Fourteen.

The old recluse—Description of the camp—Night intruders—Bu Saef—The mirage—Overtaken by a sand-storm—Fearful sufferings—Arrive at an oasis—Falling fortunes—Another conversation with Marabouts—Visitors at the camp—Sold—Arrive at a town.

We rode on without stopping till the sun had sunk low in the western horizon, the object of the Arabs being to join the main body by daylight,—for our leader well knew that Sheikh Hamed, having escaped, would hasten back to his camp and summon his followers to pursue us; and as we had to pass at no great distance from the camp, there was every probability of our party being overtaken.

Sheikh Salem’s people, however, were full of fight, and boasted that, even should the whole of the hostile tribe come up with us, they would quickly put them to flight. They nevertheless dashed on with unabated speed, and never had I before ridden so fast through the Desert.

Although rescued from a cruel and lingering death, we could not expect that our lot in other respects would be greatly improved. We were going back to slavery, and our new masters were likely to treat us as the others had intended doing, should we attempt to escape or refuse to embrace their religion.

Just at sunset we reached a hollow with a few bushes growing at the bottom, from the midst of which sprang up a strange figure. It was that of an old man of most repulsive appearance, with a long white beard, a dark ragged garment thrown over his withered body, and a long stick in his hand. He was, I was told, a holy recluse, who lived upon the alms of passing pilgrims. He saluted our leader as an old acquaintance, and mounting on a camel, offered to guide us on our way during the night. It is no easy matter at any time, even for the Arabs, to find the way in a direct line across the boundless Desert; and when clouds obscure the stars, it is almost impossible without a compass. The old recluse, on seeing white strangers, cast a look of disgust and disdain at us, expressing his surprise that any true believers should allow infidel Nazarenes to remain in their company. But our leader only laughed, and answered that, as we had not eaten pork for a year, we had become almost as clean as Arabs. Considering that we had had a bath only a few days before, we considered ourselves a good deal cleaner. However, we did not say so, but let the dirty old saint abuse us to his heart’s content without replying.

Even camels cannot go on for ever; and at length we reached a rocky ridge with a hollow beyond it. Crossing over the ridge, we descended into the hollow, where we at length halted to spend the night. On this ridge several sentries were placed, to give early notice of the approach of the foe. No fires were lighted; and each man, having taken his frugal meal of dates and flour-cakes, lay down among the weary camels to rest.

The night passed off without any alarm, and before daybreak we were again mounted and proceeding on our journey. Just as the sun was about to appear a halt was called, when all the men dismounted, and prostrating themselves towards the east, threw sand on their heads, while they uttered aloud their prayers as the sun rose above the horizon. Though anxious to push forward, as our pursuers would be employed in the same way, yet they did not hesitate to expend the time required in offering up their prayers. They mounted again as soon as possible, however, and once more we went ahead.

A sharp look-out was kept for the camp, of the position of which the old Arab did not appear certain; for the tribe had been moving on for the last two days, in order to put as wide a space as possible between themselves and their foes. At length we saw a horseman spurring across the plain, when, catching sight of our camels, he turned and galloped towards us. He was one of several scouts who had been sent out to look for our party. Guided by him, we now went forward with confidence, and soon came in sight of numerous troops of camels, spreading, it seemed, right across the horizon; while Arabs were arriving from all directions,—some mounted on camels, others on foot. Passing through the line of camels, we saw before us a number of low tents, pitched at a short distance from a pool of water bordered by tall reeds, stunted palms, and other trees. As our party approached, we were welcomed with loud shouts. No sooner had we dismounted than the wife of the sheikh—a tall woman of commanding aspect—advanced from her tent to meet Boxall, who went forward with confidence, we following. I cannot say that she looked benignantly at us, for her countenance was stern, though unusually handsome for an Arab woman of her age. She gave orders that a tent should be prepared for our use, however; and as soon as we had taken possession of it she sent us a bowl of couscoussu, with some dates and camel’s milk, so that we fared sumptuously after our fatiguing ride.

“I feel almost as if I had got home again,” said Boxall, as we lay at our ease with our legs stretched out on the carpet covering the floor of our tent. “I am really thankful to have you with me. Besides, we enjoy an advantage in being under the protection of a powerful sheikh, though I am afraid that our chance of escape is as remote as ever; while I suspect, notwithstanding the sheikh’s promises, he will be very unwilling, when the time comes, to give me my liberty.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way; and we must look out for that way,” observed Ben. “I only hope that we shall some day get back to the sea, or be in the neighbourhood of some town where Christian people live. We must look out, at all events, for a chance of giving our friends the slip. I, for one, have no fancy to spend my days among these fellows, who never think of serving out an honest piece of roast beef, and turn up their ugly noses at a man because he may chance to have a liking for boiled pork and pease-pudding.”

We were not allowed to remain long in quiet. After we had enjoyed a couple of hours’ rest, our tent was besieged by a number of people who came to have a look at the strangers. Among them were the two daughters of the chief. They were not much darker than Spanish women, and had graceful figures and really beautiful features. Their teeth were brilliantly white; and their eyes full of expression and vivacity, heightened by the colour they had given to their eyelashes and eyebrows by means of a blue stone. Their dress consisted of a woollen robe, which covered them from the shoulders, where it was secured by a silver buckle, and hung in folds down to their feet. They asked us all manner of questions, some of them very difficult to answer. Unfortunately, we had no presents to offer them in order to gain their goodwill. They looked upon us as their father’s chattels, and with a mixture of contempt and curiosity, as if we were strange animals. Nor can I say that they appeared to feel any of that pity for our condition which we might suppose would animate the hearts of such lovely damsels. In truth, I fear that Ben was right when he observed,—“The good looks of them gals is only skin-deep; we may depend on that. They are more likely to do us an ill turn than a good one. I can tell it by the eyes they cast at us; so we mustn’t be taken in by them.” Alas! the Arab maidens had none of that true beauty which adorns the mind, for which our own fair countrywomen are so justly celebrated, and without which all outward beauty is a mockery and deception, as Ben justly remarked in his own way.

I must here describe the encampment, which was similar to many others we met with during our wanderings. It was about ten or twelve hundred yards in circumference. The tents were made of camel-hair cloth, manufactured by the inhabitants. They were supported in the middle by poles, round the top of which was some basketwork, to give them ventilation; the lower edges being fixed to the ground by pegs, and further weighted by stones or sand. The sheikh’s tent differed but little from those of his people, being only more spacious, and rather higher. It was pitched in the middle of the enclosure; the others being on either side, according to the rank of the occupants. A large part of the ground within was covered over with carpets, on which the family slept; the tents of the less wealthy people being furnished with mats only. On a few short poles stuck in the ground were hung the goat-skin bottles containing milk or water; as also arms, and a few garments, which, together with some wooden bowls, jugs, small millstones for grinding corn, cooking utensils, looms for weaving camel-hair cloth, and sundry small articles, constituted the whole furniture of the habitations of these wanderers of the Desert.

The people continued to press around us in a most annoying manner. Boxall said he would complain to the sheikh’s wife, in order that we might be allowed to rest in peace. He accordingly made his way through the crowd—who treated him with more respect than they did the rest of us—and that lady soon made her appearance, and in a threatening way ordered them to disperse. Though they obeyed her, they cast no very friendly glances at us; and in a short time many returned—with others who, though they did not enter the tent, crowded round the opening to have a look at us. Indeed, not till some time after night closed in were we allowed to rest in quiet.

We had been asleep some hours when I was aroused by a shout; and starting up, I heard Ben cry out, “Hallo! what do you want with us, old fellow?” Selim gave a shriek, and Boxall and Halliday sprang to their feet, when by the dim light of the stars I caught sight of a number of heads, adorned with horns and long beards, at the entrance of the tent. The creatures, undaunted by our shouts, rushed in, butting against us, and evidently determined to take possession of the tent. We soon discovered them to be goats, which had been turned out for our accommodation, and now seemed inclined to dispute possession and reclaim their former abode.

“Since you have come here you shall pay for your footing, and give us some milk for breakfast,” exclaimed Ben, trying to seize one of them. The creature, however, was not to be easily caught; and eluding his grasp, it bolted out, followed by the rest, which we in vain tried to secure. They did not return, and we were allowed to pass the rest of the night in quiet.

The next morning, after the usual form of prayer had been gone through, the scouts reported that Sheikh Hamed’s people were nowhere in the neighbourhood, and the order was given to strike camp. The women immediately began to lower the tents, and to roll up the coverings in packages suitable for stowage on the camels’ backs. Even the sheikh’s wife and daughters performed their part, with our assistance. The men were in the meantime bringing in the baggage camels—which, kneeling down, were rapidly loaded.

We marched much as we had been accustomed to do with Sheikh Hamed’s tribe: a strong guard of armed men brought up the rear, scouts were sent out on our flanks, and another body, with which the sheikh generally rode, went ahead,—the whole covering the plain for an immense distance. There must have been three thousand camels, at the least, with several thousand sheep and goats, and a considerable number of horses and asses. Thus we moved forward day after day towards the north-east; not in a direct line, however, for we had frequently to make détours to reach wells or water-holes, or spots where water could be obtained by digging. Sometimes, too, we had to push across sandy regions in which not a drop of water could be found. On such occasions the poor animals, with the exception of the camels, suffered greatly; and even they became sensibly weakened, while we ourselves suffered greatly, from the want of water.

We were allowed to ride on camels, but were otherwise—with the exception of Boxall—treated as slaves. I was allotted to the sheikh’s wife, who proved a very imperious mistress. Ben had been claimed by a relation of the sheikh, the owner of a camel of the celebrated Bu Saef breed, noted for its speed, which it was his especial duty to tend; while Halliday and Selim became the property of other principal men related to the sheikh. Boxall, in his character of a doctor, belonged to the sheikh, though he was allowed to practise among all in the camp who claimed his services. My condition, from being able to act as interpreter, was better than it might otherwise have been; and I often blessed my old friend Andrew Spurling for having incited me to study Arabic. Boxall, however, confessed to me that he was on dangerous ground. Had he possessed a stock of simple medicines with the properties of which he was well acquainted, he believed he might have been the means of alleviating the sufferings of many; but he was well aware that if any patient should die to whom he had given a draught, he would be accused of murdering him, and in all probability be put to death. He had therefore to confine his skill to bruises, wounds, or broken limbs, which he invariably treated with the cold-water system whenever water was to be procured; and as his patients recovered, his reputation was thus maintained.

I cannot recount one tenth part of the adventures we met with during that long march northward across the Sahara. Occasionally the monotony of our life was diversified by hunting ostriches and several kinds of deer. The former were run down by horsemen, who formed a large circle, compelling the birds to turn round and round till their strength was exhausted.

Water became scarcer as we advanced into the Desert. The camels and other animals had drunk their fill at some pools in a valley, the water-skins had been filled, and we had now an immense extent of arid sand to traverse before we could reach another well. There was no means of avoiding this region, which even the bravest looked on with dread. We commenced our march before the sun was up, stopping only for a hasty prayer, and then pushing on again. Instead of spreading over the plain, as usual, the camels and other animals were kept close together, forming a broad, dense line. A few hours of rest were to be allowed at night; we were then again to advance; and so we were to proceed till the oasis could be reached, as the destruction of the whole caravan might be the result of delay. Almost in silence we moved over the glittering plain. The fiery sun struck down on our heads, and the heat was such that the air seemed to dance around us. Hour after hour we moved on, a few words being now and then exchanged, or songs sung by the light-hearted, or tales told by the most loquacious of story-tellers. I observed skeletons of camels and men sticking out of the sand, as the caravan deviated slightly to avoid them; for they extended across the plain half a mile or more. On making inquiries, I found that the skeletons were those of a caravan which, while crossing the Desert on their way south, had been overtaken by a simoom, and had perished, when only half a day’s journey from the pools we had left. The sight certainly did not tend to raise our spirits; we had nearly three days’ journey before us, and in the course of that time we might be exposed to the same danger.

We encamped for a little at night, but having no fuel, were compelled to eat our provisions cold.

During the next day the heat was more intense than ever, and our thirst increased in proportion. Soon after mid-day, a bright lake of shining water, as it seemed, appeared before us, with animals feeding on its banks; the walls of a city, with its domes, and spires, and tall palm-trees, behind. How delightful was the spectacle! Eager to reach it, I could not help urging on my camel; many others did the same, but our leaders proceeded as deliberately as before, regarding the spectacle with no concern; when, as we advanced, it suddenly vanished, and I found that we had been deceived by a mirage, so common in the Desert.

The atmosphere had hitherto been calm, not a cloud dimmed the bright blue sky; but before long the wind, hot as from a furnace, swept by us, the sun struck down on our heads with irresistible force, while the azure of the sky changed to a lurid tint. I saw the Arabs looking anxiously at each other. Stronger and stronger came the wind, blowing the sand like spray from off the ground. Turning my head, I observed a dark cloud advancing towards us, sweeping over the ground. On it came, rising upwards, and completely obscuring the heavens. In vain would we have attempted to escape from it; almost immediately we were enveloped in a vast mass of sand, through which even the sun’s rays, with all their power, could not penetrate. Darker and darker it grew, till we could scarcely distinguish those who rode on either side of us; while sand filled eyes, ears, and mouth, and covered our hair, even penetrating through our clothes. The Arabs shouted to each other to keep together, and dashed forward; but thicker and thicker came the storm. My tongue felt as if turned to leather, a burning thirst attacked me, and it was with difficulty I could speak; while others were suffering even more severely than I was.

The sheikh had called a halt; and those in the rear came crowding up, almost riding over the front ranks before they were aware that they had reached them. Men and animals stood huddled together in a vast mass. To lie down would have been death; had any attempted to do so, they would either have been trampled under foot or have been buried beneath the sand. The fierce wind rendered it useless to pitch the tents, seeing they would have been blown down as soon as erected, or carried away before the blast. Occasionally those nearest each other would ask whether the storm was at the worst; but no one dared reply.

The clouds of sand became thicker and thicker; we seemed to have death alone to expect. Complete silence prevailed; the horses hung their tongues out of their mouths, the camels drooped their heads, while the sheep and goats struggled to free themselves from the sand collecting around them.

Thus hour after hour went by, and many of the Arabs, though accustomed to such storms, gave themselves up for lost. But suddenly the wind changed, and seemed to drive back the clouds which surrounded us; objects hitherto obscured came into view; and once more the voices of the leaders could be heard. The order to advance was given, and again we dashed forward, though so exhausted with thirst that we could scarcely keep our seats, while those on foot with difficulty dragged on their weary limbs.

At nightfall we encamped, and small measures of water, or of such milk as the camels and goats could yield, were served out to the people; but the portion we obtained was scarcely sufficient to cool our parched tongues. Our very skin felt like leather, and was cracked and scorched all over. A short time only could be given for rest, however; another blast might sweep up clouds of sand and overwhelm us; another fatiguing march during a day and night over the Desert had to be passed. Besides, every drop of water was expended; and though the camels might go on with comparative ease, we must all of us expect to suffer dreadfully,—but more especially the women and children.

Again we advanced; but another day might witness the destruction of many who had hitherto held out bravely. We went on as fast as the camels could move their limbs. The expectation that water would be found ahead incited us to exertion, I suppose, otherwise many would have sunk down and resigned themselves to their fate. At length the faint outline of palm-trees was seen in the far distance. Shouts of joy were uttered by those in advance, and taken up by the multitude in the rear. Soon the palm-trees became more and more distinct; and even the animals seemed to know that relief would soon be obtained.

In a short time the whole caravan was collected round a large well, from which eager hands were employed in drawing water. Some time passed, however, before we could obtain a draught, as even the animals were considered more worthy to enjoy the water than we Nazarenes were.

We here encamped, that both human beings and animals might recruit their strength. It was curious to remark the contrast between the flocks which came up to receive water at the well and those which had already slaked their thirst; the latter bounded and leaped about, showing how quickly the refreshing liquid had restored their strength.

I have elsewhere described the appearance of our camp, and the mode of proceeding never varied. Before we started in the morning, the male part of the population were called out to prayer; the herdsmen then departed in all directions to tend the camels, horses, sheep, and goats while grazing. As the day advanced, the extreme heat, and the absence of most of the men, deprived the camp of all its bustle: a few women were alone to be seen, occupied in grinding between two stones the barley which was to serve for the evening repast; others were employed at their looms, weaving camel-hair cloth, within the shade of the tents.

In the evening the whole scene became one of the greatest animation. Various travellers were arriving, and seeking the hospitality of the sheikh and his people: some came in troops, lightly mounted; others with camels loaded with articles to dispose of in the Desert. The sheikh sat on his carpet in front of his tent, calmly smoking his long hookah, and habited in a white haique of extreme fineness, which hung over another garment of sky-blue, ornamented on each side of the breast with silk embroidery of various colours. On his feet were red morocco boots, tastefully figured; while, instead of a turban, he wore round his head—which was entirely shaved—a band of blue silk, a sign of his rank. Each Arab as he arrived made his camel kneel before the tent, and then, holding his musket in one hand, he touched the sheikh’s head with the other in token of respect. The sheikh congratulated each one on his arrival, and returned the numerous salutations, without even inquiring from whence the traveller came, or whither he was going.

Before dark, all were assembled for evening prayer; after which the travellers formed themselves into groups, partaking out of one common bowl the couscoussu prepared for them by their hosts. As night approached the camels and flocks came trotting in; and by a peculiar instinct each herd arranged itself before the tent to which it belonged, the women hurrying out to milk the she-camels and goats. The hubbub which ensued, caused by the numerous animals assembled, may be imagined. A perfect calm then succeeded the bustle: the inhabitants retired to their tents—the travellers, enveloped in their cloaks, lying down with their camels by the side of the waning fires; the cattle, closely packed together, remained immovable till morning,—and, notwithstanding the number collected, not a sound was heard during the night.

The routine of every ordinary day, when we were not travelling, was similar to that I have described.

Our position in the camp had not improved of late. By some means or other I had offended my hasty mistress and her young daughters, and this prejudicing the mind of the sheikh against me, I was ordered to perform the same sort of service as that to which Halliday and Ben had been condemned; while we were told that from henceforth we must march, like the other slaves, on foot. This encouraged a marabout, who hitherto had not interfered with us, to insist that we should turn Mohammedans; and every day we were summoned to hear him abuse the Christians, and to listen to his arguments in favour of the faith of the Prophet. Boxall, too, had not been so successful in his cures as at first. One of his patients, suffering from some internal disease, and who had broken his arm by a fall from a camel, died, and Boxall was accused of killing him—though he protested his innocence, and even the sheikh said that the man might have died from other causes. But from that day the people lost faith in him; and he was finally reduced from his post as surgeon-general of the tribe to serve with us as a camel-driver.

Though the life he had now to bear, however, was one of daily toil, he accepted his position without complaining. “I confess, my dear Charlie,” he said to me soon afterwards, “that I often felt ashamed of myself, while I was enjoying the favour of the sheikh and the abundant food he provided for me,—simply because I happened to know a little about medicine and surgery,—to see you and Halliday ill-treated and badly fed, and to be unable to help you. However, now that we are together, perhaps we may be better able to manage some means of escape. I have been endeavouring to calculate our present position, and I believe that we are not more than four hundred miles south of the borders of Morocco or Algiers. Should we reach Morocco, we might not be much better off in some respects than we are at present, as the Moors are even more fanatical than these wandering Arabs; but we might find the means of communicating with one of the English consuls on the coast, and probably obtain our release: whereas, if we could get into the neighbourhood of the frontier of Algiers, we might, on escaping, place ourselves under the protection of the French. To reach one of their outposts would, of course, be a difficulty; for, even supposing that we could escape from the camp, a journey by ourselves of three or four hundred miles across the Desert would be dangerous in the extreme, with the probability of being pursued by the Arabs. Notwithstanding this, I am inclined to the latter plan, provided my calculations of our position should prove correct.”

“So am I,” I answered. “As for the dangers we may have to encounter, I am perfectly ready to face them; so I am sure will Halliday, Ben, and Selim—for we must not on any account leave the black lad behind.”

The plans for escape formed the subject of our conversation whenever we met. We were all of one mind about it, and we resolved not to desert each other, but to remain or escape together.

Seeing I could converse with the Arabs with greater ease than the others, Boxall charged me to try and ascertain exactly whereabout we were, adding—“But be cautious about exhibiting any special interest in the matter.”

Whenever strangers came into the camp, therefore, I got into conversation with them, and tried to learn whence they had come, and how long they had been on their journey, hoping to find some one who had visited either the Atlantic or Mediterranean shores of the continent; but no one I had met with had performed less than a journey of thirty days in coming from the city of Morocco, or forty or more from Fez—which of course placed us still a long way to the south of Algiers. We had therefore to wait patiently till the sheikh should move his camp further northward. We heard, however, of several large cities in different parts of the Desert: Timbuctoo, a long way to the south; Tintellust and Agadly, to the east; Tafleet and the beautiful oasis of Draha, to the north-west of us,—to all of which places travellers were proceeding.

Ben was at this time in a better position than we were. Being a handy fellow, and understanding something of smith-work, he had mended the locks of some of the Arabs’ firearms; and the whole of his time, when not occupied in tending his camel, was employed in repairing the damaged weapons of our masters. He held his position, however, among those capricious people, by a very uncertain tenure. The marabouts fancied, from his easy, good-natured manner, that they could without difficulty induce him to turn Mohammedan, and set to work with him, as they had done with us, to show the excellence of their religion.

“Look you here, my friends,” answered Ben, after listening with perfect gravity for some time, when one evening he and I, with the rest of our party, were seated on the ground at our supper, and two of these so-called holy men came up to us. “If it’s a good thing for a man to have a dozen—or even fifty—wives, to cut throats, to steal, and commit all sorts of rogueries, then your religion may be a good one; but if not, why, do ye see—begging your pardons, no offence being intended—to my mind it was invented by the devil, and your Prophet, as you call him, was as big a rogue as ever lived.—Just tell them, Mr Blore, what I say; for I never can make these marabout chaps understand my lingo.”

Knowing that Ben’s remarks would not be favourably received, I confess that I did not translate them literally, but replied: “My brother listens with all respect to the wisdom which has proceeded from your mouths. We all acknowledge Allah, and look to him for everything we possess; but we have been taught to put faith in another Prophet, whom we believe to be greater than any human being, and therefore we cannot deny Him by acknowledging any other.”

“Mohammed was superior to all other prophets!” exclaimed the marabouts. “Those who do not believe this are worthy of death and eternal damnation.”

“It is just on that point we differ, my friends,” I answered with perfect calmness. “You believe one thing, we believe another. In the end we shall know which is right. In the meantime, why should we wrangle and dispute? or why should you grow angry with us because we do not agree with you?”

“The more we love you, the more anxious we are for your conversion,” answered the marabouts.

“You take a curious way of showing it,” I could not help observing, causing thereby something like a smile on the grave countenances of the priests—who did not, however, again attempt a theological discussion with us. Ben managed to make his opinions known, though, and received very severe treatment in consequence. The sheikh no longer continued to protect him any more than he did us; and when the tribe moved forward, he was compelled to trudge on foot, separated from his camel—which on such occasions was bestrode by his master.

Many a weary day’s march we had to make. Sometimes, however, we remained for several weeks together at an oasis, where wells would be found, and herbage for the beasts, with groves of date-trees. Here we had time to regain our strength; and our masters being generally in better humour, we were in consequence less harshly dealt with.

Still, our existence was daily becoming more and more unendurable, and only the hope of ultimately escaping kept up our spirits, and prevented us sinking altogether into despair. Had we consented to abandon our religion, our homes, and civilisation, we might have been raised to a high position among these barbarians; and I believe that Boxall and I might have become sheikhs ourselves. The beautiful Coria, the youngest of the sheikh’s daughters, showed me at first many marks of her esteem; but my refusal to embrace their religion, even for her sake, changed her love into hatred, and she became my most bitter persecutor.

At length we heard that we were approaching a town, which we hoped might prove to be at no great distance from the borders of Algiers. Our knowledge of the interior of Africa, however, was very imperfect; or, I may say, we knew nothing at all about it—our only recollection of the Desert being a vast blank space, with a few spots upon it marked “oases,” with Lake Tchad and Timbuctoo on its southern border, and a very indefinite line marked Algiers and Morocco. The place we were approaching was, we heard, the permanent abode of the sheikh; and the country, though arid according to European notions, was more fertile than any we had yet seen—palms and other trees being scattered about, with ranges of hills in the distance.

The Arabs manifested their joy by singing and uttering shouts of delight, praising the country to us as if it were a perfect paradise. Here and there were fields of barley, with some low tents in their midst; and a grove of date-trees circling a well, near which was an open space. The sheikh advanced into the centre, and the camels immediately halting, they were unloaded, and all hands set to work to erect the tents. The tribe had reached their home, after their long pilgrimage.

There seemed, however, no prospect of our lot being improved. We had not been long settled when a cavalcade arrived, the persons composing which differed greatly in appearance from those among whom we had so long lived. Their leader was a handsomely dressed, fine-looking Arab. He wore a haique, over which was a cloak of blue cloth, with a well-arranged turban on his head. The costume of his followers was nearly as becoming; their horses were large and well-caparisoned, their saddles being covered with scarlet cloth, to which hung enormous silver stirrups; while they were profusely covered with ornaments of the same material. Each horseman was armed with a poignard and sabre, and pistols in his sash; while he carried before him—the but resting on the saddle—a fine silver-mounted Moorish gun.

The same ceremonies as I have before described were gone through; an entertainment also being prepared for the new-comers.

After some time we were summoned to attend the sheikh, when we found that he was offering to sell us to his visitors. The price to be paid we could not ascertain, nor the object of our proposed purchasers; our only consolation was that we were to be sold together, and should not thus be separated.

What other object the visitors had in coming to the camp we could not learn. I had my suspicions, however, when I heard the young sheikh—whose name was Siddy Ischem—invite our master to accompany him.

“No! Allah be praised, I have never been accustomed to towns and their ways; and within stone and brick walls I hope not to enter, unless I go at the head of my people, sword in hand, to plunder and destroy the cursed infidels,—when, with the blessing of Mohammed, I will get out again as soon as the work is accomplished.”

“Each man to his taste,” answered Siddy Ischem. “A city affords its pleasures as well as the Desert.”

The greater part of the next morning was spent at the camp. We were then ordered to be ready to march. Siddy Boo Cassem, owner of the famous Bu Saef camel, with several of his tribe, accompanied our party. No camels or horses were allowed us, however, and having to march on foot, a dreary, fatiguing journey we found it. Some of our masters rode on either side of us, to prevent the possibility of our running away; though where we could have run to it was hard to say. We travelled on all day, the night overtaking us while we were still on the road. In about an hour, however, the moon rose, and enabled us better to see the path.

Not long afterwards, we caught sight of a lofty tower rising out of the plain, and the dark frowning walls of a fortified town; and from the remarks of the Arabs we learned that this was our destination. We soon came under the walls, when the leaders of our band began to defile through a narrow archway. My heart sank within me, for I felt that the difficulties of escape would be increased. I expressed my feelings to Boxall; but he rejoined,—“Such walls as these can be easily scaled; and if we once get on the outside, we are not so likely to be observed and followed as from an open camp. Cheer up, Charlie; ‘it’s a long lane that has no turning.’”

Even he, however, felt somewhat dispirited when we were conducted to a long, low building, into which we were thrust, and the door closed upon us. All we could discover in the gloom was that the walls were of bare stone, with rings and chains secured to them, and that the floor was excessively dirty. We were so tired from our journey that we longed to lie down; but we were unable to do so until we could scrape from the floor the offal which thickly covered it.

“I hope they are not going to send us supperless to bed,” exclaimed Ben. “Can’t you sing out that we are in want of food, Mr Blore, and that we shall be much obliged to them if they will send us something to drink at the same time?”

There was a single, strongly-barred window in the room, looking into the street. I went to it, and cried at the top of my voice, “Oh, pity! oh, pity! oh, pity! Will any one have compassion on us, and bring us some food to supply our wants?”

My appeal was not in vain, for before long the door opened and a veiled female appeared, bringing a basket with the universal couscoussu, some dates, and a bottle of water. Without uttering a word she placed the basket on the ground, and retired as silently as she had entered; not even allowing us time to thank her for her kindness. All we could do was to bless her after she had gone, and wonder who she could be; and then we set to with hearty appetites to devour the viands she had brought us. Finding some pieces of wood, we next scraped a spot in the corner of our prison clear of dirt; and then throwing ourselves on the ground, forgot our cares in sleep.

Chapter Fifteen.

Ben displays his ability as a gunsmith—I act the part of eavesdropper—How Siddy Boo Cassem obtained Bu Saef—Selim goes on a dangerous expedition—Its result—Boxall doctors Siddy Boo Cassem—We take French leave of our masters.

Scarcely had daylight appeared when the door opened, and a number of inquisitive faces—belonging to people of all descriptions who had come to see us—appeared at the entrance. Some gazed in silence, but many amused themselves by abusing us, and bestowing on us all sorts of uncomplimentary names. We endured the abuse for some time without replying; but at last I got up and said—

“What is it that excites your curiosity, O followers of the prophet Mohammed? Are we not formed like yourselves? In what do we differ, except that your skins are dark and ours light; that you are at home, and we come from a far-distant land; that you speak one language, and we speak another—although Allah has given us the power of acquiring yours? We have no wish to insult you, and why should you take a pleasure in insulting us?”

The people were greatly astonished at hearing me address them in their own language. What I had said had also considerable effect, for they instantly ceased abusing us; and several of them began to ask questions about our country, and the business which had brought us to Africa.

Affairs were taking a more favourable turn, when one of those abominable marabouts came in and reminded the people that we were Nazarenes, and haters of the Prophet, and endeavoured thus to incite their fanatical zeal against us. What would have been the result I do not know, had not Siddy Ischem made his appearance. As we had become his property, he had no wish to see us injured; so he quickly drove the people away, and ordered us to accompany him to the house where he was staying.

We soon reached a one-storied building, having a gateway, through which we passed into a courtyard, round which ran a colonnade. Part of the courtyard was covered with an awning, under which, on a carpet, sat a richly dressed Arab, by whose side Siddy Ischem took his seat, and then calling us up, desired us to narrate our adventures. I did so, explaining that three of us were officers who had been wrecked on the coast; that I felt sure a handsome price would be paid for our ransom; whereas, if we were kept in slavery, though we might labour ever so hard we could be of little profit to our masters.

I do not know whether the sheikh was moved by what I said, but he told a slave standing by to bring us some food, and desired us to sit down in the shade and eat it. He then ordered us to go to the stables and groom the horses, saying at the same time that we must be prepared to continue our journey the next day.

We found that the town in which we were, was one of those built by the Romans when their colonies spread over the northern shores of Africa. The town had long fallen into decay, the sands of the Desert having gradually encroached on it till the greater portion of the land fit for cultivation had been overwhelmed. The only habitable houses were one story in height, composed of sunburned bricks, and with flat roofs, on which the occupants seemed to spend most of their time.

I forgot to say that we discovered our abode, which we at first took for a prison, to be merely a stable, and that the rings and chains were simply intended to secure refractory horses.

We performed the duties assigned us as well as we could; and Ben’s talent as a gunsmith being noised abroad, he was called on to repair all the damaged firearms in the place—we assisting him as well as we could—at a smith’s shop to which we were conducted.

“What wonderful people are these Nazarenes!” observed some of the bystanders. “They know everything.”

“Yes,” remarked others; “the Jins teach them. It is their turn now; but they will burn throughout eternity. Curses rest on them! Allah is great; we have paradise for our portion.”

Similar remarks were made during the time we were at work; while some of the spectators, to show their contempt, spat at us; and several came up threatening us with their fists, to prove their zeal for their religion. But we had been too long accustomed to this sort of treatment to take any notice of it; and even Ben went on with his work, filing, hammering, and screwing away,—only remarking, when he understood what was said, “That’s all you know about it.”

Those who had their weapons mended went away contented; but as we could not repair half the number brought to us, the owners of the rest were very indignant, and we were glad to get back to our dirty stable out of their way.

During the evening, Siddy Boo Cassem, Ben’s master, made his appearance, and informed him that he was to remain in his service, to attend to his Bu Saef camel when he himself was not riding the animal.

“Not a few clever rogues have attempted to run off with the creature, which is to me as the apple of my eye; but I know that you Nazarenes would not know where to run to, so I can trust you,” he observed.

I told Ben what Siddy Boo Cassem had said.

“Let him give me the chance, and I will see what I can do,” he answered.

We were allowed another night’s rest, with a sufficiency of food,—for just then provisions were plentiful in the place, or we should have been left by our masters to pick up what we could. We tried in vain to discover who the charitable female was who had brought us provisions on the previous evening. It confirmed my belief, however, that Woman is the same all the world over; and that in every place some are to be found who, according to the light within them, endeavour to do their duty in the sight of God, by affording sympathy and help to their fellow-creatures in distress.

Again we were on the road,—Ben being summoned to attend to his master, while we trudged wearily on foot. Having neither cattle, sheep, nor goats to impede us, our progress was more rapid than it had been across the Desert. The baggage was carried on camels and asses; while the more wealthy people rode, and the rest had to walk.

For several days we advanced, passing numerous ruins, which showed how thickly the country at one time had been populated. At last one afternoon we encamped on high ground, outside an ancient town or fortress, amid which palms and other trees had grown up, attesting its antiquity. The tents were pitched, and Boxall, Halliday, and I were sent out with the horses and camels to graze on the pastures surrounding the hill. Returning in the evening, we met Ben with his camel—beside which it was his duty to sleep close to his master’s tent. Ours was not far off.

“I have a notion, Mr Blore,” said Ben, “that if you could take my place for the evening, you would find out more of what these fellows are about than I can. Half-a-dozen or more are sure to be seated in front of the tent for a couple of hours or so after dark, talking away, and smoking their pipes; but for the life of me, though I listen, I cannot make out what they say. They will not know the difference between you and I, however, and the camel will be as quiet with you as he is with me.”

I was very willing to take advantage of Ben’s suggestion; so giving my horses into his keeping, I took his camel and led it up in front of Siddy Boo Cassem’s tent, where, making it lie down, I threw myself on the ground near it. Its owner and several friends were seated, as Ben expected,—the hoods of their burnouses, drawn over their heads, making them look more like a party of old crones than stalwart Arabs habituated to war and the chase; or I might have taken them for the witches in “Macbeth” discussing their malevolent designs. On one side were the ruined walls of the Roman town, with a tall monument rising above them; in front were the tents, spread beneath a few sparsely scattered palm-trees; while beyond could be seen the boundless Desert, the crescent moon casting a pale light over the scene.

As Siddy Boo Cassem knew that Ben could not understand him, even had he been, as he supposed, near at hand, he and his friends spoke in loud tones; every now and then indulging in a chuckling laugh at each other’s wit, or at the recollection of some scene in which they had been engaged. I listened attentively, endeavouring to catch all they said. Much of their conversation was not very edifying, but I became all attention when Siddy Boo Cassem began to talk of his famous camel, and to boast of his deads.

“Curses on the mother who bore them!” he exclaimed. “The rogues would like to have him again, if they knew how near he was to them; but I will take good care that none of their tribe scour again over the plain on his back. He is not likely to remember his old haunts, or the masters who owned him, or I should not have brought him so near them again.”

“How did you obtain him, O friend of the Prophet?” asked one of the party.

“As wise men obtain what they desire and cannot otherwise get,” answered Siddy Boo Cassem. “I stole him. I heard the report of his swiftness, and determined to become his master. At that time I possessed two fine black slaves, nimble of foot, and cunning in all their ways. Mounted on a fleet steed, of black hue, in case I should have to beat a retreat, and accompanied by my two slaves, I approached the camp an hour after midnight. One of the slaves had also visited the camp some days before, that he might ascertain where the Bu Saef was wont to be tethered; and I had promised him his liberty should we succeed. I remained behind a ruined wall, through which I had a view of the camp. Anxiously I watched, till in less than an hour I distinguished through the gloom the shadowy figure of the longed-for camel coming across the plain towards me. I already felt that he was mine, and could scarcely refrain from galloping forward to meet him. He reached the ruins, the faithful lad leading him; but just at the moment I was mounting on his back a party of horsemen were seen issuing from the camp. Alee threw himself upon my horse, while I gave Bu Saef the rein. Fleet as the wind he flew over the plain. A shriek reached my ears; my slave had received his death-blow. A shot followed; neither Alee nor my black horse did I ever see more. But I had obtained the object of my desire, at the price of a horse and two slaves, which was as nothing compared to his value. Ever since, for many a long year, have I ridden Bu Saef across the Desert in safety, distancing every foe when pursued, following up their traces when they have been attempting to escape, and ascertaining the whereabouts of their camp.”

“Allah is great! you performed a fine stroke of business,” exclaimed the company in chorus.

“Ho, ho! if you stole Bu Saef, we shall be justified in returning him to his former owners, Siddy Boo Cassem,” I thought to myself. But how that was to be done, was the question. Bu Saef could not carry all five of us, that was certain; and probably would refuse to move unless mounted by his accustomed rider. I listened as eagerly as before to the conversation, which went on without cessation for some hours; for the Arabs are as good talkers as any people on the earth. I gathered from what I heard that our party had advanced nearly as far north as it was considered prudent to go, as the country beyond was held by the infidels, or by tribes on friendly terms with them; that the great chief, Abd-el-Kader, having been captured, his hordes were dispersed; and that the tribe from which the Bu Saef had been stolen was now encamped at no great distance from where we were. Of course, I knew that the infidels spoken of were the French; and I felt sure that, could we communicate with any outpost, the officer in command would do his utmost to obtain our liberation—though that might be a difficult matter to accomplish. The tribes of the Desert still entertained hostile feelings towards those who were on friendly terms with the French, and no intercourse was maintained between them. The exact object of our expedition I could not learn; but that was of little consequence. The great point to decide was the means of getting away; and that I did not despair of, difficult as it appeared.

I lay perfectly still, so that, should any of the Arabs look towards me, they might suppose I was asleep. My only fear was that Siddy Boo Cassem might summon Ben, when I should run a great risk of being discovered, and he might suspect that I had an object in taking his slave’s place. I was relieved at length when the Arabs separated, some going into Siddy Boo Cassem’s tent, and others elsewhere. At last, on hearing loud snoring from the tent, I crept slowly away, crouching down on the ground till I found Ben, who in like manner returned to his proper place.

After this, as may be supposed, we could talk of nothing else but the means of escape. The distance between us and the tribe we wished to reach was about thirty miles. On foot, it would be scarcely possible to accomplish that distance during the night, even were we to run the whole distance. We should also probably fall in with natives, who might take it into their heads to stop us, and perhaps put us to death; while, as soon as our flight was discovered, we should certainly be pursued.

Selim, who was as anxious to escape as we were, volunteered to go first, to try and find some place in which we might conceal ourselves should we be pursued, and where we might remain till the camp had broken up and returned southward. He believed that he would have time to make a search during the night for the sort of place which would answer our purpose, and to return before daybreak without being discovered.

If not pursued, we intended to push on as far as we could without stopping. We therefore hid away as large a stock of provisions as we could, so that, should we be obliged to lie concealed for any length of time, we might not be starved. From the information I gained, too, it seemed likely that we should soon be shifting our camp, and we could scarcely expect to reach a place from which we were so likely to make our escape as where we now were. Besides, the moon was nearly at its full, and though we might get out of the camp more easily during the dark, still we could not find our way unless with the light which it would afford us. We had already wandered over the country for some distance from the hill, and had carefully noted the road that it was evident we should take. We determined, therefore, no longer to put off our adventure.

Selim slipped out directly all around him were asleep, made his way down the hill without being seen, and was soon lost in the darkness. We resolved, should he return unobserved, and report favourably, to start the next night.

So anxious were we all, we could with difficulty go to sleep, though we did not expect him back for some hours. My eyes at length closed; and it seemed but a moment afterwards when I heard a voice whispering in my ear, and looking up, saw Selim seated by my side. “All right,” he said; “I have discovered an old ruin, about a mile from this, some way off the highroad; and though I had no little fear of meeting with hyenas or other wild beasts, I explored it completely, and found within the walls a hollow space with a narrow entrance, in which we might remain concealed—even if the people are looking for us—by blocking up the passage with a few stones. The place I speak of will do even though we are pursued immediately on leaving the camp. After this I went on for two hours, when I found, amid a grove of palm-trees, a still larger ruin. One side had fallen down; and I thought that if I could climb up I might find some chambers or hollows in the heaps of ruins, in which we might conceal ourselves without much risk of being discovered. I was not disappointed; and if we can reach that spot without being seen, we may remain there in safety till our pursuers have returned.”

This information greatly raised our spirits, and we resolved to leave the camp without further delay, and make our way to the tribe in alliance with the French.

We had of late performed our respective duties with such apparent cheerfulness that the Arabs supposed we were reconciled to our lot. Providence, too, just then favoured us in a way we little expected. Siddy Boo Cassem fell ill, and recollecting that Boxall was supposed to possess medical knowledge, he sent for him; directing me to come also, to act as interpreter. Boxall very conscientiously recommended a sudorific, and charged him to keep himself well covered up during the night, and on no account to leave his couch. We accordingly piled on the top of him all the cloaks and rugs we could find, and so wrapped him up that he could not well move had he wished it. Unsuspicious of our designs, he promised to follow Boxall’s injunctions.

The moon was now waning, and would not rise till some time after the occupants of the camp had gone to sleep. Selim, we agreed, was to start first; Boxall, Halliday, and I, should we not be interrupted, were to follow; while Ben, mounted on the camel, was to make his way down the hill, and place himself at our head, in order that, should he be seen, he might be taken for some traveller, with his attendants, leaving the camp on a night journey. As soon as we were out of sight of the camp, Ben was to start off at full speed to the northward; and as I had instructed him what to say, we hoped he would be able to make himself sufficiently understood to induce the tribe to move forward to our rescue.

Selim set off at the time agreed on, and soon disappeared in the darkness. We then crept out one by one, and made our way among the sleeping camels and horses, unobserved by any of their keepers. We next waited anxiously for the appearance of Ben; who, to our great satisfaction, at last came riding down the hill, and placed himself at our head,—when it was almost ludicrous to observe the air of unconcern he assumed as he rode forward at our head. The plain we had to pass was perfectly open, without a tree or shrub to conceal us, so that all we could hope for was that no suspicious eyes might be turned in the direction we were pursuing. On we went, wishing that Ben would hasten forward with the camel; but there he sat, letting the beast walk at its usual pace—which, when it was not obliged to put forth its powers, was unusually slow.

We had got round the hill, and were steering northward, when, as we looked over our shoulders, what was our dismay to see several Arabs mounted on camels coming down from the camp at full speed! It was evident that Ben had been seen, and his object suspected.

Boxall shouted to him to push on without thinking of us, and not to pull rein till he had reached those who might be induced to come to our assistance.

“Ay, ay, sir,” he answered. “Trust me for that. I’ll not drop anchor till Bu Saef has rejoined his old masters.”

Saying this, off he went; and we felt very sure that, fleet as were the camels who were pursuing him, he would not be overtaken. In a few seconds he was out of sight.

Chapter Sixteen.

Hotly pursued—Ben gallops off on Bu Saef—We find concealment in a ruin—Surrounded by our pursuers—A fierce conflict—Ben appears—A friendly reception—How Ben arrived at the French camp—Sail for Old England—Conclusion.

We ran on as fast as our legs could carry us, hoping that the Arabs, having their eyes fixed on Ben, had not perceived us. Bu Saef had a long start, for the other camels while descending the hill could not advance so rapidly as on the plain. We had thus also an advantage, of which we were determined to make the best use: inured to long tramps across the Desert, with but little flesh on our bones, and our muscles well strung, we could run as fast as any ordinary camels over the hard ground. We were in good wind, too, and had no fear of getting tired; instead, therefore, of stopping at the first place Selim had discovered, we pushed on for the ruined temple he had discovered in the wood. I may formerly have run faster for a short distance, but never had I gone over so many miles of ground at such a rate.

Almost before I thought it possible that we could have got so far, Selim, who led the way, pointing to a wood, cried out, “There’s the place where we can hide ourselves!” We immediately darted into it, he leading us amid the trees to the ruins he had described, and up which we quickly scrambled. Now and again turning our heads where the ground was more open, and where no trees or other objects impeded the view, we caught glimpses of the shadowy forms of our pursuers against the dark sky; but the sight only nerved us to fresh exertions. Mounting up steps formed by the fallen walls, we gained the top ledge, which had apparently once supported a floor; and creeping along it, and through a narrow doorway, we found ourselves in a small chamber some twenty feet or so above the ground. Numbers of loose stones lay about, with which we instantly set to work to block up the entrance, making as little noise in the operation as we could. A small fracture in the wall would serve as a window, too, on the side which commanded the road, and enable us to look out. By piling up a few stones, I found I was able to reach it; so I took post there to watch our pursuers, while the rest were working as I have described.

Scarcely had I begun to look out when I saw five men on camels, the moon shining on their arms, pushing along as fast as they could go to the northward, evidently supposing that we were before them. I had little fear of their overtaking Ben; indeed, they themselves could scarcely have expected to do so. Had we, however, continued on, they would certainly have come up with us.

Though I would gladly have thrown myself on the ground to rest, I continued looking out from my watchtower. But no other Arabs followed. Probably it was thought that the five armed men could easily master us. My fear was that, when they could not find us, they might suspect where we were hidden, and should come and search the ruins. No one appeared, however; and I had waited for upwards of an hour when I saw the five camels returning at a leisurely pace, the riders looking about them on every side. The trees in front of the building at length hid them from sight. Would they now venture to stop and search for us? As the Arabs have a notion that such places are inhabited by Jins or evil spirits, I was in hopes that they would, at all events, not attempt to explore it till daylight; but even if they did, we considered that we were so securely hidden that they were not likely to find us. At last their voices ceased; whatever might have been their suspicions, they continued their way back to the camp.

We now held a consultation whether we should at once push on to meet our expected friends, or remain in our secure hiding-place till their arrival.

Tired as we were with our long run, during which we had strained every muscle to the utmost, we settled to remain in the ruins till the afternoon; indeed, it was not likely that, even should Ben induce the allies of the French to come to our assistance, they could reach the place for some hours. He would not know, either, whether we had been captured or not; and as it must have seemed to him that there was every probability of our having again fallen into the hands of our task-masters, he might have advised the sheikh to wait till he could send forward a force able to cope with the party under Siddy Boo Cassem.

Our spirits were high, for we had accomplished far more than we expected, and we had every hope of escaping from the galling bondage we had for so long endured.

“Come, Charlie,” said Boxall, “I’ll take the look-out now.” So gladly yielding up my place, I threw myself on the ground, and was asleep in a few moments.

When I awoke, daylight was streaming in through our narrow look-out hole, at which Selim was now stationed, while Boxall and Halliday were fast asleep, they having been in the interval on the watch. I did not wake them; but climbing up where Selim stood, I asked if he had seen anything.

“No,” he answered; “not a single person has passed. The peasantry, I suspect, have fled from this part of the country, and we may possibly make our way to the camp of our friends without meeting any one. It would, however, be a long journey on foot; and should Siddy Boo Cassem send out an expedition, we might run the risk of being overtaken and recaptured.”

Notwithstanding what he said, I could not help feeling a strong desire to push on, and I thought of proposing to Boxall and Halliday to do so. Still, while they slept so soundly, I did not like to awake them.

After some time I told Selim to lie down again, and I would keep watch.

Feeling very hungry, I munched some of the dates and barley-bread which we had brought with us. This made me thirsty, and reminded me that we must search for water before we could attempt to proceed. I was, therefore, on the point of awaking Selim and asking him to make his way out to look for some—he being more likely to succeed than any of us—when the sound of horses’ hoofs on the hard ground reached my ear. Turning my head round, I saw, marching from behind the grove of trees which concealed the road abreast of us, a troop of horsemen, among whom I recognised a number of the chiefs and others whom I had seen at the camp. Several of them dashed into the wood, through which they passed quickly, and then, as I guessed from the sounds which reached me, came close up to the ruin. I fancied that some had dismounted, and were scrambling among the masses of stone searching for us, and I trembled lest we might have left some traces by which they should discover our retreat. I dared not move, for fear they might hear me; and I dreaded every moment that my companions would awake, and, unaware of our danger, utter some sound which might draw attention to us. I was almost afraid to breathe.

More horsemen now appeared on the road, and from the movements of the party there was no doubt that they were convinced we were hiding in the neighbourhood. I listened to the voices of those who were searching for us, and tried to make out what was said. They appeared to be stumbling among the masses of fallen ruins, looking into every hole, and poking their swords into every crevice.

“The cursed Nazarenes cannot be here,” I at last heard one exclaim. “They must have gone on further, if they are not concealed nearer the camp.”

“They may have fleet heels, but they could not have got further than this when we passed the place,” exclaimed a second.

“May curses rest on them and their ancestors,” growled another.

Still my companions slept. Even now I dreaded lest the slightest sound they might make should catch the ears of our pursuers, who at that moment were close under us. It did not occur to them that, like cats, we should have climbed up to such a height; nor, of course, were they aware of the existence of the secret chamber in which we lay hid. Perhaps hundreds of years had passed since it was entered by a human being, and it was next to a miracle that Selim should have discovered it.

How thankful I felt when, by the sounds made by the Arabs as they scrambled over the ruins, I knew that they were returning to their horses. Presently I caught sight of them, as they passed in front of my look-out hole on their way to join their comrades, who had gone on in advance. Not, however, till they were at a considerable distance, did I venture to arouse my companions. I then got Boxall to look out at them, for I suspected he might otherwise suppose that the account I had to give was a creation of my imagination.

He and the rest were all now convinced of the danger we had escaped. The question as to whether we should leave our place of concealment was settled, too, for the present; for, of course, we determined to remain where we were till the Arabs had left the neighbourhood.

I have not repeated one tenth part of the curses heaped on our heads, or the threats of vengeance uttered by our pursuers. Their chief cause of anger, however, was the loss of the famed Bu Saef. Among them I now recognised Siddy Boo Cassem, as well as several of his relatives and friends; and I had not the slightest doubt but that they would have put us to death in revenge for our having carried off the animal. Should they overtake Ben, his fate would be sealed; but we had little fear on his account, as he must, unless some accident had happened to him, be many leagues ahead of his pursuers.

None of us felt inclined to go to sleep again; but we judged it prudent to remain close in our lair, for fear any passer-by should catch sight of us, and inform our enemies on their return. At length we suffered so greatly from thirst, that we were induced to let Selim creep out to try and find water. Boxall had thoughtfully brought away a leathern bottle, such as Arabs always carry with them; but he had not filled it, on account of the weight. We charged Selim not to go far, however, and to conceal himself as much as possible, while he kept a sharp look-out on every side, as it would be far better to endure the severest thirst rather than run the risk of being discovered. Often before had we endured thirst, but on such occasions we had been unable to obtain water; now that it was possible to get it, we could not resist the temptation, notwithstanding the risk to be run.

Having removed a few of the stones, Selim crawled out, and scrambled down among the ruins; but we could not watch him without exposing ourselves, and had therefore to remain in anxious suspense during his absence. It seemed to us a terribly long time; and at length we began to fear that Siddy Boo Cassem’s party would return before he got back to us. We waited and waited, our thirst increasing till we could scarcely bear it longer—one of us all the while keeping a look-out at the only aperture by which we could command a view of the road.

A couple of hours, at the least, must have passed, when we heard a slight noise beneath us; and the next instant Selim came crawling along the ledge, and entered by the hole we had made.

“Quick, quick!” he whispered, “stop it up. I was pursued, and must have been noticed entering the ruin.”

He had brought the bottle full of water, and, in spite of our anxiety, we could not resist putting it in succession to our lips till we had drained it to the bottom.

While the rest sat down, I continued to look out; and we listened anxiously for the approach of the people Selim had seen. In a short time we heard people speaking beneath us. They were Arabs, and, from their style of speaking, natives of the place—who would probably be as ready to deliver us up to one party as the other, and would choose the one with whom they could make the best bargain. They were far more likely to discover us than Siddy Boo Cassem’s followers, as they most probably were well acquainted with the ruin. Our anxiety was somewhat relieved, however, when we heard one of them remark—

“It must have been a Jin, though he looked like a black slave; and this is known to be the dwelling-place of Jins.”

“Take care lest any of them rush out on us,” cried another.

“Allah, Allah, Allah is great, and Mohammed is his Prophet!” they sang out in chorus, as a charm to keep the Jins at a distance.

Notwithstanding their fears, they continued to hunt about. We might possibly, by uttering some wild shrieks or other strange sounds, have put them to flight, but the risk was too great, as they were evidently climbing about among the stones, and making a more thorough search than the other party had done.

Just then I caught sight, in the distance, of a horseman galloping along the road at full speed. His turban was off, and his sword broken. Others followed, in even worse plight; and as they came nearer I saw that blood was streaming from the heads or sides of several of them.

Presently the sound of a dropping fire reached us. A larger body of those who had ridden by in such gallant trim in the morning now galloped past in an opposite direction, without turbans, their weapons broken or lost, their dresses torn, and covered with dust from head to foot. A still larger body followed, keeping close together, and firing as they advanced,—evidently in pursuit of the former.

The Arabs who were hunting for us rushed off on hearing the sounds, and we were left in safety, as far as they were concerned; but whether the pursuers of our late masters would prove friends or foes, we could not tell. They were just at the end of the wood when the fugitives rallied, and charged them with such fury that they were driven back, and we feared that the fortunes of the day would be changed. Several fell on both sides. Siddy Boo Cassem fought with the greatest bravery, and encouraging his followers to merit paradise, again and again charged his foes.

We looked in vain for Bu Saef. Had the camel appeared, our doubts as to Ben’s safety, and the way we should be treated by the hitherto victorious party, would have been set at rest.

Just then, amid the clouds of dust which surrounded the combatants, we caught sight of a fresh body of horsemen coming from the northward. In a few minutes they had reached the scene of conflict, shouting, as they advanced, various battle-cries, some in Arabic, others in French. Presently a cry louder than all the rest reached our ears—a truly British Hurrah!—and at the same time I caught sight of Ben, sticking like wax to the back of a fiery steed, and flourishing a huge sabre, as he led on a party of dark-skinned Arabs, who had to urge forward their steeds to keep up with him. The front ranks, which had hitherto been hotly engaged and hard pressed, wheeled aside to let the new-comers pass. Siddy Boo Cassem saw them coming, and knowing that all hope of victory was lost, shouted to his people, wheeled round his horse, and galloped off as fast as the animal could put his feet to the ground. Ben and his followers then swept by like a whirlwind, and our only fear now was that the gallant fellow might lose his life by a chance shot from the flying enemy.

Having no longer any doubt as to the reception we would meet with, we were about to rush out and join the Algerines; but Boxall stopped us. “Stay,” he exclaimed; “they may suppose we are a party of the enemy lying in ambush. Let one of us go forward and present himself.”

I volunteered, and descending from our place of concealment, advanced outside the wood. Already a party of the Algerine forces had halted to attend to the wounded; while several of the Arabs levelled their rifles at me, and two or three bullets whistled near my head, before I could make them understand that I was a friend.

On reaching the main body, I found several persons dressed in half Oriental and half European costume, some of whom I guessed were French surgeons, from the way they were attending to the wounded Arabs. I quickly made myself known, and met with a cordial reception.

Going to a spot whence I could be seen from the tower, I made the signal agreed on to my friends within it, who at once descended and hurried to the spot. The French officers congratulated us warmly on our wonderful escape, they having heard from Ben of our long captivity. One of them—who was the officer in command—spoke English fairly, and gave us an account of the sailor’s arrival among them, at which they, and even the Arabs, who guessed what we were talking about, laughed heartily.

The information of the approach of an enemy had a short time before been brought to them, and the French had just arrived at the Arab camp preparatory to commencing a march southward, when, by the light of the full moon, a camel, fleet as the wind, was seen approaching the camp. The animal, instead of being reined up by its rider, galloped forward, the assembled multitude making way on either side; when suddenly it stopped, and, as a natural consequence, off flew honest Ben from its back into their midst. Without being in the least disconcerted, as soon as he had picked himself up he began to shout out, in English and such Arabic as he could command—

“Come along, all of you, as fast as you can, and save my officers from being knocked on the head by the villainous crew from whom we have escaped, as we had a right to do.”

How Ben might have been received by the Arabs, it is hard to say; but at that moment the sheikh, the former owner of Bu Saef, came forward and recognised his well-beloved and long-lost camel. In a moment Ben found himself treated with the greatest respect and attention. The French commandant coming up, quickly learned all about us; and finding that there was no time to be lost, he at once despatched the first party of Arab cavalry that was ready to start, following himself shortly afterwards with others, accompanied by Ben.

The French commandant having posted men in the wood and among the ruins, so as to attack the enemy on their flank, in the event of those who had gone in pursuit being compelled to retreat, we waited anxiously for their return. Presently we saw clouds of dust rising from the south, out of which the Algerine forces at length emerged. I looked out eagerly for Ben; and not seeing him, feared that he must have fallen. At length, to my great joy, I caught sight of him, with his huge sabre in his hand, alongside the sheikh; with whom he seemed to be on the most intimate terms. Ben’s delight at seeing us was great in the extreme; and throwing himself from his horse, he ran up to us, shaking us all in succession warmly by the hand.

“Beg pardon, gentlemen, for the liberty I take,” he exclaimed; “but I cannot help it—on my life, I cannot—I am so glad to see that you have got away all right from those cut-throat fellows! They will not dare to make slaves of English officers again in a hurry.”

As the French commandant was doubtful of the strength of the enemy, who might possibly descend in force, he ordered his troops to return. The wounded were placed in panniers on the backs of mules, which were brought up for the purpose; and several of the enemy’s horses being caught, we were soon all mounted, and on the way with our new friends to the northward. We reached the French outposts by nightfall, where we were most hospitably entertained by the commandant and his officers, who supplied us with clothing and other necessaries.

The sheikh, to show his gratitude to Ben for having brought him back Bu Saef, offered to receive him into his tribe, and to make him a chief.

“Please, Mr Blore, tell the old gentleman that I am much obliged to him,” answered Ben; “but as I have not fallen quite into his style of living, I beg he will excuse me; and, to say the truth, I had rather serve on board a man-of-war till I can get a pension, and go and settle down with my Susan in Old England, than turn into an Arab sheikh with a dozen wives and a thousand blackamoor followers.”

Having recruited our strength, we some days after left our kind French friends and set off for Algiers, where we arrived safely; and soon afterwards, accompanied by Selim, we embarked for England.

I need not say that we were welcomed there as if from the dead, by our friends; and I trust that we were all thankful for the merciful way in which we had been preserved from the numberless dangers we had gone through. Andrew Spurling was delighted to see us. “I told you, Mr Blore, that you would find Arabic useful, though I little thought at the time how much service its acquirement would render you,” he exclaimed as he shook me by the hand. “However, it proves, as I once observed to you, that the more knowledge we can pick up the better, as we can never tell how valuable it may become to us.”