Table of Contents

"The Western World"

Preface.

Part 1—Chapter I.

Part 1—Chapter II.

Part 1—Chapter III.

Part 1—Chapter IV.

Part 1—Chapter V.

Part 1—Chapter VI.

Part 1—Chapter VII.

Part 1—Chapter VIII.

Part 1—Chapter IX.

Part 2—Chapter I.

Part 2—Chapter II.

Part 2—Chapter III.

Part 3—Chapter I.

Part 3—Chapter II.

Part 3—Chapter III.

Part 3—Chapter IV.

Part 3—Chapter V.

Part 3—Chapter VI.

Part 3—Chapter VII.

Part 3—Chapter VIII.

Part 3—Chapter IX.

Part 3—Chapter X.

Part 3—Chapter XI.

Part 3—Chapter XII.

Part 3—Chapter XIII.

Part 3—Chapter XIV.

Part 3—Chapter XV.

Part 3—Chapter XVI.

Part 3—Chapter XVII.

Part 3—Chapter XVIII.

Part 3—Chapter XIX.

Part 4—Chapter I.

Part 4—Chapter II.

Part 4—Chapter III.

Part 5—Chapter I.

Part 5—Chapter II.

Part 5—Chapter III.

"Will Weatherhelm"

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.

"With Axe and Rifle"

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.

"Won from the Waves"

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.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Chapter Forty.

Chapter Forty One.

Chapter Forty Two.

Chapter Forty Three.

Chapter Forty Four.

Chapter Forty Five.

Chapter Forty Six.

Chapter Forty Seven.

Chapter Forty Eight.

Chapter Forty Nine.

Chapter Fifty.

Chapter Fifty One.

Chapter Fifty Two.

Chapter Fifty Three.

Chapter Fifty Four.

Chapter Fifty Five.

Chapter Fifty Six.

"The Woodcutter of Gutech"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Western World"

Preface.

In the following pages I have endeavoured to give, in a series of picturesque sketches, a general view of the natural history as well as of the physical appearance of North and South America.

I have first described the features of the country; then its vegetation; and next the wild men and the brute creatures which inhabit it. However, I have not been bound by any strict rule in that respect, as my object has been to produce a work calculated to interest the family circle rather than one of scientific pretensions. I have endeavoured to impart, in an attractive manner, information about its physical geography, mineral riches, vegetable productions, and the appearance and customs of the human beings inhabiting it. But the chief portion of the work is devoted to accounts of the brute creation, from the huge stag and buffalo to the minute humming-bird and persevering termites,—introduced not in a formal way, but as they appear to the naturalist-explorer, to the traveller in search of adventures, or to the sportsman; with descriptions of their mode of life, and of how they are found, hunted, or trapped. I have described in the same way some of the most remarkable trees and plants; and from the accounts I have given I trust that a knowledge may be obtained of the way they are cultivated, and how their produce is prepared and employed. Thus I hope that, with the aid of the numerous illustrations in the work, a correct idea will be gained of the wilder and more romantic portions of the great Western World.

William H.G. Kingston.

Part 1—Chapter I.

North America.

Introductory.—Physical Features of North America.

The continent of America, if the stony records of the Past are read aright, claims to be the oldest instead of the newest portion of the globe. (According to some geologists, Labrador was the first part of our globe’s surface to become dry land.) Bowing to this opinion of geologists till they see cause to express a different one, we will, in consequence, commence our survey of the world and its inhabitants with the Western Hemisphere. From the multitude of objects which crowd upon us, we can examine only a few of the most interesting minutely; at others we can merely give a cursory glance; while many we must pass by altogether,—our object being to obtain a general and retainable knowledge of the physical features of the Earth, the vegetation which clothes its surface, the races of men who inhabit it, and the tribes of the brute creation found in its forests and waters, on its plains and mountains.

As we go along, we will stop now and then to pick up scraps of information about its geology, and the architectural antiquities found on it; as the first will assist in giving us an insight into the former conditions of extinct animals, and the latter may teach us something of the past history of the human tribes now wandering as savages in regions once inhabited by civilised men.

Still, the study of Natural History and the geographical range of animals is the primary object we have in view.

Though the best-known portions of the Polar Regions are more nearly connected with North America than with Europe or Asia, we propose to leave them to be fully described in another work. It is impossible, in the present volume, to embrace more than the continental parts of the Western World.

Looking down on the continent of North America, which we will first visit, we observe its triangular shape: the apex, the southern end of Mexico; the base, the Arctic shore; the sides, especially the eastern, deeply indented, first by Hudson Bay, which pierces through more than a third of the continent, then by the Gulf of Saint Lawrence, and further south by Chesapeake Bay and the Bay of Fundy. On the western coast, the Gulf of California runs 800 miles up its side, with the Rio Colorado falling into it; and further north are the Straits of Juan da Fuca, between Vancouver’s Island and the mainland, north of which are numerous archipelagoes and inlets extending round the great peninsula of Yukon to Kotzebue Sound.

Parallel with either coast we shall see two great mountain-systems—that called the Appalachian, including the chain of the Alleghanies, on the east, and the famed Rocky Mountains on the west—running from north to south through the continent.

We shall easily recollect the great water-system of North America if we consider it to be represented by an irregular cross, of which the Mississippi with its affluents forms the stem; Lake Superior and the River Saint Lawrence, including the intermediate lakes, the eastern arm; the Lake of the Woods and its neighbours, Lake Winnipeg and the Saskatchewan, the western arm; and the northern lakes of Athabasca, the Great Slave Lake, and the Mackenzie River, the upper part of the cross. If we observe also a wide level region which runs north and south between the Arctic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico, bounded on either side by the two lofty mountain ranges already mentioned, we shall have a tolerably correct notion of the chief physical features of the North American continent.

Arriving at the northern end, we shall find it reaching some four degrees north of the Polar Circle, though some of its headlands extend stilt further into the icy sea. Beyond it stretches away to an unknown distance towards the Pole a dense archipelago of large islands, the narrow channels between them bridged over in winter by massive sheets of ice, affording an easy passage to the reindeer, musk-oxen, and other animals which migrate southward during the colder portion of the Arctic winter.

Northern Region.

With that end of America will ever be associated the names of Sir John Franklin and his gallant companions, who perished in their search of the North-west Passage; as well as those of other more fortunate successors, especially of Captains McClure and Collinson of the British navy, to the first of whom is due the honour of leading an expedition from west to east along that icy shore; while Captain Collinson took his ship, the Enterprise, up to Cambridge Bay, Victoria Land, further east than any ship had before reached from the west—namely, 105 degrees west—and succeeded in extricating her from amid the ice and bringing her home in safety. Captain McClure, not so fortunate in one respect, was compelled to leave his ship frozen up. The two expeditions, while proving the existence of a channel, at the same time showed its uselessness as a means of passing from the Atlantic to the Pacific, as, except in most extraordinary seasons, it remains blocked up all the year by ice.

The northern end of the American continent is a region of mountains, lakes, and rivers. Several expeditions have been undertaken through it,—the first to ascertain the coast-line, by Mackenzie, Franklin, Richardson, Back, and others, and latterly by Dr Rae; and also by Sir John Richardson, who left the comforts of England to convey assistance to his long-missing former companions, though unhappily without avail. These journeys, through vast barren districts, among rugged hills, marshes, lakes, and rivers, in the severest of climates, exhibit in the explorers an amount of courage, endurance, and perseverance never surpassed. In the course of the rivers occur many dangerous falls, rapids, and cataracts, amid rocks and huge boulders, between which the voyagers’ frail barks make their way, running a fearful risk every instant of being dashed to pieces. Not a tree rears its head in the wild and savage landscape, the vegetation consisting chiefly of lichens and mosses. Among the former the tripe de roche is the most capable of supporting life. Here winter reigns with stern rigour for ten months in the year; and even in summer biting blasts, hail-storms, and rain frequently occur. Yet in this inhospitable region numerous herds of reindeer, musk-oxen, and other mammalia find subsistence during the brief summer, as do partridge and numerous birds of various species.

Here the Esquimaux lives in his skin-tent during the warmer months, and in his snow-hut in winter, existing on the seals which he catches with his harpoon, the whales occasionally cast on shore, and the bears, deer, and smaller animals he entraps.

The numerous rivers flowing from the mountain-ridges mostly make their way northward. The Mackenzie, the largest and most western, rising in the Great Slave and Great Bear Lakes, falls, after a course of many hundred miles, into the Polar Sea. The Coppermine River, rising in Point Lake, makes its course in the same direction; while eastward, the great Fish or Back River, flowing from the same lake as the first mentioned stream, reaches the ocean many hundred miles away from it, at the lower extremity of Bathurst Islet. It runs rapidly in a tortuous course of 530 geographical miles through an iron-ribbed country, without a single tree on the whole line of its banks, expanding here and there into five large lakes, and broken by thirty-three falls, cascades, and rapids ere it reaches the Polar Sea. Not far from its mouth rises the barren rocky height of Cape Beaufort.

It was down this stream that Captain Back, the Arctic explorer, made his way, but was compelled to return on account of the inclemency of the weather and the difficulty of finding fuel; the only vegetation which he could discover being fern and moss, which was so wet that it would not burn, while he was almost without fire, or any means of obtaining warmth, his men sinking knee-deep as they proceeded on shore in the soft slush and snow, which benumbed their limbs and dispirited them in the extreme. Through this country the unhappy remnant of the Franklin expedition, many years later, perished in their attempt to reach the Hudson Bay Company’s territory. Here, in winter, the thermometer sinks 70 degrees below zero. Even within his hut, when he had succeeded in lighting a fire, Back could not get it higher than 12 degrees below zero. Ink and paint froze. The sextant cases, and boxes of seasoned wood—principally fir—all split; the skin of the hands became dried, cracked, and opened into unsightly and smarting gashes; and on one occasion, after washing his hands and face within three feet of the fire, his hair was actually clotted with ice before he had time to dry it. The hunters described the sensation of handling their guns as similar to that of touching red-hot iron; and so excessive was the pain, that they were obliged to wrap thongs of leather round the triggers to prevent their fingers coming in contact with the steel. Numbers of the Indian inhabitants of the country perish from cold and hunger every year—indeed, it seems wonderful that human beings should attempt to live in such a country; yet much further north, the hardy Esquimaux, subsisting on whale’s blubber and seal’s flesh, contrives to support life in tolerable comfort.

To the south of the Arctic Circle stunted fir-trees begin to appear, and at length grow so thickly, that it is with difficulty a passage can be made amid them. Frequently the explorer has to clamber over fallen trees, through rivulets, bogs, and swamps, till often the difficulties in the way appear insurmountable to all but the boldest and the most persevering.

Mountains.

On the western side of the continent rises gradually from the Polar regions the mighty chain which runs throughout its whole length—a distance of altogether 10,000 miles. The northern portion, known as the Rocky Mountains, runs for 3000 miles, in two parallel chains, to the plains of Mexico, flanked by two other parallel ranges on the west,—the most northern of which are the Sea Alps of the north-west coast, and on the southern, the mountains of California. At the north-western end of the Sea Alps rises the lofty mountain of Mount Elias, 17,000 feet in height—the highest mountain in North America—not far from Behring Bay; while another range, the Chippewayan, stretches eastward, culminating in Mount Brown, 10,000 feet in height, and gradually diminishing, till it sinks into insignificance towards the Arctic Circle. Point Barrow is the most northern point of America on the western side. It consists of a long narrow spit, composed of gravel and loose sand, which the pressure of the ice has forced up into numerous masses, having the appearance of rocks. From this point eastward to the mouth of the Mackenzie River the coast declines a little south of east. The various mountain ranges existing on the eastern side of the continent, including the chain of the Alleghanies, form what is called the Appalachian system. It consists of numerous parallel chains, some of which form detached ridges, the whole running from the north-east to the south-west, and it extends about 1200 miles in length—from Maine to Alabama. Besides the Alleghany Mountains in the western part of Virginia and the central parts of Pennsylvania, it embraces the Catskill Mountains in the State of New York, the Green Mountains in the State of Vermont, the highlands eastward of the Hudson River, and the White Mountains in New Hampshire. Mount Washington, which rises to an elevation of 6634 feet out of the last-named range, is the highest peak, of the whole system. To the north of the Saint Lawrence the lofty range of the Wotchish Mountains extends towards the coast of Labrador; while the whole region west and north of that river and the great Canadian lakes is of considerable length, the best-known range being that which contains the Lacloche Mountains, which appear to the north of Lake Huron, and extend towards the Ottawa River. These two great ranges of mountains divide the North American continent into three portions.

Great Rivers.

The rivers which rise on the eastern side of the Appalachian range run into the Atlantic; those which rise west of the Rocky Mountains empty themselves into the Pacific; while the mighty streams which flow between the two, pass through the great basin of the Mississippi, and swell the waters of that mother of rivers. The great valley of the Mississippi, indeed, drains a surface greater than that of any other river on the globe, with the exception perhaps of the Amazon. The Missouri, even before it reaches it, runs a course of 1300 miles, while the Mississippi itself, before its confluence with the Missouri, has already passed over a distance of 1200 miles; thence to its mouth its course is upwards of 1200 miles more. The Arkansas, which flows into it, is 2000 miles long, and the Red River of the south 1500 miles in length; while the Ohio, to its junction with the Mississippi, is nearly 1000 miles long.

North America may be said to contain four great valleys—that of the Mississippi, running north and south; that of the Saint Lawrence, from the south-west to the north-east; that of the Saskatchewan, extending from the Rocky Mountains below Mount Brown to Lake Superior; that of the Mackenzie, from the Great Slave Lake to the Arctic Ocean. Although a large portion of the eastern side of the continent is densely-wooded, there are towards the west, extending from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic Ocean, vast plains. In the south they are treeless and barren in the extreme; while advancing northward they are covered with rich grasses, which afford support to vast herds of buffaloes, as well as deer and other animals.

Lakes.

The most remarkable feature in North America is its lake system—the largest and most important in the world. In the north-west, at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, are the Great Bear and Great Slave Lakes, which discharge their waters through the Mackenzie River into the Arctic Ocean. Next we have the Athabasca, Wollaston, and Deer Lakes. In the very centre of the continent are the two important lakes of Winnipeg and Winnipegoos,—the former 240 miles in length by 55 in width, and the latter about half the size. The large river of the Saskatchewan flows into Lake Winnipeg, and with it will, ere long, form an important means of communication between the different parts of that vast district lately opened up for colonisation. At its southern end the Red River of the north flows into it, on the banks of which a British settlement has long been established. Several streams, however, make their way into Hudson Bay. Between it and Lake Superior is an elevated ridge of about 1500 feet in height; the streams on the west falling into Lake Winnipeg, while those which flow towards the east reach Lake Superior.

We now come to the site of the five largest fresh-water lakes in the world. Lake Superior extends, from west to east, 335 miles, with an extreme breadth of 175. Its waters flow through the Saint Mary’s River by a rapid descent into Lake Huron, which is 240 miles long. This lake is divided by the Manitoulin islands into two portions, and is connected with Lake Michigan by a narrow channel without rapids, so that the two lakes together may be considered to form one sheet of water. On its southern extremity the waters of Lake Huron flow through another narrow channel, which expands during part of its course into Lake Saint Clair; and they then enter Lake Erie, which has a length of 265 miles, and a breadth of 80 miles. It is of much less depth than the other lakes, and its surface is therefore easily broken up into dangerous billows by strong winds. Passing onward towards the north-east, the current enters the Niagara River, about half-way down which it leaps along a rocky ledge of 100 feet in height, to a lower level, forming the celebrated Falls of Niagara, and then passes on in a rapid course into Lake Ontario. The fall between the two lakes is 333 feet. Lake Ontario is 180 miles long and 65 miles wide. Out of its north-eastern end falls the broad stream which here generally takes the name of the Saint Lawrence, and which proceeds onward, now widening into lake-like expanses full of islands, now compressed into a narrow channel, in a north-easterly direction. The true Saint Lawrence may indeed be considered as traversing the whole system of the great lakes of North America, and thus being little less than a thousand miles in direct length; indeed, including its windings, it is fully two thousand miles long. To the north-west of it exist countless numbers of small lakes united by a network of streams; while numerous large rivers, such as the Ottawa, the Saint Maurice, and the Saguenay, flow into it, and assist to swell its current. There are numerous other small lakes to the west of the Rocky Mountains, a large number of which exist in the Province of British Columbia, and are more or less connected with the Fraser and Columbia Rivers. Further to the south are other lakes, many of them of volcanic origin, some intensely salt, others formed of hot mud. Among these is the Great Salt Lake, in the State of Utah. To the south of the Saint Lawrence also is Lake Champlain, 105 miles long, though extremely narrow,—being only 10 miles in its widest part, narrowing in some places to half a mile. Near it is the beautiful Lake Saint George, with several other small lakes; and lastly, in Florida, there is a chain of small lakes, terminating in Lake Okechodee—a circular sheet of water about thirty miles in diameter.

We must now proceed more particularly to examine the regions of which we have obtained the preceding cursory view, but, before we do so, we must glance at their human inhabitants.

Aboriginal Inhabitants—The Red Men of the Wilds.

While the white men from Europe occupy the whole eastern coast, pressing rapidly and steadily westward, the Redskin aborigines maintain a precarious existence throughout the centre of the continent, from north to south, and are still found here and there on the western shores. On the northern ice-bound coast, the skin-clothed Esquimaux wander in small bands from Behring Strait to Baffin Bay, but never venture far inland, being kept in check by their hereditary enemies, the Athabascas, the most northern of the red-skinned nations. The Esquimaux, inhabiting the Arctic regions, may more properly be described in the volume devoted to that part of the globe.

Indian Wigwams.

Here and there, in openings in the primeval forest, either natural or artificial, on the banks of streams and lakes, several small conical structures may be seen, composed of long stakes, stuck in the ground in circular form, and fastened at the top. The walls consist of large sheets of birch-bark, layer above layer, fastened to the stakes. On the lee-side is left a small opening for ingress and egress, which can be closed by a sheet of bark, or the skin of a wild animal. At the apex, also, an aperture is allowed to remain for the escape of the smoke from the fire which burns within. Lines are secured to the stakes within, on which various articles are suspended; while round the interior mats or skins are spread to serve as couches, the centre being left free for the fire. In front, forked stakes support horizontal poles, on which fish or skins are hung to dry; and against others, sheets of bark are placed on the weather-side, forming lean-tos, shelters to larger fires, used for more extensive culinary operations than can be carried on within the hut. On the shores are seen drawn up beautifully-formed canoes of birch-bark of various sizes—some sufficient to carry eight or ten men; and others, in which only one or two people can sit.

Appearance of the Indians.

Amid the huts may be seen human figures with dull copper or reddish-brown complexions, clothed in rudely-tanned skins of a yellowish or white hue, and ornamented with the teeth of animals and coloured grasses, or worsted and beads. Their figures are tall and slight. They have black, piercing eyes, slightly inclining downwards towards the nose, which is broad and large. They have thick, coarse lips, high and prominent cheek-bones, with somewhat narrow foreheads, and coarse, dark, glossy hair, without an approach to a curl; their heads sometimes adorned with feathered caps or other ornaments. Often their faces are besmeared with various coloured pigments in stripes or patches—one colour on one side of the face, the other being of a different hue. Their lower extremities are covered with leggings of leather, ornamented with fringes, and their feet clothed in mocassins of the same material as their leggings. The men stalk carelessly about, or repair their canoes or fishing gear and arms; while the women sit, crouching down to the ground, bending over their caldrons, shelling Indian-corn, or engaged in some other domestic occupation; and the children, innocent of clothing, tumble about on the ground. In travelling, the Indian mother carries her child on her back. It is strapped to a board; and when a halting-place is reached, the cradle and the child are hung upon a tree, or on a pole inside the wigwam. Those who have communication with the whites may be seen clothed in blanket garments, which the men wear in the shape of coats; while the women swathe their bodies in a whole blanket, which covers them from their shoulders to their feet.

Though the men assume a grave and dignified air when a stranger approaches, they often indulge in practical jokes and laughter among themselves; and in seasons of prosperity, appear good-humoured and merry. The women, however, are doomed to lives of unremitting toil, from the time they become wives. They are compelled to carry the burdens, and to cultivate the ground, when any ground is cultivated, for the production of potatoes, maize, and tobacco. The men condescend merely to manufacture their arms and canoes, and to hunt; or they engage in what they consider the noblest of employments, waging war on their neighbours. The women, indeed, are often compelled to paddle the canoes, sometimes to go fishing, and to carry the portable property from place to place, or an overload of game when captured.

Intelligent as the Indian appears, it is evident that he has cultivated his perceptive powers to the neglect of his spiritual and moral qualities. His senses are remarkably acute. His memory is good; and when aroused, his imagination is vivid, though wild in the extreme. He is warmly attached to hereditary customs and manners. Naturally indolent and slothful, he detests labour, and looks upon it as a disgrace, though he will go through great fatigue when hunting or engaged in warfare.

Wood Indians.

The northern tribes are known as Wood Indians, in contradistinction to the inhabitants of the open country, the Prairie Indians, who differ greatly from the former in their habits and customs. All the tribes of the Athabascas, as well as those to the south of them, known as the Algonquins, are Wood Indians. They are nearly always engaged in hunting the wild animals of the region they inhabit, for the sake of their furs, which they dispose of to the agents of the Hudson Bay Company and other traders, in exchange for blankets, firearms, hatchets, and numerous other articles, as well as too often for the pernicious fire-water, to obtain even small quantities of which they will frequently dispose of the skins which it has cost them many weeks to obtain with much hardship and danger. These Wood Indians are peaceably-disposed, and can always escape the attacks of their enemies of the prairies by retreating among their forest or lake fastnesses. They obtain their game by various devices, sometimes using traps of ingenious construction, or shooting the creatures with bows and arrows, and of later years with firearms. They spear the fish which abound in their waters, or catch them with scoop and other nets. Although their ordinary wigwams are of the shape already described, some are considerably larger, somewhat of a bee-hive form, covered thickly with birch-bark, and have a raised daïs in the interior capable of holding a considerable number of people. The best-known of these Forest Indians are the Chippeways, who range from the banks of Lake Huron almost to the Rocky Mountains, throughout the British territory.

The Prairie Indians.

To the south of the tribes already mentioned, are the large family of the Dakotahs, who number among them the Sioux, Assiniboines, and Blackfeet, and are the hereditary enemies of the Chippeways, especially of their nearer neighbours, the Crees and Ojibbeways. These Dakotahs occupy the open prairie country to the south of the Saskatchewan, and are the most northern of the Prairie Indians. In summer, they wear little or no clothing; and possessing numerous horses, hunt the buffaloes, or rather bisons, on horseback, armed with spears and bows and arrows. They are fiercer and more warlike than their northern neighbours, and have long set the whites at defiance. The buffalo supplies them with their chief support. The flesh of the animal dried in the sun, or pounded with its fat into pemmican, is their chief article of food; while its skin serves as a covering for their tents, a couch at night, or for clothing by day, and is manufactured into bags for carrying their provisions, and numerous other articles. Physically, they are superior to the Wood Indians. They are both hunters and warriors; and though they may occasionally exchange the buffalo robes—as the skins are called—for firearms; they seldom employ themselves as trappers, or attend to the cultivation of the ground.

The greater number of the tribes further to the south possess horses, and hunt the buffalo and deer. Some are even more savage than the Dakotahs, while others, again, have made slight progress towards civilisation, and live in settled villages, while they rudely cultivate the ground, and possess herds of cattle.

Although the Indian languages differ greatly from each other, a great similarity in grammatical structure and form has been found to exist among them, denoting a common, though remote origin. They differ, however, so greatly from any known language of the Old World, as to afford conclusive proof that their ancestors must have left its shores at an early period of the world’s history.

The governments also differed. In some tribes it approached an absolute monarchy, the will of the sachem or chief being the supreme law; while in others it was almost entirely republican, the chief being elected for his personal qualities, though frequently the leadership was preserved in the female line of particular families.

When describing the customs of the Indians, we are compelled often to speak of the past, as the tribes, from being pressed together by the advancement of civilisation, have become amalgamated, and many of their customs have passed away. Most of the nations were divided into three or more clans or tribes, each distinguished by the name of an animal. Thus the Huron Indians were divided into three tribes—those of the Bear, the Wolf, and the Turtle. The Chippeways, especially, were divided into a considerable number of tribes.

Religious Belief.

Though their language differs so greatly, as do many of their customs, their religious notions exhibit great uniformity throughout the whole country. They all possess a belief, though it is vague and indistinct, in the existence of a Supreme, All-Powerful Being, and in the immortality of the soul, which, they suppose, restored to its body, will enjoy the future on those happy hunting-grounds which form the red man’s heaven. They also worship numerous inferior deities or evil spirits, whom they endeavour to propitiate, under the supposition that unless they do so they may work them evil rather than good. They suppose that there is one god of the sun, moon, and stars; that the ocean is ruled by another god, and that storms are produced by the power of various malign beings; yet that all are inferior to the Supreme Ruler of the universe. We can trace in some of the tribes customs and notions which have been derived from those of far-distant nations. Thus, the tribes of Louisiana kept a sacred fire constantly burning in their temples: the Natches, as did the Mexicans, worshipped the sun, from whom their chiefs pretended to be descended. By some tribes human sacrifices were offered up,—a custom which was practised by the Pawnees and Indians of the Missouri even to a late period. Several of the tribes buried their dead beneath their houses; and it was an universal custom among all to inter them in a sitting posture, clothed in their best garments, while their weapons and household utensils, with a supply of food, were placed in their graves, to be used when they might be restored to life. Several of their traditions evidently refer to events recorded in Scripture history. The Algonquin tribes still preserve one pointing to the upheaval of the earth from the waters, and of a subsequent inundation. The Iroquois have a tradition of a general deluge; while another tribe believe not only that a deluge took place, but that there was an age of fire which destroyed all things, with the exception of a man and woman, who were preserved in a cavern. Many similar traditions exist; while it is probable that those mentioned refer to the destruction of the Cities of the Plain by fire which came down from heaven, and to the confusion of tongues which fell upon the descendants of Noah in the plain of Shinar.

American Antiquities.

We are apt to suppose that the wild inhabitants of the New World have ever existed in the same savage state as that in which they are found. Vast numbers, however, of remains, and buildings of great antiquity, have of late years been discovered, showing that at one time either their ancestors, or other tribes who have passed away, had made great progress in civilisation. As the white man has advanced westward, and dug deep into the soil, whilst forming railway cuttings, digging wells, and other works, numerous interesting remains have been discovered—a large number of fortified camps of vast extent, and even the foundations of cities, with their streets and squares, have been brought to light. Idols, pitchers of clay, ornaments of copper, circular medals, arrowheads, and even mirrors of isinglass, in great numbers, have been found throughout the country. Some of the articles of pottery are skilfully wrought, and polished, glazed, and burned; inferior in no respects to those of Egypt and Babylon.

In Tennessee, an earthen pitcher, holding a gallon, was discovered on a rock twenty feet below the surface. It was surmounted by the figure of a female head covered with a conical cap. The features greatly resembled those of Asiatics, and the ears, extending as low as the chin, were of great size. Near the Cumberland River an idol formed of clay was found about four feet below the surface of the earth. It is of curious construction, consisting of three hollow heads joined together at the back by an inverted bell-shaped hollow stem. This specimen also has strongly-marked Asiatic features; the red and yellow colour with which it is ornamented still retaining great brilliancy. Another idol, formed of clay and gypsum, was discovered near Nashville. It represented a human being without arms. The hair was plaited, and there was a band round the head with a flattened lump or cake upon the summit. Numerous medals, also, have been dug up, representing the sun, with its rays of light, together with utensils and ornaments of copper, sometimes plated with silver; and a solid silver cup, with its surface smooth and regular, and its interior finely gilt.

But besides these, and very many similar articles, throughout the whole country, and especially towards the west, immense numbers of fortresses of great size have been discovered, with walls of earth, some of them ten feet in height, and thirty in breadth. There is a vast fortress in Ohio, near the town of Newark. It is situated on an extensive plain, at the junction of two branches of the Muskingum. At the western extremity of the work stood a circular fort, containing twenty-two acres, on one side of which was an elevation thirty feet high, partly of earth and partly of stone. The circular fort was connected by walls of earth with an octagonal fort containing forty acres, the walls of which were ten feet high. At this end were eight openings or gateways about fifteen feet in width, each protected by a mound of earth on the inside. From thence four parallel walls of earth proceeded to the basin of the harbour, others extending several miles into the country, and others on the east joined to a square fort containing twenty acres, not four miles distant. From this latter fort parallel walls extended to the harbour, and others to another circular fort one mile and a half distant, containing twenty-six acres, and surrounded by an embankment from twenty-five to thirty feet high. Further north and east the elevated ground was protected by intrenchments. Traces of other walls have been found, apparently connecting these works with those thirty miles distant. When we come to reflect that there were many hundreds of similar forts, some of which were of equal size, and others even of still greater magnitude, we cannot help believing that an enormous population, considerably advanced in the arts of civilisation, must at one time have existed in the country, over which for ages past the untutored savage has roamed in almost a state of nature. And now these wild tribes are rapidly disappearing before the advancement of a still greater multitude, and a far more perfect civilisation. Whether these ancient races were the ancestors of the present Indians or not, it is difficult to determine, as are the causes of their disappearance. It is possible that, retreating southward, they established the empires of Mexico and Peru, or, overcome by more savage tribes, were ultimately exterminated.

Part 1—Chapter II.

North America considered as divided into Four Zones, with the various Objects of Interest found in each.

The North American continent may be divided into four zones or parallel regions, which, from the difference in temperature which exists between them, present a great variety both in their fauna and flora.

The First Zone.

Commencing on the east, where the Greenland Sea washes the coast of Labrador, and Hudson Strait leads to the intricate channels communicating with the Arctic Ocean, we have on the first-named coast a low and level region, which rises inland to a considerable elevation, and then once more sinks on the shores of Hudson Bay. West of that bay there is a wide extent of low country, intermixed with numerous lakes and marshes; and then along the Arctic shore is a wild, barren, treeless district, rising at length into the mountainous region of the Arctic highlands. Amid them numerous rapid streams find their way into the Arctic Ocean. Again they sink into the basin of the Mackenzie River, which separates the in from the northern end of the Rocky Mountains. Hence westward to the Pacific is a broad highland region, rising into the lofty range of the Sea Alps.

The Second Zone.

The Fertile Belt of Rupert’s Land.

The next Zone we will consider as commencing at the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. Westward extends an elevated region, rising in many places to a considerable height, and forming the water-shed of the rivers which flow on the south side into the Saint Lawrence, and on the north into Hudson Bay. Proceeding up the Saint Lawrence, we arrive at a great lake district, which embraces Lakes Ontario, Erie, Huron, Michigan, and Superior, to the extreme west. On the north-western shores of that lake we find an elevated district with several small lakes and streams flowing through valleys. This is the water-shed also of two systems. The streams to the east, flowing into Lake Superior, ultimately enter the Saint Lawrence; while those to the west make their way into Lake Winnipeg, the waters of which, after flowing through a variety of channels, fall into Hudson Bay. To the west of this water-shed range the first lake we meet with is known as the Lac des Milles Lacs. Two rivers flow from it, expanding here and there into small lakes, till another expanse of water is reached called Rainy Lake. This in the same way communicates by two streams with the still larger Lake of the Woods, the whole region on both sides being thickly wooded. From the Lake of the Woods flows the broad and rapid Winnipeg River, which finally falls into Lake Winnipeg. This large and long lake is connected with several others of smaller size,—Lake Winnipegoos and Manitoba Lake to the west of it. Into the southern end of Lake Winnipeg flows the Red River, which rises far-away in the south in the United States, taking an almost direct northerly course. Towards the north, about twenty miles from the lake, is situated the well-known Selkirk settlement. To the west of the Red River commences a broad belt of prairie land which extends here and there, rising into wooded heights and swelling hills, with several large rivers flowing through it, to the very base of the Rocky Mountains. As we advance westward we find it extending considerably to the north, where the large and wide river Saskatchewan, rising in the Rocky Mountains, flows eastward into Lake Winnipeg. Along the southern border of this region the Assiniboine River, also of considerable size, flows into the Red River at Fort Garry, in the Selkirk settlement. The prairie country indeed extends further than the Red River, up to the Lake of the Woods. The name of the Fertile Belt has been properly given to it. Commencing at the Lake of the Woods, it stretches westward for 800 miles, and averages from 80 to upwards of 100 miles in width. The area of this extraordinary belt of rich soil and pasturage is about 40,000,000 of acres. Including the adjacent fertile districts, the area may be estimated at not less than 80,000 square miles, or considerably more fertile land than the whole of Canada is supposed to contain. It rises gradually towards the west, so that the traveller is surprised to find how speedily he has gained the passes which lead him over the Rocky Mountains into the territory of British Columbia on their western side—often indeed before he has realised the fact that he has crossed the boundary-line. The Fertile Belt is considerably more to the south than the British Islands, though, as the western hemisphere is subject to greater alternations of heat and cold than the eastern, there is a vast difference in temperature between the summer and winter. While in winter the whole region is covered thickly with snow, in summer the heat is so great that Indian-corn and other cereals, as well as all fruits, ripen with great rapidity. The whole of this fertile region, which now forms part of the Canadian Dominion, is about to be opened to colonisation; and through it will be carried the great high road which will connect the British provinces on the Pacific with those of the Atlantic.

Animal Life on the Fertile Belt.

Throughout this fine region range large herds of buffalo,—not extending their migrations, however, beyond its northern boundary. Here, too, are found two kind of small deer—the wapiti, and the prong-horned antelope. Hares—called rabbits, however—exist in great numbers. Porcupines are frequently found. The black bear occasionally comes out of the neighbouring forests, while a great variety of birds frequent the lakes and streams, whose waters also swarm with numerous fish. The white fish found in the lakes are much esteemed, and weigh from two or three to seven pounds. There are fine pike also. Sturgeon are caught in Lake Winnipeg and the Lower Saskatchewan of the weight of 160 pounds. Trout grow to a great size, and there are gold-eyes, suckers, and cat-fish. Unattractive as are the names of the two last, the fish themselves are excellent. Among the birds, Professor Hind mentions prairie-hens, plovers, various ducks, loons, and other aquatic birds, besides the partridge, quail, whip-poor-will, hairy woodpecker, Canadian jay, blue jay, Indian hen, and woodcock. In the mountain region are bighorns and mountain goats; the grizzly bear often descends from his rugged heights into the plains, and affords sport to the daring hunter. The musk-rat and beaver inhabit the borders of the lakes. The cariboo and moose frequent the Fertile Belt, though the musk-ox confines himself to the more northern regions. Wolves have been almost exterminated in the neighbourhood of the Red River settlement. The half-breeds and Indians possess peculiarly hardy and sagacious horses, which are trained for hunting the buffalo. Their dogs are large and powerful, and four of them will draw a sleigh with one man over the snow at the rate of six miles an hour. Herds of cattle, as well as horses and hogs, are left out during the whole winter, it being necessary only—should a thaw come on, succeeded by a frost—to supply them with food; otherwise, unable to break through the coating of ice thus formed, they are liable to starve.

The farmers of the Red River settlement grow wheat, barley, oats, flax, hemp, hops, turnips, and even tobacco, though Indian-corn grows best, and can always be relied on. Wheat, however, is the staple crop of Red River. It is a splendid country for sheep pasturage, and did easier means of transporting the wool exist, or could it be made into cloth or blankets in the settlement, no doubt great attention would be given to the rearing of sheep.

The Third Zone—The Dismal Swamp in the United States.

Returning again to the east coast, about the latitude of Chesapeake Bay and Cape Hatteras, we find a low level region known as the Atlantic plain, running parallel to the coast, on which the long-leaved or peach-pines flourish. This region is generally called the Pine Barrens. Wild vines encircle the trees, and among them are seen the white berries of the mistletoe. In winter these Pine Barrens retain much of their verdure, and constitute one of the marked features of the country. Amid them are numerous swamps or morasses. One of great size, extending to not less than forty miles from north to south, and twenty-five in its greatest width, is called the Great Dismal Swamp.

The soil, black as in a peat-bog, is covered with all kinds of aquatic trees and shrubs; yet, strange to say, instead of being lower than the level of the surrounding country, it is in the centre higher than towards its margin; indeed, from three sides of the swamp the waters actually flow into different rivers at a considerable rate. Probably the centre of the morass is not less than twelve feet above the flat country around it. Here and there some ridges of dry land appear, like low islands, above the general surface. On the west, however, the ground is higher, and streams flow into the swamp, but they are free from sediment, and consequently bring down no liquid mire to add to its substance. The soil is formed completely of vegetable matter, without any admixture of earthy particles. In many even of the softest parts juniper-trees stand firmly fixed by their long tap roots, affording a dark shade, beneath which numerous ferns, reeds, and shrubs, together with a thick carpet of mosses, flourish, protected from the rays of the sun. Here and there also large cedars and other deciduous trees have grown up. The black soil formed beneath, increased by the rotting vegetation, is quite unlike the peat of Europe, as the plants become so decayed as to leave no traces of organisation. Frequently the trees are overthrown, and numbers are found lying beneath the surface of the soil, where, covered with water, they never decompose. So completely preserved are they, that they are frequently sawn up into planks. In one part of the Dismal Swamp there is a lake seven miles in length, and more than five wide, with a forest growing on its banks. The water is transparent, though tinged with a pale brown colour, and contains numerous fish. The region is inhabited by a number of bears, who climb the trees in search of acorns and gumberries, breaking off the boughs of the oaks in order to obtain the acorns; these bears also kill hogs, and even cows. Occasionally a solitary wolf is seen prowling over the morass, and wild cats also clamber amid its woods. Even in summer, the air, instead of being hot and pestiferous, is especially cool, the evaporation continually going on in the wet spongy soil generating an atmosphere resembling that of a region considerably elevated above the level of the ocean. Canals have been cut through this swamp. They are shaded by tall trees, their branches almost joining across, and throwing a dark shade on the water, which itself looks almost black, and adds to the gloom of the region. Emerging from one of these avenues into the bright sunlit lake, the aspect of the scenery is like that of some beautiful fairyland.

Fossil Footmarks of Birds.

A considerable way to the north of this region, on the banks of the Connecticut River, are beds of red sandstone, on the different layers of which are found the footmarks of long extinct birds. The beds in some parts are twenty-five feet in thickness, composed of layer upon layer; and on each of these layers, when horizontally split, are found imprinted these remarkable footmarks. This result could only have been produced by the subsidence of the ground, fresh depositions of sand having taken place on the layers, on which the birds walked after the subsidence. They must have been of various sizes,—some no larger than a small sand-piper, while others, judging from their footprints, which measure no less than nineteen inches, must have been twice the size of the modern African ostrich. The distances between the smaller measure only about three inches, but in the base of the largest, called the Ornithichnites Gigas, they are from four to six feet apart. In some places where the birds have congregated together none of the steps can be distinctly traced, but at a short distance from this area the tracks become more and more distinct. Upwards of two thousand such footprints have been observed, made probably by nearly thirty distinct species of birds, all indented on the upper surface of the strata, and only exhibiting casts in relief on the under side of the beds which rested on such indented surfaces. In other places the marks of rain and hail which fell countless ages ago are clearly visible. Sir Charles Lyell perceived similar footprints in the red mud in the Bay of Fundy, which had just been formed by sandpipers; and on examining an inferior layer of mud, formed several tides before, and covered up by fresh sand, he discovered casts of impressions similar to those made on the last-formed layer of mud. Near the footsteps he observed the mark of a single toe, occurring occasionally, and quite isolated from the rest. It was suggested to him that these marks were formed by waders, which, as they fly near the ground, often let one leg hang down, so that the longest toe touches the surface of the mud occasionally, leaving a single mark of this kind. He brought away some slabs of the recently formed mud, in order that naturalists who were sceptical as to the real origin of the ancient fossil ornithichnites might compare the fossil products lately formed with those referable to the feathered bipeds which preceded the era of the ichthyosaurus and iguanodon.

The Big-Bone Lick.

We will now cross the Alleghanies westward, where we shall find a thickly-wooded country. As we proceed onwards, entering Kentucky, we reach a spot of great geological interest, called the Big-bone Lick.

These licks exist in various parts of the country. They are marshy swamps in which saline springs break out, and are frequented by buffalo, deer, and other wild animals, for the sake of the salt with which in the summer they are incrusted, and which in winter is dissolved in the mud. Wild beasts, as well as cattle, greedily devour this incrustation, and will burrow into the clay impregnated with salt in order to lick the mud. In the Big-Bone Lick of Kentucky the bones of a vast number of mastodons and other extinct quadrupeds have been dug up.

This celebrated bog is situated in a nearly level plain, bounded by gentle slopes, which lead up to wide-extended table-lands. In the spots where the salt springs rise, the bog is so soft that a man may force a pile into it many yards perpendicularly. Some of these quaking bogs are even now more than fifteen acres in extent, but were formerly much larger, before the surrounding forest was partially cleared away. Even at the present day cows, horses, and other quadrupeds are occasionally lost here, as they venture on to the treacherous ground. It may be easily understood, therefore, how the vast mastodons, elephants, and other huge animals lost their lives. In their eagerness to drink the saline waters, or lick the salt, those in front, hurrying forward, would have been pressed upon by those behind, and thus, before they were aware of their danger, sank helplessly into the quagmire. It is supposed that the bones of not less than one hundred mastodons and twenty elephants have been dug up out of the bog, besides which the bones of a stag, extinct horse, megalonyx, and bison, have been obtained. Undoubtedly, therefore, this plain has remained unchanged in all its principal features since the period when these vast extinct quadrupeds inhabited the banks of the Ohio and its tributaries. Here and there the Big-bone Lick is covered with mud, washed over it by some unusual rising of the Ohio River, which is known to swell sixty feet above its summer level.

Passing on through wide-spreading prairies, we cross the mighty stream of the Mississippi to a slightly elevated district of broad savannahs, till we reach a treeless region bordering the very foot of the Rocky Mountains. Through this region numerous rivers pass on their way to the Mississippi. Leaving at length the great western plain, we begin to mount the slopes of the Rocky Mountains, when we may gaze upwards at the lofty snow-covered peaks above our heads. Hence, crossing the mighty range in spite of grizzly bears and wilder Indians, we descend towards the bank of the Rio Colorado, which falls into the Gulf of California, and thence over a mountainous region, some of whose heights, as Mount Dana, reach an elevation of 13,000 feet, and Mount Whitney, 15,000 feet.

The Fourth Zone.

The southernmost of the four zones begins on the coast of Florida, passes for hundreds of miles over a low or gently sloping country toward the great western plains which border the Rocky Mountains into Texas; its southern boundary being the Gulf of Mexico. Through this region flow numerous rivers, the queen of which is the Mississippi. The western portion is often wild and barren in the extreme, inhabited only by bands of wild and savage Indians. The Rocky Mountains being passed, there is a lofty table-land, and then rise the Sierras de los Nimbres and Madre; beyond which, bordering the Gulf of California, is the wild, grandly picturesque province of Sonora, with its gigantic trees and stalactite caves.

Part 1—Chapter III.

The Prairies, Plains of the West, and Passes of the Rocky Mountains.

To obtain, however, a still more correct notion of the appearance of the continent, we must take another glance over it. We shall discover, to the north, and throughout the eastern portion where civilised man has not been at work dealing away the trees, a densely-wooded region. Proceeding westward, as the valley of the Mississippi is approached the underwood disappears, and oak openings predominate. These Oak Openings, as they are called, are groves of oak and other forest-trees which are not connected, but are scattered over the surface at a considerable distance from one another, without any low shrub or underbrush between them.

The Prairies.

Thus, gradually, we are entering the prairie country, which extends as far west as the Grand Coteau of the Missouri. This prairie region is covered with a rich growth of grass; the soil is extremely fertile, and capable of producing a variety of cereals. Over the greater portion of the prairie country, indeed, forests of aspens would grow, did not annual fires in most parts arrest their progress. Here and there numbers have sprung up. The true prairie region in the United States extends over the eastern part of Ohio, Indiana, the southern portion of Michigan, the southern part of Wisconsin, nearly the whole of the states of Illinois and Iowa, and the northern portion of Missouri, gradually passing—in the territories of Kansas and Nebraska—into that arid and desert region known as The Plains, which lie at the base of the Rocky Mountains.

The Grand Coteau de Missouri forms a natural boundary to these arid plains. This vast table-land rises to the height of from 400 to 800 feet above the Missouri. Vegetation is very scanty; the Indian turnip, however, is common, as is also a species of cactus. No tree or shrub is seen; and only in the bottoms or in marshes is a rank herbage found. Across these desert regions the trails of the emigrant bands passing to the Far West have often been marked: first, in the east, by furniture and goods abandoned; further west, by the waggons and carts of the ill-starred travellers; then by the bones of oxen and horses bleaching on the plain; and, finally, by the graves, and sometimes the unburied bodies, of the emigrants themselves, the survivors having been compelled to push onwards with the remnant of their cattle to a more fertile region, where provender and water could be procured to restore their well-nigh exhausted strength. Oftentimes they have been attacked by bands of mounted Indians, whose war-whoop has startled them from their slumbers at night; and they have been compelled to fight their way onwards, day after day assailed by their savage and persevering foes.

Civilised man is, however, triumphant at last, and the steam-engine, on its iron path, now traverses that wild region from east to west at rapid speed; and the red men, who claim to be lords of the soil, have been driven back into the more remote wilderness, or compelled to succumb to the superior power of the invader, in many instances being utterly exterminated. Still, north and south of that iron line the country resembles a desert; and the wild Indian roams as of yore, like the Arab of the East—his hand against every man, and every man’s hand against him.

Among the dangers to which the traveller across the prairie is exposed, the most fearful is that of fire. The sky is bright overhead; the tall grass, which has already assumed a yellow tinge from the heat of summer, waves round him, affording abundant pasture to his steed. Suddenly his guides rise in their stirrups and look anxiously towards the horizon. He sees, perhaps, a white column of smoke rising in the clear air. It is so far-off that it seems it can but little concern them. The guides, however, think differently, and after a moment’s consultation point eagerly in the direction of some broad river, whose waters flow towards the Mississippi. “Onward! onward!” is the cry. They put spurs to their horses’ flanks, and gallop for their lives. Every instant the column of smoke increases in width, till it extends directly across the horizon. It grows denser and denser. Now above the tall grass flashes of bright light can be seen. The traveller almost fancies he can hear the crackling of the flames as they seize all combustible substances in their course. Now they surround a grove of aspens, and the fierce fire blazes up more brightly than ever towards the sky, over which hangs a dark canopy of smoke. Suddenly a distant tramp of feet is heard. The very ground trembles. A dark mass approaches—a phalanx of horns and streaming manes. It is a herd of buffaloes, turned by the fire purposely ignited by the Indians. The guides urge the travellers to increase their speed; for if overtaken by the maddened animals, they will be struck down and trampled to death. Happily they escape the surging herd which comes sweeping onward—thousands of dark forms pressed together, utterly regardless of the human beings who have so narrowly escaped them. The travellers gallop on till their eyes are gladdened by the sight of the flowing waters of a river. They rush down the bank. Perchance the stream is too rapid or too deep to be forded. At the water’s edge they at length dismount, when the Indians, drawing forth flint and steel, set fire to the grass on the bank. The smoke well-nigh stifles them, but the flames pass on, clearing an open space; and now, crouching down to the water’s edge, they see the fearful conflagration rapidly approaching. The fire they have created meets the flames which have been raging far and wide across the region. And now the wind carries the smoke in dense masses over their heads; but their lives are saved—and at length they may venture to ride along the banks, over the still smouldering embers, till a ford is reached, and they may cross the river to where the grass still flourishes in rich luxuriance.

While, on one side of the stream, charred trees are seen rising out of the blackened ground, on the other all is green and smiling. These fearful prairie fires, by which thousands of acres of grass and numberless forests have been destroyed, are almost always caused by the thoughtless Indians, either for the sake of turning the herds of buffaloes towards the direction they desire them to take, or else for signals made as a sign to distant allies. Sometimes travellers have carelessly left a camp-fire still burning, when the wind has carried the blazing embers to some portion of the surrounding dry herbage, and a fearful conflagration has been the result.

Mr Paul Kane, the Canadian artist and traveller, mentions one which he witnessed from Fort Edmonton. The wind was blowing a perfect hurricane when the conflagration was seen sweeping over the prairie, across which they had passed but a few hours before. The night was intensely dark, adding effect to the brilliancy of the flames, and making the scene look truly terrific. So fiercely did the flames rage, that at one time it was feared the fire would cross the river to the side on which the fort is situated, in which case it and all within must have been destroyed. The inmates also had had many apprehensions for the safety of one of their party, from whom, with his Indians, Mr Kane had parted some time before, and who had not yet arrived. For three days they were uncertain of his fate, when at length their anxiety was relieved by his appearance. He had noticed the fire at a long distance, and had immediately started for the nearest bend in the river. This, by great exertion, he had reached in time to escape the flames, and had succeeded in crossing.

The Barren Plains in the Far West.

On the prairies of the east the eye ranges over a wide expanse of waving grass, everywhere like the sea. As, crossing the plains, we proceed west towards the vast range of the Rocky Mountains, the country gives evidence of the violent and irregular disturbances to which it has been subjected. Wild rocky ridges crop out from the sterile plains of sand; and for hundreds of miles around the country is desert, dry, and barren. Even the vegetation, such as it is, is of the same unattractive character. The ground here and there is covered with patches of the grey gramma grass, growing in little cork-screw curls; and there is a small furzy plant, the under sides of the leaves of which are covered with a white down, while occasionally small orange-coloured flowers are seen struggling into existence.

There are insects, however. Ants swarm in all directions, building cones a foot in height. Grasshoppers in myriads, with red wings and legs, fly through the air—the only bright objects in the landscape. Sometimes the reddish-brown cricket is seen. Even the Platte River, which flows through this region, partakes of its nature. It seems to consist of a saturated solution of sand: when a handful is taken up, a grey mud of silex remains in the palm. Dry as this gramma grass appears, it possesses nutritive qualities, as the animals which feed on it abundantly prove.

Storms break over these plains with tremendous fury: the thunder roars, the lightning which flashes from the clouds illumines earth and sky with a brightness surpassing the cloudless noon. Then again utter darkness covers the earth, when suddenly a column of light appears, like the trunk of some tall pine, as the electric fluid passes from the upper to the lower regions of the world. The next instant its blazing summit breaks into splinters on every side. Occasionally fearful hail-storms sweep over the plains; and at other times the air from the south comes heated, as from a furnace, drying up all moisture from the skin, and parching the traveller’s tongue with thirst.

Here and there are scattered pools of water containing large quantities of salts, soda, and potash, from drinking which numbers of cattle perish. The track of emigrants is strewn for many miles with bleaching heads, whole skeletons, and putrefying carcasses;—the result of the malady thus produced, in addition to heat and overdriving. Even the traveller suffers greatly, feeling as if he had swallowed a quantity of raw soda.

Yet often in this generally desert region, where the rivers wind their way through the plain, or wide pools of pure water mirror the blue sky, scenes of great beauty are presented. Nothing can surpass the rosy hues which tinge the heavens at sunrise. Here game of all sorts is found. The lakes swarm with mallards, ducks, and a variety of teal. Herds of antelopes cross the plain in all directions, and vast herds of buffalo darken the horizon as they sweep by in their migrations.

The Rocky Mountains.

At length a blue range, which might be taken for a rising vapour, appears in the western horizon. It is the first sight the traveller obtains of the long-looked-for Rocky Mountains; yet he has many a weary league to pass before he is among them, and dangers not a few before he can descend their western slopes. At length he finds himself amid masses of dark brown rocks, not a patch of green appearing; mountain heights rising westward, one beyond the other; and far-away, where he might suppose the plains were again to be found, still there rises before him a region of everlasting snow. For many days he may go on, now climbing, now descending, now flanking piles of rocks, and yet not till fully six days are passed is he able to say that he has crossed that mountain range. Indeed, the term “range” scarcely describes the system of the Rocky Mountains. It is, in fact, a chain, composed of numerous links, with vast plains rising amid them.

Parks.

These ranges in several places thin out, as it were, leaving a large tract of level country completely embosomed in snowy ridges in the very heart of the system. These plains are known as “parks.” They are found throughout the range. Several of them are of vast extent,—the four principal ones forming the series called, in their order, “North,” “Middle,” “South,” and “Saint Louis” Parks. Portions of them, thoroughly irrigated, remain beautifully green throughout the year, and herbage over the whole region is abundant. Sheltered from the blasts to which the lower plains are exposed, these parks enjoy an equable climate; and old hunters, who have camped in them for many seasons, describe life there as an earthly paradise. They abound in animals of all sorts. Elk, deer, and antelope feed on their rich grasses. Hither also the puma follows its prey, and there are several other creatures of the feline tribe. Bears, wolves, and foxes likewise range across them. In some of them herds of buffalo pass their lives; for, unlike their brethren of the plain, they are not migratory. It is doubtful whether or not they are of the same species, but they are said to be larger and fiercer.

The appropriate designation of the Rocky Mountain-system is that of a chain. On crossing one of its basins or plateaux, the traveller finds himself within a link such as has just been described. A break in one of these links is called a “pass,” or “canon.” As he passes through this break he enters another link, belonging to another parallel either of a higher or lower series. In some of the minor plateaux between the snowy ridges no vegetation appears. Granite and sandstone rocks outcrop even in the general sandy level, rising bare and perpendicularly from 50 to 300 feet; as a late traveller describes it, “looking like a mere clean skeleton of the world.” Nothing is visible but pure rock on every side. Vast stones lie heaped up into pyramids, as if they had been rent from the sky. Cubical masses, each covering an acre of surface, and reaching to a perpendicular height of thirty or forty feet, suggest the buttresses of some gigantic palace, whose superstructure has crumbled away with the race of its Titanic builders. It is these regions especially which have given the mighty range the appropriate name of the Rocky Mountains.

The Sage Cock.

In some spots, the limitless wastes are covered by a scrubby plant known as mountain sage. It rises from a tough gnarled root in a number of spiral shoots, which finally form a single trunk, varying in circumference from six inches to two feet. The leaves are grey, with a strong offensive smell resembling true sage. In other places there appear mixed with it the equally scrubby but somewhat greener grease-wood—the two resinous shrubs affording the only fuel on which the emigrant can rely while following the Rocky Mountain trail.

These sage regions are the habitation of a magnificent bird—the Sage Cock. He may well be called the King of the grouse tribe. When stalking erect through the sage, he looks as large as a good-sized wild turkey—his average length being, indeed, about thirty-two inches, and that of the hen two feet. They differ somewhat, according to the season of the year. The prevailing colour is that of a yellowish-brown or warm grey, mottled with darker brown, shading from cinnamon to jet-black. The dark spots are laid on in a longitudinal series of crescents. The under parts are a light grey, sometimes almost pure white, barred with streaks of brown, or pied with black patches. In the elegance of his figure and fineness of his outlines he vies with the golden pheasant. His tail differs from that of the grouse family in general by coming to a point instead of opening like a fan. On each side of his neck he has a bare orange-coloured spot, and near it a downy epaulet. His call is a rapid “Cut, cut, cut!” followed by a hollow blowing sound. He has the partridge’s habit of drumming with his wings, while the hen-bird knows the trick of misleading the enemy from her young brood. He seldom rises from the ground, his occasional flights being low, short, and laboured. He runs with great speed, and in his favourite habitat dodges and skulks with rapidity, favoured by the resemblance of his colour to the natural tints of the scrub. Though sometimes called the Cock of the Plains, he never descends into the plains, being always found on the higher mountain regions.

When the snow begins to melt, the sage hen builds in the bush a nest of sticks and reeds artistically matted together, and lays from a dozen to twenty eggs, rather larger than those of the domestic fowl, of a tawny colour, irregularly marked with chocolate blotches on the larger end. When a brood is strong enough to travel, the parents lead their young into general society. They are excessively tame, or bold. Often they may be seen strutting between the gnarled trunk and ashen masses of foliage peculiar to the sage scrub, and paying no more attention to the traveller than would a barnyard drove of turkeys; the cocks now and then stopping to play the dandy before their more Quakerly little hens, inflating the little yellow pouches of skin on either side of their necks, till they globe out like the pouches of a pigeon.

Winter Scene among the Rocky Mountains.

Descending the precipitous slopes of the Rocky Mountains on the west, we enter on a vast plain no less than 2000 miles in length, though comparatively narrow—the great basin of California and Oregon. Its greatest width, from the Sierra Nevada to the Rocky Mountains, is nearly 600 miles, but is generally much less. The largest lake found on it is 4200 feet above the level of the sea, and is connected with the Salt Lake of Utah. The mean elevation of the plain is about 6000 feet above the sea. A mountain-chain runs across it, and through it flows the large Colorado River, amidst gorges of the most picturesque magnificence.

If the scenes we have described are stern and forbidding in summer, how much more so are they in winter, when icy blasts blow through the cañons, and masses of snow cover the ground. From one of the outer spurs on the east, let us take a glance over the region. Behind us rises the chain of the Rocky Mountains, the whole intermediate country, as well as the mountains themselves, except where the precipitous rocks forbid it, being covered thickly with snow. Rugged peaks and ridges, snow-clad and covered with pines, and deep gorges filled with broken rocks, everywhere meet the eye. To the east, the mountains gradually smooth away into high spurs and broken ground, till they join the wide-spreading plains, generally stretching far as the eye can reach, and hundreds of miles beyond—a sea of barrenness, vast and dismal. A hurricane blows clouds of white snowy dust across the desert, resembling the smoke of bonfires, roaring and raving through the pines on the mountain-top, filling the air with snow and broken branches, and piling it in huge drifts against the trees.

The perfect solitude of this vast wilderness is appalling. From our lofty post on the mountain-top, we obtain a view over the rugged and chaotic masses of the stupendous chain, and the vast deserts which stretch away far from its eastern base; while on all sides are broken ridges and chasms and ravines, with masses of piled-up rocks and uprooted trees, with clouds of drifting snow flying through the air, and the hurricane’s roar battling through the forest at our feet adding to the wildness of the scene, which is unrelieved by the slightest vestige of animal or human life.

The Horned Frog.

We must now pass in review some of the numerous animals which inhabit these regions. In some of the mountain plateaux, among the cactuses and sand-heaps, we find that singularly-made animal known vulgarly as the Texan toad or horned frog—a name which in no way properly belongs to him, as he is more nearly related to the lizards and salamanders. He lives as contentedly on the hot baked prairies of Texas, as amongst their snow-surrounded heights; though, from his appearance, we should expect to see him basking under a semi-tropical sun, rather than in this region. Yet here he lives, and must often have to spend much of his time under the snow. These toads, as the creatures are called, have brown backs, white bellies, small twinkling black eyes, set in almond-shaped slits, enclosed by two dark marks of the same shape. This has the effect of enlarging the eye, and giving it a soft look like that of the antelope. The two retro-curved horns, which rise out of bony sockets above the eyes, add still more to this odd resemblance.

The skin of the back and the long stiff tail, instead of being warted like the true toad’s upper surface, is set with thorny excrescences. That of the lower surface is a dry tough tissue, almost horny. Whether this armour is given him to defend himself from the rattlesnake, it is difficult to say. The creature itself is of a peaceable disposition; and so unwilling is he to fight, that he will allow himself to be taken in the hand, and if placed on it directly after capture, he will not attempt to get away. It is very easy to catch him in the first place, for his movements over the loose sand of his haunts are scarcely faster than those of a land tortoise.

The trappers and other scattered inhabitants of this region describe a fish with hands as frequenting the brooks and pools. Though there are, no doubt, some curious fish, it is questionable how far these creatures possess the members ascribed to them.

Fur-Trappers of the Far West.

The fur-trapper of America is the chief pioneer of the Far West. His life spent in the remote wilderness, with no other companion than Nature herself, his character assumes a mixture of simplicity and ferocity. He knows no wants beyond the means of procuring sufficient food and clothing. All the instincts of primitive man are constantly kept alive. Exposed to dangers of all sorts, he becomes callous to them, and is as ready to destroy human as well as animal life as he is to expose his own. He cares nothing for laws, human or divine. Strong, active, hardy, and daring, he depends on his instinct for the support of life.

The independent trapper possesses traps and animals of his own, ranges wherever he lists through the country, and disposes of his peltries to the highest bidder. There are others employed by the fur companies, who supply them with traps and animals, and pay a certain price for the furs they bring.

The independent trapper equips himself with a horse and two or three mules—the one for the saddle, the others for his packs—and a certain number of traps, which he carries in a leather bag, with ammunition, a few pounds of tobacco, and dressed deerskins for his mocassins and repairing his garments. His costume is a hunting-shirt of dressed buckskin, ornamented with long fringes; pantaloons of the same material, decorated with porcupine quills and long fringes down the outside of the leg. He has mocassins on his feet, and a flexible felt hat on his head. Over his left shoulder and under his right arm hang his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, with flint, steel, and other articles, in a bag. A belt round the waist secures a large knife in a sheath of buffalo hide to a steel chain, as also a case of buckskin, containing a whetstone. In his belt is also stuck a tomahawk, a pipe-holder hangs round his neck, and a long heavy rifle is slung over his shoulder.

Arrived on the hunting-ground, as soon as the ice has broken up he follows the creeks and streams, keeping a lookout for the signs of beavers. As soon as he discovers one, he sets his trap, secured to a chain fastened to a stake or tree, baiting it with the tempting castoreum. He is ever on the watch for the neighbourhood of Indians, who try to outwit him, though generally in vain, to steal his traps and beavers. His eye surveys the surrounding country, and instantly detects any sign of his foes. A leaf turned down, the slightly pressed grass, the uneasiness of the wild animals, the flight of birds, all tell him that other human beings are in the neighbourhood. Sometimes, after he has set his traps and is returning to his camp, the wily Indian who has been watching follows, and a home-drawn arrow, shot within a few feet, never fails to bring the hapless victim to the ground. For one white scalp, however, that dangles in the smoke of an Indian’s lodge, a dozen black ones surround the camp-fires of the trappers’ rendezvous. Here, after the hunt, from all quarters the hardy trappers bring in their packs of beaver to meet the purchasers, sometimes to the value of a thousand dollars each. The traders sell their goods at enormous profits; and the thoughtless trapper, indulging in the fire-water from which he has long abstained, is too often induced to gamble away the gold for which he has risked life and gone through so many hardships. When all is gone, he gets credit for another equipment, and sets off alone, often to return and repeat the same process, although the profits of one or two successful hunts would enable him to stock a farm and live among civilised men.

Wonders of Nature.—Mammoth Cave of Kentucky.

There are many other wonders of Nature in different parts of North America well worthy of more notice than we can give them. The most remarkable, perhaps, is the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky. The entrance to it is situated near Green River, midway between Louisville and Nashville.

A lonely road leads to the entrance, from which, as we approach it in summer, we find a peculiarly chilly air issue forth. The sombre gloom of the entrance does not prepare us for the enormous hall within; long avenues leading into vast chambers, the smaller, thirty feet in height, at least, with an area of half an acre, and, as we get lower and lower, increasing in height. Upwards of eighteen miles of the cavern have been explored, and it may possibly be of still greater extent. To give an idea of the height of one of the chambers, we may add that the rocks from above have fallen, and a hill has been formed one hundred feet in elevation. Many of the halls are ornamented with the most magnificent stalactites. One of them is appropriately called Martha’s Vineyard, in consequence of having its tops and sides covered with stalactites which resemble bunches of grapes.

Several streams pass through the cavern, down the sides of which rush numerous cataracts. Some of these streams, which are of considerable depth and width, are inhabited by shoals of eyeless fish, the organs of sight being superfluous in a region doomed to eternal night. The atmosphere of this huge cave is peculiarly dry, and is supposed to be extremely serviceable to persons afflicted with pulmonary complaints.

To visit any considerable portion of the cavern would occupy us at least a couple of days. It is calculated there are no less than two hundred and twenty-six avenues, forty-seven domes, numerous rivers, eight cataracts, and twenty-three pits,—many of which are grand in the extreme. Some of the rivers are navigated by boats, and, as may be supposed, they have obtained appropriate names. Here we find the Dead Sea and the River Styx. One of the streams disappears beneath the ground, and then rises again in another portion of the cavern. But after all, as naturalists, the little eyeless fish should chiefly claim our attention.

Oil Springs.

As coal was stored up for the use of man, formed in ages past from the giant vegetation which then covered the face of the earth, so the Creator has caused to be deposited in subterranean caverns large quantities of valuable oil, which not only serves man for light, but is useful to him for many other purposes.

Whether that oil was produced from animal or vegetable substances, appears, even now, a matter of dispute. Some naturalists suppose that vast numbers of oil-giving creatures had been assembled in the districts in which these oil wells are now found, and the oil was pressed out of them by a superincumbent weight of rock. Others assert that the same result might be produced from a vast mass of oil-giving vegetation having been crushed by a similar process. Be that as it may, in several parts of the States, as well as in Canada, enormous pits exist full of this curious oil. It is obtained by boring in the ground in those spots where the oil is likely to be found. Often, however, the speculator, after spending time and capital in the experiment, finds that no oil appears at his call.

In some spots, where it was first discovered, after the boring was completed, some hundreds of tons flowed up so rapidly, that it was difficult to find casks sufficient to preserve the produce. The whole region round is impregnated with the odour of the oil. Long teams of waggons come laden with casks of oil on the roads approaching the wells. Sheds for repairing the casks, and storing the oil, are ranged around. Every one gives indubitable signs by their appearance of their occupation, while rock-oil, as it is called, is the only subject of conversation in the neighbourhood.

Mammoth Trees and Caverns of Calaveras.

Gigantic as are the trees found in many of the eastern forests of America, they are far surpassed by groves of pines discovered a few years back in the southern parts of California. They are found in small groves together—in some places only three or four of the more gigantic in size; in others, as many as thirty or forty, one vying with the other in height and girth. In one grove, upwards of one hundred trees were found, of great size, twenty of which were about seventy-five feet in circumference. One of these trees, of greater size than its companions, was sacrilegiously cut down. Its height was 302 feet, and its circumference, at the ground, 96 feet. As it was impossible to cut it down, it was bored off with pump-augers. This work employed five men for twenty-two days. Even, after the stem was fairly severed from the stump, the uprightness of the tree and breadth of its base sustained it in its position, and two days were employed in inserting wedges and driving them in; but at length the noble monarch of the forest was forced to tremble, and then to fall, after braving the battle and the breeze for nearly three thousand winters.

Many of the trees have received appropriate names. One has fallen, and has been hollowed out by fire. Through it a person can ride on horseback for sixty feet. Its estimated height, when standing, was 330 feet, and its circumference, 97 feet. Another of these giants is known as Hercules. It is 320 feet high, and 95 feet in circumference. Perhaps the most beautiful group is that of three trees known as the Three Graces. Each of them measures 92 feet in circumference at the base; and in height they are nearly equal, measuring 295 feet. Time was when, perhaps, the whole forest consisted of trees of the same size; but many have been destroyed by fire, and the time may come when none of those now standing will remain. The name of Wellingtonia has been given to the species.

In the same region are numerous magnificent stalactite caverns, which equal in beauty, if not in size, those of the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky.

There are several waterfalls, unsurpassed for picturesque beauty.

Had we time, we might pay a visit also to the gold-mines of California, and observe the way they are worked; but we should be prevented from giving that attention to the animal creation which is our present object.

Part 1—Chapter IV.

General Survey of the Zoology of North America.

Having thus obtained a bird’s-eye view of the physical features of North America, we will take a rapid survey of its zoology before we more minutely inspect the individuals of which it consists.

In a region of extent so vast as the continent of America, reaching from the Arctic Circle at one end far-away towards the Antarctic Ocean at the other—with dense forests, under a tropical sun, in some parts; open plains, lofty mountains, or a network of rivers and streams, vast lakes and marshes, in others—we shall find all varieties of form in the animal kingdom. This gives to its study an especial interest. While the larger number of its members are especially local, confined in narrow spaces between two streams, others range beyond 50 degrees and 60 degrees of latitude. The puma wanders across the plains of Patagonia, and ravages the flocks of the settlers on the western prairies of the United States. The reindeer feeds on the moss-covered moors of the Arctic islands, and is chased by the hunters far south among the defiles of the Rocky Mountains. Vast herds of bison darken the plains of New Mexico, and reach the upper waters of the Saskatchewan. The same wild fowl which hatch their young among the ice-surrounded cliffs of Northern Greenland are found sporting in the lakes of Central America; while some of the smallest of the feathered tribes, the gem-like humming-birds, have been seen flitting through the damp mists of Tierra del Fuego, sipping the sweets of Alpine flowers high up amid lofty peaks of the Andes, and appearing on the hill-sides in sight of Lake Winnipeg, on the north of Rupert’s Land.

However, as we proceed in our survey, we shall be able to note such, and many other interesting facts connected with the zoology of the districts we visit.

We shall find in the northern portion of the continent, extending nearly as far south as the sixtieth degree of latitude, and even beyond that parallel, several animals which are identical with those inhabiting the same latitudes in Europe and Asia. The Polar or white bear, the sovereign of the Arctic world, ranges entirely round the Circle; and makes his way across the icy seas over the rugged snow-clothed rocks, so that he belongs as much to Europe and Asia as to America. The cunning wolverene, the ermine, the pine-marten, the Arctic fox and common weasel, also inhabit the same latitudes of the three continents. Among the herbivorous quadrupeds, there are several which have made their way across the frozen ocean. The American elk, though called the moose, is identical with the same animal found in Asia and Europe; so is the reindeer, known here as the cariboo. Both, indeed, are Arctic animals, though they migrate to southern latitudes when the severer cold and depth of snow prevents them from obtaining the moss and lichens on which they feed. The little Polar hare ranges round the Arctic Circle; but there is one animal, the musk-ox, which, being truly an Arctic quadruped, is unknown either in Asia or Europe, and therefore belongs exclusively to America.

Of the feathered tribes, the larger number of individuals, as might be supposed, are common to the northern portions of the three continents. Among these are the golden eagle, the white-headed or sea eagle, the osprey, the peregrine falcon, the gyrfalcon, the merlin goshawk, the common buzzard, rough-legged buzzard, hen-harrier, long-eared owl, short-eared owl, great snowy owl, and Tengmalm’s owl. Nearly all the ducks and other swimming families, as might be expected, are also identical, as they can make their way with ease round the Circle, and find the same food and conditions of life. The waders, however, are generally distinct from those of Europe, as are the grouse inhabiting the same parallels of latitude. Only one or two have been found in Europe, as well as in America.

We must now take a glance at the animals which are distinctly American. In the first place, there are three bears—the savage grizzly of the Rocky Mountains; the cunning black bear; and the bear of the Barren Grounds. The beaver might take the first rank among American animals, for his sagacity, if not for his size. Then comes the Canada otter; the vison or minx; the clever little tree-loving raccoon; the American badger, differing from his European relative; and the pekan. There are several varieties of wolves, differing in size and somewhat in habits, but all equally voracious. There are several species of foxes, and no less than thirty of lemmings, marmots, and squirrels, all of which are to be found within the more northern latitudes of the New World. There are three hares—known as the American, the prairie, and the little chief hares—which range over the northern continent. Of the large animals we have the wapiti, a species of deer; two species of the black-tailed deer; a long-tailed deer; and the prong-horned antelope; also the wild goat; the bighorn sheep of the Rocky Mountains; and last, though not least, the American bison, familiarly known as the buffalo—the inhabitant of the wide-spreading plains and prairies extending from the Arctic Circle to Mexico.

Among the land birds, especially the birds of prey, there are several which are spread over the greater part of the northern continent, some indeed being found also in great numbers in South America. These are the turkey vulture, the black vulture, the little rusty-crowned falcon, the pigeon hawk, slate-coloured hawk, red-tailed buzzard, American horned owl, little American owl, and five other species of falcons. The perchers are less widely distributed.

There are, however, numerous families of insectivorous birds peculiar to America, which either permanently inhabit the more genial portions of the continent, or pay annual visits to those regions where the richest fruits abound and insect life prevails, affording them an abundant banquet. These migrating birds, as the winter draws on, take their departure southward to the warmer climate of Mexico, where they find abundance of food. As the summer returns, and the fruits of the orchard, the corn of the field, and wild berries ripen, and insects increase in numbers, vast flocks of warblers, woodpeckers, maize-birds, fly-catchers, thrushes, hang-nests, pigeons, blue-birds, and others return from their southern pilgrimage, to feed on the minute creatures which now people the plains, the hill-sides and forests, and on the abundant productions of the earth, enlivening the forests with their varied plumage, and delighting man by their melodious notes.

The number of gallinaceous birds is extremely limited. America can, however, boast of its native wild turkey—one of the most magnificent game-birds in existence. There is also the pinnated or Cupid Grouse. The Barren Grounds of Kentucky, and a few other districts, are inhabited by the ruffle grouse, which is also often called the pheasant. It ranges to a considerable distance northward, and Dr Richardson found it even on the borders of the Polar regions. There is likewise a small-sized partridge, which is improperly called the quail.

With the exception of the golden plover, few of the wading birds resemble those of Europe. The snipe, the woodcock, the curlew, most of the sandpipers, together with the coot and the water-hen, are distinct from those of Europe, and are not only peculiar to America, but few of them have been found to the south of the line. One of the most magnificent birds is the American flamingo, which is of a more beautiful and intense scarlet than that of Europe, and fully as tall; another bird, the wood-ibis, has the same form as the glossy ibis of southern Europe. In Carolina and Florida is found the magnificent scarlet ibis, but it seldom makes its way to the northern parts of the Union. There are several large and beautiful species of herons. Although most of the duck tribe range throughout the continent, there are some—such as the summer or tree duck of South Carolina—which range from the States to the warmer shores of the southern provinces, while the celebrated canvas-back duck, so highly prized at table, is found chiefly in the temperate parts of the continent. The rest of the duck tribe inhabit the northern regions, only quitting them for the United States during the severity of winter.

Part 1—Chapter V.

Description of Various Animals—Ruminants.

The Moose, or Elk.

We shall not introduce the animals we are about to inspect according to a systematic classification, but bring them forward as they appear to the eye of the traveller or sportsman, giving the largest and the most important the first place. Our object is rather to view the characteristic animals of each region we visit than to attempt a scientific examination of the whole animated kingdom of the world—a task which must be left to those who have far more time at their disposal than we possess.

We will begin, therefore, with the animals belonging to the ruminantia—the eighth in natural order; taking next the carnivora—the fifth; and the smaller rodentia—the sixth; while the birds and reptiles will follow in due course. Among these, however, we shall select only the most notable and curious; for although North America does not teem with animal life in the same degree as the southern half of the continent, were we to attempt to introduce all those existing in it we could give but a meagre account of each.

Without further preface, therefore, we will commence our survey with the elk.

The monarch of the American pine-forests—the superb moose or elk—ranges from the mouth of the Mackenzie River to the shores of the Atlantic, at the eastern extremity of Nova Scotia, and passing the great lake region, is found even as far as the State of New York. Observe him as he stands with huge palmated horns ready for action, his vast nostrils snuffing up the scent coming from afar; his eyes dilated, and ears moving, watching for a foe; his bristly mane erect; his large body supported on his somewhat thick but agile limbs, standing fully six feet six inches in height at the shoulder, above which rise the head and antlers. The creature’s muzzle is very broad, protruding, and covered with hair, except a small moist, naked spot in front of the nostrils. He has a short, thick neck, the hair thick and brittle. The throat is somewhat maned in both sexes. So large is the cavity of the nose, that a man may thrust his arm right into it. The inter-maxillaries are very long, and the nasals short. He differs from the European elk only by having much darker hair,—the coat of the male, when in its prime, at the close of the summer, being completely black. Under the throat the males have a fleshy appendage termed the bell, from which grow long black hairs. The bristles on his thick muzzle are of a lighter colour than those of the coat, being somewhat of a reddish hue. The neck and shoulders are covered with very fine soft wool, curiously interwoven with the hair. Out of this the Indians manufacture soft, warm gloves. The moose hair is very brittle and inelastic. It is dyed by the Indians, and employed for ornamenting numerous articles of birch-bark. The moose is of cautious and retiring habits, generally taking up his abode amid the mossy swamps found round the margins of the lakes, and which occupy the low ground in every direction. Here the cinnamon fern grows luxuriantly, while a few swamp maple saplings and mountain ash trees occur at intervals, and afford sufficient food to the moose.

It is to these regions the bull retires with his consort, and remains for weeks together, claiming to be the monarch of the swamp; and should he hear the approach of a distant rival, he will crash with his antlers against the tree stems, making sudden mad rushes through the bushes, the sound of his blows reverberating to a distance. He has also a curious custom of tearing up the moss over a considerable area, exposing the black mud by pawing with the fore-feet. He continually visits these hills, and in consequence a strong musky effluvia arises from them. The Indian hunter, by examining them, can ascertain without fail when they were last visited by the animal. He utters loud sounds both by day and night, described by the Indians in their guttural voices as “quoth, quoth,” but occasionally becoming sharper and more like a bellow when he hears a distant cow. The cow utters a prolonged and strangely wild call. This is imitated by the Indian hunter through a trumpet composed of rolled-up birch-bark, when his dogs are in chase of the animal; and the bull being by this means attracted towards him, becomes more easily his victim.

During the early part of the year, and the summer, the antlers are growing; but this process ceases early in September, when the moose has got rid of the last ragged strip of the deciduous skin against the young larch-trees and alder-bushes. He now stands ready to assert his claims against all rivals. At this season the bulls fight desperately; often the collision of the antlers of huge rivals, driven with mighty force by their immense and compact necks, is heard to a great distance, like the report of a gun on a still autumnal evening. They probably approach from different directions, regardless of the rugged ground, the rocks, and fallen trees in their course, bellowing loudly, and tearing up the ground with their horns. Now they catch sight of each other, and rush together like two gladiators. Now butting for some time till their antlers become interlocked, perhaps both fall struggling to the ground. Frequently portions of skeletons, the skulls united by firmly-locked antlers, have been found in some wilderness arena, where a deadly fight has occurred. A magnificent pair of horns thus interlocked is to be seen in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons. Terrible must have been the fate of the combatants, illustrating Byron’s lines:—

“Friends meet to part;

Love laughs at faith:

True foes once met,

Are joined till death.”

Captain Hardy says he has twice heard the strange sound emitted by the moose, which, till he became acquainted with its origin, was almost appalling. It is a deep, hoarse, and prolonged bellow, more resembling a feline than a bovine roar. Sometimes the ear of the hunter is assailed by a tremendous clatter from some distant swamp or burned wood. It is the moose, defiantly sweeping the forest of pines right and left among the brittle branches of the ram pikes, as the scaled pines hardened by fire are locally termed. When, however, the moose wishes to beat a retreat in silence, his suspicions being aroused, he effects the process with marvellous stealth. Not a branch is heard to snap, and the horns are so carefully carried through the densest thickets, that a rabbit would make as much noise when alarmed. He will also, when hard-pressed, take the most desperate leaps to avoid his foes.

Though he seldom or never attacks human beings when unassailed, he will do so occasionally when badly wounded, if nearly approached. An old Indian hunter had one day followed up a moose, and wounded the animal, when it turned on him. There being no tree near, he jammed himself for safety between two large granite boulders which were at hand. The aperture, however, did not extend far enough back to enable him to get altogether out of the reach of the infuriated bull, which set on him with its fore-feet, and pounded him so severely that several of his ribs were broken; indeed, for several years afterwards he was nearly bent double by the severe beating he had received.

In the summer, when the plague of flies commences, the moose takes to the water to avoid their bites. There are several species—one termed the moose-fly—which are equally annoying to the hunter. The animal strives to free himself from their irritation by running among bushes and brambles; and should he reach a lake, he will plunge into the water, allowing only his nostrils and mouth to remain above the surface. Sometimes, indeed, he will dive altogether, and is frequently known to hide himself from his pursuers by remaining for a long time below the water. He also feeds upon the tendrils and shoots of the yellow pond-lily, by reaching for them under water. An Indian, on one occasion, was following the track of a moose, when it led him to the edge of a little round pond in the woods, whence he could find no exit of the trail. After waiting for some time, he beheld the head of the animal rising above the surface in the very middle of the pond. While hastening for his gun, which he had left at a little distance, the moose made for the opposite shore, and emerging from the water, regained the shelter of the forest ere he could get round for a shot. The animals have been known also to visit the seashore, and one was seen swimming off to an island over a mile distant, which he reached in safety.

The moose feeds chiefly on the leaves of young shoots and bushes, or the smaller trees—the red and other maples, the white birch, the balsam, fur, poplar, and mountain ash; and occasionally, as has been said, on the roots of the yellow pond-lily, with a bite now and then at a tussock of broad-leaved grass growing in the dried bogs. To get at the foliage beyond the reach of his muzzle, he frequently charges a young tree and rides it down, till he has brought the tempting leaves within his reach.

The horns of the animal begin to sprout in April, the old pair having fallen some time before. In the middle of this month the coat is shed, when the animal for some time afterwards presents a very rugged appearance. The cow towards the end of May produces one or two calves, generally near the margin of a lake, or in one of the densely-wooded islands, where they are secure from the attacks of the bull moose, who, cruel tyrant that he is, often destroys them. Rarely more than two are born at a time.

Besides its human foes, the moose is attacked occasionally by the bear. Captain Hardy describes coming upon the traces of a recent struggle between a young moose and one of these animals. “The bear had evidently stolen through the long grass upon the moose, and had taken him at a disadvantage in the treacherous bog. The grass was very much beaten down, and deep furrows in the soil below showed how energetically the unfortunate moose had striven to escape from his powerful assailant. There was a broad track plentifully strewed with moose hair, showing how the moose had struggled with the bear, to the wood, where, no doubt, the affair ended, and the bear dined.”

As the winter approaches, the cows, with the young bulls and calves, congregate in small parties on the open “barrens” and hill-sides. When the snow comes thickly down, they form what is called a yard; and in Canada, where its depth is very great, they have to remain in it during the whole winter, feeding round the area on the young wood of deciduous trees. In Nova Scotia, however, they migrate to other localities when they have consumed the more tempting portions of food in the yard. In the morning and afternoon they are found feeding, or chewing the cud; but at noon, when they lie down, they are difficult to approach, as they are then on the alert, employing their wonderful faculties of scent and hearing to detect the faintest taint or sound in the air, which might indicate the approach of danger. The snapping of a little twig, the least collision of a rifle with a branch, or crunching of the snow under the mocassins, will suffice to arouse them. Curiously enough, however, they are not alarmed by any sound, even the loudest, to which they have been accustomed. The hunter has, therefore, to approach the yard with the greatest possible caution, in order to get a shot.

We will, however, start off on a moose hunt, in autumn, with a practical Indian hunter. The air of the autumnal night is frosty and bracing. The moose are moving rapidly from place to place. Night is drawing on. The last fluttering of the aspens dying away, leaves that perfect repose in the air which is so necessary to the sport. The moon rises, shedding a broad and silvery light through the forest. Mysterious sounds greet our ears. The Indian hunter is provided with his trumpet of birch-bark, in the form of a cone, about two feet in length. He shelters himself behind the edge of the banks, a clump of bushes, or rocks; and now he emits the cry of the cow moose, so exactly, that the male animal is easily deceived by it. He waits: there is no response. An interval of fifteen minutes elapses; still no reply is heard. Again the Indian sends his wild cry pealing through the wood. Presently a low grunt, quickly repeated, comes from some distant hill; and the snapping of branches and falling trees attests the approach of the bull. The hunter is now doubly careful; kneeling down, and thrusting the mouth of his call into some bushes close by, he utters a lower and more plaintive sound. At length an answer reaches his ears. The snapping of the branches is resumed; and presently the moose is seen stalking into the middle of the moonlit “barren.” Our weapons are ready; and as the magnificent animal stands looking eagerly around in the woodland amphitheatre, a rifle ball, laden with death, brings him to the ground.

In some districts the Indians employ another method of calling. They conceal themselves in a swamp, in the midst of some damp mossy valley, during a dark night. One holds a torch of birch-bark with a match ready for lighting. The hunter calls, and the moose approaches more readily than towards the open “barren.” When the creature is within distance of the deadly rifle, the match is applied to the torch, which, flaring up, illuminates the swamp, and discovers the startled moose standing amidst the trees, and incapable apparently of flight. The Indians declare that he is fascinated by the light; and though he may walk round and round it, he will not leave the spot, and thus presents an easy mark to the hunter’s rifle.

Let us set forth on an expedition to “creep” moose, which may be described as a similar mode of hunting to stalking. The ground we select is among the “barrens” before described. It is strewed with dead trees in all directions, amid which briars and bushes have grown up, and conceal their sharp, broken limbs, and the rough granite rocks scattered in all directions. Here, collecting wood for burning, we form our camp, and sit round the blazing fire, on which a well-filled frying-pan is hissing, while we are covered by our blankets to protect ourselves from the pattering rain-drops. Our suppers over, we stretch ourselves for repose, and gradually fall asleep, as the snapping of the logs on the fire, the pattering of the rain, and the hootings of the owls in the distant forest become less and less distinct. Our Indian brings us notice in the morning that two moose have passed close to the camp during the night. However, in spite of the plaintive call from the treacherous bark trumpet, they will not approach, having been forewarned of danger by the smell of our camp-fire. We make our way amid the bushes, already leafless, except that here and there are seen bunches of dwarf maples with a few scarlet leaves of autumn still clinging to them. Presently our companion whispers, “Down—sink down! slow—like me!” A magnificent bull appears about five hundred yards off. The wind is blowing from him to us. The Indian utters the usual call; but the moose does not answer, having already a companion close at hand. Presently he lies down in the bushes, and we worm ourselves slowly and laboriously towards the edge of the alder swamp. Gently lowering ourselves into the swamp, we creep noiselessly through the dense bushes, their thick foliage closing over our heads. It is an anxious moment!—the slightest snapping of a bough, the knocking of a gun-barrel against a stem, and the game is off. “We must go back,” whispers the Indian. “Cannot get near enough on this side. Too open!” The difficult task of retreating is performed without disturbing the moose. Another half-hour is then employed in creeping like snakes through the wet bushes. At length, as we reach the edge of the swamp, the great animal rises directly facing us, gazing steadily towards us. We fire. A headlong stagger follows the report; and the creature, turning round, is hidden from sight behind a clump of bushes. The Indian at the same time fires at a large cow moose who has, unknown to us, been lying close to the bull. We dash forward a few paces. On the other side the great bull suddenly rises in front of us and strides on into thicker covert. Another shot, and he sinks lifeless at our feet.

The Cariboo, or Reindeer.

We have before mentioned the extensive tracts existing in North America, which, from their desolate appearance, are appropriately called “Barrens.” Far as the eye can reach the whole ground is seen strewn with boulders of rock and fallen trees, scattered round in the wildest confusion. Here and there charred stumps rise from the green-sward; in some spots clumps of spruce are seen, against which the white stems of the graceful birch stand out in bold relief; while the bank of some stream, or the margin of a lake, is marked by fringing thickets of alder. In many parts are moist, swampy bogs, into which the sportsman sinks ankle-deep at every step. The ground, however, is everywhere thickly carpeted by a luxuriant growth of a species of lichen. It possesses wonderfully nutritive qualities; so much so, that large quantities of alcohol have lately been extracted from it, as well as from other lichens growing in sub-arctic regions. It is the chief food of the cariboo, which animal frequents these desolate-looking “barrens.”

Visiting one of these “barrens,” we may perchance fall in with several of the noble-looking animals known in Europe and Asia as the reindeer, though we must look sharp to recognise them; for so similar are they in colour to the rocks and general features of the ground, that only the keen eye of the Indian can easily detect them, especially when they are lying down. Should we approach them on the weather-side, or should the slightest noise be made, they will quickly detect us. Up they spring, and after a brief stare, make off in graceful bounds at a rapid rate. Now, having got beyond danger, they drop into a long swinging trot, and proceed in single file across the “barren,” till they enter the line of forest in the far distance.

The cariboo of North America is a strongly-built, thickset animal, compared to the more graceful of his relatives. He carries on his head a pair of magnificent antlers, varying greatly in different specimens—some palmating towards the upper ends, others with branches springing from the palmated portions. In most instances there is but one developed brow antler, the other being a solitary curved prong. The back of the cariboo is covered with brownish hair, the tips of which are of a rich dun grey, whiter on the neck than elsewhere. The nose, ears, and outer surface of the legs and shoulders are of a brown hue. The neck and throat are covered with long, dullish white hair, and there is a faint whitish patch on the side of the shoulders. The rump and tail are snowy-white, while a band of white runs round all the legs, joining the hoofs.

As winter approaches, the hair grows long, and lightens considerably in hue. Frequently, indeed, individuals may be seen in a herd with coats of the palest fawn colour—almost white. The muzzle is entirely covered with hair. The fur is brittle, and though in summer it is short, in winter it is longer and whiter, especially about the throat. The hoofs are broad, depressed, and bent in at the tip. The full-grown bucks shed their horns, and it is seldom that they are seen in a herd after Christmas. The female reindeer, however, retains hers during winter. Several theories have been advanced to account for this. There seems no doubt, however, that the object is to enable the female to protect her fawns from the males, who are apt to attack the young and destroy them.

The cariboo is gregarious, and males, females, and young herd together at all seasons; and by this provision of Nature the females are able to defend the young, who would otherwise be subjected to injury. In another respect these animals are wonderfully provided for the mode of existence they are compelled to pursue. Not only have they to cross wide snow-covered districts, but frequently to pass across frozen expanses of water. To enable them to do this in the winter, the frog of the foot is almost entirely absorbed, and the edges of the hoof, now quite concave, grow out in sharp ridges, each division on the under surface presenting the appearance of a huge mussel-shell, and serving the office of natural skates. So rapidly does the shell increase, that the frog does not fill up again till spring, when the antlers bud out. With this singular conformation of the foot, it has a lateral spread; and an additional assistance for maintaining a foothold on slippery surfaces is given by numerous long, stiff bristles which grow downward at the fetlock, curving over entirely between the divisions. The cariboo is thus enabled to proceed over the snow, to cross frozen lakes, or ascend icy precipices, with an ease which places him, when in flight, beyond the reach of all enemies, except perhaps the nimble and untiring wolf.

The cariboo is essentially a migratory animal. There are two well-defined periods of migration, in the spring and autumn. Throughout the winter it appears also seized with an unconquerable desire to change its residence. One day it may be found feeding quietly through the forests in little bands, and the next, perhaps, all tracks show a general move in a certain direction. The animals join the main herd after a while, and entirely leaving the district, travel toward new feeding-grounds. Though often found in the same woodlands as the moose, they do not enjoy each other’s company. In severe winters the cariboos travel to the southernmost limits of their haunts, and even sometimes enter the settlements. Not being aquatic, like the moose, to avoid the flies in summer they ascend the mountain ranges, where they can be free from their attacks. The hunter, however, follows them, and their speed being of no avail among the precipices, many are shot. During most of the year the flesh of the animal is dry and tasteless; but it possesses a layer of fat, two or more inches thick, which is greatly esteemed. This, with the marrow, is pounded together with the dried flesh, and makes the best kind of pemmican—a food of the greatest value to the hunter. The cariboo lives in herds, sometimes only of ten or twenty, but at others consisting of thirty or more individuals. They range across the whole width of the continent, being found in great numbers to the west of the Rocky Mountains, especially at the northern end of British Columbia. Although specifically identical with the reindeer of Europe, it has never yet been trained by Indians or Esquimaux to carry their goods or draw their sleighs, as in Lapland and along the Arctic shores of Asia.

The Wapiti, or Canadian Stag.

In the wilder parts of the Southern States of the Union, herds of the magnificent Canadian stag or wapiti—popularly called the elk—range amid the woods and over the prairies. Sometimes three or four hundred are found in one herd, always led by an old buck, who exacts from them the strictest obedience—compelling them to halt or move onward as he judges necessary. Now the superb herd of long-horned creatures are seen to wheel to the right or left, now to advance or retreat at the signal he issues.

The wapiti is indeed a grand animal, growing to the height of the tallest ox, and endowed with wonderful activity, as well as power. See him as he dashes through the forest, his branched horns separating in serpentine curves, six feet from tip to tip, laid close over his back as he makes his way amid the trees. His head is of a lively, yellowish-brown hue, the neck covered with reddish and black hairs, the latter of considerable length, descending in a thick bunch below it. They are among the fiercest of the deer tribe. The bucks often enter into desperate contests with each other, battling—with their huge horns—the fight frequently ending only with the death of the weaker rival. Sometimes their horns have become so inextricably interlocked, that both have fallen to the ground, and, unable to rise, have perished miserably. They will frequently, when wounded, attack their human assailants; and the bold hunter, if thus exposed with rifle unloaded to their fierce assaults, will rue the day his weapon failed to kill the enraged quarry at the first shot.

The wapiti, when pursued, will boldly plunge into the lake or broad river, and breast the rapid current to avoid his foes; or will occasionally, if hard-pressed, attack the bold hunter who ventures to follow in his light canoe.

His cry is a sharp whistling sound, which rings through the air far and wide on a calm day. He feeds on the branches of the trees and grass, and in winter scrapes, with his powerful fore-feet, deep into the snow, to obtain the lichens and dry herbage which grow beneath. His flesh for several months in the year is dry and coarse, but his hide is much prized by the Indians, who manufacture from it a leather of a peculiarly soft character, which retains that quality after being wet,—instead of turning hard, as is the case with that manufactured from other deerskins. A remarkable feature of the wapiti is that the horns differ in form almost as greatly as do those of the branches of trees, no two specimens being found with them exactly alike.

The Karjacou, or Virginian Deer.

The most graceful of the deer tribe, the karjacou, scours in large herds across the prairies, frequently entering the haunts of man. Yet so easily is it scared that it takes to flight at the very appearance of a human being. Curiously enough, however, it will again return to its favourite feeding-grounds, even though the hunter’s rifle may lay low many of the herd. It is about the size of the fallow-deer, and of a light brown hue. Its horns are slender, and have numerous branches on the interior sides, but are destitute of brow antlers.

Let us watch a herd startled by our approach. Away they spring, leaping into the air, turning their heads in every direction to ascertain the cause of their alarm, and then rush off at full speed; but in a short time, if they are not followed, we may see them return, especially as night draws on, and crouch down in their accustomed sleeping-places. Should a salt lake be near, they will come in vast numbers to lick up with their tongues the saline particles adhering to the surrounding stones, where the salt has crystallised from the evaporation of the water.

They are at all times thirsty, and they require constant draughts of pure water, to obtain which they are sure to visit the nearest stream or spring as night is about to close over the scene. Wherever the tenderest herbage grows upon the plain, there the karjacou comes to crop it during summer. In winter he finds an abundant supply of food from the buds and berries, or fallen fruits; or, when snow is on the ground, he eats the string moss hanging in masses from the trees. He willingly takes to the water, and will cross a lake or broad river, swimming at a rapid rate with his whole body submerged, his head alone appearing above the surface; thus he will often baffle his pursuers, even though they may follow him with a boat. He has been known, indeed, when hard-pressed near the sea-coast, to plunge into the ocean, and buffeting the waves, to make his way far from the land, rather than be captured.

His flesh affords the Indian a large portion of his winter supply of food, while his skin is manufactured into clothing, the leather from it being especially soft and pliable. From the settlers in the western provinces he receives little mercy, as, without hesitation, he leaps their fences, banqueting on their growing corn or vegetables; and, after doing all the mischief in his power, by his activity generally again makes his escape. No animal surpasses in beauty the young fawn, the fur of which is of a ruddy brown tint, ornamented with white spots arranged in irregular lines, merging occasionally into wide stripes.

Like others of his tribe, the male is excessively combative when meeting others of his own species; and a story is told of three animals thus encountering each other in a desert, when all their horns becoming entangled, they remained fixed, unable to separate, till they sank together on the ground, their skulls and skeletons afterwards being discovered, thus giving evidence of the combat and its fatal result.

The Antelope.

No animal of the American wilds surpasses the antelope in beauty. The little creatures congregate in herds of many thousands, though, from the exterminating war waged against them by the Indians, they have greatly decreased in numbers. The size of the antelope is about that of the common red-deer doe; the colour somewhat between buff and fawn, shaded here and there into reddish-brown, and a patch of pure white on the hind-quarters. This gives rise to the expression of the hunter, when he sees it flying before him, that the creature is “showing its clean linen.” The ears are placed far back on the head, are very long, and curved so much that at a distance they appear like horns, while the horns themselves appear as if coming out of the animal’s eyes; they are long and slender, curving slightly backwards, and have no branches, except a little bud, which is developed when the creature is about two years old. The chief peculiarity of the animal is its lack of a dewlap.

The feet have no rudimentary hoofs like the deer, yet this want in no way interferes with its speed. Often the creature may be seen for a moment browsing not fifty yards off, the next it has dwindled to a mere speck, and is in another lost to sight. They do not leap like deer, but run with level backs, as sheep do, their legs glancing faster than sight can follow. In vain the hunter attempts to follow the rapid movements of the creatures on horseback. Perhaps they will let him approach to within a short distance, and then away they float on a line at right-angles to their former retreat. To come up with them, indeed, as an American writer observes, is as hopeful an undertaking as trying to run down a telegraphic message. The only way to get near them is by a stratagem. They are not afraid of horses, and the hunter, by walking behind his horse, may often approach a herd without being discovered, provided the wind blows from them. He then pickets his horse with a sharp stake, and sinking down in the grass he ties a bright-coloured handkerchief to the end of his ramrod; he then crawls forward on hands and knees, dragging his rifle, till he approaches still nearer, when he remains concealed, and lifts his flag in the air. The antelopes, on catching sight of it, stop browsing, and raising their heads, peer towards it, exhibiting no signs of fear. For a moment he drops his flag; the beautiful creatures then resume their repast, but their curiosity gets the better of their prudence. Again they look forward, when the flag is once more raised and waved slowly backward and forward. The antelopes have now their curiosity excited to the utmost; for a moment they stop irresolute, then advance a few steps snuffing the air. Once more the flag sinks out of sight; they seem to be asking each other what is the cause of the strange sight they have seen. Again it is raised; they draw nearer and nearer, till they are within range of the hunter’s deadly rifle; he fires, and almost to a certainty one of the beautiful animals springs into the air and tumbles head-foremost on the ground. For a moment the survivors run off from their fallen friend, but seldom go far. Once more they return within easy rifle-shot of the hunter. Unless, however, he requires the meat, he must be greatly lacking in right feeling if he slaughters uselessly so beautiful an animal. The antelope becomes so easily confused, that when met on the prairies it frequently runs headlong into the midst of the travellers. The creatures are often killed by being surrounded, when the whole herd are driven into an enclosed spot and become the easy prey of the hungry hunters.

The Bighorn, or Mountain Sheep.

Amid the almost inaccessible peaks of the Rocky Mountains, herds of animals with enormous horns may be seen leaping from rock to rock, sometimes descending at one spring from a height of twenty or thirty feet—when, the Indians assert, they invariably alight on their horns, and by this means save their bones from certain dislocation. They are bighorns, or mountain sheep, and are considered the chief game of these regions. The animals appear to partake both of the nature of the deer and of the goat. They resemble the latter more especially in their habits, and in frequenting the most lofty and inaccessible regions, whence, except in the severest weather, they seldom descend to the upland valleys. In size the bighorn is between the domestic sheep and the common red-deer of America, but is more strongly built than the latter. It is of a brownish-dun colour, with a somewhat white streak on the hind-quarters. The tail is shorter than that of the deer, and tipped with black. As the age of the animal increases, the coat becomes of a darker tinge. The horns, of the male especially, are of great size, curving backwards about three feet in length, and twenty inches in circumference at the roots.

Frequently on the highest spot one of the band is stationed as a sentinel, and whilst the others are feeding he looks out for the approach of danger. They have even more acute sight and smell than the deer. On an alarm being given the whole herd scampers up the mountain, higher and higher, every now and then halting on some overhanging crag and looking down oh the object which may have caused them alarm; then once more they pursue their ascent, and as they bound up the steep sides of the mountains throw down an avalanche of rocks and stones.

Occasionally the young lambs are caught and domesticated by the hunters in their mountain homes, when they become greatly attached to their masters, amusing them by their merry gambols and playful tricks. Attempts have been made to transport them to the States; but although milch-goats have been brought to feed the lambs, they have suffered by the change from the pure air of the mountains to the plains, or they have not taken kindly to their foster-mothers, and have invariably perished on the journey.

The creatures reach a height of three feet six inches at the shoulders, while the horns are of about the same length. In colour they vary greatly, changing according to the season of the year.

The Bison, commonly called the Buffalo in America.

Throughout the wide-extending prairies of North America, from north to south to the east of the Rocky Mountains, vast herds of huge animals—with shaggy coats and manes which hang down over the head and shoulders reaching to the ground, and short curling horns, giving their countenances a ferocious aspect—range up and down, sometimes amounting to ten thousand head in one herd. They commonly go by the name of buffaloes, but are properly called bisons. Clothed in a dense coat of long woolly hair, the buffalo is well constituted to stand the heats of summer as well as the cold of the snowy plains in the northern regions to which he extends his wanderings.

Let us look at him as he stands facing us on his native plains, his red eyes glowing like coals of fire from amid the mass of dark brown or black hair which hangs over his head and neck and the whole fore part of his body. A beard descends from the lower jaw to the knee; another huge bunch of matted hair rises from the top of his head, almost concealing his thick, short, pointed horns standing wide apart from each other. As he turns round we shall see that a large oblong hump rises on his back, diminishing in height towards the tail: that member is short, with a tuft of hair at the tip. The hinder part of the body is clothed with hair of more moderate length, especially in summer, when it becomes fine and smooth, and soft as velvet. From his awkward, heavy appearance, when seen at a distance, it would not be supposed that he is extremely active, capable of moving at a rapid rate, and of continuing his headlong career for an immense distance. So sure of foot is he, also, that he will pass over ground where no horse could follow, his limbs being in reality slender, and his body far more finely proportioned than would be supposed till it is seen stripped of its thick coating of hair. While his thick coat protects him from the cold, he is also provided with a broad, strong, and tough nose, with which he can shovel away the snow and lay bare the grass on which he feeds. Sometimes, however, when a slight thaw has occurred, and a thin cake of ice has been formed over the snow, his nose gets sadly cut, and is often seen bleeding from the effects of his labours. It is said that when a herd comes near the settlements, the domesticated calves, and even the horses, will follow the buffalo tracks, and graze on the herbage which they have disclosed and left unconsumed.

The flesh of the buffalo, especially that of the cow, is juicy, and tender in the extreme. The most esteemed portion is that composing the hump on its back, which gives it so strange an aspect. It is indeed frequently killed merely for the sake of this hump, and the tongue and marrow-bones. Sometimes, also, when parched with thirst, the hunter kills a buffalo to obtain the water contained within certain honeycombed cells in its stomach. The buffalo is provided with this reservoir, in which a large quantity of pure water can be stored, that it may traverse, without the necessity of drinking, the wide barren plains where none can be obtained. Vast numbers, without even these objects in view, are wantonly slaughtered, and the chief part of the flesh utterly wasted, by the thoughtless Indians of the plain, who have thereby deprived themselves of their future support. Many tribes depend almost entirely for their subsistence on the buffalo, of which the flesh is prepared in several ways. When cut up into long strips, and dried in the sun till it becomes black and hard, it will keep for a long time. It is also pounded with the fat of the animal, and converted into pemmican—an especially nutritious food, which, if kept dry, will continue in good order for several years.

The prairie Indians make use of the hide for many purposes. They scrape off the hair and tan it, when it serves them for coverings for their tents. It is also carefully dressed, when it becomes soft and impervious to water. It is then used for clothing. Some of the tribes also form their shields from it. The hide is pegged down on the ground, when it is covered with a kind of glue. In this state it greatly shrinks and thickens, and becomes sufficiently hard to resist an arrow, and even to turn aside an ordinary bullet which does not strike directly.

The buffalo is especially a gregarious animal, and is found in herds of immense size, many thousands in number. Their dark forms may often be seen extending over the prairie as far as the eye can reach, a mighty moving mass of life. Onward they rush, moved by some sudden impulse, making the ground tremble under their feet, while their course may be traced by the vast cloud of dust which floats over them as they sweep across the plain. They are invariably followed by flocks of wolves, who pounce on any young or sick members of the herd which may be left behind. They range throughout the whole prairie country, from the “Fertile Belt,” which extends from the Red River settlement to the Rocky Mountains in British Central America, to Mexico in the south. The bulls are at times excessively savage. They often quarrel among themselves, and then, falling out of the herd, they engage in furious combats, greatly to the advantage of the pursuing wolves. In the summer, the buffalo delights in wallowing in mud. Reaching some marshy spot, he throws himself down, and works away till he excavates a mud-hole in the soil. The water from the surrounding ground rapidly drains into this, and covers him up, thus freeing him from the stings of the gnats and flies which swarm in that season.

The buffalo is hunted on horseback both by whites and by Indians, though the sport is one in which a considerable amount of danger must be braved. Let us set off from a farm in the Western States, on the border of the prairie. We have one or two nights to camp out before we reach the buffalo grounds. Mounting our horses by break of day, after an early breakfast, we ride on with the wind in our faces, and at length discover across the plain a number of dark objects moving slowly. They are buffaloes, feeding as they go. We see through our field-glasses that there are calves among them. It is proposed that some of our party should ride round, so as to stampede the herd back towards us, and thus, by dividing them, enable us to get in the centre. We wait for some time, when we see a vast mass of hairy monsters come tearing over a hill towards us. We have shot several of the bulls, but our object is to secure their calves and cows. As the herd approaches us, it swings round its front at right-angles, and makes off westward. We dash forward, and divide it into two parties. We also separate, some of our hunters following one part of the herd, the others the remainder. The enthusiasm of our horses equals our own. Away we go; nothing stops us. Now we plunge with headlong bounds down bluffs of caving sands fifty feet high,—while the buffaloes, crazy with terror, are scrambling half-way up the opposite side. Now we are on the very haunches of our game; now before us appears a slippery buffalo wallow. We see it just in time to leap clear, but the next instant we are in the middle of one. Our horses, with frantic plunges, scramble out; and on we go. We get closer and closer to the buffaloes, when a loud thundering of trampling hoofs sounds behind us. Looking over our shoulders, there, in plain sight, appears another herd, tearing down on our rear. For nearly a mile in width stretches a line of angry faces, a rolling surf of wind-blown hair, a row of quivering lights burning with a reddish-brown hue—the eyes of the infuriated animals. Should our horses stumble, our fate will be sealed. It is certain death to be involved in the herd. So is it to turn back. In an instant we should be trampled and gored to death. Our only hope is to ride steadily in the line of the stampede, till we can insinuate ourselves laterally, and break out through the side of the herd. Yet the hope of doing so is but small.

On we rush rapidly as before, when suddenly, to our great satisfaction, the herd before us divides into two columns, to pass round a low hill in front. Still on we go, pushing our horses up the height. We reach the summit, the horses panting fearfully, and the moisture trickling in streams from their sides. But now the rear column comes on. They see us, not fifty rods off, but happily pay no attention to us. We dismount, facing the furious creatures. Should they not divide, but come over the hill, in a few moments we must be trampled to death. The herd approaches to within a hundred yards of the hill. We lift our rifles and deliver a couple of steadily aimed bullets at the fore-shoulders of the nearest bulls. One gives a wild jump, and limps on with three legs; the other seems at first unhurt; but just as they reach the foot of the mound, they both fall down. The whole host are rushing over them. We rapidly reload. The fate of their comrades, however, sends a panic into the hearts of the herd. Another falls just when they are so close that we could have sprung on their backs. At that moment they divide, and the next we are standing on a desert island, a sea of billowing backs flowing round on either side in a half-mile current of crazy buffaloes. The herd is fully five minutes in passing us. We watch them as they come, and as the last laggers pant by the mound we look westward and see the stampeders halting. We soon understand the cause. They have come up with the main herd. Yes, there, in full sight of us, is the buffalo army, extending its deep line as far as the western horizon. The whole earth is black with them. From a point a mile in front of us, their rear line extends on the north to the bluffs bounding the banks of the river on which we had camped. On the south it reaches the summits of some distant heights fully six miles away. When it is known that with our field-glasses we can recognise an object the size of a buffalo ten miles distant, and that the mass extends even beyond the horizon, some idea may be formed of the immense number of animals congregated in the herd. To say that there are ten thousand, would be to give a very low estimate of their numbers.

The same writer from whose work the above is taken, describes an extraordinary instance of friendship exhibited by a buffalo bull for one of his comrades. (Generally speaking, the buffalo, even in the pairing season, will forsake the wounded cow, and the cow will not stay one moment to protect her hurt calf.) He was out hunting on one occasion, when, having been for some time unsuccessful, and being anxious to retrieve his character by bringing home some meat to camp, he caught sight of two fine buffalo bulls on a broad meadow on the opposite side of a stream. Dismounting from his horse, he took steady aim at the nearest buffalo, which was grazing with its haunches towards him. The ball broke the animal’s right hip, and he plunged away on three legs, the other hanging useless. He leaped on his horse, put spurs to its flanks, and in three minutes was close on the bull’s rear. To his astonishment, and the still greater surprise of the two old hunters who came after him, the unhurt bull stuck to his comrade’s side without flinching. He fired another shot, which took effect in the lungs of the first buffalo. The second moved off for a moment, but instantly returned to his friend. The wounded buffalo became distressed, and slackened his pace. The unwounded one not only retarded his, but coming to the rear of his friend, stood, with his head down, offering battle. “Here indeed was devotion which had no instinct to inspire it. The sight was sublime! The hunters could no more have accepted the challenge of the brave creature, than they could have smitten Damon at the side of Pythias. The wounded buffalo ran on to the border of the next marsh, and, in attempting to cross, fell headlong down the steep bank, and never rose again. Not till that moment, when courage was useless, did the faithful creature consider his own safety in flight. The hunters took off their hats as he walked away, and gave three parting cheers as the gallant buffalo vanished beyond the fringing timber.”

The half-breed hunters of Rupert’s Land make two expeditions in the year in search of buffaloes—one in the middle of June, and the other in October. They divide into three bands, each taking a separate route, for the purpose of falling in with the herds of buffaloes. These bands are each accompanied by about five hundred carts, drawn by either an ox or a horse. They are curious vehicles, roughly formed with their own axes, and fastened together with wooden pins and leather thongs, not a nail being used. The tires of the wheels are made of buffalo hide, and put on wet. When they become dry, they shrink, and are so tight that they never fall off, and last as long as the cart holds together. The carts contain the women and children, and provisions, and are intended to bring back the spoils of the chase. Each is decorated with some flag, so that the hunters may recognise their own from a distance. They may be seen winding off in one wide line extending for miles, and accompanied by the hunters on horseback. These expeditions run the danger of being attacked by the Sioux Indians, who inhabit the prairies to the south. The camps are therefore well surrounded by scouts, for the purpose of reconnoitring either for enemies or buffaloes. If they see the latter, they make a signal by throwing up handfuls of dust; if the former, by running their horses to and fro.

Mr Paul Kane, the Canadian artist, describes one of these expeditions which he joined. On their way they were visited by twelve Sioux chiefs, who came for the purpose of negotiating a permanent peace; but whilst smoking the pipe of peace in the council lodge, the dead body of a half-breed, who had gone to a distance from the camp, was brought in newly scalped, and his death was at once attributed to the Sioux. Had not the older and more temperate half-breeds interfered, the young men would have destroyed the twelve chiefs on the spot: as it was, they were allowed to depart unharmed. Three days afterwards, however, the scouts were observed making the signal of enemies being in sight. Immediately a hundred of the best-mounted hastened to the spot, and concealing themselves behind the shelter of the bank of a stream, sent out two of their number as decoys, to expose themselves to the view of the Sioux. The latter, supposing them to be alone, rushed upon them; whereupon the concealed half-breeds sprang up and poured in a volley which brought down eight. The others escaped, though several must have been wounded.

Two small herds having been met with, of which several animals were killed, the scouts one morning brought in word that an immense herd of bulls was in advance about two miles off. They are known in the distance from the cows by their feeding singly, and being scattered over the plain,—whereas the cows keep together, for the purpose of protecting the calves, which are always kept in the centre of the herd.

We will start at daybreak with our friend, and a half-breed as a guide. Six hours’ hard riding brings us to within a quarter of a mile of the nearest herd. The main body stretches over the plains as far as the eye can reach, the wind blowing in our faces. We should have liked to have attacked them at once, but the guide will not hear of it, as it is contrary to the law of his tribe. We therefore shelter ourselves behind a mound, relieving our horses of their saddles to cool them. In about an hour one hundred and thirty hunters come up, every man loading his gun, looking to the priming, and examining the efficiency of his saddle-girths. The elder caution the less experienced not to shoot each other,—such accidents sometimes occurring. Each hunter then fills his mouth with bullets, which he drops into the gun without wadding; by this means loading more quickly, and being able to do so whilst his horse is at full speed. We slowly walk our horses towards the herd. Advancing about two hundred yards, the animals perceive us, and start off in the opposite direction, at the top of their speed. We now urge our horses to full gallop, and in twenty minutes are in the midst of the stamping long-haired herd. There cannot be less than four or five thousand in our immediate vicinity,—all bulls; not a single cow amongst them. The scene now becomes one of intense excitement,—the huge bulk thundering over the plain in headlong confusion, while the fearless hunters ride recklessly in their midst, keeping up an incessant fire but a few yards from their victims. Upon the fall of each buffalo the hunter merely throws, close to it, some article of his apparel to denote his own prey, and then rushes on to another. The chase continues for about one hour, extending over an area of about six square miles, where may be seen the dead and dying buffaloes to the number of five hundred. In spite of his horsemanship, more than one hunter has been thrown from his steed, in consequence of the innumerable badger-holes in which the plains abound. Two others are carried back to camp insensible. We have just put a bullet through an enormous bull. He does not fall, but stops, facing us, pawing the earth, bellowing, and glaring savagely. The blood is streaming from his mouth, and it seems as if he must speedily drop. We watch him, admiring his ferocious aspect, combating with death. Suddenly he makes a dash towards us, and we have barely time to escape the charge; when, reloading, we again fire, and he sinks to the ground.

The carts bring in the slaughtered animals to the camp, when the squaws set to work, aided by the men, to cut them up, and prepare them for drying and for making pemmican. The women are soon busily employed in cutting the flesh into slices, and in hanging them in the sun on poles. The dried meat is then pounded between two stones till the fibres separate. About fifty pounds of it is put into a bag of buffalo skin, with about forty pounds of melted fat, which, being mixed while hot, forms a hard and compact mass. Hence its name, in the Cree language, of pemmican—pemmi signifying meat, and kon fat—usually, however, spelt pemmican. One pound of pemmican is considered equal to four pounds of ordinary meat,—and it keeps for years, perfectly good, exposed to any weather.

The prairie Indians obtain buffaloes by driving them into huge pounds, where they are slaughtered. The pounds, however, can only be made in the neighbourhood of forests, from whence the logs for their formation can be obtained. The pound consists of a circular fence about 130 feet broad. It is constructed of the trunks of trees laced together with withies, with outside supports about 5 feet high. At one side an entrance is left about 10 feet wide, with a deep trench across it, on the outside of which there is a strong trunk of a tree placed, about a foot from the ground. The animals, on being driven in, leap over this, clearing the trench, which of course prevents them from returning. From the entrance two rows of bushes or posts, which are called “dead men,” diverge towards the direction from which the buffaloes are likely to come. They are placed from 20 feet to 50 feet apart, and the distance between the extremities of the two rows at their outer termination is nearly two miles. Behind each of these “dead men” an Indian is stationed, to prevent the buffaloes when passing up the avenue from breaking out. Meantime, the hunters, mounted on fleet horses, range the country to a distance of eighteen or twenty miles in search of a herd. The buffalo has an unaccountable propensity which makes him endeavour to cross in front of the hunter’s horse. They will frequently, indeed, follow a horseman for miles in order to do so. He thus possesses an unfailing means, by a dexterous management of his horse, of conducting the animals into the trap prepared for them. The men also conceal themselves in hollows and depressions in the ground, so as to assist in turning the herd, should they attempt to escape in that direction. And now some three or four hundred head of shaggy monsters are driven to the expanded mouth of the avenue. The horsemen follow in their rear, and prevent them turning back. Meantime the Indians stationed behind the “dead men” rise, shaking their bows, yelling, and urging them on. Thus they proceed, madly rushing on, the passage growing narrower and narrower, while they, pressed together, are unable to see the danger ahead. The foremost at length reach the fatal ditch, and leaping over, enter the pound, the rest madly following. “The animals now begin to gallop round and round the fence, looking for some means of escape; but women and children on the outside, keeping perfectly silent, hold their robes before every orifice, till the whole herd is brought in. They then climb to the top of the fence, and the hunters, who have followed closely in the rear of the buffaloes, spear and shoot with bows and arrows or firearms at the bewildered animals, rapidly becoming frantic with fear and terror in the narrow limits of the pound. A dreadful scene of confusion and slaughter then ensues. The older animals toss the younger. The shouts and screams of the Indians rise above the roar of the bulls, the bellowing of the cows, and the moaning of the calves. The dying struggles of so many powerful animals crowded together, create a revolting scene, dreadful for its excess of cruelty and waste of life.” (Hind.)

In consequence of this wholesale and wanton destruction, the buffalo has greatly diminished; and the Indians agree in the belief that their people, in like manner, will decrease till none are left. It is computed that for many years past no less than 145,000 buffaloes have annually been killed in British territory; while on the great prairies claimed by the United States a still greater number have been slaughtered. In one year—1855—on the British side of the boundary, there were 20,000 robes of skins received at York Factory alone; and probably not fewer than 230,000 head of buffalo were slaughtered in the previous year. This number would have been sufficient to sustain a population of a quarter of a million. Yet so vast a number of the animals are left to rot on the ground, that in all probability not more than 30,000 Indians fed on the flesh of the slaughtered buffaloes.

The civilised fur-traders, however, with greater forethought, take means to preserve the flesh of the animals they kill in the neighbourhood of the forts, so that it may last them through the summer. For this purpose they dig a square pit capable of containing seven or eight hundred carcasses. As soon as the ice in the river is of sufficient thickness, it is cut with saws into square blocks, of a uniform size, with which the floor of the pit is regularly paved. The blocks are then cemented together by pouring water in between them, and allowing it to freeze into a solid mass. In like manner the walls are built up to the surface of the ground. The head and feet being cut off, each carcass, without being skinned, is divided into quarters; and these are piled in layers in the pit, till it is filled up, when the whole is covered with a thick coating of straw, which is again protected from the sun and rain by a shed. In this manner the meat is preserved in good condition through the whole summer, and is considered more tender and better flavoured than when freshly killed.

Even in the winter the buffalo continues to range over the plains in a far northern latitude. Mr Kane mentions seeing a band, numbering nearly ten thousand, at the very northern confines of the Fertile Belt, where the snow was very deep at the time. They, however, had never before appeared in such vast numbers near the Company’s establishments. Some, on on that occasion, were shot within the gates of Fort Edmonton. They had killed with their horns twenty or thirty horses, in their attempt to drive them from the patches of grass which the horses had laid bare with their hoofs. They were probably migrating northward, to escape the human migrations so rapidly filling up the southern and western regions which were formerly their pasture-grounds.

The Cree Indians use dogs to draw their sleighs. They are powerful, savage animals, having a good deal of the wolf about them. They are considered as valuable as horses, as everything is drawn over the snow by them. When buffaloes have been killed in winter, the dead animals are drawn in by them to the camp; and two can thus easily drag a large cow buffalo over the snow. The sleigh or cariole used in these regions is formed of a thin flat board about eighteen inches wide, bent up in front, with a straight back behind to lean against. The sides are made of fresh buffalo hide, with the hair completely scraped off, and which, lapping over, entirely covers the front part, so that a person slips into it as into a tin bath. Each carries but one passenger. The driver, on snow-shoes, runs behind to guide the dogs. Each sleigh is drawn by four dogs, their backs gaudily decorated with saddle-cloths of various colours, fringed, and embroidered in the most fantastic manner, and with innumerable small bells and feathers. Two men run before on snow-shoes to beat a track, which the dogs instinctively follow. A long cavalcade of this description has a very picturesque appearance.

While thus travelling, our friend Mr Kane caught sight of a herd of buffaloes, which did not perceive the approach of the party till the foremost sleigh was so near as to excite the dogs, who rushed furiously after them, notwithstanding all the efforts of the drivers to keep them back. The spirit of the hunt was at once communicated through the whole line, and the entire party were in an instant dashing along at a furious rate after the buffaloes. The frightened animals made a bold dash at length through a deep snow-bank, and attempted to scramble up the steep side of the river, the top of which the foremost one had nearly reached, when, slipping, he rolled down and knocked over those behind, one on the top of the other, into the deep snow-drift, from which men and dogs were struggling in vain to extricate themselves. It would be impossible to describe the wild scene of uproar that followed. One of the sleighs was smashed, and a man nearly killed; but at length the party succeeded in getting clear, and repairing the damage.

In some districts, where the buffaloes can with difficulty be approached, the Indians employ a stratagem to get them within reach of their arrows or rifles. One of the Indians covers himself in a wolf’s skin, another with a buffalo skin. They then crawl on all-fours within sight of the buffaloes, and as soon as they have engaged their attention, the pretended wolf jumps on the pretended calf, which bellows in imitation of the real one. The buffaloes are easily deceived in this way, as the bellowing is generally perfect, and the herd rush on to the protection of their supposed young, with such impetuosity that they do not perceive the cheat till they are quite close enough to be shot.

On one occasion Mr Kane and his Indian companion fell in with a solitary bull and cow. On this they made a “calf,” as the ruse is called. The cow attempted to spring towards them, but the bull, seeming to understand the trick, tried to stop her by running between them. The cow now dodged and got round him, and ran within ten or fifteen yards of the hunters, with the bull close at her heels, when both men fired, and brought her down. The bull instantly stopped short, and, bending over her, tried to help her up with his nose—evincing the most persevering affection for her; nor could they get rid of him, so as to cut up the cow, without shooting him also, although at that time of the year bull flesh is not valued as food when the female can be obtained. This, and another example which has been given, show that these animals are capable of great affection for each other.

The Indians also occasionally approach a herd from leeward, crawling along the ground so as to look like huge snakes winding their way amid the snow or grass, and can thus get sufficiently near to shoot these usually wary animals.

Part 1—Chapter VI.

Rodents.

The Beaver.

Of all mammals, the beaver is the most especially fitted to enjoy a social life. When in captivity and away from its kind, it appears to possess but a small amount of intelligence; it forms no attachments to its human companions, and is utterly indifferent to all around it. But in its native wilds, associated with others of its race, what wondrous engineering skill it exhibits, and how curious are its domestic arrangements!

It is essentially a hard worker. Other animals sport and play and amuse themselves. What young beavers may do inside their lodges, it is difficult to say; but the elders, from morn till night, and all night long, labour at their various occupations, evidently feeling that they were born to toil, and willingly accomplishing their destiny.

The beaver has fitly been selected as the representative animal of Canada, on account of its industry, perseverance, and hardihood, and the resolute way in which it overcomes difficulties. Certain conditions of country are necessary to its existence, and when it does not find these ready formed, by a wonderful provision of Nature its instinct enables it to produce them by its own exertions. Where it can find rivers, brooks, and swampy lakes which maintain an even level throughout the year, the beaver has a tolerably idle life; but as in most districts the levels of rivers and lakes are apt to sink at various seasons if left to themselves,—whenever an emigrant party of beavers have fixed on a new locality, they set to work to dam up the stream or outlet of the lake, to prevent a catastrophe which might bring ruin and destruction on their new colony. In Nova Scotia, as well as in other parts of North America, large level spaces are found covered with a rich alluvial soil, from which spring up waving fields of wild grass. From this the human settler draws an abundant supply of hay for his stock in winter, and ought to feel deeply indebted to the persevering beaver for the boon. They are known as “wild meadows,” and are of frequent occurrence in the backwoods. It is evident that they were formed by the following process:—They are found in valleys through which, in ages past, a brook trickled. A party of beavers arriving, and finding an abundance of food on the side of the hills, would set to work to form a dam of sufficient strength to keep back the stream, till a pond was created, on the edge of which they might build their dome-shaped habitations. Extensive spaces in the woods were thus inundated, and the colony of beavers lived for long years on the banks of their artificial lakes. They, however, lacking forethought, like many human beings, did not sufficiently look to the future. In process of time the trees, being destroyed, decayed and fell; while the soil, washed down from the surrounding hills, filled up the pond constructed by the industrious animals, and they were compelled to migrate to some other region, or were destroyed. The dam being thus left unrepaired, the water drained through it, and the level space was converted into the rich meadow which has been described. Beavers’ houses, however, are seen in all directions, sometimes on the banks of these artificial ponds, at others by the sides of large lakes or rivers. Though varying in size, they all greatly resemble a huge bird’s-nest turned upside down. Some are eight feet in diameter, and three feet in height; while others are very much larger, being no less than sixteen to twenty feet in diameter, and nearly eight feet in height on the outside, and perfectly circular and dome-shaped. The walls and roofs of these lodges, as they are called, are several feet in thickness, so that the measurement of the interior chamber is little more than half that of the exterior. Several beavers inhabit a large lodge. Their beds, which are separated one from the other, are arranged round the walls, a space in the centre being left free. The exterior also presents a very rough appearance, consisting of sticks apparently thrown loosely together, and entirely denuded of their bark, as also of branches of trees and bushes closely interwoven and mixed with stones, gravel, or mud. They are close to the banks, almost overlapping the water, into which the front part is immersed. The bottom of the stream or lake is invariably deepened in the channel approaching the entrance, thus ensuring a free passage below the ice into the structure. The tunnel is from two to three feet long. In the inner part of the hut the materials are laid with greater care, and more firmly bound together—with mud and grass—than on the outer. Even in one of the larger houses the chamber—for there is but one—is only between two and three feet in height, though as much as nine feet in diameter. It slopes gently upwards from the water. Inside there are two levels: the lower one may be called the hall. On this the animals shake themselves when they emerge from the subaqueous tunnel; and when dry, clamber up to the upper story, which consists of an elevated bed of boughs running round the back of the chamber. It is thickly covered with dry grass and thin shavings of wood. The whole of the interior is smooth, the ends of the timbers and brushwood which project inwards being evenly gnawed off. There are always two entrances—the one serving for summer, and letting in the light; while another sinks down at a deeper angle, to enable the owners during winter to get below the water. Beavers are especially clean animals, and allow no rubbish to remain in their abode; and as soon as they have nibbled off the bark from the sticks, they carry them outside, and place them on the roof of their hut, to increase its thickness, or let them float down the stream.

During the summer they are employed all day in ranging the banks and cutting provisions for their winter consumption, all their architectural occupations being carried on at night. Their winter stock of food consists of short lengths of willow and poplar,—the bark of which only, however, they eat. These they sink with mud or stones in some quiet pool near their lodge, and when required for food they dive down below the ice and bring up as many as are required for family consumption. Besides their lodge, they form in the neighbourhood a long burrow sufficiently broad to enable them to turn with ease. The entrance is at a considerable depth below the surface of the water, and extends from ten to twenty feet into the bank. This burrow serves as a safe retreat, should their house be broken into, and thither they immediately fly when their permanent abode is attacked. In summer they regale themselves on the roots of the yellow lilies, as well as on other succulent vegetation, and any fruits the country affords.

But it is time that we should get a look at the curious animal itself. We may paddle gently in a birch-bark canoe over a calm lake, and conceal ourselves among the tall grass in some quiet cove where the yellow water-lilies float on the tranquil surface. Through the still air of evening, the sound of the distant waterfall reaches our ears. Wood ducks fly by in vast numbers; the rich glow of the evening sky, still suffused with the gorgeous hues of the setting sun, is reflected on the mirror-like expanse of water. Watching with eager eyes, we see at length the water breaking some forty yards away, and the head and back of an animal appears in sight. Now another, and then a third, come into view. After cautiously glancing around, the creatures dive, with a roll like that of a porpoise, but shortly appear again. Our Indian, pushing the light canoe from amid the grass, paddles forward with eager strokes. One of our party fires, and misses, the echoes resounding from the wood-covered shores, and from island to island, till lost in the distance; but the cautious animals, forewarned, take good care not to appear again during that evening. We find that our only prospect of examining them is by trapping one in the usual Indian fashion, which we will by-and-by describe.

Mr Beaver, as the Indians are fond of calling the animal, has a body about three feet long, exclusive of the tail, which is a foot more. He wears on his back a coat of long shining hair, generally of a light chestnut colour, but sometimes of a much darker hue, occasionally perfectly black. Below the hair, next the skin, is a fine, soft, greyish-brown wool. He may be known at once by his broad horizontal flattened tail, which is nearly of an oval form, but rises into a slight convexity on its upper surface, and is covered with scales. His fore-feet are armed with nails, and serve for the purpose of hands—indeed, he vies with the monkey in the use he can make of them. The hind-feet are webbed, and with these—together with his tail, which acts as a rudder—he is enabled to swim rapidly through the water. The beaver is a rodent, with a short head and broad blunt snout, and his incisor teeth are remarkably large and hard, enabling him to bite through wood with wonderful ease and rapidity. So great is their hardness, that formerly the Indians were accustomed to use them as knives for cutting bone and fashioning their horn-tipped spears.

The beaver, it has been said, always chooses banks by the side of a lake or river of sufficient depth to escape being frozen to the bottom, even during the hardest frost. Thus, he can at all times obtain a supply of water, on which his existence depends; indeed, the bark on which he lives requires to be moistened before it becomes fit for food. When instinct teaches a colony of beavers that the water is not of sufficient depth to escape freezing throughout, they provide against the evil by making such a dam as has been mentioned, across the stream, or the outlet of the lake, at a convenient distance from their habitations. The plan of these dams varies according to the character of the lake or stream. If the current is but slight, they build the dam almost straight; but where the water runs at a rapid rate, it is almost always constructed with a considerable curve, the convex side towards the stream. Frequently, in such cases, if there is any small island in the centre, it is taken advantage of, and the dam is built out to it from either bank. They make use of a variety of materials; employing driftwood when it can be obtained, to save themselves the trouble of cutting down trees. This they tow to the spot, and sink it horizontally with mud and stones. They also employ pieces of green willows, birch, and poplars, intermixing the whole with mud and gravel, in a manner which contributes greatly to the strength of the dam. They observe, however, no order or method in the work, placing their materials as they can obtain them, except that they make the dam maintain its regular sweep, and form all parts of equal strength. They carry the mud and stones in their fore-paws; and in one night will collect as much as amounts to many thousands of their little loads. When driftwood is not to be found, they obtain the timber they require from the groves skirting the lake or pond. To do this, they squat on their hams, and rapidly gnaw through the stems of trees from six to twelve or fourteen inches in diameter, with their powerful incisors. Sometimes a tree will not fall prostrate, the boughs being caught by its neighbours. But the beaver is not to be disappointed; he sets to work and gnaws away a little above the first place, thus giving it a fresh start, in order that the impetus may disengage it from the branches which keep it up. The tree being cut up, the beavers, uniting, tow the pieces down to the dam. They then plunge into the water and bring up the mud and small stones with which to keep it sunk. A long constructed dam, by being frequently repaired with fresh mud, becomes at length a solid bank, capable of resisting a heavy rush, either of water or ice; and as the willow, poplar, and birch generally take root and shoot up, they by degrees form a regularly planted hedge, which in some places becomes so tall that birds have been known to build their nests among the branches. These beaver dams also form bridges, over which two or three men may pass abreast, and lead their horses, without risk of breaking through. So rapidly do the members of the industrious community labour, that even the most serious damage to their dams, or habitations, is quickly repaired. They always carry the mud and stones in their fore-paws, pressed against their chins, but they drag the wood with their teeth.

The creature does not employ its broad tail, as was once supposed, to plaster down its mud-work, nor does it use it as a vehicle for transporting materials; its sole object being to guide it when in the water, and as a counterpoise, by moving it in an upward direction, to the tendency it would otherwise have of sinking head-foremost. The creatures cover the outside of their houses every autumn with fresh mud as soon as the frost becomes severe. By this means it freezes as hard as stone, and prevents their common enemy, the wolverene, disturbing them during the winter. From the beaver being seen to flap its tail when moving over its work, but especially when about to plunge into the water, has arisen the idea that it uses this member as a trowel. This custom it preserves even when it becomes tame and domesticated, particularly when suddenly startled.

The beaver, says Captain Hardy, travels a long distance from his house in search of materials, both for building and food. He mentions having seen the stumps of some trees which had been felled, at least three-quarters of a mile from the beaver lodges. Its towing power in the water, and that of traction on dry land, is astonishing. The following account shows the coolness and enterprise of the animals, described by a witness to the fact:—The narrator having constructed a raft for the purpose of poling round the edge of the lake to get at the houses of the beaver, which were built in a swampy savannah, otherwise inaccessible, it had been left in the evening moored at the edge of the lake, close to the camp, and about a quarter of a mile from the nearest beaver’s house, the poles lying on it. Next morning, on going down to the raft, the poles were missing; so, cutting fresh ones, he started with the Indians towards the beaver village. On reaching their abodes, one of the poles was found deposited on the top of the houses.

In a community of beavers there are frequently some who appear to do no work, and are called by the Canadian trappers Les paresseux, or Idlers. They live apart from the rest, taking up their abodes in long tunnels, which they excavate. Several inhabit the same burrow; and being males, the idea is that they have been conquered in the combats which take place among the males when seeking their mates, and thus, like monks of old, have retired from the world,—or perhaps it may be only for a period, till they have regained sufficient courage and strength to sally forth, and commence a happier existence with the partner of their choice. They are far more careless of their safety than the other beavers, and are thus easily caught by the trappers.

The body of the beaver contains a curious odoriferous substance, called by the trappers barkstone, but more scientifically “castor,” or “castoreum.” It is contained in two little bags about the size of a hen’s egg, and is of a brownish, unctuous consistency. At one time it was supposed to possess valuable medicinal properties. It is now, however, chiefly employed by perfumers. The beavers themselves are strangely attracted by this substance, and when scenting it at a distance will invariably make their way to it. It is said that the inhabitants of a particular lodge go forth, and having rid themselves of their superabundant castoreum at a little distance, return home; when the beavers of another lodge, scenting the castoreum, proceed to the same spot, and covering it over with a layer of earth and leaves, deposit their own castoreum upon the heap. After a time, the former beavers go through the same process; and this is continued until a mound of three or four feet in height has been raised. It is difficult to account for the object of this strange proceeding. It was not, however, till of late years that the sagacious Indians discovered that the castoreum was a certain bait for the animals themselves. Formerly, the bait they employed was a piece of green aspen, beaten up, and placed near the trap. At length an Indian tried whether a male might not be caught by adding some of the castoreum. By that time steel traps had been introduced, instead of the clumsy wooden traps before used. Not only were the males caught, but the females also; and the trappers were now able with their steel traps to catch vast numbers of the infatuated animals. It is said that the creatures, when perceiving the scent, will sit upright, snuffing about in every direction, and squealing with excitement. The younger animals, however, are those chiefly caught. The old ones are often too cunning; and it is affirmed that, instead of touching the bait, they will cover up the trap with mud and stones till a mound has been raised, and then, depositing their superabundant castoreum upon it, take their departure.

We must conclude our account by again quoting Captain Hardy. Of the infatuation of this animal for castoreum he saw several instances. “A trap was fastened by its steel chain to a stake, to prevent the beaver, when caught, taking it away. It slipped, however, and the beaver swam away with the trap, and it was looked upon as lost. Two nights afterwards he was again taken in a trap, with the other fast on his thigh. Another time a beaver, passing over a trap to get the castoreum, had his hind-leg broken. With his teeth he cut the broken leg off, and went away. It was supposed that he would not come again; but two nights afterwards he was found fast in a trap—in each case tempted by the castoreum. The stake was always licked, or sucked, clean. The substance seems to act as a soporific, as the creatures, after tasting it, always remain a day without coming out of their houses. So wary generally are the beavers, that a trapper is always careful not to leave his scent on the spot. To avoid this he frequently cuts down a tree, and walks on its branches towards the edge of the path, afterwards withdrawing it, and plentifully sprinkling water around.”

The Indians and Canadian voyageurs eat the flesh of the beaver, esteeming it, when roasted with the skin on—the hair having been singed off—the most dainty of dishes. Early in this century, when beaver fur was much in demand for the manufacture of hats, upwards of 120,000 skins were exported from Quebec alone in one year. The warfare long waged against the unfortunate rodents now goes on with somewhat diminished activity. A change of fashion—the substitution of silk for beaver—has probably saved them from utter extermination. The scientific name of their tribe, Castor, was long a popular term for a hat; but now that their fur has ceased to be employed as formerly, the term itself appears to have gone out of use.

The Musk-Rat, or Musquash.

Voyaging along the margin of a lake, we may see on the shores numbers of little flattened oval nests composed of reeds and sedges, while numerous holes in the bank, with quantities of shells, chiefly of the fresh-water mussel, scattered round, show the entrance to the habitations of the musquash, or ondatra, called also the musk-rat. As evening approaches, the creatures may be seen in fine balmy weather gambolling on the surface, swimming rapidly here and there, or now and then diving below, apparently fearless of the passing canoe. The little sedge-built hut of the water-rat is constructed much in the same way as the beaver’s larger mansion. The creature itself looks somewhat like the beaver, and some of its habits are also similar. It is rather more than two feet in total length, of which measurement about ten inches is occupied by the tail. The upper part of the body is of a dark brown colour, tinged in parts with a reddish hue, while the lower part is ashy grey. Its tail is flattened, but vertical. Like the beaver, it is furnished with an undercoat of soft downy fur. Its safety has been provided for by its peculiar colour, which is so like that of the muddy bank on which it dwells, that a keen eye can alone detect it. Its hinder feet are webbed, the imprint on the soft mud being very similar to that of a duck. With the exception of the flesh of the water-mussel, its food is vegetable. It is a great depredator in gardens, which it has been known to plunder of carrots, turnips, and maize—the stalks of which it cuts close down to the ground.

It is sought-for on account of its fur, which is very valuable. The traps are set close to a tree, and when one of the creatures is caught, its companions will instantly attack it and tear it to pieces. Generally, however, in its struggles to get free, it carries the trap under the surface, and is thus drowned.

Audubon, the naturalist, gives us an interesting description of them:—“They are very lively, playful animals, when in their proper element—the water—and on a calm night, in a sequestered pool, may often be seen crossing and recrossing in every direction, leaving long ripples in the water behind them, while others stand for a few moments on tufts of grass, stones, or logs, and then plunge over, one after the other, into the water. At the same time others are feeding on the grassy bank, dragging off the roots of various kinds of plants, or digging underneath the edge. These animals seem to form a little community of social playful creatures, who only require to be unmolested in order to be happy.”

It has been proposed to acclimatise these little rodents in England, under the idea that thus a valuable addition to the bank fauna of sluggish English streams would be obtained.

Prairie-Dogs.

Vast cities, with regularly laid streets, are often met with in extensive level spots on the prairie. The inhabitants are, however, not men, but creatures the size of a guinea-pig—rodents—a species of marmot. In their habit of associating together in communities, they put us in mind of the industrious beaver; but they are idle little fellows, evidently liking play better than work. Their heads are not unlike those of young terrier-pups, and their bodies are of a light brown colour. They have little stumpy tails, which, when excited, they constantly jerk up and twist about in a curious fashion. Their habitations are regular cones raised two or three feet above the ground, with a hole in the apex, which is vertical for the depth of two or three feet, and then descends obliquely into the interior. From the peculiar yelp or short squeaky bark which they give, the hunters call them prairie-dogs.

In each separate community, which consists of many thousand individuals, there is a president dog, who seems to have especial charge of the rest. As a stranger approaches, the creatures who are out of their houses scamper back as fast as their legs will carry them, and concealing all but their heads and tails, utter loud barks at the intruder. This done, the greater number dive out of sight with a curious somersault, their little tails whisking in the air. The chief dog, and perhaps two or three other sentinels with him, remain on the tops of their houses barking lustily till the enemy gets within a few paces of them, when they also disappear, and the town remains silent and deserted. The traveller who wishes to observe their habits, by lying concealed and silent for a few minutes, may see after a time some little fellow pop his head out of his house, when he gives a few barks. It serves as a signal to the rest that danger has disappeared, and immediately the others emerge from their houses and begin to frisk about as usual.

The holes of these curious creatures are shared by two very different species of guests, one of which, at all events, must prove most, unwelcome. One of these is a little owl, which may be seen sitting in front of the burrows or flying about near the ground; or, when the sun sinks low, hopping through the town, and picking up the lizards and chameleons which everywhere abound. He can apparently do no harm to the inhabitants, if he fails to benefit them. The other inmates are rattlesnakes, who, regardless of any objections which may be raised by the dogs, take possession of their holes, and when the sun shines lie coiled up at their sides, now and then erecting their treacherous heads and rattling an angry note of warning, should a thoughtless pup by any chance approach too near. The Indians suppose that all three creatures live on the most friendly footing; but as the rattlesnakes when killed have frequently been found with the bodies of the little prairie-dogs in their insides, their object in establishing themselves in the locality seems very evident.

The poor little dog, indeed, leads a life of constant alarm, with numerous enemies ever on the watch to surprise him. Hawks and eagles, hovering high in air, often pounce down and carry off unfortunate members of the community in their powerful talons. The savage cayote, or prairie-wolf, when pressed by hunger during the winter, frequently attacks the dome-shaped habitation of the little animal, and with claws and teeth tears to pieces the walls, plunging his nose into the passage which he has opened, and working his way down till he seizes the trembling little inmate, who in vain retreats to the inmost recesses of his abode.

It has been supposed that the prairie-dog hibernates; but this is not the case, though he lays in a store of provision for winter consumption—he being as lively at that period as at any other, though he wisely prefers keeping within the house while the icy blasts blow across the plains. The creature is especially tenacious of life, and even when shot through the body will manage to gain his burrow at rapid speed. He does not run into it, but, like the rabbit, he makes a jump in the air, turns what looks like a somersault, and, flourishing his hind-legs and whisking his tail, disappears as if by magic. In an instant afterwards, however, his little sparkling eyes and nose may be seen above the ground; and if no stranger is in sight, he, with the rest of the community, will commence gambolling and frisking about, forgetful of his numerous foes and previous alarm. It is very difficult to obtain a specimen of the prairie-dog, as, even if mortally wounded, he generally tumbles into his hole before being captured. The inhabitants of the plain, however, manage to catch the animal alive by dragging a cask of water to one of their holes which does not communicate with the rest of the village. They then pour the water down the hole, either drowning the creature or compelling him to come out. He is very soon reconciled to a state of captivity, and after two days appears on the most intimate terms with his captors. Even when turned loose again the creatures will not leave the neighbourhood of the house, but burrow under the foundation, making themselves quite at home, and fearlessly come out to be fed when summoned by a whistle. They become, indeed, very interesting and pretty little pets.

We shall meet with a similar animal on the pampas of South America, and which has also the companionship of a little owl.

There are several other species of marmot in America. One is called the Quebec Marmot, which lives a solitary life, making an almost perpendicular burrow in dry ground at a distance from water.

The beautiful little, often-tamed Woodchuck, is another American marmot. It makes a deep burrow in the sides of hills, lining the chamber at the inner end with dry leaves and grass. It may frequently be seen by the traveller running rapidly along the tops of fences, as if to keep company with him—now getting ahead, then stopping and looking back to see if he is coming, and then going on again, till, growing tired of the amusement, it gives a last stare and then scampers back the way it has come.

The Porcupine.

Unattractive as the fretful porcupine appears when considered as a means of satisfying man’s hunger, it is hunted throughout North America for the sake of its flesh, which forms an especially dainty dish, not only in the opinion of the Indians, but in that of every European who has partaken of it. The creature dwells in small caverns, either under a pile of boulders, or amid the roots of large trees; but it also, with its sharp claws, easily climbs up the trunks, and may sometimes be seen reposing on their very summits, where it feeds on the bark of the young branches, or the berries when they become ripe.

The Canadian porcupine is also known as the cawquaw or urson. It is nearly four feet long altogether, the head and body measuring upwards of three feet, while the tail is about three inches in length. It is less completely defended with spines than the porcupines of other countries—part of its body being covered with long, coarse brown hair, which almost conceals the deeply-set, short, pointed quills, except those on the head, hind-quarters, and tail. The spines are about three inches long. When the animal is brought to bay, it sets them up in a fan-like shape, and presents a formidable row of points turned towards its opponent. When attacked, it defends itself with its thick, muscular tail; and wherever it strikes, it leaves a number of its easily-detached quills, with barbed points, sticking firmly in its opponent’s body. These spines are of a dull white colour, the points being dark. Awkward as the porcupine looks, it can gallop along at considerable speed; and when surprised, generally escapes to its rocky den—or if it gains a tree, scrambles up the trunk at a rapid rate. A broad trail leads to the porcupine’s den, by which it is easily discovered, as also by the ordure outside the entrance. A number of these paths lead from the den to its feeding-ground: in the autumn to a beech grove, on the mast or nuts of which it revels; and in the winter-time, to some tall hemlock or spruce trees. The Indian hunter also discovers it by the marks of its claws on the bark; and should he be unfortunate in his search for larger game, he seldom fails to obtain a roast of porcupine. The creature is hunted by the Indians with little dogs, which seem to take great delight in the sport, and, in spite of the formidable weapons of their opponents, will rush in and draw them out of their dens without injury to themselves. Even the settlers’ dogs exhibit the same strong fancy for hunting porcupines, but are not so successful in coming off without injury; indeed, they often issue from the combat covered over with spines sticking in their flesh.

Captain Hardy gives us an anecdote of the extraordinary fancy the Indian dogs have for hunting porcupines. One of these dogs was quite blind; and yet, if the porcupine “treed,” the little animal would sit down beneath, occasionally barking to inform his master where lodged the fretful one. Another dog was not to be beaten when once on a porcupine. If the animal was in its den, in he went, and, if possible, would haul it out by the tail; if not strong enough, his master would fasten a handkerchief round his middle, and attach to it a long twisted withe. The dog would go in, and presently, between the two, out would come the porcupine.

By the end of the “fall,” the animal becomes loaded with fat, from feeding on the berries found in the “barrens.” Its cry is a plaintive, whining sound, not very dissimilar to that of a calf moose. The female produces two at a birth early in the spring. The porcupine can easily be tamed; and Audubon mentions one which was so entirely domesticated, that it would come voluntarily to its master, and take fruit or vegetables out of his hand, rubbing against him as does an affectionate cat. The same animal, however, showed considerable courage. On one occasion it was attacked by a ferocious mastiff. One morning the dog was seen making a dash at some object in the corner of the fence. This proved to be the tame porcupine, which had escaped from its cage. The dog seemed regardless of all its threats, and probably supposing it to be an animal not more formidable than a cat, sprang at it with open mouth. The porcupine seemed to swell up, in an instant, to nearly double its size; and as the dog sprang upon it, dealt him such a sidewise blow with the tail, as to cause the mastiff to relinquish his hold instantly, and set up a howl of pain. His mouth and nose were full of quills. He could not close his jaws, but hurried, open-mouthed, off the premises. Although the servants instantly extracted the spines from the mouth of the dog, his head was terribly pierced, and it was several weeks before he recovered. The porcupine, however, suffered severely from the combat; and as the hot weather came on, showed great signs of distress, and finally died of heat.

The quills of the porcupine are brilliantly stained by the Indians with a variety of colours, and are extensively used by their squaws in ornamenting with fanciful patterns the birch-bark ware which they sell to the white settlers.

Part 1—Chapter VII.

Carnivora.

The Black Bear.

Several species of the bear tribe inhabit America; the two most numerous of which are the black bear, or musquaw, and the far-famed ferocious grizzly bear of the Rocky Mountains. The black bear is found generally among the forests and plains of the east, though the grizzly also descends from his mountain fastnesses, and makes his way through the low country to a considerable distance from his usual abode. Although the black bear has not obtained the same character for fierceness as his grizzly relative, he often proves a formidable opponent when attacked by human foes, and is also dreaded on account of his depredations among their flocks and herds. He is, indeed, a monstrous and powerful animal, often reaching six feet in length from the muzzle to the tail—the tail being only about two inches long—while he stands from three to three and a half feet in height at the shoulder. He is covered with a smooth and glossy coat of thick hair, without any wool at the base. He does not always wear a black suit; sometimes he puts on a brown one. When his coat is perfectly black, he has a cinnamon patch on his muzzle. He varies, too, in shape. Occasionally he is long and low, at others his body is short,—and he has great length of limb. Under ordinary circumstances, he restricts himself to a vegetable diet, but is very fond of a small species of snail which feeds on the prairie grass; and, like others of his relatives, he is greatly addicted to honey. As his feet are furnished with strong sharp claws, he is able to make his way up the trunks of trees to reach his favourite food. In this object he displays great perseverance and acuteness. However high up it may be, or in positions most difficult of access, he will manage to reach the combs containing the sweet repast. Should the comb be hidden away in the hollow of some aged tree, with an entrance too small for admitting his huge paw, he sets to work with his teeth, and gnaws away the wood till he has formed a breach of sufficient size to allow him to put it in. He is utterly regardless of the assaults of the tiny inhabitants of the comb; and scooping out their honey and young together with his fore-paws, devours the whole mass. He will sometimes, when pressed by hunger, break into the settler’s barn and carry off sheep, pigs, and small cattle into the neighbouring woods; and so cunning is he, that it is not often he is overtaken, or entrapped in the snare laid for his capture.

The Indians of Nova Scotia call him Mooin, which reminds us of Bruin. The Indians throughout the country pay great respect to the bear, having, like the Esquimaux, a high opinion of his intellectual powers, and believing that he is in some way related to them, and possessed of an almost human spirit. Still, they do not scruple to kill him; but as soon as the breath is out of his body, they cut off his head, which they place ceremoniously within a mat decorated with a variety of ornaments. They then blow tobacco-smoke into the nostrils, and the chief hunter, praising his courage, and paying a variety of compliments to his surviving relatives, expresses regret at having been compelled to deprive him of life, and his hope that his own conduct has been altogether satisfactory to Mr Mooin, and worthy of the renown they have both attained.

The musquaw hibernates, like other bears of northern regions, and is very particular in selecting a dry cave for his long winter’s nap. At the “fall,” he is especially fat, having lived for some time on the beech-mast, blue-berries, and other fruits which grow in great profusion in the forest. He then weighs 500 pounds, and even 600 pounds. The chief part of the fat lies along the back, and on either side, as in the flitch of the hog. There is no doubt that it is by the absorption of this fat throughout his winter fast of four months that he is enabled to exist—at this time evaporation being at a stand-still. Having at length selected a cavern, or the hollow of a decayed tree, for his lair, he scrapes out all the dead leaves, till the ground is perfectly clean and smooth. It must be deep enough to prevent the snow from drifting into it, and free from any water trickling down from above. He objects especially to a habitation which has been occupied by the porcupine, that animal being far from cleanly in its habits. Perhaps also he has an objection to the quills with which the creature is furnished, from their being likely to produce disagreeable wounds. He forgets, perhaps, that the rubbish he has scraped out will betray his abode to the hunter—which it assuredly does. The Indian, on discovering this indubitable sign of Mooin’s abode, takes steps to arouse him and plant a bullet in his head, or to batter out his brains with his axe. Mooin, however, in spite of his usual sagacity, ignorant that his abode may be discovered, perhaps already overcome with a strange desire to sleep, crawls in for his winter’s snooze. He is frequently accompanied by a partner, who will add to his warmth and comfort. He there lies down with his fore-paws curled round his head and nose, which he pokes underneath his chest. Here he remains asleep till the warm sun of March or April tempts him to crawl out in search of food to replenish his empty stomach and strengthen his weakened frame. Madam Mooin is generally, at this time, employed in the pleasing office of increasing her family. Her young cubs, when born, are curiously small, helpless little beings, not larger than rats. Generally there are two of them, and they are born about the middle of February. She manages to nourish them without taking any food herself till March or April, when she also, like her better half, sallies forth in search of provender. The young creatures grow but slowly, and do not attain their full size till they are about four years old. Even when about a couple of months old, the little cubs are not much larger than a retriever puppy of the same age.

The musquaw finds great difficulty at first in satisfying the cravings of his appetite. He searches for the cranberries in the open bogs, and is driven even to eat the rank marshy grass. As the snow disappears, he seeks for wood-lice and other creatures in rotten trunks. Hungry as he is, he labours very patiently for his food. The prehensile form of his lips enables him to pick up with wonderful dexterity even the smallest insect or berry. As the ice breaks up in the lakes, he proceeds thither to fish for smelts and other small fish, which he catches with wonderful dexterity with his paws, throwing them out rapidly behind him. When, however, pressed by hunger, and unable to obtain the smaller creatures for food, he will attack young deer if he can take them by surprise; but as he can seldom do this, he is often tempted into the neighbourhood of settlements. Here he lies in wait for the cattle as they wander through the woods to their spring pastures; and when once he has taken to this dangerous proceeding, he is said to continue it. On catching sight of a herd, should it not be accompanied by a human being, he drives the animals into some boggy swamp, and there singling out a victim, he jumps on its back, and deals it a few tremendous blows across the head and shoulders, till the poor animal becomes an easy prey. He then drags it off into the neighbouring wood, and devours it at his leisure. This habit is often the cause of his destruction. On any remainder of the animal being found, the aggrieved settler sets off, rifle in hand and axe in his belt, to punish the aggressor. The bear, he well knows, will revisit the carcass. So cunning, however, is Bruin, and conscious of guilt, that he is constantly on the watch, as he returns, for an enemy. He creeps up, accordingly, looking on either side, his caution increasing as he approaches his prey. The hunter, therefore, to outwit him, seeks his trail in the direction in which he has retreated, and conceals himself near it, but at some distance from the carcass. He waits till the sun is setting, when he is almost sure to see the bear come tripping nimbly along, not yet thinking it necessary to employ caution. At this moment a rifle-bullet, placed in his head, deprives him of his intended feast and his life at the same time.

The black bear possesses wonderful strength—said to be fully equal to that of ten men. Experiments have been tried, in which so many persons have attempted to drag off a cask baited with molasses, or other sweet stuff, secured to a rope, when the bear has carried it away with perfect ease, in spite of their united efforts to draw it from him.

The most dangerous time to attack a she-bear is in the spring; when she is accompanied by her cubs. If she has time, she will lead them off to a place of safety; but if not, she will chase the intruder from her domains—and woe betide him if he cannot manage to escape her claws! Bears are easily taken in traps, baited with small bundles of sticks smeared with molasses. They are hunted in the “fall,” when they have become fat with the ample supply of blue and whortle berries or beech-mast on which they have been feeding. To obtain the beech-mast, Bruin will frequently climb a tree, and sometimes, like the orang-outang of Eastern seas, will build a rough platform for himself among the upper branches, where he can lie concealed and munch his food at leisure. The most certain way to obtain the animal in this case is to cut down the tree and shoot him as he reaches the ground, for, as may be supposed, he is in no amiable mood when thus disturbed, and, unless speedily killed, would attempt to wreak a fearful vengeance on his assailants. The black bear springs on his prey in the same way as does the tiger or panther of the southern part of the continent. He thus frequently kills the young moose, though the full-grown animal is too active and powerful to be thus caught. He will even attack horses in the same way, though the latter animal often receives him with a furious kick.

In the summer, the black bears unite and hunt in gangs, making the forest resound with their fearful snarling and loud moaning cries. They give warning to the hunter to pile fuel on his camp-fire, and to take his rifle in hand, for, strong in numbers, they will not hesitate to approach him, and, if pressed by hunger, to make an assault on his camp.

The Grizzly Bear.

The most dreaded inhabitant of the Rocky Mountains and their neighbourhood, is the savage grizzly, frequently called by the hunters Old Ephraim. Even the bravest hunter, when making his way through this wild region, finds it necessary to call all his courage and hardihood to his aid, when he sees one of these huge monsters sitting upon its hind-legs prepared for a rush towards him, and uttering a loud, harsh sound, like a person breathing quickly. Should he not wish for a contest, his best plan is to face the monster boldly, moving slowly on, but ever keeping his eyes fixed on the animal. The bear will, in most cases, after watching him attentively for some time, turn round and gallop off. If, however, he should lose his presence of mind, and attempt to fly—or should he fail, when he fires, to shoot the monster through the brain—in all probability he will quickly be torn to pieces.

The grizzly frequently attains a length of nine feet, and weighs from 700 to 800 pounds. His head, in proportion to his muzzle, is very large. He has a long, narrow muzzle, somewhat flattened, with large, powerful, canine teeth. His eyes are small, and deeply sunk in his head. His tail is so short, that it is completely concealed by the surrounding hair. He possesses remarkably long feet, which, in the full-grown animal, are eighteen inches in length; and they are armed with sharp and powerful claws five inches long, and so extremely sharp, that they cut into the flesh like knives. He can also use them separately like fingers, so that he can grasp a dry clod of earth and crumble it to dust as a human being could do with his hand. He can also, with them, dig into the ground; and when the weight of his body is not too great, they enable him to climb trees, although not with the speed of his black brother of the plains. As acorns form a portion of his food, it is said that he will climb a tree and shake the boughs vehemently to make them fall, when he descends and revels on the fruit his ingenuity has thus obtained. The hunter who has to fly for his life may however escape from a bear,—when the monster is filled out with autumn food, and cannot manage to raise his huge body from the ground,—by climbing a tree.

The grizzly varies much in colour. Sometimes his fur is of a dullish brown, freckled over with grizzly hairs; while other specimens are entirely of a steely grey. In all cases, the grizzly hairs give a somewhat white appearance to the surface of the fur. When the animal is young, his fur is of a rich brown, and often very long and thick, and much finer than that of the adult animal. When the creature walks, he swings his body in an odd fashion, rolling his head, at the same time, from side to side, which gives him a remarkably awkward look. Although the grizzly occasionally satisfies himself with vegetable diet, he will also attack and devour any animals he can kill. He does not hesitate to assault the powerful bison; and on overtaking a herd, he will spring without hesitation on the largest bull, and, with the tremendous strokes of his powerful paws, speedily bring it to the ground, when he will without difficulty drag the enormous carcass off to his lair, to devour it at his leisure. All other animals stand in awe of the grizzly; and even the largest pack of hungry wolves will not venture to attack him, nor indeed will they touch his carcass after he has succumbed to the rifle of the hunter. Horses especially are terror-stricken when they scent or see a grizzly; and not until they have been carefully trained, will they even allow the skin of one to be placed on their backs.

The grizzly employs his claws both in digging for roots and in burying any large animal he may have killed, to preserve the carcass till he requires it for another meal. An anecdote is given of a hunter who, pursued by one of these monsters, took advantage of this propensity to save his life. His rifle was unloaded. Of course he had not wounded the bear, or his stratagem would have been in vain. Throwing himself on the ground, the hunter closed his eyes, and stretching out his limbs, feigned to be dead. It must have been a fearful moment when he felt the bear lift up his body in his claws to carry him away to the neighbourhood of his lair. The bear having dug a hole, placed him in it, and covered him carefully with leaves, grass, and bushes. An Indian, or hardy backwoodsman, could alone have existed under such circumstances. The hunter waited anxiously till he heard loud snores proceeding from the cavern. Then, slipping up, like Jack the Giant-killer from the castle of the ogre, he scampered off as fast as his legs could carry him.

Mr Kane—the Canadian artist—mentions meeting a grizzly when in company with an old, experienced half-breed hunter, François by name. François, however, declined firing, alleging that the risk was greater than the honour to be obtained—his own character for bravery having been long established. Young hunters might do so for the sake of proudly wearing the claws—one of the ornaments most esteemed by an Indian chief—round his neck. Although Kane’s gun had two barrels, and François had his rifle, they knew it was ten chances to one they would not kill him in time to prevent a hand-to-hand encounter. The bear walked on, looking at them now and then, but seeming to treat them with contempt.

Some years before this, a party of ten Canadian voyageurs, on a trade excursion in the neighbourhood of the mountains, were quietly seated round a blazing fire, eating a hearty dinner of deer, when a large, half-famished bear cautiously approached the group from behind a chestnut-tree. Before they were aware of his presence, he sprang across the fire, seized one of the men, who had a well-finished bone in his hand, round the waist with his two fore-paws, and ran about fifty yards on his hind-legs with him before he stopped. The hunter’s comrades were so thunderstruck at the unexpected appearance of such a visitor, and his sudden retreat with “pauvre” Louisson—the man who had been carried off—that they for some time lost all presence of mind, and, in a state of confusion, were running to and fro, each expecting in his turn to be kidnapped in a similar manner. At length Baptiste Le Blanc, a half-breed hunter, seized his gun, and was in the act of firing at the bear, when he was stopped by some of the others, who told him that he would inevitably kill their friend, owing to the position he was then in. During this parley, Bruin, relaxing his grasp of the captive, whom he kept securely under him, very leisurely began picking the bone the latter had dropped. Once or twice Louisson attempted to escape, which only caused the bear to watch him more closely. On his making another attempt, the bear again seized him round the waist, and commenced giving him one of those dreadful embraces which generally end in death. The poor fellow was now in great agony, and gave way to the most pitiful screams. Observing Baptiste with his gun ready, anxiously watching a safe opportunity to fire, he cried out, “Tire! tire! mon cher frère, si tu m’aimes! A la tête! à la tête!” This was enough for Le Blanc, who instantly let fire, and hit the bear over the right temple. He fell; and at the same moment dropped Louisson. He gave him an ugly claw along the face, however, which for some time afterwards spoiled his beauty. After he had tired, Le Blanc darted to his companion’s side, and with his couteau de chasse quickly finished the sufferings of the man-stealer, and rescued his friend from impending death. On skinning the bear, scarcely any meat was found on his bones, showing that it was in a fit of hungry desperation that he had thus made one of the boldest attempts at kidnapping over heard of in the legends of ursine courage.

Wolves.

There are several species of wolves in North America: one, a large, black animal, which inhabits the forests; and another, much smaller, which hunts the bison and deer in vast packs across the prairie, and is called the prairie-wolf. Like the wolf of Europe, the black wolf is a fierce, dangerous creature, and equally cowardly. When driven into the corner of a hut, as has sometimes occurred, or when caught in a trap, he will not attempt to defend himself against any person who may enter to destroy him. Audubon mentions an instance of this. A farmer with whom he was staying having lost a number of his animals by wolves, dug several pitfalls in the neighbourhood of his farm. Three large wolves were found in the morning in one of these traps. The farmer, instead of shooting them from above, boldly descended into the trap, and seizing the creatures one by one by the hind-legs, severed the chief tendon, thus preventing their escaping. He afterwards killed and skinned them at his leisure, their skins being of sufficient value to repay him for the loss of his cattle.

The prairie-wolves are considerably smaller than their brethren of the woods. They travel in large packs, a solitary one being seldom seen. Their skins are of no value. The Indians will not waste their powder upon them, and they therefore multiply so greatly, that some parts of the country are completely overrun by them. They are, however, caught by; pitfalls covered over with switches baited with meat. They destroy a great number of horses, particularly in the winter season, when the latter get entangled in the snow. In this situation, two or three wolves will often fasten on one animal, and speedily, with their long claws, tear it to pieces. The horses, however, often bravely defend themselves; and Mr Goss mentions finding near the bodies of two of these animals, which had been killed the night before, eight wolves lying dead and maimed around,—some with their brains scattered, and others with their legs or ribs broken.

Let us watch from an ambush the manoeuvres of a pack of savage cayotes—the name given to one species of wolf—while hunting their prey. Our ears are first assailed by a few shrill, currish barks at intervals, like the outpost firing of skirmishing parties. These are answered by similar barks from the opposite direction, till the sounds gradually approximate on the junction of the different bands. The horses, sensible of the approach of danger, begin to paw the ground, snort, toss up their heads, look wildly about them, and exhibit other symptoms of fear. We prepare our guns ready for action. Three or four stallions take the lead, and wait, with comparative composure, for the approach of the enemy. The allies at length enter the field in a semicircular form, with their flanks extended, for the evident purpose of surrounding their prey.

They are between three and four hundred strong. The horses, from experience, know well their object, and, dreading an encounter with so numerous a force, instantly turn round and gallop off in a contrary direction. Their flight is the signal for the wolves to advance. The brutes, uttering a simultaneous yell, charge after the fugitives, still preserving their crescent form. Two or three horses, much out of condition, are quickly overtaken, when they commence kicking at the advance-guard of the enemy; but though several of the wolves receive severe blows, they will, it is evident—being reinforced by others—quickly despatch the unfortunate horses.

It is time for us to emerge from our concealment and fire a volley at the enemy’s centre, by which several are brought down. The whole battalion of cowards instantly wheel about, and fly towards the hills in the utmost disorder; while the horses, hearing the sound, come galloping up to us for protection, and by their neighing express their joy and gratitude at our timely interference.

Lynxes.

Although lynxes are not so numerous in America as wolves, they are equally destructive, and individually more daring—attacking deer and smaller animals when they can take them at a disadvantage. They seldom fly, as wolves do, on the first approach of man. In size, the largest does not exceed the dimensions of an English mastiff. The Canadian lynx is frequently termed the Peeshoo, and sometimes “Le Chat” by the French Canadians. His coat is covered with long hairs of a dark grey hue, besprinkled with black, the extremities of which are white, with dark mottlings here and there on the back. Sometimes the fur is of a ruddy chestnut tinge, and the limbs are darker than the rest of the body—which is about three feet long. The animal possesses powerful limbs, and thick, heavy feet, furnished with strong, white claws. When moving over the ground it leaps in successive bounds, its back being slightly arched, and all its feet pitching at the same time. It also swims well, and can cross rivers and lakes a couple of miles broad. Strong as it is, it appears it is easily killed by a blow on the back with a slight stick. It ranges throughout the greater part of the continent, and is shot or trapped for the sake of its fur, which is of considerable value.

The Wolverene, or Glutton.

The wolverene, or glutton, carries off the palm for cunning from all the other animals. It is also more ferocious and daring for its size than even the huge grizzly, while for voracity it is unsurpassed. In appearance, it is somewhat similar to a young bear. It is of a brownish-black colour, with a black muzzle and eyes of a dark hue, the space between them being of a brown tint. The paws are also quite black, contrasting with the ivory whiteness of the claws. It possesses large and expanded paws, to enable it to pass over frozen snow; indeed, so large are they, that its footsteps are often mistaken for the tracks of the bear. In one of its habits it resembles Mr Bruin, having the custom, when it finds an animal which it cannot devour at one meal, of carrying off the remainder and hiding it in some secure place.

The glutton moves at a somewhat slow pace, and appears rather deficient in agility; but at the same time he is persevering and determined, and will range over a wide extent of country in search of weak or dying animals, stealing unawares upon hares and birds, etcetera. When he takes a fancy to some larger quadruped as it lies asleep, he springs upon it, tearing open the neck and throat. He is supposed to prefer putrid flesh, and the odour which proceeds from him would lead us to suppose that such is the case. The trappers look upon him with especial hatred, as, with his usual cunning, he seeks out their hoards of provisions in cache, and destroys their marten-traps. He himself is so sly that he is seldom caught in a snare. When he finds one, he approaches it from behind, and pulling it to pieces from the outside, carries off the bait. The marten-hunter will go forth and set a line of traps, extending to upwards of forty miles in length or circumference. The wolverene, observing what he is about, follows at a distance, carefully pulling the traps to pieces as he leaves them behind, and eating off the heads of the partridges or other birds which have been used as bait, declining all the time to run his nose into danger. When a sable or marten is entrapped, he tears out the dead animal and carries it away. It is even supposed that he will attack a hibernating bear in his den, and manage to kill him before Bruin has aroused himself sufficiently for his defence.

The wolverene is the fur-trapper’s greatest foe, and, as may be supposed, he has no mercy shown him. The cunning creature, moreover, in spite of his cleverness, sometimes gets caught. Mr Paul Kane, in one of his journeys across the country, had left a cache composed of logs built together, something like a log-house, but not very closely fitted. Impelled by hunger after a long journey, he and his companion on their way back reached their cache, and began throwing off the heavy logs which covered the top and concealed it. The Indian, hearing a great disturbance within, called to Mr Kane to fetch the guns. Just as he got up, a fine fat wolverene jumped out, but was immediately shot down. The creature must have been starved and desperately thin to have squeezed himself through the openings between the logs, and no doubt, impelled by hunger and the smell of the meat inside, had not thought much of a slight squeeze. When, however, he was once in, and had enjoyed a few good meals, he could not get out again, and the idea of starving himself as long as the meat lasted did not appear to have occurred to him.

The disappointment to the hungry travellers was very great, as but little food was left, and that was mangled, torn, and tossed about in the dirt by the animal.

The Raccoon.

To obtain a satisfactory sight of the raccoon, we must set out into the forest by torchlight, accompanied by dogs, with fowling-piece in hand. As he remains during the day in some hollow tree, it is rarely we can get a good view of him. Even if by chance found on the ground, he ascends the tree so rapidly, that he is stowed away before our rifle can reach the shoulder. The well-trained dog, however, quickly finds him when roving about the woods at night.

Let us accompany Audubon on a ’coon hunt. Our native companions have gone before with the dogs, who are baying at the raccoon in an open part of the forest. On our coming up, a singular scene presents itself to us. The flare of our torch seems to distress him. His coat is ruffled, and his rounded tail seems thrice its ordinary size. His eyes shine like emeralds. With foaming jaws he watches the dogs, ready to seize by the snout each who comes within reach. His guttural growlings, instead of intimidating his assailants, excite them the more. He seizes one, however, by the lip. It is a dangerous proceeding, for, while thus far victorious, the other curs attack him in flank and rear, while their companion yells pitifully. The raccoon will not let go, but the other dogs, seizing him fast, worry him to death. Yet to the last he holds tightly the dog’s lip.

While we stand gazing at the poor animal, all around is, by the flare of the torch, rendered trebly dark and dismal. It is a scene for a skilful painter.

The raccoon is about the same size as a small fox, and though somewhat like it, has also rather an ursine appearance. He has a tufted tail marked with black and white bands. The head tapers somewhat like that of the fox, but the ears are short and slightly rounded, the forehead broad, and the nose sharp. The fore-legs being shorter than the hinder, when he stands the tail end of his body is lifted higher than the front, and consequently his back appears curved. He walks like the dog, putting the tips of his toes to the ground; but when he stops he lays his feet flat.

He receives no mercy from the farmers, for he is of a sanguinary and savage disposition, and commits great havoc among domestic as well as wild birds, always destroying far more than he requires; merely eating off their heads, or lapping up the blood which flows from their wounds. He commits occasionally ravages in sugar-cane or Indian-corn plantations; and, climbing with ease, catches birds, and devours their eggs. He resembles the squirrel in his movements; and, like that animal, when eating, sits on his hind-legs, and uses his fore-feet to carry his food to his mouth. A story is told of a young tame raccoon let loose in a poultry-yard, when, his natural disposition overcoming his civilised manners, he sprang on a cock strutting in a dignified fashion among the hens, and fixed himself on its back. The bird, surprised at so unusual an attack, began scampering round the yard, the hens scattering far and wide in the utmost confusion. Still the little animal kept his seat, till he managed to get hold of the unfortunate cock’s head in his jaws, and before the bird could be rescued, had crunched it up—still keeping his seat, in spite of the dying struggles of his victim; and probably, had he not been bagged, would have treated all the feathered inhabitants of the yard in the same fashion. When out hunting on his own account, he often hides himself among the long reeds on the bank of a lake or stream, and pouncing out on the wild ducks as they swim incautiously by, treats them as he does the domestic fowls on shore.

He partakes considerably of the cunning of the fox, yet, like that animal, is frequently outwitted. A raccoon after a long chase managed to reach a tree, which he quickly climbed, with the aid of his claws, snugly ensconcing himself in the deserted nest of a crow. In vain the hunters sought for him, till his long, annulated tail, which he had forgotten to coil up within the nest, was seen pendent below it; and the poor raccoon was quickly brought to the ground by a rifle ball.

He has gained the name of the lotor, or the washer, in consequence of his habit of plunging his dry food into water before eating it. He also drinks a large quantity of water. When moistening his food, he grasps it with both his fore-paws, moving it violently backwards and forwards, as a person does washing clothes in a stream. The German naturalists call him the washing-bear. Though savage and bloodthirsty in his wild state, he is frequently tamed; but he is somewhat capricious in temper, and not easily reconciled when offended. It is curious that he should, when domesticated, change his usual custom of sleeping in the daytime and wandering about at night; but this he does, remaining quiet all night, and making his appearance among the inmates of the house as soon as the sun sheds its light abroad. Though in his wild state a fit member for a temperance society, he will when in captivity, as if to recompense himself for his hard lot, drink fermented liquors of all sorts—the stronger and sweeter the better. An old writer on American animals says, in reference to this propensity, that if taken young it is easily made tame, but “is the drunkenest creature alive, if he can get any liquor that is sweet and strong.” The same writer states that the cunning raccoon often catches crabs by inserting one of his feet into their holes, and dragging them out as soon as they seize hold of it.

The Agouaha, or Crab-Eating Raccoon.

In the Southern States we find another species of raccoon, somewhat larger than the former, who is addicted to eating molluscs and crustaceans, whether marine or terrestrial. It is said, also, that when other means fail of obtaining food, he seats himself on a branch hanging low down over some quiet pool, and using his flexible tail as a fishing-line, waits patiently till its end is caught hold of by a snapping turtle or other inhabitant of the water, when, whisking it up, he tears open the creature’s shell and devours the luscious flesh with aldermanic relish. The fur is generally of a blackish-grey hue, washed with a tinge of yellow. A blacker tint prevails on the head, neck, and along the spine. His tail, in proportion to the size of his body, is shorter than that of the common raccoon, and is marked with six black rings, upon a blackish-yellow ground.

The Ermine.

When we see the judge seated in his richly trimmed robe of ermine—emblem of purity—or call to mind the regal robes of a proud monarch, we are apt to forget that the fur which we so much admire is but that of the detested stoat, turned white during his abode amid the winter’s snow of a northern clime. He is not unlike the weasel, especially when clothed in his darker summer dress, but with a less ruddy hue. The edges of the ears and the toes always remain white.

He is considerably larger than the weasel, measuring upwards of fourteen inches, including the tail—which is about four inches long, the tip almost black. He is a bold hunter, and follows and destroys the hare, and other animals of equal size. It is said, even, that several together will venture to attack a man. They are caught in America by traps, which, giving the animal a sudden blow, kill it without injuring the skin.

The winter coat of the ermine is produced by the whitening of the fur, and not, as was once supposed, by the substitution of white for dark hairs. Probably one cause of this change of hue may be that the energies of the creature concentrate themselves on the vital organs, to enable it to resist the extreme low temperature of the icy regions it inhabits, and cannot thus spare a sufficient amount of blood for the formation of the colouring matter which tinges the hair. Human beings as well as animals become weaker as they increase in age; and it has been observed that their hair also loses its colour, in consequence of such energies as they possess being required to assist the more important functions of nature. This corroborates the correctness of the former remark.

The ermine, like other species of its genus, has the faculty of ejecting a fluid of a strong musky odour. It is abundant, not only in the barren grounds of the Hudson Bay territories, but is also found in Norway and Siberia.

When the fur is used for robes, or similar purposes, the black tuft at the end of the tail is sewn on at regular distances to the skin, giving to the ermine fur the appearance we are all familiar with.

The Pine-Marten.

The pine-marten, a species of weasel, obtains its name from being found amid pine-forests, and from its habit of climbing the trunks of pines in search of prey. It is a fierce and savage creature, choosing to live alone, away from the haunts of man. It is from eighteen to twenty inches in length—with a tail measuring about ten inches—and is covered with long bushy hair. Moving without difficulty among the branches, it seizes many an unfortunate bird in its deadly gripe before its victim can take to flight—robbing also the nest of the eggs within it.

It is common in Europe, as well as in America; but in the cold regions of the Hudson Bay Company it is hunted for the sake of its skin, which is, when blanched during the winter’s cold, scarcely inferior to that of the celebrated sable.

When pursued and overtaken, it stands at bay, exhibiting its teeth, erecting its hair, arching its back, and hissing like a cat. It forms its burrows in the ground, the female producing, a litter of from four to seven. Like other animals of its tribe, it emits a peculiar musky smell.

The Otter.

In winter, along the steep banks of the frozen streams, smooth and shining tracks may be readily detected. They are produced by otters, which have a curious habit of sliding downwards for their amusement—much as human beings are accustomed to do in Canada in their toboggans. To do this, they lie on their bellies, with their fore-legs bent backwards, and giving themselves an impetus with their hind-legs, down they glide, at a swift rate, upon the ice. This sport they will continue for some time, climbing up again to the top of the bank, and repeating the process over and over again. They are also accustomed to pass through the woods from lake to lake, making a direct track in the snow. These tracks are easily known. Then comes a broad trail, as if made by a cart-wheel. This is formed by the animal throwing itself on its belly, and thus sliding along over the surface for several yards. These places are called “otter rubs.”

There are two species of otter in North America—one on the east, and the other on the Pacific slope—differing slightly from each other. The former is considerably larger than that of the Old World, measuring, from the nose to the tip of the tail, sometimes from four and a half to five feet. Like most other water animals, it possesses two sorts of hair: the one is long and shining, and of a rich brown colour, except on the throat, which is of a dusky white; the other is very fine and soft, lying next the skin, and serving to protect it from the extremes of heat and cold. It has excessively sharp, short teeth, which enable it to hold fast the fish, on which it chiefly feeds. Its body is elongated and much flattened, and the tail, which is of great length, is also flat and broad. The legs are short and strong, and so loosely jointed that it can turn them in any direction when swimming.

The habitations of otters are formed in the banks of rivers or lakes, and are not altogether of an artificial character, as they prefer occupying any deserted hollow or natural crevice to the trouble of digging burrows for themselves. Though they are very playful animals, and delight apparently in sport, they are somewhat of a savage disposition, and must be taken very young to be domesticated. They are cautious, timid animals, and can seldom be approached unawares. They eat all sorts of fresh-water fish, such as trout, perch, eels, and suckers; and will also devour frogs. Occasionally they may be observed on a rocky islet of some lone stream, resting after a banquet, or about to plunge into the water in chase of one of the finny tribe, which their keen eyes detect swimming by. They are trapped, in Canada, by steel traps, which are submerged close to the bank below their “rubs.” They make a peculiar whistling sound, which the Indian can imitate perfectly, and thus frequently induces them to approach. Their skins are manufactured into muffs and trimmings and caps, such as are usually worn in winter by Canadians.

An otter, when attacked, will defend itself with desperation, snapping furiously at the Indian, and then shaking its head violently as a dog does when destroying a rat. Their bite is severe—sufficient indeed to snap off a man’s finger—and when once its jaws are closed, no power is capable of making it relinquish its grasp. The Canadians do not attempt to tame the otter; but the persevering Chinese not only contrive to domesticate the species found in their country, but teach them to capture fish for their benefit.

The Skunk.

Rambling amid the woods, even in the neighbourhood of settlements, we may occasionally come upon a curious little animal, with a party-coloured coat and bushy tail, and an amiable and gentle appearance. The creature appears to be in no way timid, and will very likely await our approach. As we draw near it, however, it is apt to turn round and erect its bushy tail perpendicularly. Let us beware of what we are about, for, in a moment, the creature may send over us a shower of a substance so horribly odious, that not only may we be blinded and sickened by the effluvium, but our clothes will be made useless, from the difficulty of getting rid of the odour.

The creature is the skunk, and is about the size of a cat. It possesses short round ears, black cheeks, and a white stripe extending from the nose to the back. The upper part of the neck and the whole back are white, divided by a black line. Below, it is black, as are the legs; and it has a full tail of coarse black hair, occasionally tipped with white. Its legs are short, and it does not possess much activity. Its feet are armed with claws, somewhat like those of the badger.

It appears to use this horrid effluvium—which is generated in glands near the tail—as a means of defence. All other animals have a due horror of it. Anything which it touches is tainted: provisions are destroyed; and clothes, though often washed, will retain the smell for many weeks. At one time this substance was used for medicinal purposes. The mode of defence bestowed on the skunk is somewhat similar to that employed by the cuttle-fish, which emits a dark liquor when pursued. Those who have once smelt the horribly fetid odour of the skunk will not easily forget it.

The Pekan, or Wood-Shock.

Still keeping to the lakes and streams, we may often fall in with a creature of curious habits, which, unlike those just described, lives almost entirely among the branches of the trees. In shape it is somewhat like a weasel, and is the largest of the tree martens. It is known as the wood-shock or pekan, and is also called the black cat, and fisher. This last term is inappropriate, as it is not in any way piscivorous. It is of a dark brown hue, with a line of black shining hair reaching from the neck to the extremity of the tail. The under parts are lighter; some entirely white. It possesses also a very large, full, and expressive eye.

Though spending its time among the trees, hunting for its prey, it forms a burrow in the ground for its usual habitation. It lives upon squirrels and rabbits, as well as grouse and other birds and their eggs. Not only does it venture to attack the well-armed porcupine, but it kills the animal, and eats it up, quills and all. The difficulty of accomplishing this appears very great, but there are numerous instances in which pekans have been killed, when their bodies were found full of quills, from which they did not appear to have suffered. They eat up, indeed, both the flesh and bones of the porcupine—the latter being so strong that a small bird cannot crack them. Mr Downs, the naturalist of Nova Scotia, states that he has frequently found porcupine quills in the stomach of the fisher.

The animal is hunted for the sake of its skin, which is of some value—as also for amusement, especially by boys, as the creature is not sufficiently formidable to cause any great danger to them or their dogs. It is about four feet long, including the tail, which measures about eighteen inches.

The Mink.

Another denizen on the shores of the fresh-waters of Canada is the mink, called also the smaller otter, and sometimes known as the water pole-cat. It may be seen swimming about the lakes, preferring generally the still waters in autumn to the more rapidly-flowing currents of spring. It somewhat resembles the otter, and differs in shape slightly from the marten or ferret. Its teeth, however, are more like those of the pole-cat than the otter; while its tail does not possess the muscular power of the latter animal.

Like the otter, it lives upon fish and frogs, but will occasionally make a marauding expedition into poultry-yards. Its general colour is a dark reddish-brown, approaching in some specimens almost to black on the head; while there is a patch of white, varying in size, under the chin. It is trapped by the settlers both in self-defence and on account of its fur, which is of considerable value, and greatly resembles sable—a good skin often fetching four or five dollars.

Marsupials, or Pouched Animals:—The Virginian or Common Opossum.

The opossum, with its prehensile tail, marsupial pouch, and cunning ways, stands alone for its singularity among all the animals of the American continent. Many of the tribe are found in South America; but the Virginian opossum, the size of a full-grown cat, is larger than all its relatives. The head and body measure about twenty-two inches; and the tail, fifteen. It is covered with a light grey hair of wool-like softness, short on the face and body, but long on the legs. The base end of the tail is thick and black, and is covered with small scales. So powerful is this member that the opossum can hold on with it to the bough of a tree, and even when desperately wounded it does not let go. Its face is long and sharpened, the mouth very determined, and armed with numerous sharp teeth. It has thin, naked, round, and blackish ears, edged with a border of white. It has short legs, the feet being armed with claws, and the interior toes of the hind-feet are flat and rounded.

It has the power of emitting a disagreeable odour when chased or alarmed. When pursued, it makes for the nearest tree; and should it discover the approach of a hunter and his dogs when already up a tree, instead of taking to flight, it lies close along the branch, endeavouring to hide itself. When moving amidst the boughs, it swings itself from branch to branch by means of its tail; and it may be observed at times hanging down, with its eyes wide open, on the look-out for any birds which may incautiously alight on the bough above, or pass within its grasp.

It is very voracious, feeding on small quadrupeds and birds of all sorts; while it does not disdain to prey off a brood of young cotton rats and mice, and devours insects and a variety of reptiles. When unable to find sufficient food in the forest, or too lazy to look for it, it will, without hesitation, make a raid into the farmer’s poultry-yard, and carry off or kill his fowls, and eat up any eggs it may find. The opossum does not always indulge in animal diet,—for he climbs fruit-trees to carry off their luscious productions; and for the sake of obtaining maize, of which he is especially fond, he will climb the tallest stems, and bite them across, so as to bring the heavy ear to the ground. He will also clamber to some higher branch, and hang down, in search of the fruit growing on the boughs incapable of bearing his weight.

The quality for which he is chiefly noted is his habit of feigning death. Frequently he is brought to the ground, when there he lies, every limb relaxed, evidently as dead as can be. The knowing hunter will, however, keep his glance on the creature. If he withdraws it for a moment, its eyelids will be seen slowly opening; and should he turn his head for even the shortest space, the creature will be on its feet, stealing away through the underwood. Though so perfectly an adept at “’possuming,” before attempting to practise its usual ruse it will make every effort to escape from its pursuers. When chased alone by a dog, it will content itself by scrambling up a tree, and sitting quietly on a branch, out of reach, looking down on its canine assailant with contempt as it runs barking furiously below it. The opossum is thus said to be “treed;” and before long, the barking of the dog brings his master to the spot, when the opossum has to fly for its life to the highest branch it can reach. It is easily captured by the rudest style of trap, into which it will walk without hesitation. When “feigning ’possum,” it will submit to be knocked about, and kicked and cuffed, without giving the slightest sign of life. The flesh of the opossum is white, and considered excellent—especially in the autumn, when, after feeding amply on the fruits, beech-nuts, and wild berries, of which it is especially fond, it is very fat.

The female opossum builds a warm nest of dry leaves and moss, sometimes in the hollow of a rotten tree, or beneath its wide-spreading roots. She has been known occasionally to take possession of a squirrel’s nest; and at other times, that of the Florida rat. When her young—generally thirteen to fifteen appearing at a time—are born, they are extremely small—not an inch in length, including the tail—and weighing only four grains. After a couple of weeks or so, she places them in her pouch, when they grow in size and strength, and in about four weeks may be seen with their heads poked out surveying the world, into which they begin to wander at the end of five or six weeks. When first-born, they are the most helpless of little creatures, being both deaf and blind.

The larger number of opossums, however, are to be found in South America, where we shall have an opportunity of further examining them.

Part 1—Chapter VIII.

The Feathered Tribes of North America.

The Bald or White-Headed Eagle.

The white-headed eagle takes precedence among the feathered tribes of America,—because he stands first in natural order, and has been selected by the people of the United States as their heraldic emblem. Their choice was, by-the-by, objected to by Benjamin Franklin, on the plea “that it is a bird of bad moral character, and does not get his living honestly.” There was justice in the remark, for the bald eagle is a determined robber, and a perfect tyrant. He is, however, a magnificent bird, when seen with wings expanded, nearly eight feet from tip to tip—and a body three and a half feet in length—his snowy-white head and neck shining in the sun, and his large, hooked, yellow beak open as he espies, afar off, the fish-hawk emerging from the ocean with his struggling prey. Downward he pounces with rapid flight. The fish-hawk sees his enemy approaching, and attempts to escape; but, laden with the fish he has just captured, in spite of the various evolutions he performs, he is soon overtaken by the savage freebooter. With a scream of despair he drops the fish.

The eagle poises himself for a moment, as if to take more certain aim, then, descending like a whirlwind, snatches it ere it reaches the water.

The plumage of the bald eagle is of a chocolate-brown, inclining to black along the back, while the bill and upper tail-coverts are of the same white hue as the head and neck. He and his mate build their nest in some lofty tree amid a swamp; and repairing it every season, it becomes of great size. Its position is generally known by the offensive odour arising from the number of fish scattered around, which they have let drop after their predatory excursions. The nest is roughly formed of large sticks, moss, roots, and tufts of grass. They commence making fresh additions to their nest early in the year; and the female deposits her eggs in January, and hatches the young by the middle of the following month. Robbers as they are, the white-headed eagles exhibit great parental affection, tending their young as long as they are helpless and unfledged; nor will they forsake them even should the tree in which their nest is built be surrounded by flames. Wilson, the American naturalist, mentions seeing a tree cut down in order to obtain an eagle’s nest. The parent birds continued flying clamorously round, and could with difficulty be driven away from the bodies of their fledgelings, killed by the fall of the lofty pine.

Audubon gives us an account of a savage attack he once witnessed made by an eagle and his mate on a swan:—The fierce eagle, having marked the snow-white bird as his prey, summons his companion. As the swan is passing near the dreaded pair, the eagle, in preparation for the chase, starts from his perch on a tall pine, with an awful scream, that to the swan brings more terror than, the report of the largest duck-gun. Now is the moment to witness the display of the eagle’s power. He glides through the air like a falling star, and comes upon the timorous quarry, which now, in agony and despair, seeks by varied manoeuvres to elude the grasp of his cruel talons. Now it mounts, now doubles, and would willingly plunge into the stream, were it not prevented by the eagle, who, knowing that by such a stratagem the swan might escape him, forces it to remain in the air by his attempts to strike it with his talons from beneath. The swan has already become much weakened, and its strength fails at sight of the courage and swiftness of its antagonist. At one moment it seems about to escape, when the ferocious eagle strikes with his talons the under side of its wing, and with an unresisted power forces the bird to fall in a slanting direction upon the nearest shore. Pouncing downwards, the eagle is soon joined by his mate, when they turn the body of the luckless swan upwards, and tear it open with their talons.

Along all the coasts of North America, as also at the mouths of the chief rivers, the white-headed eagle is found watching for his prey. An instance is mentioned of one of these savage birds being entrapped, and falling a victim to his voracity. Having pursued a wild duck to a piece of freshly-formed ice, he pitched upon it, and began tearing his prey to pieces, when the mass on which he stood continuing to freeze, his feet became fixed in the ice. Having vainly endeavoured with his powerful wings to rise in the air, he ultimately perished miserably.

The Wild Turkey.

The wild turkey, acknowledged to be the finest of game-birds, ranges throughout the forests of the more temperate portions of America. It is the parent of the valued inhabitant of our poultry-yards; and in its wild state utters the same curious sounds which it does in captivity. This superb bird measures about four feet in length. Its plumage, banded with black, gleams with a golden brown hue, shot with green, violet, and blue. Its head is somewhat small, and a portion of its neck is covered with a naked warty bluish skin, which hangs in wattles from the base of the bill, forming a long fleshy protuberance, with hairs at the top.

The bird, in the States, is commonly known as Bubbling Jock, and is called “Oocoocoo” by the Indians. The female builds her nest in some dry, secluded spot, guarding it carefully, and never approaching it by the same path twice in succession. When first her young are hatched, she leads them through the woods, but returns at night to her nest. After a time she takes them to a greater distance, and nestles them in some secluded spot on the ground. At this time they are frequently attacked by the lynxes, who spring upon them, knocking them over with their paws.

The wild turkey wanders to a great distance from the place of its birth. “About the beginning of October the male birds assemble in flocks,” says Audubon, “and move towards the rich bottom-lands of the Ohio and Mississippi. The females advance singly, each with its brood of young, then about two-thirds grown, or in union with other families, forming parties often amounting to seventy or eighty individuals—shunning the old cocks, who, when the young birds have attained this size, will fight with, and often destroy them by repeated blows on the head. When they come upon a river, they betake themselves to the highest eminence, and often remain there a whole day; for the purpose of consultation, it would seem, the males gobbling, calling, and making much ado,—strutting about as if to raise their courage to a pitch befitting the emergency. At length, when all around is quiet, the whole party mount to the tops of the most lofty trees, whence, at a signal—consisting of a single cluck—given by the leader, the flock takes flight for the opposite shore. On reaching it, after crossing a broad stream, they appear totally bewildered, and easily fall a prey to the hunter, who is on the watch for them with his dogs.”

The Ocellated Turkey.

A still more magnificent species of turkey than the one just described inhabits Honduras. It may be distinguished from the common turkey by the eye-like marks on the tail and upper wing-coverts. The naked skin of the head and neck, too, is of a delicate violet-blue, covered with numerous pea-looking knobs arranged in a cluster upon the crown. This is of a pale buff-orange, while there is a row of similar marks over the eye, and others scattered about the neck. The wattle hanging from the neck is of a light orange at the tip. The greater wing-coverts are of a rich chestnut, the feet and legs being of a lake colour. It is somewhat smaller than the wild turkey of the States.

The Canvas-Back Duck.

The celebrated canvas-back duck, allied to the English pochard, makes its appearance among the numerous rivers in the neighbourhood of Chesapeake Bay about the middle of October, as well as in other parts of the Union. It is at that time, however, thin; but soon grows fat, from the abundance of its favourite food. It is from two to three feet across the wings. Its glossy black beak is large. The head and part of the neck are of a rich glossy reddish-chestnut tint, with black breast. The wing-coverts are grey, and the rest of the body white, marked with a number of transverse wavy lines.

It is especially esteemed at table—and those who have eaten it at the hospitable boards of Americans will acknowledge its excellence; though when, on several occasions, some braces of these birds have been sent to England, they have failed to elicit the admiration due to their merits—in consequence, it is said, of not being accompanied by an American cook.

The Summer Duck.

The most beautiful of the duck tribe which visits the States is the summer or tree duck of Carolina. It bears a strong resemblance in plumage and habits to the celebrated mandarin duck of China. The birds are found perching on the branches of trees overhanging ponds and streams—a habit not usual in the duck tribe—where they may be seen, generally a couple together, the male in his superb garments of green, purple, chestnut, and white, contrasting with the homely plumage of his mate.

The Pinnated Grouse, or Prairie Hen.

On the open “barrens,” where a few tufts of stunted brushwood are alone found, the remarkable pinnated grouse may be seen in great numbers running over the ground. Their backs are mottled with black, white, and chestnut-brown; and the male has two finely ornamented feathers on the neck, streaked with black and brown. It has also a slight crest on the head, of orange colour, hanging over each eye in a semicircular form; and naked appendages, which hang down from each side of the neck, and can be filled at the will of the bird by air, so that when puffed out they are like two small yellow oranges. As the breeding season approaches the males appear, uttering strange cries, puffing out these wattles, ruffling their feathers, and erecting their neck-tufts, as if wishing to appear to the greatest advantage before their mates. They occasionally engage in combats with each other, but their encounters are not often of a bloody description.

They form their nests rudely of grass and leaves, under the shelter of a bush or thick tuft of long grass. The hen lays about fifteen eggs of a brownish-white colour.

The most remarkable feature in the history of these birds is the way in which they assemble, as winter approaches, in vast numbers, to obtain protection from the biting force of the north-west winds which sweep over the Missouri country, by huddling close together.

“As evening draws near,” says Mr Webber, who has observed their habits, “they approach the spot they have fixed on, in the usual manner, by short flights, with none of that whirring of wings for which they are noted when suddenly put up; but they make ample amends for their previous silence when they arrive. From the pigeon-roost there is a continuous roar, caused by the restless shifting of the birds, and sounds of impatient struggling, which can be distinctly heard for several miles. The numbers collected are incalculably immense, since the space occupied extends sometimes for a mile in length, with a breadth determined by the character of the ground. The noise begins to subside a few hours after dark. The birds have now arranged themselves for the night, nestled as close as they can be wedged, every bird with his breast turned to the quarter in which the wind may be prevailing. This scene is one of the most curious that can be imagined, especially when we have the moonlight to contrast with their dark backs. At this time they may be killed by cart-loads, as only those in the immediate neighbourhood of the slain are apparently disturbed. They rise to the height of a few feet, with a stupified and aimless fluttering, and plunge into the snow within a short distance, where they are easily taken by the hand. They will, if disturbed when they first arrive at a resting-place, change it; but after the heavy snows have fallen, they are not easily driven away by any degree of persecution. By melting the snow with the heat of their bodies, and by trampling it down, they then form a kind of sheltering-yard, the outside walls of which defend them against the winds.”

They have, besides human foes, numberless enemies among the foxes, wolves, hawks, and other birds. The fecundity of the survivors, however, keeps pace with the many fatalities to which they are liable.

The Ruffed Grouse, or American Pheasant.

“This elegant species,” writes Wilson, “is known throughout North America. Its favourite places of resort are high mountains, covered with the balsam-pine and hemlock.” It prefers the woods—being seldom or never found in open plains. They are solitary birds; generally being seen in coveys of four or five, and often singly, or in pairs.

The stranger wandering through the forest is surprised to hear a peculiar sound, very similar to that produced by striking two full-blown ox-bladders together, but much louder. It is caused by the ruffed grouse, who, amusing himself by drumming, is little aware that it will bring the cruel sportsman towards him. The bird produces it when standing on an old prostrate log. He lowers his wings, erects his expanded tail, and inflates his whole body something in the manner of the turkey-cock, strutting and wheeling about with great stateliness. After a few manoeuvres of this kind he begins to strike with his stiffened wings, in short and quick strokes, which become more and more rapid, till they run into each other. The sound then resembles the rumbling of distant thunder, dying away gradually on the ear.

The hen is an affectionate mother, and takes every means, when a stranger approaches her nest, to lead him away from the spot.

Wilson describes observing a hen-pheasant depart from this usual custom. He came suddenly upon one with a young bird in her company. The mother fluttered before him for a short time, when suddenly darting towards the young one, she seized it in her bill, and flew off along the surface of the ground through the woods, with great steadiness and rapidity, till she was beyond his sight, leaving him in much surprise at the incident. He searched round, but could find no other birds.

Here was a striking instance of something more than “blind instinct”—by the adoption of the most simple and effectual means for the preservation of her solitary young one—in this remarkable deviation from the usual manoeuvres of the bird when she has a numerous brood.

The ruffed grouse is of a rich chestnut-brown, mottled with brown and grey; while on each shoulder are the curious ruffs, or tufts, from which he obtains his name, of a rich velvety black, glossed with green. The skin beneath them is bare; the tail is grey, barred with blackish-brown.

Another species of grouse, smaller than the two former, inhabits Canada.

Passenger-Pigeons.

Flights of locusts are often seen passing through the air, like vast clouds, obscuring the sky. The passenger-pigeon of America appears in almost equal numbers. The accounts of their vast nights would be incredible, were they not thoroughly well authenticated.

They are beautiful birds; the males being about sixteen inches in length, the females slightly smaller, and usually of less attractive plumage. The head, part of the neck, and chin of the male bird, are of a slaty-blue colour; the lower portions being also of a slate colour, banded with gold, green, and purplish-crimson, changing as the bird moves here and there. Reddish-hazel feathers cover the throat and breast, while the upper tail-coverts and back are of a dark slaty-blue. Their other feathers are black, edged with white; and the lower part of the breast and abdomen are purplish-red and white. The beak is black, and the eyes of a fiery orange hue, with a naked space round them of purplish-red.

Its chief food is the beech-mast; but it also lives on acorns, and grain of all sorts—especially rice. It is calculated that each bird eats half a pint of food in the day; and when we recollect their numbers, we may conceive what an immense amount must be consumed.

The female hatches only one bird at a time, in a nest slightly made of a few twigs, loosely woven into a sort of platform. Upwards of one hundred nests have been found in one tree, with a single egg in each of them; but there are probably two or three broods in the season. In a short time the young become very plump, and so fat, that they are occasionally melted down for the sake of their fat alone. They choose particular places for roosting—generally amid a grove of the oldest and largest trees in the neighbourhood.

Wilson, Audubon, and other naturalists, give us vivid descriptions of the enormous flights of these birds. Let us watch with Audubon in the neighbourhood of one of their curious roosting-places. We now catch sight of a flight of the birds moving with great steadiness and rapidity, at a height out of gunshot, in several strata deep, and close together. From right to left, far as the eye can reach, the breadth of this vast procession extends, teeming everywhere, equally crowded. An hour passes, and they rather increase in numbers and rapidity of flight. The leaders of this vast body sometimes vary their course, now forming a large band of more than a mile in diameter; those behind tracing the exact route of their predecessors. Now they once more change their direction—the column becoming an immense front, sweeping the heavens in one vast and infinitely extended line. Suddenly a hawk makes a sweep on a particular part of the column, when almost as quick as lightning that part shoots downwards out of the common track; but soon again rising, advances at the same rate as before.

We will now hurry on towards their breeding place, a forest on the banks of the Green River in Kentucky, fully forty miles in length, and more than three in width. In the neighbourhood are assembled a large number of persons, with horses, waggons, guns, and ammunition; and a farmer has brought three hundred hogs to be fattened on the refuse pigeons. As the vast flight arrives at the spot, thousands are knocked down by men with long poles. Some place pots of sulphur under the trees; others are provided with torches of pine-knots; and the rest have guns. The birds continue to pour in. The fires are lighted; and a magnificent, as well as almost terrifying, sight presents itself. The pigeons arrive by thousands, alighting everywhere, one above another, till solid masses, as large as hogsheads, are formed on the branches all around. Here and there the perches give way with a crash, and falling to the ground, destroy hundreds of the birds beneath, forcing down the dense groups with which every stick is loaded. The pigeons continue coming, and it is past midnight before there is any sign of a decrease in their numbers. The ground in all directions is strewed with branches broken by the weight of the birds which have pitched on them. By sunrise, the enormous multitude have taken their departure, while wolves, foxes, and other animals who had assembled to feast on the bodies of the slain, are seen sneaking off.

Audubon describes the flight of one of these almost solid masses of birds pursued by a hawk; now darting compactly in undulating and angular lines, now descending close to the earth, and with inconceivable velocity mounting perpendicularly, so as to resemble a vast column, and then wheeling and twisting within their continued lines, resembling the coils of a gigantic serpent. Their assemblages greatly surpass in numbers those of the pinnated grouse already described.

Humming-Birds.

A considerable number of these gem-like members of the feathered tribe make their appearance in summer, even as far north as Canada, and on the sides of the hills rising out of the “Fertile Belt,” within sight of Lake Winnipeg,—a region where snow covers the ground for so many months in the year. The most common, as well as the most beautiful, species of these minute birds, is the ruby-throated humming-bird—a name given to it on account of the delicate metallic feathers which glow with ruby lustre on its throat, gleaming in the sunshine like gems of living fire. From the tip of the bill to that of the tail it measures about three and a half inches. The belly is green, and the upper part of the neck, back, and wing-coverts, are of a resplendent and varied green and gold. The breast and lower parts are white, the wings purplish-brown, and the tail partly of the same colour, with the two middle tail-feathers of vivid green.

In the warm climate of the more southern States, the beautiful little ruby-throat is found throughout the winter; and as the summer draws on, the heat in the northern States suiting its delicate constitution, it migrates in large flocks, appearing in the middle States towards the end of April. Tiny as they are, they pass through the air at a rapid rate, and may be seen moving in long undulations, now rising for some distance at an angle of about forty degrees, then falling in a curve. Their long flights are performed at night, it is supposed, as they are found feeding leisurely at all times of the day. Small as they are, from their rapid flight and meteor-like movements they do not fear the largest birds of prey; for even should the lordly eagle venture into their domains, the tiny creatures will attack him without fear: and one has been seen perched on the head of an eagle, at which it was pecking furiously away, scattering the feathers of the huge bird, who flew screaming through the air with alarm, to rid himself of his tiny assailant.

As they fly, the ruby feathers of their throats may be seen changing, according to the light, now into a greenish gold colour, now into a deep brown, again to flash forth with the brilliancy of precious gems. Often they may be observed flying round the deep, cup-shaped calix of the scarlet trumpet-flower, which with its rich foliage clings in clusters round the gnarled stem of some withered oak, clothing it with a verdure not its own. Into these deep and capacious tubes the ruby-throat, with its long bill, probes, and draws forth either the sweets it produces, or picks up the multitude of flies entangled in the nectar.

Although the ruby-throat ventures thus far north, it is very susceptible of cold, and returns southward immediately the summer green of the forest gives place to the golden tints of autumn. Brave and high-spirited as is the little bird, it is easily tamed; and Mr Webber, the naturalist, after many attempts, succeeded in securing several of the species. The first he caught did not flutter, or make the least attempt to escape, but remained quietly in his hand; and he saw, when he opened it, the minute creature lying on his palm, perfectly motionless, feigning most skilfully to be dead; indeed, actually playing “’possum.” For some time he watched it with breathless curiosity, when he saw it gradually open its bright little eyes to ascertain whether the way was clear, and then close them slowly as it caught his glance upon it. When a mixture of sugar, water, and honey was brought, and a drop placed on the point of its bill, it came very suddenly to life, and in a moment was on its legs, drinking with eager gusto of the refreshing draught from a silver tea-spoon.

The nest of the ruby-throat is of a most delicate nature; the external parts being formed of a little grey lichen found on the branches of the trees, glued together by the saliva of the bird, and neatly arranged round the whole of the nest, as well as to some distance from the spot where it is attached to the branch or stem itself. The interior is lined with a cottony substance; and the innermost, with the silky fibres obtained from various plants. Within this little nest the female humming-bird lays two white and nearly oval eggs; generally raising two broods in the season. In one week, says Audubon, the young are ready to fly, but are fed by the parents for nearly another week. They receive their food direct from the bill of their parents, who disgorge it in the manner of canaries and pigeons. It is my belief that no sooner are the young able to provide for themselves than they associate with other broods, and perform their migrations apart from the old birds, as I have observed twenty or thirty young humming-birds resort to a group of trumpet-flowers, when not a single old bird was to be seen.

The plumage of the female is in most respects like that of the male, except that she is not possessed of the brilliant feathers on the throat which especially distinguish him.

Although there are several other species of humming-birds which live permanently in the Southern States of the Union, or migrate northward in summer, we cannot now inspect them. We shall have, however, many opportunities of examining a number of the species when we come to visit South America. Although the number of birds and the variety of their species inhabiting North America is very great, except those we have mentioned, they do not in general possess any very interesting peculiarity, which might tempt us to linger longer amongst them, and we will therefore wander on and inspect some of the curious reptiles which inhabit various parts of the American States and Canada.

The Cow-Bird.

The well-known spring visitor to the woods of England,—the cuckoo,—is undoubtedly destitute of family affection, as are others of its relatives; but this is not the case with the whole tribe. As the spring advances, from the sylvan glades of Pennsylvania a curious note, constantly repeated, is heard, resembling the word “cow-cow.” It is the note of a bird, and from the sound it resembles it is generally known as the “cow-bird.” It is also called the “yellow-billed cuckoo.” It is in no respect behind any of its neighbours of the grove in conjugal and parental affection, for it builds its nest, hatches its own eggs, and rears its own young, Wilson assures us. It is about a foot in length, clothed in a dark drab suit with a silken greenish gloss. A ruddy cinnamon tints the quill-feathers of the wings; and the tail consists partly of black feathers tipped with white, the two outer ones being of the same tint as the back. The under surface is a pure white. It has a long curved bill of a greyish-black above, and yellow beneath. The female differs from the male in having the central tail-feathers of a drab colour, while the under part of her body is of a greyish tinge.

Early in the spring the males frequently engage in desperate battles. After these contests are decided, the couples, pairing, begin building their nests, generally among the horizontal branches of an apple-tree. It is roughly formed of sticks and twigs. On this bed the eggs, three or four in number, of a uniform greenish-blue, are placed. While the female is sitting, the male is generally not far off, and gives the alarm by his notes should any person approach. The female sits so close, that she may almost be reached by the hand, and then suddenly precipitates herself to the ground, feigning lameness—to draw away the intruder from the spot—fluttering her wings, and tumbling over in the manner of a partridge, woodcock, and some other birds. Both parents unite in collecting food for the young. This consists, for the most part, of caterpillars, particularly such as infest apple-trees. They are accused, and with some justice, of sucking the eggs of other birds,—like the crow, blue jay, and other pillagers. They also occasionally eat various kinds of berries; but from the circumstance of their destroying numbers of very noxious larvae, they prove themselves the friend of the farmer, and are well deserving of his protection.

The Blue-Bird.

While the robin redbreast cheers us in England during winter with its song, the beautiful little blue-bird performs the same office with its rich sweet notes to the inhabitants of the United States; arriving from Mexico, and still further off regions, as soon as the first signs of approaching spring appear—even before the snow has melted away. Associating fearlessly with human beings, it holds the same place in their affections as the robin.

It is about seven inches long—a rich azure-blue covering the whole upper surface of the head and neck, while the quill-feathers of the wing and tail are jet-black. The throat, breast, and sides are of a ruddy chestnut, the lower portion of the body being white. It builds its nest in the hollow of a decayed tree, sheltered from the rain and cold, and there deposits from four to six eggs at a time, generally rearing two, and sometimes three broods in the season. Its food consists chiefly of spiders and small worms, and soft fruits and seeds.

It is a hardy little bird, and makes its way through all parts of the United States; sometimes, indeed, remaining through the whole winter, when it takes shelter in some warm hollow beneath the snow, from whence, when the sun shines forth, it comes out to enjoy its warmth, and to sing a few cheerful notes. It is especially interesting to watch it take care of its nest and young; perching near them and singing merrily, occasionally flying off to procure a caterpillar for their gaping mouths.

So confiding is the blue-bird, that when a box with a hole in it is arranged in some convenient situation near a house, it will at once take possession, building its nest in it, and never failing to utter its sweet music in acknowledgment of the boon.

The Snow-Bird.

As the cold winter approaches, large flocks of little birds about six inches in length, with snow-white breasts and slaty-brown or blue backs, make their appearance in the neighbourhood of villages and farmhouses; sometimes, indeed, coming into towns as familiarly as sparrows. Their habits are very like those of sparrows; and when the snow deepens, they mix with them, searching together for the seeds in the sheltered corners of the fields, and along the borders of creeks and fences. They differ from the snow-bunting of the far north, with which they must not be confounded. In the summer they make their way to the northern regions in large flocks, and build their nests together, being of a very sociable disposition.

The Carolina Parrot.

While viewing the birds of North America, we cannot pass by the well-known, handsome Carolina parrot, which is, notwithstanding its common name, a species of macaw. Large numbers of these beautiful birds are seen winging their way in compact bodies through the Southern States, flying with great rapidity and uttering a loud outrageous scream, not unlike that of the red-headed woodpecker. Sometimes their flight is in a direct line, but generally they perform a variety of elegant and serpentine meanders in their course through the air. Often they may be seen pitching on the large sycamore-trees, in the hollow trunks of which, as also among the branches, they generally roost—frequently forty and more together. Here they cling close to the side of the tree, holding fast by claws and bill. No creatures can be more sociable, and they may be observed scratching each other’s heads and necks, and always nestling closely together.

Their plumage is mostly green washed with blue, but the forehead is of a reddish-orange—as are the shoulders, head, and wings, while the neck and back of the head are of a bright golden yellow. The wing-coverts are yellow tinged with green. The bird is about twenty-one inches long. The female is much like the male. She makes her nest in the hollows of trees.

The Carolina parrot exhibits great amiability of disposition, and is easily tamed, becoming much attached to those who treat it kindly. It also exhibits the most extraordinary affection for its own race. Wilson the naturalist, having obtained one while on a journey to the Far West, brought it home upwards of one thousand miles in his pocket. It quickly learned to know its name, and would immediately come when called. Procuring a cage, he placed the parrot under a piazza, where, by its call, it soon attracted the passing flocks of its relatives. Numerous parties frequently alighted on the trees immediately above, keeping up a constant conversation with the prisoner. One of these was wounded and captured. Poll evinced the greatest pleasure on meeting with this new companion. She crept close up to it, chattering in a low tone of voice, as if sympathising in its misfortune, scratching its head and neck with her bill—at night, both nestling as closely as possible to each other, sometimes Poll’s head being thrust amongst the plumage of the other. The stranger, however, died, and Poll appeared restless and inconsolable for several days. On a looking-glass, however, being procured, the instant she perceived her image all her former fondness seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent herself from it for a moment. It was evident she was completely deceived. Often when evening drew on, as also during the day, she laid her head close to that of the image in the glass, and began to dose with great composure and satisfaction.

On another occasion several of these birds were shot down, when the whole flock swept rapidly round their prostrate companions, and settled on a low tree within twenty yards of them. Although many were killed, the rest, instead of flying away, continued looking down at their dead companions with manifest signs of sympathy and concern.

They render the farmer great service, by eating the cockle-burs which grow on the rich alluvial soil of Carolina. This prickly fruit is apt to come off on the wool of the sheep, which, in some places, it almost completely destroys. The bird also lives on the beech-nut and seeds of the cypress. The head—with the brains—and intestines of the Carolina parrot are said to be poisonous to eat; but how far such is the case seems to be a matter of doubt.

Its chief abode is along the shores of the Mississippi, and it reaches the neighbourhood of Lake Michigan; but eastward of the Alleghany Mountains it is seldom met with further north than the State of Maryland. Far more hardy than the generality of the parrot tribe, a flock has been seen facing a snow-storm along the banks of the Ohio.

Part 1—Chapter IX.

Reptiles.

Tortoises:—The Lettered Terrapin.

Taking the reptiles in their natural order, we must begin with the tortoises. There is a group of these slow-moving reptiles called terrapins in North America. One of the most common is the lettered terrapin, which inhabits rivers, lakes, and even marshes, where it lives on frogs and worms. It is especially detested by the angler, as it is apt to take hold of his bait, and when he expects to see a fine fish at the end of his line, he finds that a little tortoise has hold of it.

The back is of a dark brown, the edges being ornamented with scarlet marks, like some Eastern alphabet in form.

The Chicken Tortoise.

Large numbers of these little tortoises, about ten inches in length, are seen basking together on the logs or stones on the borders of lakes or streams. The slightest noise arouses them, when they slip off, splashing in all directions into the water. They swim with their little heads above the surface at a rapid rate, bearing a strong resemblance to water-snakes. The creature takes its name from the similarity of its flesh to that of a chicken. It is consequently in great requisition as food.

The Salt-Water Terrapin.

Another species—the salt-water terrapin—lives in the salt marshes and ponds. It is brown above, and generally yellow below—the lower jaw furnished with a sort of hook. The sides of the head are white, sprinkled with black spots.

The Box Tortoise.

The peculiarity of this creature is that it can draw its head within its shell, so that, as few creatures would wish to swallow such a morsel whole, it has no enemy except man to fear. It might, to be sure, run the risk of being carried off by an eagle and let drop on a hard rock, if the savage king of birds ever does perform such a feat; but though stories are frequently told of his doing so, their truth is greatly doubted.

The box tortoise lives on shore among the pine-forest lands, away from water, to which it seems to have an especial dislike. It is frequently called, therefore, the pine terrapin. It is one of the smallest of its tribe—being little more than six inches long—and varies very greatly in its colour. Its head is remarkable for having a somewhat broad hook at the end of the upper jaw—the lower jaw being slightly hooked.

The Mud Tortoise.

The mud tortoise is smaller than the box, being scarcely four inches in length. It can, however, move with considerable speed, and is seen floundering about in the ponds and muddy places, where it searches for aquatic insects, and sometimes even fish, on which it lives. It also vexes the angler by taking hold of his hook, and remaining so quietly sucking in the bait, that only when he hauls it up, and the tortoise begins to pull and kick violently about, does he discover his mistake.

It is remarkable for exuding a strong musky odour, from which circumstance it has obtained the name of “stink-pot.”

The Alligator Terrapin.

This giant of its tribe, from the great likeness it bears to the alligator, has appropriately been called after the huge saurian. It has a large head covered with a hard wrinkled skin, and a long thick neck, over which are scattered a number of projecting tubercles. On the shell of the adult animal there is a depression along the centre, which leaves a sort of keel on each side of the central line.

The creature is exceedingly voracious, feeding on fish, reptiles, or any animal substance. It generally inhabits stagnant pools or sluggish streams, living mostly at the bottom. Occasionally, however, it rises to the surface, and elevating the tip of its pointed snout above the water, floats along with the current. Sometimes, indeed, it lands, and makes its way to some distance from the river; but its motions are very awkward, not a little resembling those of the alligator.

A considerable number are taken by strong hooks, and, as the flesh is esteemed for food, are sold in the market.

The Snapping Turtle.

Although the last-named creature is sometimes called the snapping turtle, the animal to which the name appropriately applies is a very different creature. Its other name is the fierce trionyx.

It belongs to the family of tortoises, popularly called soft turtles. Its flattened head is rather oval, with horny jaws, and hanging fleshy lips, the mouth lengthened into a cylindrical snout. It has an extremely long neck, which it can contract at will; short, wide feet; and toes connected by strong webs. It is the most savage and formidable of its tribe; being terribly destructive, not only among fish, but smaller quadrupeds, birds, and reptiles, which it can capture. For this object it lies in wait till they come down to drink, or till some water-fowl flies too close to its haunt. It is said even to capture and eat young alligators.

Though devouring so many other creatures, the snapping turtle is often eaten himself; being hooked and drawn on shore by the fishermen. It fights, on such occasions, and struggles ferociously, darting its head here and there, endeavouring to seize the hands of its captors with its formidable jaws.

It possesses extraordinary tenacity of life; and even after the head is cut off, the body, it is asserted, will crawl for a short way over the ground.

Lizards:—The Six-Lined Taraguina.

We shall find several lizards in various parts of America—the greater number in the Southern States. The first we meet with is the six-lined taraguina, belonging to the family of teguexins, which are remarkable for the many-sided shields which cover their heads, and the double collar on the throat. This little creature is much smaller than the rest of its family—being only about eleven inches in length—of a darkish green or brown colour, with six narrow yellow streaks along its body, one of which on each side reaches from the eye to the middle of the tail. The lower part is of a silvery white hue, with a bluish tinge in some parts.

It is an excessively lively, active animal, living in dry and sandy places, where it may be found searching for insects. As it is very timid, it takes to flight at the slightest sound, and is not easily caught.

The Glass Snake.

As the spring comes on, and the warm sun bursts forth, a formidable snake-like creature, nearly three feet in length, is often seen frequenting the plantations of the sweet potato, or coiled up beneath the roots of an old tree; its keen eye watching for any small reptile or insect which may be passing. The head is small in proportion to the body, and of a pyramidal form—mottled at the sides with black and green, the jaws edged with yellow. Its abdomen is bright yellow; and the upper part of the ear is marked with numerous lines of black, green, and yellow.

Altogether, it has a very venomous look about it; but is truly one of the most harmless of creatures, not being a snake at all, though it goes by the name of the glass snake. It is in reality a lizard; though—not having the vestige of limbs—it is appropriately called the lizard-snake. It has, however, eyelids; and the tongue is not sheathed at the base, as is the case with serpents; while its solid jaw-bones do not enable it to open its mouth, as they are capable of doing. It has a tail, twice the length of its body, from which it can with difficulty be distinguished.

Its peculiar characteristic is its extraordinary fragility— arising from the muscles being articulated quite through the vertebras. If struck with a switch, the body is easily broken in two or more parts. Sometimes, indeed, the creature breaks off its own tail, by a remarkable habit it possesses of contracting the muscles with great force. The common English blind-worm breaks to pieces in a similar manner.

The Anolis.

Among the true lizards is a pretty little creature known as the green Carolina anolis. It is especially daring; not only refusing to run away at the approach of man, but will enter houses, and run about the room in search of flies. It is very active, climbing trees, and leaping from branch to branch in its search for insects, of which it destroys great numbers. It is about seven inches long—mostly of a beautiful green above, with white below; and it has a white throat-pouch, which generally appears with a few bars of red upon it, but when inflated the colour spreads over the whole surface.

Mr Gosse describes one which he saw running about among the branches of a sassafras, just as it had seized a grasshopper. He caught the creature, which was then of a green hue; but, on placing it on an old log, the colour changed to a brownish-black. He was told, that if placed on a green leaf it would again become green. In a short time, after remaining in the sunshine, it changed once more to green. Again it became almost black; and shutting it up in a desk, after half an hour he was no less surprised than delighted to see the lizard of a brilliant green, the line down the back only being blackish.

When the animal is excited, the pouch, swelling out, becomes of a crimson colour. It is covered with excessively small—scarcely perceptible—scales.

These little creatures are at times very quarrelsome, and will fight together, frequently both the combatants losing their tails in the contest; while their pouches swell out as they leap at each other and struggle furiously.

The Crowned Tapayaxin.

This is the scientific name of a creature generally known under the title of the horned-toad, though really a lizard. Its head is of a light brown, marked with dark spots, the under part being of a dull yellow; and is armed with long conical spines, set round the edge and pointing backwards. The back is covered with shorter and stouter spines, of a triangular shape, extending to the very point of the tail—also armed with a strong row of spines, which gives it a completely toothed appearance. The colour of this curiously covered back is grey, with irregular bands of chestnut-brown across it.

Formidable as it looks, it is not only harmless, but never retaliates when attacked, and remains perfectly quiet when taken in the hand. It is also easily tamed, and learns to know its owner, and to take food from his hand—preferring little red ants, though it eats readily beetles, flies, and other insects. From its small, rounded form, and the mode of sitting, it has in all likelihood gained its common name of the horned-toad.

Snakes:—The Rattlesnake.

Throughout North America there are no small number and variety of venomous snakes. The rattlesnakes are perhaps the most numerous, frequenting all parts of the country, though they generally keep to the uninhabited portions. They are found on the northern shores of Lake Superior—though the ground is covered for several months in the year with snow—and often appear in the regions to the west, in the same latitude, up to the Rocky Mountains. They would render some districts uninhabitable, were it not for the signal-giving rattles with which they are armed. Even quadrupeds are alarmed at the sound, and endeavour to make their escape from them; and horses, it is said, lately arrived from Europe, show the same dread of these deadly serpents as do those born in the country, so that nothing will induce them to pass within striking distance of the creatures.

The wanderer through the forest starts back with dismay as he comes suddenly upon one of these venomous reptiles, and hears its ominous rattle when too near to escape. He must muster all his nerve, and strike it with his stick as it springs; for a wound from its fangs will, as he knows, bring certain death, far-away from human aid.

The rattlesnake, like others of its tribe in cold regions, hibernates in winter; and as the autumn comes on, seeks some convenient crevice in which to pass the cold season—generally in the neighbourhood of marshy ground, where it can cover itself up in the masses of a peculiar species of moss growing in such situations. The reptiles are here, during the winter, frequently hunted out and destroyed. At that time, too, their bite is much less dangerous than in the summer— the amount of venom appearing to decrease with the increase of cold.

The Banded and Military Rattlesnakes.

Besides the common rattlesnake, there is another known as the banded rattlesnake, and a third species called the small, or military rattlesnake. The latter is more dreaded, from being of less size, and not so easily killed as the former. The sound made by its rattle is extremely feeble, so that it cannot be heard at any great distance. However, as we shall pay more attention to the serpent tribe when we visit South America, where the rattlesnake is also found, we will wait till then to inspect the formation of its rattle, and its other peculiarities.

The Corn Snake.

There are many more harmless than venomous snakes in North America. One of the handsomest of its tribe is the corn snake, belonging to the family of the Colubrinae. As it avoids the daylight, though very common, it is not often seen in a wild state.

It is, however, frequently tamed by the inhabitants of farmhouses—when it makes itself perfectly at home, and is even of more service than a cat in devouring rats and mice; though occasionally, if a young chicken come in its way, it may gobble it up. This it can easily do, as it is of great size—varying from five to six feet in length. The colours of its body are remarkably brilliant; the general tint being a rich chestnut red, with large patches of a still brighter and deeper red edged with black running along each side, and a second row of smaller spots of golden yellow, alternated with larger ones. The lower portion of the body is silvery white, checkered with black.

The Thunder Snake.

No fiercer-looking member of the snake family exists in North America—with its mottled head, and black and white body, four feet at least in length—than the quarrelsome thunder snake. From the chain-like markings on its body, it is sometimes called the chain snake; and by others the king snake, on account of its tyrannical disposition.

Though fangless, it is fierce and bold, and has been known to attack, kill, and eat a rattlesnake; indeed, it will assault any member of its family, if not of its own species, even though but little smaller than itself. It feeds on small quadrupeds, birds, and reptiles; and few human beings who see it moving amid the shady places it inhabits, would fail to get out of its way as quickly as possible.

The Chicken Snake.

The bright golden brown chicken snake—marked with narrow stripes along the back, and from four to seven feet in length—in spite of its beautiful and fangless mouth, is an unwelcome visitor in farmhouses when it comes as a stranger, for it is apt to carry off fowls from their roost—as well as their eggs—and will eat up a brood of ducklings without ceremony.

However, as it is of an amiable disposition, it can easily be tamed; and then, having learned good manners, it becomes a favourite, and recompenses its protectors by killing the rats and mice which frequent their premises.

The Milk or House Snake.

The beautiful blue house snake—four feet in length, with rows of spots on its side—is often mistaken for the corn snake, its habits being very similar. The lower part of the body is of a silvery white, tesselated with oblong marks of black. The ignorant fancy that it sucks the milk from the udders of the cows, and hence its name; though, probably, it has no objection to a little milk, if it finds it in a pan. Its object, however, in entering houses and farms, is to search for mice and insects, on which it in reality feeds, never interfering with the cows or other animals.

The Black Snake.

In many parts of the country, the black snake, on account of its rapid movements, is called the “racer.” Though fangless, it often, in consequence of the way in which it rustles its tail among the dry herbage, making a sound similar to that of the rattlesnake, gives no small alarm to the wanderer among the brushwood near the edges of streams or ponds. It is also frequently encountered in the fields or on the roads.

It is generally from five to six feet in length; of a blue-black above, and an ashy grey below. It climbs trees in search of birds or their eggs; and if interrupted in its employment, will turn its rage against the intruder. Sometimes, it is asserted, it will, to his horror, leap down and give him a bite; though the only injury likely to arise is that to his nervous system from fright. Its bite is, indeed, perfectly harmless; and it does good service in hunting rats which live in the outbuildings, being able to climb walls and insinuate itself into the most intricate passages when chasing them.

The Coach-Whip Snake.

The last snake we will mention is the coach-whip snake, belonging to the family of Dryadidae. No serpent can surpass it in the rapidity of its movements, as, with its lithe, black body—between five and six feet in length—and whiplike tail, it makes its way amid the grass in pursuit of its prey. It seems literally to fly over the ground with the speed of lightning.

It is curiously like the thong of a whip, being very long in proportion to its girth, with a remarkably small head and neck; its smooth scales—so arranged as greatly to resemble the plaited leather of a whip—of a polished brown-black hue increasing the resemblance.

When about to seize its prey, it darts forward with open mouth, grasping the animal; in an instant it winds its lithe body and tail round and round it, so as to make escape impossible. It will thus attack birds of prey of considerable size, and come off victorious.

Travellers unacquainted with the reptiles which haunt the wilds of America, on first seeing a whip-snake rapidly approaching, will, with sensations of alarm, urge on their steeds to escape—for it appears fully capable of springing up and inflicting mortal injury; but, from having no fangs, it is unable to harm any one. From the delicacy of its colour, the elegance of its form, and the rapidity and gracefulness of its movements, it cannot fail to be admired.

Frogs:—The Bull Frog.

We shall find no small number of the frog race throughout America. Worthy of being the president of his nation is that enormous batrachian, the bull frog, both from his size, the power of his notes, and his hardihood and endurance. If we visit at night the neighbourhood of some pool or marsh, we shall soon learn to know the sound of his voice, especially when perhaps he and five hundred of his family are, with their heads half out of the water, amusing themselves in the performance of a concert, each striving to outdo his neighbour in the loudness of his tones. He is a first-rate swimmer; and when driven out of the hole in which he passes the warm hours of the day, he plunges into the water, and skims along the surface some distance before he dives below it. Only on such occasions, or when, perhaps, a dark thunder-cloud shrouds the sky, does he appear in the daytime, and give utterance to his notes.

He feeds on snails and water creatures; sometimes on crayfish and other crustaceans; and occasionally, if a duckling or young chicken come in his way, he will not scruple to take them into his capacious maw.

His ordinary size is from six to seven inches; but specimens have been met with which have measured nineteen—and even twenty—inches, from the nose to the extremity of their feet. He has a smooth black skin above, with a greenish hue on the head, and lower part of the body greyish-white—the throat being white, dotted with green. He can take enormous leaps; and is so admirable a swimmer, that specimens have been known to exist in the water without once landing for several years.

The Solitary Frog.

Inland, where no water is to lie found, we shall meet with a creature of an olive colour—the back covered with tubercles—and with a blunt nose. It might easily be mistaken for a toad, though it is a veritable frog. Even in winter, before the snow has disappeared, we may see the hardy little creature making its way over the frozen surface of the ground. At the breeding season, however, it returns, like other frogs, to the water. It resides for the chief part of the year in sandy districts, in which it forms burrows, about six inches in depth, by means of a flat, sharp-edged spur, with which it is furnished. Into these burrows it makes its way backwards, very much as a crab crawls into its hole when seeking shelter from danger. There it sits, with its head poked out, watching for passing prey.

The Savannah Cricket Frog.

Both in the Northern and Southern States we shall find a merry little creature, with a voice greatly resembling that of the cricket. Living near the borders of stagnant pools, it frequently takes its seat on the large leaves of water-lilies and other aquatic plants; being able, by curious discs on its toes, to crawl easily over their smooth surfaces.

It is among the smallest of its tribe, measuring only one and a half inches in length. It is of a greenish-brown, variegated with streaks of green and white, the under surface being of a yellowish-grey, tinged with pink, and the legs banded. Its body is slender, with the hind-legs very long, enabling it to take enormous leaps to escape danger.

The Changeable Tree Frog.

Throughout all parts of the continent we shall find a curious little toad, about two inches in length, which possesses the nature of the chameleon—in being able to change its colour according to the tints of the object on which it rests. By this means, so completely does it assimilate its hue to the ground, that it often escapes observation. The changes of colour it thus rapidly passes through are indeed remarkable. From a nearly perfect white, it can assume every intermediate shade to a dark brown. It has a very toad-like look, and possesses skin glands which secrete an acrid fluid. Thus it is able, when attacked, to defend itself, as well as escape observation.

It may frequently be found on old plum-trees, where it climbs in search of the insects which there congregate. We shall frequently hear its voice, especially before rain, for it is a noisy creature. It has a liquid note, sounding like “el” frequently repeated, and then ending with a sharp, short monosyllable.

It leaves its arborial habitation during the breeding season, and makes its way to the nearest pools, where it joins in the concerts of its relatives.

It hibernates during winter, burrowing beneath the damp ground.

The Spotted Eft.

Related to the salamanders, we shall find a curious creature in Pennsylvania, and other parts of the States, known as the spotted eft, or ambystome. It has a thick, convex head, with a rounded muzzle; and is of a deep violet-black colour above, and purplish-black below, the sides being ornamented with a row of large yellow spots. Unlike other newts, it deposits its eggs in small packets under damp stones. There is another similar creature with mole-like habits, which burrows under the ground, found in various parts of the States.

The Menopoma.

Another of the same order—a formidable and savage creature—is the menopoma, inhabiting the Ohio, Alleghany, and other rivers of the south, frequently, from its propensities, called the young alligator. It is also known as the “ground puppy,” the “mud devil,” and other well-deserved, if not complimentary names.

It is about two feet in length; but the teeth, for its size, are small. In appearance, it is ugly in the extreme; and as, from its voracious habits, it devours a number of fish, and bites fiercely when captured, it is especially hated by the fishermen, who believe it to be venomous, and treat it as seamen do the detested shark.

The above names have been given to it in consequence of its voracity, and its being found generally in muddy bottoms.

The Congo Snake.

In digging into the mud, sometimes a number of snake-like creatures, between two and three feet long, are turned up—which have hidden themselves away, often three feet below the surface—in the Southern States. On examination, however, they will be found to have legs, though small and feeble, with only two toes on each foot. They are of a blackish-grey above, and a lighter hue beneath.

Another species of congo snake is found with three toes,—hence the name of three-toed congo snake is given to it.

The Necturus.

Related to the curious eyeless proteus, found in the celebrated cavern of Adelsberg, is an animal very much larger, called the necturus, inhabiting the waters of the Mississippi, and several southern lakes. It is a creature nearly three feet in length, with a thick body, and, being designed to live in daylight, possesses eyes. It is between a fish and a reptile, as it is furnished with large, well-tufted gills; and, at the same time, has four legs, and four toes on each foot, though it is destitute of claws.

It is of an olive-brown colour dotted with black, and a black streak reaching from one end of the body to the termination of the somewhat thick, short tail.

The Siren, or Mud Eel.

Another curious batrachian, the mud eel, is found in Carolina, in marshy situations. Its total length is about three feet. The head is small, as is the eye, while on each side of it are three beautifully plumed gill-tufts. It has no hind-legs; while the front pair are very small, and do not aid it in moving along the ground. This it does in the wriggling fashion of an eel; indeed, when discovered in the soft mud in which it delights to live, the creature, at the first glance, would be taken for an eel. It has many of the habits of that animal, living on worms and insects; indeed, it is difficult to say whether it should be classed with eels or batrachians. It is, however, a true amphibian, respiring either in the water by means of branchiae, or in the air by means of lungs. It approaches, in the structure of its head, to the salamanders, though much less so in its general form and proportions.

The curious “axolotl,” which we shall meet with in Mexico, belongs to a closely allied genus.

Grasshoppers, or Locusts.

When travelling across the prairies, we may, at times, when gazing upwards at the sky, see what appears to be a vast cloud approaching from the horizon. It is produced by infinite swarms of locusts, or grasshoppers, as they are called in North America. (From Professor Hind’s “Red River Exploring Expedition.”) About noon they appear to lessen perceptibly the rays of the sun. The whole horizon wears an unearthly ashy hue, from the light reflected by their transparent wings. The air is filled as with flakes of snow. The clouds of insects, forming a dense body, cast a glimmering, silvery light from altitudes varying from 500 to 1000 feet. The sky, as near the sun as its light will allow us to gaze, appears continually changing colour, from blue to silvery white, ashy grey, and lead colour, according to the numbers in the passing clouds of insects. Opposite to the sun, the prevailing hue is a silvery white, perceptibly flashing. Now, towards the south, east, and west, it appears to radiate a soft, grey-tinted light, with a quivering motion. Should the day be calm, the hum produced by the vibration of so many millions of wings is quite indescribable, and more resembles the noise popularly termed “a ringing in one’s ears,” than any other sound. The aspect of the heavens during the period that the greatest flight is passing by is singularly striking. It produces a feeling of uneasiness, amazement, and awe, as if some terrible unforeseen calamity were about to happen.

When the grasshoppers are resting from their long journeys, or in the morning when feeding on the grass and leaves, they rise in clouds as we march through the prairie; and when the wind blows, they become very troublesome, flying with force against our faces, and into the nostrils and eyes of the horses, filling every crevice in the carts. Fortunately, comparatively few take flight on a windy day, otherwise it would be impossible to make headway against such an infinite host in rapid motion before the wind, although composed individually of such insignificant members. The portions of the prairie visited by the grasshoppers wear a curious appearance. The grass may be seen cut uniformly to one inch from the ground. The whole surface is covered with the small, round, green exuviae of these destructive invaders. They frequently fly at an enormous height above the earth. An engineer engaged in the Nebraska survey, mentions that, when standing on the summit of a peak of the Rocky Mountains, 8500 feet above the level of the plains in Nebraska—being 14,500 feet above that of the sea—he saw them above his head as far as their size rendered them visible.

Grasshoppers are excellent prognosticators of a coming storm. They may be seen at times descending perpendicularly from a great height, like hail—a sign of approaching rain. At this time the air, as far as the eye can penetrate, appears filled with them. Early in the morning they commence their flight, and continue it till late in the afternoon, when they settle round the traveller in countless multitudes, clinging to the leaves of the grass, as if resting after their journey.

They are fearful depredators. Not only do they destroy the husbandman’s crops, but so voracious are they, that they will attack every article left even for a few minutes on the ground—saddle-girths, leather bags, and clothing of all descriptions, are devoured without distinction. Mr Hind says that ten minutes sufficed for them to destroy three pairs of woollen trousers which had been carelessly thrown on the grass. The only way to protect property from these depredators is to pile it on a waggon or cart out of reach.

Two distinct broods of grasshoppers appear—one with wings not yet formed, which has been hatched on the spot; the other, full-grown invaders from the southern latitudes. They sometimes make their appearance at Red River. However, Mr Ross, for long a resident in that region, states that from 1819, when the colonists’ scanty crops were destroyed by grasshoppers, to 1856, they had not returned in sufficient numbers to commit any material damage. Their ravages, indeed, are not to be compared to those committed by the red locust in Egypt; and yet Egypt has ever been one of the chief granaries of the world.

Part 2—Chapter I.

Mexico and Central America.

Mexico.

If we glance over Mexico, we shall see that the country is, like the continent of which it forms a part, of a triangular shape,—the eastern portion bounded by the Gulf of Mexico, low and flat sandy deserts or noxious marshes being spread over it, and with a narrow belt of level land at the base of the mountains on the Pacific shore. A series of terraces broken by ravines form the sides of a vast table-land,—six thousand feet above the plain,—which stretches from north to south throughout the interior, separated here and there by rocky ridges into smaller plateaux; while vast mountains in several parts rise from their midst—that of Popocatepetl, the highest in Mexico, reaching to a height of 17,884 feet, with Orizaba, almost of equal elevation, and several mountains not much inferior to them, their snowy summits seen from afar, through the clear atmosphere of that lofty region. Several are active volcanoes; the most curious being that of Jorullo, surrounded by miniature mountains emitting smoke and fire, and presenting the wildest scene of utter desolation. They form pinnacles of the great range of the Andes and the Rocky Mountains. From the midst of the great table-land of Anahuac, flows towards the north the river of Santiago, its course exceeding four hundred miles, passing in its way through the large lake of Chapala. Some of these table-lands are even eight thousand feet above the sea. The most lofty is so cold, that during the greater part of the day the thermometer varies between 42 degrees and 46 degrees. The great table-land to the east of the Sierra Madre has an elevation which varies from three thousand to six thousand feet. To the west of that sierra, is the region of Sonora; while eastward, across the Rocky Mountains, is the great valley of New Mexico, watered by the Rio Grande del Norte, which has a course of nearly fourteen hundred miles.

We have thus, in Mexico, a region of elevated plateaux with numerous lofty mountains, steep and broken hill-sides, with deep valleys, watered by numerous streams, and a wide extent of low, level country under the rays of a tropical sun. These several regions possess a great difference in climate, and a corresponding variation in their productions, and, in most instances, in the animals which inhabit them. The domestic animals introduced by the Spaniards, have multiplied greatly, so that vast herds of cattle and horses run wild on the table-lands and lower tracts. Sheep also abound, especially on the northern table-lands. The buffalo makes his way to the great plains bordering the Red River and Arkansas; while deer, in large herds, abound on the higher plains. They are followed, as elsewhere, by packs of wolves and foxes or wild dogs; while the puma makes himself at home here, as he does in Southern America. The bear takes possession of many a mountain cavern; the beaver and otter inhabit the banks of the streams and lakes; the raccoon is found in the woods; and the antelope bounds across the plains.

We know more about the feathered tribes than the mammalia of Mexico. There are upwards of one hundred and fourteen species of land birds, one half of which are unknown in other parts of the world. Still, out of this entire number of species, only one new genus—which connects the family of the tyrant-shrikes with that of the caterpillar-catchers—has been discovered. There are two species of this genus, in both of which the males differ greatly from the females. In this intermediate region we find numerous genera which exist both in Northern and, Southern America intermixed. Several South American birds have found their way into Mexico,—as the mot-mots and trogons, the harpy and carracara eagles, the hang-nest, the true and red tanagers, parrots, parrakeets, macaws, creepers, crest-finches, and the fork-tailed and even-tailed humming-birds. Of the genera peculiar to North America,—but which are unknown in the South,—found in Mexico, are the fan-tailed wagtails, titmice, and worm-eating warblers—blue robins, ground-finch and sand-finch, crescent-starlings and ground-woodpecker. The sand-finch is, however, found in the Brazils. Vast numbers of aquatic birds frequent the lakes and marshes of the table-lands of the interior, as well as the rivers and shores of the coast, nearly the whole of which are well known in the United States, the greater number also inhabiting the Arctic regions.

Among the reptiles, there is one curious creature, peculiar to the country, allied to the siren of Carolina. It is the axolotl, which partakes of the form of a fish, and abounds in many of the lakes in Mexico. It is much esteemed as an article of food by the inhabitants of the neighbourhood.

We cannot speak of Mexico without having our minds drawn to the time of the Aztec monarchy,—when sumptuous palaces, enormous temples, fortresses, and other public edifices covered the face of the country. In the midst of the territory, on the western shore of the large lake of Tezcuco, stood the city of Tenochtitlan, the superb capital of the unfortunate Montezuma, on the site of which has arisen the modern Mexico. Though its glory has long passed away, the enormous ruins which still remain attest its past grandeur. Vast pyramids, on a scale and of a massiveness which vie with those of Egypt, still rear their lofty heads in great numbers throughout the country; while the ruins of other buildings prove that the architecture of Mexico in many points resembled that on the banks of the Nile. Some of these pyramids might rather be called towers. They consist of a series of truncated pyramids placed one above another, each successive one being smaller than the one on which it immediately rests—thus standing in reality upon a platform or terrace. The great pyramidal tower of Cholula is of this character, resembling somewhat the temple of Belus, according to the description given of it by Herodotus. It reaches a height of 177 feet, and the length of each side of its base is 1440 feet. In its neighbourhood are two other pyramids—teocalles, as they are called—of smaller dimensions. These temples, or teocalles, were very numerous, and in each of the principal cities there were several hundreds of them. The top, on which was a broad area, was reached by a flight of steps. On this area were one or two towers forty or fifty feet high, in which stood the images of the presiding deities. In front of the towers was the stone of sacrifice, and two lofty altars, on which fires were kept burning, inextinguishable as those in the temple of Vesta. In the great temple of Mexico there were said to be six hundred of these altars, the fires from which illuminated the streets through the darkest night.

Deeply interesting as is the subject of the architecture and the remarkable state of civilisation of the Aztecs, we must not dwell longer upon it, except to mention the cyclopean roads and bridges, constructed of huge blocks of stone, and carried on a continuous level, across valleys, which still remain. There are also, in various parts of the country, excavations, rock-hewn halls, and caverns, generally dome-shaped, the centre apartment lighted through an aperture in the vault. They somewhat resemble the cyclopean fabric near Argos, called the Treasury of Atreus. Not only the buildings, but the hieroglyphics, of the Aztecs, so closely resemble those of the Egyptians, that there appears every reason to suppose they were derived from the same source.

Among the natural curiosities of Mexico, one of the most remarkable is that of the rock-bridge in the valley Icononzo, which might, from its form—until closely examined—be mistaken for a work of art.

The great mass of the population of Mexico consists of the descendants of those tribes which inhabited the country at the time of the Spanish invasion. The language most extensively spoken, as well by the civilised as the savage tribes, is still that of the Aztecs. The people of pure European blood are supposed not to amount to thirty thousand. About a quarter of the population consists of Creoles, descendants of Europeans and Indians known as Mestizos, while there is a small number of Mulattoes, and another race, the Zambos—descendants of Africans and Indians.

Mexico has long been in a chronic state of revolution. From a province of Spain it became an independent empire; afterwards a republic; and once more, under the unfortunate Maximilian, it was placed under imperial rule, finally to fall into a far greater state of anarchy than before.

Before we quit Mexico, a remarkable result of hydraulic action must be mentioned, found on the sea-coast of that region. It is known as the buffadero. At the termination of a long rugged point, the water of the ocean, forced by a current or the waves, is projected through a fissure or natural tube in the rock, forming a beautiful jet d’eau many feet in height.

Birds of Mexico:—The Scarlet Tanager.

Among the winter inhabitants of Mexico, one of the handsomest is the scarlet tanager—a small bird, being only six or seven inches in length. It migrates north in the spring, generally making its appearance in the United States about the end of April, where it remains till the breeding season is over.

The colour of the male bird is a brilliant scarlet, with the exception of the tail and wings, which are deep black. The tail is forked, and has a white tip. This gay plumage is, however, only donned during the summer, for when it returns to Mexico in the autumn, its body is covered with a number of greyish-yellow feathers, giving it a mottled appearance. Its note is powerful, but not particularly musical.

Wilson describes it as a remarkably affectionate bird. Having captured a young one, it was placed in a cage high up on a tree. The father bird discovered it, and was seen to bring it food, roosting at night on a neighbouring bough. After continuing to do so for three or four days, he showed by his actions and voice that he was trying to make the young one come out and follow him. So distressed did he appear, that at last the kind-hearted naturalist set the prisoner at liberty, when it flew off with its parent, who, with notes of exultation, accompanied its flight to the woods.

The Anis, or Savannah Blackbird.

The farmers of Mexico and the Southern States of America whose fields are frequented by the anis, are much indebted to that handsome and somewhat conspicuous bird. It is of a black hue glossed with green, equalling a pigeon in size—its long tail adding to its apparent length. Its chief food consists of grasshoppers, locusts, and small lizards, but it rids cows of the ticks and other parasitic insects which fasten on their backs, where they cannot be rubbed off. So conscious are the cattle of the service thus rendered them, that they will lie down to allow the blackbird to perform the operation at its ease. It is even asserted that, should the cow neglect to place herself in a suitable attitude, the blackbird will hop about in front of her nose, and allow her no peace till she does as required.

Large flocks of these birds appear together, uttering deafening cries. When fired at, even though many of them are killed, the survivors hover to a short distance, regardless of the danger in which they are placed. They build remarkably large nests; sometimes, indeed, several pairs of birds build one together—much in the same way as do the sociable weaver-birds of Africa—where they live together on friendly terms.

It resembles another African bird in its habit of picking off ticks from the backs of oxen, the same duty being performed by the South American goatsucker.

Massina’s Trogon—The Mexican Trogon.

These birds are remarkable for their beautiful plumage. The first measures about fourteen inches in length. The crown of the head, back, and chest are of a deep, rich green; the ear-coverts and throat, glossy black; the breast and abdomen, of a rich scarlet. A grey tint covers the centre of the wings, which are pencilled with jet-black lines. The quill-feathers are also black, each being edged with white; and the bill is a light yellow. The females differ considerably from the males. They are shy and retiring birds, and their habits, consequently, are difficult to study.

The Mexican trogon is much smaller than the former, being only a foot in total length, of which the tail occupies nearly eight inches. Few birds are more beautifully adorned than the male trogon. The head is of a bright yellow; the upper surface of the body, with the chest, being of a rich, glossy green; while the whole under surface is a bright scarlet. The throat and ear-coverts are black, and a white band of a crescent shape surrounds the throat. The wings are nearly entirely black. The tail is partly black, the two central feathers being green, tipped with black. The females and young males differ greatly, but their plumage is still very handsome.

The Resplendent Trogon.

The resplendent trogon is a native of Mexico, and, like all its congeners, is fond of hiding its beauty in the dark glades of the rich tropical forests. Its skin is remarkably delicate, and so thin that it has been compared to wet blotting-paper; while the plumage is so lightly set, that when the bird is shot, the feathers will fall freely from their sockets, through the force of the blow.

The colour of the adult male bird is a rich golden green, on the crest, head, neck, throat, chest, and shoulder-plumes. The breast and under parts shine with as bright a scarlet as the uniform of an English guardsman; the central feathers of the tail are black, and the exterior white, with black bars. The resplendent plumes which overhang the tail are seldom less than three feet in length, so that the total length of this gorgeous bird will frequently reach four feet. The bill is of a light yellow.

This species of trogon feeds chiefly on vegetable diet. We may add that in old times its long plumes were among the insignia of Mexican monarchy, and none but members of the “blood royal” were permitted to wear its gorgeous feathers.

Reptiles:—The Rhinophryne.

The tongues of frogs, instead of pointing outwards, are directed towards the throat. This species differs from the rest of its tribe, by having its tongue free and pointing forwards. Its rounded head sinks completely into the body, the muzzle being abruptly truncated, so as to form a circular disc in front. So extremely small is the gape, that it would not be supposed, if separated from the body, to have belonged to a frog. On each side of the neck there is a gland, deeply sunk, and almost concealed by the skin.

The body of this curious creature is extremely short and thick, and its feet are half webbed. At the end of each of the hinder feet is a flat, oval, horny spur—its only means of offence and defence, as it possesses no teeth in its head.

It is of a slaty-grey colour, with yellow spots on the sides and back. Occasionally the latter unite, so as to form a jagged line along the back.

The Axolotl.

Among the batrachians found in Mexico is the curious axolotl, which frequents the great lake on which the chief city is built, as well as numerous other lakes, some at a considerable elevation above the ocean. It is between eight and ten inches long, of rather a dark greyish-brown colour, thickly covered with black spots. Those who have seen a newt in its larva state, may form a correct idea of the gills which project from either side of the head.

Naturalists differ in opinion as to whether it is really an adult batrachian, or merely the larva of some much larger creature. In many localities it is very plentiful; and the flesh being eatable and of a delicate character, the creature is sold in great numbers in the markets.

Being furnished with both kinds of respiratory organs, it can breathe equally well on land or in the water. It has a broad, flat head, blunt nose, and eyes situated near the muzzle. Though living so much in the water, its toes are not connected by intermediate membranes—indeed, they appear only to be intended for service on shore—its tail, nearly as long as its body, serving as a propeller in the water.

Part 2—Chapter II.

Central America.

Leaving the continent of North America, which may be said to terminate at the southern end of Mexico, we enter that extremely irregular portion of land which, now widening, now narrowing again, stretches in a south-easterly direction till it unites with the southern half of the American continent at the Isthmus of Panama. We find in Central America three marked centres of elevation. The first we reach is the great plain, nearly 6000 feet above the level of the sea, on which the city of Guatemala is situated. Numerous volcanic peaks rise from its midst; from it also flow several large rivers, some falling into the Gulf of Mexico, others eastward into the Gulf of Honduras, while smaller streams send their waters westward into the Pacific Ocean. The banks of these rivers are mostly covered with the richest tropical vegetation—the scenery of the river Polochie in Guatemala being especially beautiful. Another high plain occupies the centre of Honduras, and extends into the northern part of Nicaragua. From it also rise numberless streams, some emptying themselves into the Caribbean Sea, and others into the Lakes of Nicaragua and Managua. Further south rises the volcano of Cartago. Here the Cordilleras resume their general character of a vast mountain barrier, but once more sink down into low ridges as the chain passes through the Isthmus of Panama.

As in South America, the Cordilleras run close along the Pacific coast. In consequence, the rivers which flow from their heights have a long course on the Atlantic side, and have carried down a large quantity of alluvial soil. Here, too, rain falls in greater or lesser quantities throughout the year. The vegetation is consequently rank, and the climate damp, and proportionately unhealthy. As the trade-winds blow from the north-east, the moisture with which they are saturated is condensed against the mountainsides, and flows backwards towards the Atlantic. The Pacific slope is, therefore, comparatively dry and salubrious—as indeed are also the elevated table-lands of the interior.

The whole region is subject to earthquakes, and numberless volcanoes rise in all directions. In the low ridge which separates the Lake of Nicaragua from the Pacific are several volcanic hills, most of them active; while further to the north-west, in the district of Conchagua—scarcely more than one hundred and eighty miles in length—there are upwards of twenty volcanoes. The two most lofty are found in the Guatemala range—that of Fuego being upwards of 12,000 feet in height, and that of Agua, 18,000 feet.

Many parts of the interior of the country have been but very partially explored, and are, indeed, almost unknown. Of the purely native tribes, most of them have become mingled with Spaniards or negroes. Parts of the coast are inhabited by mixed races of Caribs, who have migrated from Saint Vincent, one of the Leeward islands. These Caribs are known as the Black and Yellow Caribs—the former being the descendants of the survivors of the cargo of an African slaver, wrecked in the neighbourhood of that island. The descendants of the Spaniards are the dominant race, and they have divided the country into various republics, though the greater portion is still in almost as savage a condition as when first discovered.

Honduras and the Mosquito Country.

The English have, however, a settlement in Honduras; and there is an Indian state forming the eastern portion of Nicaragua, under the government—if so it can be called—of a native king. His territory is known as the Mosquito Country, from the name of the chief native tribe over which he rules.

The climate is very similar to that of the West Indies. On the lower lands a variety of tropical productions can be brought to perfection, while in the high regions cereals of various sorts are abundantly produced.

Fauna.

The fauna partakes partly of the character of that of the equatorial regions of South America, and of the semi-tropical districts of Mexico. There are several varieties of ant-eaters, similar to those found in the valley of the Amazon, while the grey squirrel of more northern latitudes skips playfully amid the forests of the interior. In the woods and wide savannahs are two or more varieties of deer—one resembling the European deer in colour, but of less size, and adorned with large antlers. The other is of a lighter and browner tint, possessing short, smooth-pointed horns. The peccary is common in the valleys and low ground along the coast; while the waree, or wild hog, runs in large droves in many districts. The tapir, similar to that of the southern continent, also frequents the seashore and banks of the rivers; and another species, peculiar to the region, is said to have been discovered lately. There are numerous varieties of monkeys, among which are the brown, the horned, and the little, playful capuchin. The raccoon, as elsewhere, is common, and is noted for its thieving propensities. It lives chiefly on animal food. There is an interesting little opossum of about ten feet in length, of a grey colour, with a somewhat large head, and a long and very flexible tail—the feet being provided with sharp claws. When the young leave the mother’s pouch, she can place them on her back, to which they cling, while she scrambles amid the forest boughs. Besides the great ant-eater, there is the smaller striped ant-eater, and the little ant-eater. There is a curious creature, called the quash, resembling the ichneumon, which possesses a peculiarly fetid smell, and is known for its powerful, lacerating teeth. There are several species, also, of the armadillo, distinguished as the three-banded, eight-banded, and nine-banded. The paca is also very plentiful, and becomes easily domesticated. It reaches two feet in length, and its thick, clumsy form, of a dusky brown colour, may be seen scampering through the woods. The agouti, or Indian cony, or rabbit, frequents the same region as the paca, and is about the size of an ordinary hare. It does not, however, run in the same way, but moves by frequent leaps. The jaguar ranges through the whole of this part of the continent, and is remarkable for its large size and great strength. Not only does it frequently kill full-grown cattle, and drag them to its lair far-away in the woods, but, if irritated, it does not hesitate to attack human beings. The tiger-cat, or ocelot, which much resembles a common cat, but is considerably larger, is also found in the forest; but at the sight of man it takes to flight, and is, therefore, less frequently seen than its fiercer relatives. The puma also makes its way from one end of the country to the other; but though destructive to cattle, it is said here, as elsewhere, to fly from the face of man. The savage wolf, the cayote, is frequently met with.

A considerable number of the birds of South America, or of allied species, are found in many parts of the country. This is the home of the resplendent trogon, called the quetzal—the imperial bird of the Quiches. It, however, has but a limited range, being found only in the mountains of Merendon in Honduras, and in the department of Quezaltenango in Guatemala. There are numerous varieties of the parrot tribe, many of them of the most magnificent description with regard to their colouring. Here, also, the forests are adorned with the gay plumage of the red and blue macaws, as also by a toucan with a yellow tail. It is remarkable not only for its bright colour, but for its curious pendent nests, of which frequently fifty are seen hanging together from the branch of a single tree. Among the birds of prey, the ever-present turkey-buzzard and other vultures, hawks, owls, and sea-eagles, are common; as is the Mexican jay, the ring-bird, the rice-bird, swallow, and numerous varieties of humming-birds. Among the water birds are the pelican, the muscovy, and black duck; the spoon-bill, plover, curlew, teal, darter; while herons, ibises, and cranes, are found in great numbers on the shores of the lagoons and rivers. In the interior of the country the splendid Honduras turkey, as well as the curassow, and several varieties of the wood-pigeon and dove, as also the partridge, quail, and snipe, exist in abundance.

Of the reptile tribes, alligators of great size are found in nearly all the lagoons and rivers. There is an infinite variety of lizards,—the most noted of which is the iguana, which frequently attains a length of four feet;—and its flesh is here, as in other parts of the continent, esteemed. There are many varieties of serpents, some of which are harmless. Of the venomous species, there are the golden snake, the whip-snake, and the tamagas—the bite of which is considered deadly. So is also that of the corral. It is of the most brilliant colour, covered with alternate rings of green, black, and red. To this last may be added the rattlesnake and the ordinary black snake. Most of these snakes are found in the lower region near the sea-coast.

In all the rivers and lakes, tortoises and turtles of several kinds are abundant. The land turtle reaches a foot in length. Its shell is of a dark colour. It is eaten, but is not esteemed of so good a quality as the sea turtle. The coasts are frequented by various species of sea turtle, known as the green, the hawks-bill—which affords the best tortoise-shell to commerce—and the trunk-turtle, which is larger than either of its two relatives. From its flesh is extracted a kind of oil, which is of considerable value.

The hawks-bill turtle, which gains that name from its narrow, sharp, and curved beak, like that of a hawk, is also called the imbricated turtle, because its scales overlap each other at their extremities, as tiles are placed on the roofs of houses.

The green or edible turtle is of great size, weighing often six hundred pounds, and being upwards of five feet in length. It gains its name from its rich fat, which is of a green colour; and its flesh is considered very much superior to that of all its relatives.

The variety and kinds of Crustacea are almost numberless, from the largest lobster to the smallest crab. Two species—the mangrove crab, and the white and black land crab—are found near the mouths of the rivers and in all the lagoons; while the curious soldier crabs, which seem as much at home in one element as in the other, inhabit in vast numbers the trees which lie rotting half submerged in the water. At certain times they may be found making their way into the interior, to return afterwards to the ocean.

The neighbourhood of the ocean, and the rivers and lakes of the interior, swarm with an endless variety of fish; while the huge manatee, or sea-cow, is found in most of the rivers.

The Mahogany-Tree.

The most valuable production of the forests of this part of the world is the mahogany-tree of Honduras, well-deserving, from its magnificent foliage and vast size, to be called the king of the forest. It is remarkably slow of growth, its increase during half a century being scarcely perceptible.

The life of the mahogany-cutter is wild in the extreme, yet he carries on his occupation in a systematic manner. Parties, or gangs, are formed, consisting of fifty men, with a captain, or hunter, attached to each. The business of the hunter is to search out the mahogany-trees fit for cutting. To do this, he makes his way through the thick forest to the highest ground in the neighbourhood he can find, and then climbs one of the tallest trees. From thence he surveys the surrounding country in search of the foliage, which presents a yellow, reddish hue, assumed by the mahogany—tree at that season of the year—about August. Having thus discovered a spot on which a number of the sought-for trees grow, he descends, and as rapidly as possible leads his party to it, lest any others on the search should be before them. Huts are now built, roofed with long grass, or the branches of the thatch-palm. His furniture consists of a hammock swung between two posts, and a couple of stones on which his kettle is supported. Stages, on which the axemen stand, are erected round the trees, which are cut down about ten or twelve feet from the ground. The trunk is considered most valuable, on account of the size of the wood it furnishes; but the branches are also of value, from their grain being closer and more variegated.

While one party is employed in cutting down the trees, another is engaged in forming a main road to the nearest river, with others from the various spots where the axemen are at work leading to it. This operation is concluded by the end of December. The trees are now sawn into logs of various lengths, and are squared by the axe, in order to lessen their weight, and to prevent them from rolling in the truck. When the dry weather sets in—about April or May—trucking commences. The trucks are drawn by seven pair of oxen. Each is accompanied by two drivers, sixteen men to cut food for the cattle, and twelve to load the trucks. In consequence of the hot sun during the day; trucking is always carried on at night. A wild scene is presented while the trucks are moving from the forest, each accompanied by several men carrying torches, the drivers cracking their whips and uttering their shouts. Thus they go on till they reach the river’s brink, when the logs—each marked with the owner’s initials—are thrown into the water, and the trucks return for a fresh load. When the rains commence, the roads are impassable, and all trucking ceases.

As the rivers are swelled by the rains, the mahogany-logs are floated away, followed by the gangs in flat-bottomed canoes, called pit-pans. Their crews are employed in liberating the logs from the branches of the overhanging trees and other impediments, till they are stopped by a beam placed near the mouth of the river. The logs of each owner are now collected into large rafts, in which state they are floated down to the wharves of the proprietors. Here they are newly smoothed, and made ready for shipping to England.

Many other valuable woods come from this region. Rosewood is common on the northern coast of Honduras. The bushes which produce gum-arabic abound in all the open savannahs on the Pacific slope. In the forest is found the copaiba-tree, producing a healing liquid. Here also are found the copal-tree, the palma-christi, the ipecacuanha—the root of which is so extensively used in medicine—the liquid amber, as well as caoutchouc. Here the vast ceiba, or silk-cotton-tree, is abundant, from which canoes are frequently hollowed out. Indeed, a considerable number of the trees found on the banks of the Orinoco and Amazon here also come to perfection.

Humming-Birds:—The Slender Shear-Tail.

Central America is the home of several beautiful species of those minute members of the feathered tribe—the humming-birds. Among them is found the slender shear-tail, which will be known by its deeply-forked black tail, its wings of purple-brown, and its body of deep shining green, changing to brown on the head, and bronze on the back and wing-coverts. The chin is black, with a green gloss; the throat is of a deep metallic purple; while a large crescent-shaped mark of huff appears on the upper part of the chest. There is a grey spot in the centre of the abdomen, and a buff one on each flank, the under tail-coverts being of a greenish hue.

The female differs greatly from her consort. Her tail is short, the central feathers being of a golden green; the exterior ones rusty-red at their base, and black for the greater part of their length, with white tips. The upper part of her body is also of a golden green; the lower of a reddish-buff.

The Rufus Flame-Bearer.

The beautiful little rufus flame-bearers belong to the genus Phaethornis. They are known by their long, graduated tails, all the feathers of which are pinnated—the two central ones extending far beyond the others. “They may be seen early in the year, darting, buzzing, and squeaking in the usual manner of their tribe, engaged in collecting sweets in all the energy of life, appearing like breathing gems—magic carbuncles of glowing fire—stretching out their glorious ruffs, as if to emulate the sun itself in splendour. The female sits towards the close of May, when the males are uncommonly quarrelsome and vigilant, darting out as the stranger approaches the nest, looking like angry coals of brilliant fire, returning several times to the attack with the utmost velocity, at the same time uttering a curious, reverberating, sharp bleat, somewhat similar to the quivering twang of a dead twig, and curiously like the real bleat of some small quadruped. At other times the males may be seen darting high up in the air, and whirling about each other in great anger and with much velocity.

“The nests are funnel-shaped, measuring about two and a quarter inches in depth, and one and three-quarters in breadth at the upper part, composed of mosses, lichens, and feathers woven together with vegetable fibres, and lined with soft cotton.”

This description is given by Mr Nuttal the naturalist, and quoted by Audubon.

Princess Helena’s Coquette.

This beautiful little gem—a native of Vera Paz, in Guatemala—is adorned somewhat after the fashion of the Birds of Paradise, its head being ornamented with six long, green, hair-like feathers, three on either side of the body. The upper part is of a coppery bronze colour, a band of buff crossing the lower end of the back. The face is green; and the throat is adorned with emerald feathers surrounded with others long and white. These start from the neck, being edged with blue-black. Beautifully adorned as is the male, the hen-bird possesses neither crest nor neck-plumes, her colour being of a dull, bronze-green, and greyish-white sprinkled with green on the under part of the body.

The Sparkling-Tail Humming-Bird.

The little sparkling-tail is one of the boldest and most familiar of its tribe, being seen flitting from flower to flower among the gardens in Guatemala, and remaining with perfect confidence even while people are moving about near it. It is one of the smallest of its tribe—the nest being also of a proportionate size, formed of various delicate fibres, such as spider’s webs and cottony down, and covered with lichens. Within it the female lays two eggs, scarcely larger than peas, of a delicate, almost transparent, pearly white. This nest is secured to a slight twig by spider’s webs.

The general colour of the male is bronzed green above, with a crescent-shaped white mark on the lower part of the back. It has a rich metallic blue throat, changing in certain lights; and the wings are of a dark purple-brown. The tail is composed of feathers of different tints—the two central of a rich, shining green; the next, green, marked with bronze; and the outer, dark brown, with triangular white spots on the inner web.

The whole length of the bird, with its forked tail, is about four inches. The hen has a shorter tail, the feathers purple-black, bronzed at the base, and most of them tipped with white and ringed with buff. The upper part of the body is of a rich bronzed green; and the lower, a rusty-red.

Many other beautiful humming-birds appear throughout different parts of Mexico and Central America; but we may grow weary even when examining caskets of the most brilliant gems; and we shall have many others to describe when we reach the southern part of the continent.

Locusts.

Insect life is as active in Central America as in other parts of the tropics. The most dreaded insect is the locust, which makes periodical attacks on the plantations, and in a single hour the largest fields of maize are stripped of their leaves, the stems alone being left to show that they once existed. This creature is called by the natives the “chapulin,” or langosta. They make their first appearance as little wingless things, swarming over the ground like ants, when they are called “santones.” In order to destroy them, the natives dig long trenches, into which they are driven, when, unable to leap out, they are easily buried and destroyed. Still, vast numbers escape, when they appear in enormous columns, darkening the air, and as they sweep onwards, destroy every green thing in their course. They cover the ground on every side, then rising in clouds, fill the atmosphere with their multitudes, causing the trees to appear brown, as if seared by fire. Frequently, as their hosts sweep onwards, they are seen falling like flakes in a snow-storm from a dark cloud. Every device that the farmer can think of is employed to prevent their settling: sulphur is burned, drums beaten, guns fired, and other noises made. Often, by such means, a plantation is preserved from destruction; but when the columns once alight, no device avails to save the plantation from speedy desolation.

This locust or grasshopper is generally from two and a half to four inches in length, but specimens sometimes appear five inches long; and it may be conceived what an enormous amount of food such monsters must consume.

Part 2—Chapter III.

Ruins of Central America.

In all parts of Central America are found numerous signs that the country was, in bygone days, inhabited by a numerous population far more advanced in civilisation than the tribes which peopled it when first discovered by Columbus and his companions. In Yucatan and Chiapas, especially, ruins of numerous houses exist, with elaborately carved monuments and large buildings, bearing a remarkable resemblance to those of Egypt and Babylon. Throughout Nicaragua and other districts many remains—such as tombs, monuments, and edifices—are found, as well as carved rocks, which were probably the work of a people of still greater antiquity than those who inhabited the first mentioned region.

Dr Seeman describes some rocks near the town of David, in Chiriqui, on which characters are engraved similar, or indeed absolutely identical, with inscriptions which have been found in the northern parts of the British Islands. The rock is fifteen feet high, nearly fifty feet in circumference, and rather flat on the top. Every part—especially the eastern portion—is covered with incised characters about an inch or half an inch deep. The first figure on the left hand side represents the radiant sun, followed by a series of heads with some variation. These heads show a certain resemblance to one of the most curious characters found on the British rocks. They are followed by scorpion-like and other fantastic figures. The tops of the stones on either side are covered with a number of concentric rings and ovals, crossed with lines. He considers them to be symbols full of meaning, and recording ideas held to be of vital importance to the people who used them, and whose names have become a matter of doubt.

In the district of Chontales, a vast number of ancient tombs are met with in almost every direction. They are found in plains having a good drainage, such as was generally selected by the Indians for the sites of their villages. These tombs are of different heights and sizes. Some are about twenty feet long by twelve feet wide, and eight feet above the ground. In one which was opened was found a round pillar seven feet high and eighteen inches across, which was standing upright in the centre of the tomb. There was a hand-mill for grinding corn—in shape like those still in use in the country—a knife ten inches long, a hatchet like a reaping-hook, and a tiger’s head of natural size,—all of stone. In some instances gold ornaments have been found, but not in sufficient numbers to induce the people to destroy the relics.

The Indians inhabiting Nicaragua in ancient days did not apparently construct any large temples or stone buildings, as some other natives of Central America have done. They, however, formed stone figures of considerable size, which remind us greatly of those which exist in Easter Island in the Pacific. These stone figures, often of colossal dimensions, are of two different descriptions—the one having a mild, inoffensive expression of countenance; while the others, presenting a combination of both human and animal, have invariably a wild, savage look, apparently for the purpose of terrifying the beholders. The first, it is supposed, are the idols which the ancient Nicaraguans worshipped before the Aztec conquest of their country; while the latter were introduced when the people had been taught to engage in the bloody rites practised by the Mexicans.

These stone monuments, though similar, as has been remarked, to those of Easter Island, and to others found far-away across the Pacific, are strong corroborative proofs that America was first peopled by tribes who made their way by various stages from the continent of Asia, though, at the same time, that long ages have passed away since they first left that far-distant region—the cradle of the human race. The Indian priests, like the Druids of old, appear to have chosen the hill-tops and mountainsides, shady groves and dark ravines, for the sites of their temples or places of worship.

From the midst of Lake Managua, in Nicaragua, rises the volcanic island of Momotombita, towering in a perfect cone towards the blue sky. In the midst of a natural amphitheatre on the slope of the mountain were discovered a large number of statues (fifty or more), arranged in the form of a square, their faces looking inwards. Many were cast down, but others stood erect, though all apparently had been more or less purposely mutilated. Some of the figures represent males, but others are undoubtedly those of females. They are cut in black basalt of intense hardness. The features of the face of one, which has been conveyed to the Museum at Washington, are singularly bold and severe in outline. The brow is broad, the nose aquiline, while the arms and legs are rudely indicated. Other curious idols have been dug up in the neighbourhood of the town of Leon. The Spanish priests, anxious to put down the ancient idolatry from the time of their arrival in the country, have taken pains to destroy these idols, and many have been mutilated and others buried by their orders.

In the island of Zapetero, rising out of Lake Nicaragua, there are a still greater number of statues—some from eight to twelve feet in height, and others of still greater magnitude—elaborately carved out of hard stone. Sometimes they are placed round mounds which have evidently served the purpose of altars, on which human sacrifices probably were offered. One of the most interesting which has been brought to light is twelve feet high, sculptured from a single block, and representing a human figure seated on a high pedestal, the stone at the back of the head being cut in the form of a cross. The limbs are heavy, and the face large and expressive of great complacency.

Some of the idols represent an animal, apparently a tiger, springing upon the head and back of a human figure. One—also at the Washington Museum—represents a man squatted on his haunches, with one hand at his side, and the other placed on his breast. The head is erect, and the forehead encircled by a fillet, much carved. The features are unlike most others—indeed, it seems as if each one had its individual characteristic. A jaguar appears on the back of this statue, its fore-paws resting upon the shoulders, and its hind ones upon the hips, while it grasps in its mouth the back part of the head of the figure.

Although many of the figures represent human beings, others are those of animals. One, a jaguar, is seated on its haunches, the head thrown forward, the mouth open,—the attitude and expression being that of great ferocity. It is very boldly sculptured. Another, a very well proportioned human figure, is seated on a square throne raised five feet from the ground. It is remarkable for having on its head another monstrous head, representing some fierce animal. The heads of several of the idols are thus surmounted. These symbolical heads were probably introduced with the same object as those which were so general among the Egyptian idols.

In the midst of this collection of idols are two or more oblong stones, on the sides of which are hieroglyphical inscriptions. In the centre are hollow places, probably designed to receive the blood of the victims.

It is remarkable that the heads of many of the figures are surmounted with cross-shaped ornaments similar to the one discovered at Palenque by Mr Stevens. One of these crosses—which no doubt had their origin in Babylon, where they are well-known symbols—was set up by the Spaniards in the convent-church of Tonala, and there venerated.

The Mexicans possessed a symbol called the Tonacaquahutl, or “tree of life,” which was represented with branches somewhat in the form of a cross, surmounted by a bird. This symbol also appears on a tablet discovered by Mr Stevens at Palenque. In various parts of the country terra cotta figures have been dug up. Some of them are rude, but others are extremely artistic; and though not equally graceful, resemble much, in the form of the limbs, many Egyptian figures. Among them is a figure from the island of Ometepe, which represents an alligator upon the back of a human figure, which apparently originally surmounted a large vase.

Mounds similar to those found in the valley of the Mississippi have been discovered in Honduras. But by far the most interesting remains are those of Palenque, in Chiapas; of Copan, in Honduras; and of Uxmal and Chi-chen, in Yucatan. Here are extensive ruins of cities, containing the remains of pyramids, and the walls of massive buildings, broken columns, altars, statues, and numberless sculptured fragments, showing that a large population inhabited this country, and that the people had attained a considerable knowledge of the arts, though, at the same time, they seem to have been sunk in the grossest idolatry.

In the western part of Honduras, adjoining the province of Guatemala, are extensive ruins, which stretch for more than two miles along the banks of the river Copan. The outer walls, which run north and south along the margin of the stream, are from sixty to ninety feet high; while other walls, of a similar character, surround the principal ruins. Within these walls are extensive terraces and pyramidal buildings, massive stone columns, idols, and altars covered with sculpture. The numerous terraces and pyramids are also walled with cut stone, and ornamented with carved heads of gigantic proportions, and colossal idols of solid stone from ten to fifteen feet in height. The altars in front of the statues are of single blocks of stone, many of them richly carved, but all differing from each other. One of the most remarkable altars stands on four globes cut out of the same stone. It is six feet square and four feet high, its top covered with hieroglyphics, while each side represents four individuals. The figure is sitting cross-legged, in the Oriental fashion, and the head-dresses are remarkable for their curious and complicated forms. All have breastplates, and each holds some article in his hand.

From these carvings we read, though indistinctly, some of the characteristics of the people. From the absence of all weapons of war, however, we may suppose them peaceable, though grossly idolatrous, and, from being unwarlike, easily subdued.

On entering the town, after some adventures, Mr Stevens made his way to an area, which he ascertained to be a square, with steps on all sides, almost as perfect as those of the Colosseum. He ascended the steps, which were ornamented with sculptures, till he reached a broad terrace, one hundred feet in height, overlooking the river. The whole terrace was covered with trees, among which were two gigantic cotton-trees of about twenty feet in circumference, extending their roots fifty to one hundred feet round, and which had, in many places, displaced the stones. Among other ornaments were rows of gigantic heads, which, no doubt, were intended to represent those of apes; for amongst the fragments were the remains of the body of a colossal ape, strongly resembling in outline and appearance one of the four monstrous animals which once stood in front of the obelisk of Luxor, and which, under the name of Cynocephali, were worshipped at Thebes. This fragment was about six feet high.

No verbal description can give a correct idea of the elaborate workmanship of the numberless idols. One, described by Mr Stevens as the most beautiful in Copan, he considers equal to the finest Egyptian sculpture; and thinks, indeed, it would be impossible, with the best instruments of modern times, to cut stones more perfectly. They are generally from twelve to fourteen feet in height, about four wide, and two or three deep. On the front is, in all cases, a human head, with arms and hands, surrounded by the most intricate carving. Frequently other smaller heads appear below the large one. In many instances the legs and feet, as well as the body, are represented. The backs and sides are covered with the most elaborate hieroglyphics, deeply carved—the whole forming a mass of rich ornamentation. Before several of the idols stand altars, also carved in the same finished way.

The most interesting figure—which, unlike all the others, is remarkable for its simplicity—is that of a human being, bearing on its head a heavy cross-like crown. It cannot fail to remind those acquainted with the idols of Babylon of the Triune God represented in the sculptured stones of those far-famed ruins.

Stone Quarries.

Some two or three miles from the ruins are the quarries, from which the stones for the buildings and statues of Copan are evidently taken. Here still exist huge blocks of stone, in different degrees of preparation. Near a river was found a gigantic block, much larger than any in the city, which was probably on its way thither, to be carved and set up, when the labours of the workmen were arrested. It is difficult to conjecture how these vast masses were transported over the irregular and broken surface of the country, and particularly how one of them was set up on the top of a mountain two thousand feet in height.

A place of this name was captured by Hernandes de Chaves at the time when its now broken monuments, ruined terraces, walls, and sculptured figures, were entire, and were all richly painted; and it seems strange that Europeans could have beheld its wonders without spreading the report of them throughout the civilised world, yet no account of this strange city was extant till it was visited by Mr Stevens.

Palenque.

Still more curious and interesting than the last described city, are the ruins of Palenque, in the province of Chiapas, bordering upon Yucatan. One of the chief structures of this ancient city stands on an artificial elevation 40 feet high, 310 feet in length, and 260 feet in width. The sides were originally covered with stones, which have been thrown down by the growth of trees. On the summit are the ruins of a building, known as the Palace, about 25 feet in height, with a front measuring 228 feet by 180 feet deep. In front were, originally, fourteen doorways, with intervening piers, covered with human figures, hieroglyphics, and carved ornaments. The walls are of stone, laid with mortar and sand; and the whole is covered by stucco, nearly as hard as stone, and richly painted. On each side of the steps are gigantic human statues carved in stone, with rich head-dresses and necklaces.

In one of the buildings is a stone tower of three stories, thirty feet square at the base, and rising far above the surrounding walls. The walls are very massive, and the floors are paved with large square stones. In one of the corridors are two large tablets of hieroglyphics.

There are numerous other buildings, all standing on the summits of similar pyramids. In several of the buildings the roofs still remain, and preserve the stuccoed ornamentation with which the walls are adorned. The colours, in many of them, are still bright; and could the hieroglyphics with which they are surrounded be read, they would probably give as clear a history of the departed inhabitants as do those found in the tombs on the banks of the Nile. The most remarkable figures are the bas-reliefs, in stucco, representing a woman with a child in her arms—which forcibly remind us of the statues in ancient Babylon representing the goddess mother and son (the same worshipped in Egypt under the names of Isis and Osiris; in India, even to this day, as Isi and Iswara; and also in China, where Shingmoo, the holy mother, is represented with a child in her arms, and a glory round her head). It is impossible, looking at these figures, to suppose otherwise than that they were derived from the same source whence the idols of Egypt, Greece, and pagan Rome had their origin.

Ruins of Quiché.

In the north-east of Guatemala are the ruins of another city, the capital of the province of Quiché. It is surrounded by a deep ravine, which forms a natural foss, leaving only two very narrow roads as entrances, guarded by the castle of Resguado. The palace of the kings, which stood in the centre of the city, surpasses every other edifice, competing in magnificence with that of Montezuma in Mexico. It was constructed of hewn stones, of various colours. So large was the city, that it could send no less than seventy-two thousand fighting men to oppose the Spaniards. The whole palace is now, however, completely destroyed, and the materials have been carried away to build a village in the neighbourhood. The most conspicuous portion of the ruins remaining is called El Sacrificatorio. It is a quadrangular stone structure, rising in a pyramidal form to the height of thirty-three feet. At the corners are four buttresses of cut stone. Steps lead up on the eastern side. On the top it is evident that an altar was once placed, for the sacrifice of human victims, which struck even the Spaniards with horror. The whole was in full view of the people who collected round the base. The ruins differ entirely from Copan and Palenque. Here no statues, carved figures, or hieroglyphics are seen. It is therefore supposed that these cities are of a much older date, and built by another race.

Uxmal.

The most magnificent and perfect remains in the country are those of Uxmal, about fifty miles south of Merida, the principal city of Yucatan. Here, amid the dense forest, are found walls of considerable elevation, with very extensive buildings,—the walls still standing to their full height, and even the roofs, in some places, perfect. The largest building—supposed to be the palace of the sovereign—stands on the uppermost of three terraces, each walled with cut stone. It is 322 feet in length, 39 broad, and 24 high. The front has thirteen doorways; the centre of which is 8 feet, 6 inches wide, and 8 feet, 10 inches high. The upper part is ornamented with sculpture in great profusion, of rich and curious workmanship. The walls are covered with cement; and the floors are of square stones, smoothly polished, and laid with as much regularity as that of the best modern masonry. The roof forms a triangular arch, constructed with stones overlapping, and covered by a layer of flat stones. It is remarkable that the lintels of the doorways are of wood, known as Sapote wood. Many of them are still hard and sound, and in their places; but others have been perforated by wormholes, their decay causing the fall of the walls.

Two other large buildings, facing each other, are embellished with sculpture, the most remarkable features of which are two colossal serpents, which once extended the whole length of the walls. Further on are four great ranges of edifices, placed on the uppermost of three terraces. The plan of these buildings is quadrangular, with a courtyard in the centre. The walls are, like the others, ornamented with rich and intricate carving, presenting a scene of strange magnificence. One of the buildings is 170 feet long, and is remarkable for the two colossal entwined serpents which run round it, and encompass nearly all the ornaments throughout its whole length. These serpents are sculptured out of small blocks of stone, which are arranged in the wall with great skill and precision. One of the serpents has its monstrous jaws distended; and within them is a human head, the face of which is distinctly visible in the carving.

The most tastefully ornamented edifice is know as the “House of the Dwarf.” It stands on the summit of a lofty mound, faced with stone, nearly ninety feet high, the building itself being seventeen feet high. Its purpose it is difficult to divine.

Scattered throughout the ruins are a number of dome-shaped subterraneous chambers, from eight to ten feet deep, and from twelve to twenty in diameter. The floor is of hard matter, and the walls and ceilings of plaster. A circular hole at the summit of each, barely large enough to admit a man, is the only opening into them. It is not known whether they were used as cisterns, or for granaries, like those of Egypt.

Other Ruins.

The whole country to the south of Uxmal is covered with ruins. At a place called Labra, there is a tower richly ornamented, forty feet in height, which stands on the summit of an artificial elevation. In another place there is one forty-five feet high; along the top of which, standing out from the wall, is a row of deaths’ heads—or perhaps monkeys’ heads—and underneath are two lines of human figures, greatly mutilated.

At Kewick, a short distance from Labra, are numerous other ruins, mostly remarkable for the simplicity of their architecture and the grandeur of their proportions. It is still uncertain whether these cities were inhabited by the unhappy people conquered by the Spaniards, or whether they were built by a race which, from some unknown cause, had already passed away. We see how completely the Mexicans and Peruvians, after the conquest, sunk from their comparatively high state of civilisation into barbarism; and such might have been the case with the inhabitants of these cities. Their origin will probably for ever afford matter for speculation.

The different cities vary in their style of architecture almost as much as as they do from those of Assyria or Egypt; but when we come to examine the sculptures, we may be able to trace a much stronger resemblance. The statues of the woman and child, the cruciform ornaments, the serpents and gigantic heads of apes, as well as those of the typical heads of savage animals surmounting the heads of the statues, are all to be found on the banks of the Nile, and were probably derived from the same central source. While the tribes who proceeded westward peopled Egypt, others, among whom a similar system of idolatry prevailed, may have migrated towards the east, and finally made their way across the Pacific to the shores of America.

Part 3—Chapter I.

South America.

Scenes of Ancient Days.

Time was when a rocky island, against which dashed the surges of the Atlantic on the east and of the Pacific on the west, rose in solitude from the wide-extending ocean where now the highlands of Guiana appear above the surrounding plains. Not another spot of dry land was to be found—so geologists affirm—between that point and the hills of Canada on the north, or for thousands of miles southward towards the pole, over that portion of the globe’s surface now occupied by the vast continent of America. Then, by slow degrees, the mountains of Brazil, with their mines of glittering gems, appeared above the surface of the waters, amid which huge reptile-like whales, ichthyosaurs, plesiosaurs, and cetiosaurs buffeted the billows, and vast saurians, lizards, and alligators, rivalling the elephant in bulk, and twice his length—such as the megalosaurus, the iguanodon, and teleosaurus—crawled along the slimy shores; while giant birds, with wide-spreading feet, stalked across the newly-formed plains, or flew shrieking, with wings of prodigious expanse skimming the glittering sea,—the lords paramount of this lower world. At length the earth, convulsed by mighty throes in the far-away west from north to south, began to cast up a long line of rocky heights, now to sink, now to rise once more above the surface,—till by degrees Pelion piled on Ossa—the vast chain of the Cordilleras rose towards the skies, forming a mighty barrier between the two great oceans.

On the eastern side, the waves of the Atlantic, beating continuously, brought down into the shallow sea the débris from the newly-formed rocks, gradually filling up the spaces between the already created islands; and the streams, running down from the mountain heights, formed the plan of the three great river-systems of the continent—the Orinoco in the north, the Amazon in the centre, and La Plata in the south.

The Almighty Creator appears always to have worked by mechanical means in preparing the globe for the habitation of man. There came then a glacial period. Ponderous blocks of ice, resting not only on the mountainsides, but extending over the plains, and acting the part of mighty mill-stones, ground into impalpable powder the pieces of detached rock of which the lower surface was composed, till a soil was formed capable of producing a wondrous and varied vegetation to clothe that Amazonian valley.

(The continent, Professor Agassiz supposes, extended at that time between 200 and 300 miles further east than it does at present; but the waters from the rapidly-melting mass of ice, forcing a passage towards the ocean, carried a large portion away, leaving only certain tracts which now appear in the form of islands at the mouths of the Amazon and Orinoco.)

The work has been accomplished—the land prepared for its future inhabitants! Mighty torrents fall from the lofty mountains, meandering through the vast Amazonian plain. The age of winter has passed away. The earth, warmed by the fires beneath and the hot sun above, steams with vapour. Lofty trees rise from the alluvial soil. A dense mass of underwood springs up; creepers innumerable hang from the boughs; countless multitudes of insects have been called into existence—termites, ants, and beetles—feeding on the leaves and herbage, and on the giant trunks themselves. It might seem, numerous and voracious as they are, that they must quickly destroy the clothing of verdure which covers the soil. But they are not destined thus to triumph over the wonderful work of the Creator’s hand.

A law has been framed by which all things are beautifully and wonderfully balanced. Monstrous animals have been created to place bounds on their too great increase. Huge, awkward-looking beasts covered with shaggy hair, with thick, short limbs, and powerful, sharp claws bent inwards on soft pads—compelling them to move on the edge of their paws—are busy with the clay-formed nests of the insects, dashing them asunder, and devouring their active builders—taking in whole armies at a mouthful.

See yonder huge creature, its body the size of a rhinoceros, covered with a coat of armour, a convex oval shield, formed of hexagonal plates wonderfully fitted to each other! It is an armadillo, the precursor of a race still abounding in the land, though of diminutive form compared to its mighty predecessor. See how, with powerful jaws, it crunches up a fallen tree, perforated through and through by ants,—grinding the papery partitions of the dry wood, licking in and chewing between its wonderful cylinder teeth the whole mass into a black pulp!

“But lo! here are mightier creatures yet. See the vast mylodon, the scelidothere, and the still more colossal megathere! Ponderous giants these. The very forests seem to tremble under their stately stride. Their immense bulk preponderates behind, terminating in a tail of wonderful thickness and solidity. The head is mean, and awakens no terror. The eye lacks lustre, and threatens no violence, though the whole form betokens vast power; and the stout limbs are terminated by the same thick, in-bent, sharp, hoofed claws. One of them approaches that wide-spreading locust-tree. He gazes up at the huge mud-brown structures that resemble hogsheads affixed to the forks of the branches, and he knows that the luscious termites are filling them to overflowing. His lips water at the tempting sight. Have them he must; but how? That heavy stern-post of his was never made for climbing. Yet, see! he rears himself up against the tree. Is he about to essay the scaling? Not he. He knows his powers better. He gives it one embrace—one strong hug, as if to test its thickness and hold upon the earth. Now he is digging away below, scooping out the soft soil from between the roots; and it is marvellous to note how rapidly he lays them bare with those great shovel-like claws of his. Now he rears himself again; straddles wide on his hind-feet, fixing the mighty claws deep in the ground; plants himself firmly on his huge tail, as on the third foot of a tripod, and once more grasps the tree. The enormous hind-quarters, the limbs and the loins, the broad pelvis and thick spinal cord, supplying abundant nervous energy to the swelling muscles inserted in the ridged and keeled bones, all come into play as a point d’appui for the Herculean effort.” (Gosse’s “Natural History.”)

“And now conceive the massive frame of the megathere convulsed with the mighty wrestling, every vibrating fibre reacting upon its bony attachments with the force of a hundred giants. Extraordinary must be the strength and proportions of the tree if, when rocked to and fro to right and left in such an embrace, it can long withstand the efforts of its assailant. It yields! The roots fly up. The earth is scattered wide upon the surrounding foliage. The tree comes down with a thundering crash, cracking and snapping the great boughs like grass. The frightened insects swarm out at every orifice, but the huge beast is in upon them. With his sharp hoofs he tears apart the crusty walls of the earth-nests, and licks out their living contents—fat pupae, eggs, and all—rolling down the sweet morsels, half sucking, half chewing, with a delighted gusto that repays him for all his mighty toil. While this giant is absorbed in his juicy breakfast, see! there lounges along his neighbour the macrauchen—equally massive, equally heavy, equally vast, equally peaceful. The stranger resembles the huge rhinoceros, elevated on much loftier limbs. But his most remarkable feature is the enormously long neck, like that of the camel, but carried to the altitude of that of the giraffe. Thus he thrusts his great muzzle into the very centre of the leafy trees, and gathering with his prehensile and flexible lip the succulent twigs and foliage, he too finds abundance of food for his immense body in the teeming vegetation without intruding on the supply of his fellows.” (Owen on the “Mylodon.”)

Emerging from the water appears a great head, with little piggish eyes set wide apart, with immense muzzle and lips, and broad cheeks armed with stiff projecting bristles—the sluggish toxodon. The creature opens its cavernous mouth to seize a floating gourd; and now it tears up the great fleshy arum roots from the clay bank, and grinding them to pulp, sinks below to masticate its meal. Numberless other curious creatures are roaming through the forest, or feeding on the banks; many others, having run their destined course, disappear from the face of the globe, to be replaced by a new creation of far less magnitude—the mild llama, the savage jaguar, the nimble monkey with prehensile tail, the ant-eater, arborial and terrestrial; the diminutive sloth, thick-skinned tapir, alligators, turtles, and manatees; lizards, serpents; the beautiful denizens of the air with superb plumage, numerous species of humming-birds, gorgeous butterflies and beetles, vieing in their shining hues with the rich gems hidden within the bowels of the earth.

It is of these, and of many others in wonderful variety; as well as of their master—man—in his savage state; and of the curious trees and shrubs, whose fruits afford him and the lower orders abundant nourishment, that some outline sketches will now be given.

Part 3—Chapter II.

A General View of South America.

Three separate mountain-systems exist in South America:—that of the Andes on the west, Guiana and Venezuela on the north, and the serras of Brazil in the centre. The surface of the remainder of the continent is occupied by vast level, or undulating tracts of different elevations. The chief portion of the region through which the Amazon flows, but slightly raised above its surface, is covered with the richest and most varied vegetation to be found on any part of the globe, extending on either side of its course, as also along the shores of the Atlantic, north and south, for many hundreds of miles. Here enormous trees of many descriptions, of varied shapes and heights, grow in wonderful profusion. The candelabra, sumauméra, the manicaria, and raphia, with their enormous leaves, and other palms innumerable, tower towards the sky. To the south of the Orinoco is another thickly-wooded region, known as the Silvas; which, united to the woods of Guiana and those of Brazil, Eastern Peru and Bolivia, form one enormous forest. From the north bank of the last-named river, the ground gently rises towards the interior at the rate of five feet in a mile. At a distance of one hundred miles from its hanks, at a slightly increased elevation, appears a sandy terrace—the greater portion barren, though in some places bearing grasses, and supplying water to the wide-extending plains below. This barren region, which occupies the most northern part of South America, is called the Llanos Altos. A far wider and more level country extends between the base of the Andes and the banks of the Orinoco, at a height of between two hundred and five hundred feet. Not a stone or rock, not even a pebble, is to be seen on these vast plains. So level are they, that the currents of the rivers crossing them are almost imperceptible, and are frequently sent back towards their sources when met by strong winds. They are covered with grass, which affords pasturage to large herds of wild cattle—the only other species of vegetation being a few bushes growing on the banks of the streams; while here and there, scattered at considerable distances apart, a few tall palm-trees are seen, reminding the traveller of the deserts of Arabia.

In the southern part of the continent are the treeless plains of the Pampas, extending from about 20 degrees south latitude for a distance of fully two thousand miles into Patagonia, and averaging in width five hundred miles. Stretching, as do these plains, across a large portion of the South Temperate Zone, they present great varieties of climate. The northern portion is watered by the River La Plata and its tributaries. To the south of Buenos Ayres the rivers are fewer and of less extent. The north-western Pampas consist of slightly undulating and dry plains, though interspersed with vast tracts on which lofty thistles rear their heads—useful, however, as fuel to the inhabitants. Further on, to the west, is a wide-extending pastoral district; and yet beyond, reaching to the foot of the Cordilleras, the soil is well-suited for agriculture. The pastoral region is almost a dead level, with large shallow salt-lakes,—one of them measuring fifty miles in length by twenty in width. Scarcely a tree is to be found throughout this region, and but few permanent water-courses. To the north extends a salt desert for upwards of one hundred miles, with a width of two hundred miles. It is crossed by the River Salado, which, rising in the Cordilleras, falls into the Plata, to the south of which rises a number of step-like terraces, sterile during the heats of summer, but covered with verdure after the rains of spring. Huge boulders, brown grass growing in tufts, and low spine-covered bushes, diversify the surface. In this inhospitable region transitions from heat to cold are very great. Now the traveller is panting under the intense heat of the sun’s rays; and anon an icy blast rushes across the plain, compelling him to draw close around his body his thick poncho, for protection against its chilling influences.

Further to the south are found large swamps and lagoons, one of them having an area of one thousand square miles, its surface covered with aquatic plants. In the rainy season, the rivers, overflowing their banks, inundate the plains—leaving behind, however, a thick deposit of fertilising soil, from which, as elsewhere, rich crops are capable of being produced. Further on, to the south, the Pampas, over which the yet savage and untamed Patagonians roam, and hunt the huanacu and ostrich, is generally higher and drier.

The South American continent, it will thus be seen, consists of several distinctly different descriptions of country:—the long line of the Cordilleras, with their snow-capped peaks and their lofty punas or high table-lands, and the narrow strip of arid soil at their western base; the three separate mountain-systems of Venezuela, Guiana, and the Brazils; the mighty forests bordering the great rivers and their tributaries, to which must be added the wooded heights of the inter-tropical regions, where tall trees, including several palms, flourish at an elevation of many thousand feet above the level of the ocean; and lastly, the wide-extending regions of the Llanos and the Pampas. These, as might be supposed, present great varieties of animal life—though scarcely so great as might have been expected, when it is remembered that they extend from 10 degrees north to 50 degrees south latitude. Several species indeed are found far to the north of the equator, and also near the southern end of the continent. But to give an idea of these different regions, they must be described in detail.

Part 3—Chapter III.

Valley of the Amazon.

Standing on the eastern spur of the Andes, between 3 degrees and 4 degrees south of the equator, the eye of the traveller may see in imagination a vast valley, clothed with a dense forest, stretching towards the far-distant Atlantic. Behind him, on the west, tower the lofty peaks of the Cordilleras; on his left, in a northerly direction, appear the mountains and highlands of Venezuela and Guiana; while to the south rise the serras and table-lands of the Brazils. It is the Valley of the Amazon, in which more than half of Europe might be contained. Down the centre flows a mighty stream, the tributaries of which alone contain a bulk of water greater than all the European rivers put together.

Upwards of five hundred miles away to the south of the spot where the traveller stands, is the little lake of Lauricocha, near the silver-mines of Cerro de Pasco in Peru, just below the limit of perpetual snow—14,000 feet above the level of the sea. This lake has the honour of giving birth to the mighty stream: its waters forming the River Tunguragua, which, roaring and foaming in a series of cataracts and rapids through rocky valleys, flows northerly till it reaches the frontier of Ecuador. It then turns suddenly to the east, which direction it maintains, with a slightly northerly inclination, for two thousand miles—its volume greatly increased by numerous large streams, each of which is by itself a mighty river—till, attaining a width which may vie with that of the Baltic, it rushes with such fierce force into the Atlantic as to turn aside on either hand the salt-waters of the ocean. Thus the seaman approaching the shore of South America, when still out of sight of land, may lower his bucket and draw up the fresh-water which, it may be, has issued forth weeks before from the sides of the Andes. The whole length of the river, following its main curves, is but little under three thousand miles, while the tributaries from north to south stretch over seventeen hundred miles.

The basin of the Amazon may be considered like a shallow trough lying parallel to the equator, the southern sides having double the inclination of the northern, the whole gently sloping eastward. The channel of the river lies rather to the north of the basin, some hills rising directly above its waters; while the falls of several rivers to the south are two hundred miles above their mouths. Two thousand miles from its mouth the depth of the river is never less than eighteen feet, while many of its tributaries at their embouchures are of equal depth; and at the junction of the great rivers the hollows of its bed attain a depth of twenty-four fathoms. At Tabalingua, two thousand miles from its mouth, it is a mile and a half broad; and lower down, at the entrance of one of its tributaries—the Madeira—it measures three miles across. Still further to the east its sea-like reaches extend to the north for ten miles, with still wider lake-like expanses, so that the eye of the voyager can scarcely reach the forest-covered banks on the opposite side; while if the River Para is properly considered one of its branches, its measurement from shore to shore, across a countless number of islands, is one hundred and eighty miles—equal to the breadth of the widest part of the Baltic.

After receiving the waters of numerous streams, many of which flow for considerable distances parallel with its shores, and are united by a network of channels, it is joined by its most considerable northern tributary—the Rio Negro. This stream, rising in the mountains of Venezuela, and passing amidst the Llanos, robbing the Orinoco of part of its waters, has already, before it reaches the Amazon, flowed for a course of one thousand five hundred miles. It is called the Negro from its black colour. It is here not less than nineteen fathoms deep, and three thousand six hundred paces broad. The next great affluent is the Yapura, which, rising in the mountains of New Granada, takes a south-easterly course for one thousand miles, its principal mouth entering the Amazon opposite the town of Ega; but it has numberless small channels, the streams of which, two hundred miles apart, flow into the great river. The upper part of the Amazon is frequently called the Solimoens, which name it retains as far south as the mouth of the River Negro.

About sixty miles further east, its largest southern affluent—the gigantic Madeira—unites its milky waters with the turbid stream of the main river. One branch, the Beni, rises in the neighbourhood of the ancient Cuzco in Peru, near Lake Titicaca, its whole extent from the centre of the province of Bolivia being nearly the length of the Amazon itself. At its mouth it is two miles wide and sixty-six feet deep; and five hundred miles up it is a mile wide. Numerous islands are found in its course: for nearly five hundred miles it is navigable for large vessels, when a cataract intervenes. Were it not for this, there would be a free navigation from the centre of the province of Bolivia to the ocean, embracing islands the size of many of the Old World provinces, and widening into broad lakes. The monarch of waters flows on between its low forest-clothed banks till, four hundred miles from its mouth, it reaches the Strait of Obydos, where it is narrowed to two thousand paces. Through this channel its waters rush with immense force, calculated at five hundred thousand cubic feet in one second—sufficient to fill all the streams in Europe, and swell them to overflowing. No plummet has hitherto sounded the depth of its bed at this point, the force of the stream probably rendering the operation almost impracticable.

Its last two great tributaries are the Tapajos, six times the length of the Thames, and the Xingu, twice that of the Rhine; while further east a narrow channel unites it with the River Para, into which flows the broad stream of the Tocantins. This river, rising in the Minas-Geraes, six hundred miles from Rio Janeiro, is one thousand six hundred miles long, and ten miles wide at its mouth. Opposite to Para is the large island of Marajo; and if Professor Agassiz is right in supposing that the continent once extended much further to the east than it now does, this island may properly be considered in the centre of the mouth of the river, and the River Para might then properly be called one of its true embouchures. But only a few of the streams which feed the Amazon have been named. Numberless other rivers swell its waters, united to it by countless channels which form a wonderful network throughout the whole region, joining also many of the main rivers together, with the intricate navigation of which the natives alone are acquainted.

These curious water-paths, or igarapes, as they are called, are often so narrow that the branches of the lofty trees meet overhead, enabling the traveller in his canoe to proceed for miles together sheltered from the noonday sun. Here and there a glimpse of the sky can be discovered through the umbrageous foliage overhead, while birds of gay plumage flit to and fro, or sit perched on the branches uttering their strange and varied cries. In the intervals, or sometimes forming the termination of the water-path, numerous pools of various sizes exist—some a few yards across, others expanding into lakes—filled mostly by the overflowing of the main river during the rainy season. They are the habitations of a great variety of fishes. Here several species of turtles and alligators swarm in vast numbers; electric eels, too, abound in them, as well as many of the other curious water-creatures of that region. Water-fowl and various other aquatic birds dwell on their banks, while on the surface of their placid waters float the wide-spreading leaves and magnificent blossoms of the Victoria Regia, as also of other lilies and water-plants.

Scenes on the Amazon.

The chief feature of the Lower Amazon is the vast expanse of smooth water, of a pale yellowish-olive colour, bearing on its bosom detached masses of aquatic grass floating down like islands, sometimes mixed with huge trees, their branches and roots interlocked, and often carrying among them wild animals, which, unconscious of their character, have there taken refuge from their foes, or have ventured thither in search of prey. The timid stag and fierce jaguar are sometimes thus entrapped and carried out to sea. At even and morn flocks of parrots and large and yellow macaws, fly backwards and forwards, uttering their wild and hoarse cries; herons and rails frequent the marshes on its banks; while all night long the cries of gulls and terns are heard over the sandy banks where they deposit their eggs, while they may be seen during the day sitting in rows on floating logs gliding down the stream, motionless and silent, as if contemplating the scenery. There are divers and darters, too, in abundance. Now and then a huge manatee comes gliding by, its cow-like head rising to breathe the upper air; while dolphins, porpoise-like, rear their backs above the surface, or leap half out of the water as they swim up the stream. On the low banks, huge alligators with open jaws are basking in the sun, or leisurely swimming across the river.

The Rainy Season.

This magnificent region enjoys a perpetual summer, its various fruits coming to maturity, according to their character, at different periods throughout the year. It has, however, its wet and dry seasons. The rain occurs at one time in the Upper Amazon, and at another in the Lower,—greatly swelling the volume of water in the main stream, which, unable to find its way towards the ocean, rushes through the countless channels and igarapes, overflowing the lower portions of a vast district called the Gapo. The waters begin to rise in February, and progress inch by inch until the middle of June, gradually swelling the rivers and lakes, when, these becoming filled, the lower lands and sand-banks are overflowed even far-away in the interior. The forests are traversed by numerous gullies, which in the dry season are wide dells, but now become transformed into broad creeks, through which canoes can proceed to great distances under the shade of the lofty trees.

At this period of the year the inland pools are frequented by swarms of turtle, as well as alligators, and shoals of fish which leave the main river; while the flocks of wading birds migrate northerly, thus greatly dispersing the food on which the natives depend for their existence. The fishermen who have been employed during the dry months in catching turtle and fish on the sand-banks return to their villages, though some employ themselves in collecting the Brazil-nut and wild cacao, which are now ripe.

About the first week in June, the flood has risen sometimes to the height of forty feet above the usual level of the river, when it now begins to subside. The rains, however, do not fall continuously, though very heavy at times. Several days of beautiful sunny weather generally intervene. The fine season begins with a few days of brilliant weather—the rays of the sun breaking forth among the passing clouds. Towards the middle of July the sand-banks again appear, flocks of gulls and other water birds fly by, and the gaily-plumaged inhabitants of the forest come forth into full activity and life.

Storms.

The navigation of the Amazon is not free from danger. Fierce storms arise; black clouds gather over the blue expanse, suffused anon with a lurid yellow tinge, and the fierce whirlwind howls along the river-banks, tearing the placid stream into masses of foam; the tall trees bend before the blast, and huge branches are wrenched off and hurled into the water. The long-legged waders and other water birds, unable to face it, throw themselves on the ground, and cling with claws and beak to the sand to escape being carried helplessly away.

The Pororocca.

Sometimes, too, the destroying pororocca—a vast wave rising across the whole width of the stream, to the height of twelve or fifteen feet—sweeps up the stream. Advancing noiselessly over the deeper portions of the river-bed, it rises into an angry billow, with a fearful roar when passing over a shallow, or meeting any impediment in its course. A French traveller describes an island where he and his companions had rested on their voyage down the stream. They had happily gone over to the mainland on the previous evening, when, as they stood on the shore, the pororocca was heard approaching. Onward it came till the island was reached, when, with an angry roar, it burst into masses of foam, and swept over the devoted spot, carrying in its fierce embrace not only the whole mass of vegetation, but overturning the foundations of the island itself, so that in a few seconds not a vestige remained. Sometimes, too, the higher banks of the Upper Amazon, crowned by lofty trees, are worn away by the rapid current, increased during the rainy season, continually passing beneath them, till the upper portions, deprived of their support, fall over with a terrific roar into the stream, dragging with them their neighbours. The earth trembles with the concussion, the waters hiss and foam and rush furiously over the impediments in their course. Sometimes miles of the bank thus give way, the sound being heard far up and down the stream. Occasionally a canoe and its crew—who, to avoid the current, have been toiling close along the bank—have been thus overwhelmed; while others, descending, unaware of the obstruction, have been dragged by the furious whirlpool thus formed amid the tangled branches, and destroyed.

Part 3—Chapter IV.

Character of Vegetation on the Banks.

A dense vegetation, though somewhat varied in character, rises like a lofty wall of verdure along the banks of the mighty stream, from the base of the Andes to its mouth in the Atlantic. There, where the influence of the sea-breeze is felt, the ever-present mangrove of the tropics forms a thick belt round the shores of its numberless islands. Higher up, various palms of many graceful forms appear, interspersed with numberless other trees, some bearing huge pods a yard long, others vast nuts and other curious fruits,—the banks below fringed either with giant grasses and broad-leaved bananas, or here and there with the large wide heart-shaped leaves of the aninga growing on the summit of tall stems, or in other places with the murici of a lower growth close to the water’s edge. Among the most remarkable is the white-stemmed cecropia, the lofty massaranduba, or cow-tree, often rising to the height of one hundred and fifty feet; the seringa, or india-rubber tree, with its smooth grey bark, tall erect trunk, and thick glossy leaves. The assai-palm, with its slender stem, its graceful head and delicate green plumes, is at first more numerous than any other. Now appears the miriti, or mauritia—one of the most beautiful of its tribe, with pendent clusters of glossy fruit, and enormous spreading fan-like leaves cut into ribbons; the jupati, with plume-like leaves forty feet and upwards in length, graceful in the extreme, starting almost from the ground. Here is seen also the bussu, with stiff entire leaves, also of great length, growing upright from a short stem, close together, and serrated along their edges. Higher up still, while the palms become less numerous, other trees take their places. Among them appears conspicuous the majestic sumaumera, its flat dome rounded, but not conical, towering high above the forest. The branches of this tree are greatly ramified and knotty, and the bark is white. Conspicuous, too, is the taxi, with brown buds and white flowers; while the margin of the water is thickly fringed by a belt of arrow-grass, or frexes—so called by the Portuguese—six feet in height. Its name is given in consequence of being used by the Indians in making arrows for their blowpipes.

Amid this wonderful mass of forest vegetation grows an intricate tracery of lianas and climbing sipos, some running round and round the trees, and holding them in a close embrace; others hanging from branch to branch in rich festoons, covered with starlike flowers, or dropping in long lines to the ground,—often to take root and shoot upwards again round a neighbouring stem, or drooping like the loose cordage of a ship swinging in the breeze. Often they form so dense and impenetrable a thicket from the ground upwards that a way must be cleared with an axe to proceed even a short distance from the banks towards the inner recesses of the forest.

The Gapo.

On the Gapo, or submerged lands, however, a considerable difference in the vegetation appears. The palms are here often more numerous than in other parts. This is the region where the cacao-tree and prickly sarsaparilla grow. Here the underwood is less dense, the sipos retiring to weave their tracery among the upper branches alone. Though during the dry season the vegetation springs up with wonderful rapidity, it is swept away by the next overflow.

Here the lovely orchis tribe adorn the gloomy shades with their brilliant flowers. Among the most beautiful is the oncidium, of a yellow hue, often seen—apparently suspended in air between the stems of two trees—shining in the gloom, as if its petals were of gold. In reality it grows at the end of a wire-like stalk a yard and a half long, springing from a cluster of thick leaves on the bark of a tree; others have white and spotted blossoms, growing sometimes on rotten logs floating on the water, or on moss and decayed bark just above it. Still more magnificent is the Flor de Santa Ana, of a brilliant purple colour, emitting a most delicious odour.

Peculiar and strange is this region of the Gapo. When the waters are at their height it can be traversed in all directions. The trees which grow on it, and the animals which here have their abodes, appear to differ from those of other districts.

Let us accompany the naturalist Wallace, in his canoe, through a district of this description; now forcing our way under branches and among dense bushes, till we get into a part where the trees are loftier and a deep gloom prevails. Here the lowest branches of the trees are level with the surface of the water, many of them putting forth flowers. As we proceed we sometimes come to a grove of small palms, the leaves being now only a few feet above us. Among them is the maraja, bearing bunches of agreeable fruit, which, as we pass, the Indians cut off with their long knives. Sometimes the rustling of leaves overhead tells us that monkeys are near, and we soon see them peeping down from among the thick foliage, and then bounding rapidly away. Presently we come out into the sunshine, on a lake filled with lilies and beautiful water-plants, little bladder-worts, and the bright blue flowers and curious leaves with swollen stalks of the pontederias. Again we are in the gloom of the forest, among the lofty cylindrical trunks rising like columns out of the deep water; and now there is a splash of fruit falling around us, announcing that birds are feeding overhead, and we discover a flock of parrakeets, or bright blue chatterers, or the lovely pompadour, with its delicate white wings and claret-coloured plumage. Now, with a whir, a trogon on the wing seizes the fruit, or some clumsy toucan makes the branches shake as he alights above our heads.

This region, as might be supposed, is not destitute of inhabitants. Several tribes of Indians dwell within it all the year round. Among them are the Purupurus and Muras tribes, who, spending most of their time in their canoes, in the dry season build small huts on its sandy shores; and when the waters overflow it, form rafts, which they secure between the trees, sleeping in rude huts suspended from the stems over the deep water, and lighting their fires on masses of mud placed on their floating homes. They subsist entirely on fish, turtle, and manatee.

Several species of trogons are peculiar to this submerged region. The curious black umbrella-bird is entirely confined to it, as is also the little bristle-tailed manakin. Several monkeys visit it during the wet season, for the sake of its peculiar fruits; and here the scarlet-faced urikari has its home.

For miles and miles together the native traverses this region in his canoe, passing through small streams, lakes, and swamps, scraping the tree trunks, and stooping to pass between the leaves of the prickly palms, now level with the water—though raised on stems forty feet high—while everywhere round him stretches out an illimitable waste of waters, but all covered with the lofty virgin forest. In this trackless maze, by slight indications of broken twigs or scraped bark, he finds his way with unerring certainty.

“This curious region,” says Wallace, “extends from a little above Santarem to the confines of Peru, a distance of about 1700 miles; and varies in width on each side of the river from one to ten or twenty miles.”

Trip up an Igarape into the Interior.

Let us leave the mighty stream, and wander amidst the picturesque windings of an igarape, into the depths of the forest, with Professor Agassiz. Passing into its narrow entrance, the lofty trees arching overhead shelter the voyager in his light canoe from the glaring heat of the noonday sun. The air is cool and refreshing. Not a ripple stirs the water, save that caused by the paddles of the Indian crew. Clumps of the light and exquisitely graceful assai-palm shoot up everywhere on either side from the denser forest. Here and there the drooping bamboo dips its feathery branches into the water, covered sometimes to their very tips with the purple of convolvuli; yellow bignonias carry their golden clusters to the very summits of some of the more lofty trees; while white-flowering myrtles and orange-coloured mallows border the stream. Life abounds in this quiet retreat. Birds and butterflies are numerous on the margin of the water. Crabs of every variety of colour and size sit on the trunks of decaying logs, watching for their prey,—to make their escape, however, with nimble feet, when pursued.

Or let us start before daylight, on a calm morning, along the banks of a larger tributary, to proceed towards the heights of the Sierra Erere. As dawn begins to redden the sky, large flocks of ducks and of a small Amazonian goose may be seen flying towards the lake. Here and there we see a cormorant, seated alone on the branch of a dead tree; or a kingfisher poises himself over the water, watching for his prey. Numerous gulls are gathered in large companies on the trees along the river-shore. Alligators lie on its surface, diving with a sudden splash at the approach of the canoe. Occasionally a porpoise emerges from the water, showing himself for a moment, and then disappearing. Sometimes a herd of capybaras, resting on the water’s edge, are startled at our approach.

There sits, on the branch of an imbauba, rolled-up in its peculiar attitude, a sloth, the very picture of indolence, with its head sunk between its arms. The banks, covered in many places with the beautiful capim-grass, afford excellent pasturage for cattle.

Now we turn into an inner stream, or igarape, often having to make our way with difficulty amid islands of capim-grass. Now we pass through a magnificent forest of the beautiful fan-palm—the miriti—overshadowing many smaller trees and innumerable shrubs, bearing light conspicuous flowers. Among them are numerous Leguminosae—one of the most striking, the fava, having a colossal pod.

The whole mass of vegetation is interwoven with innumerable creepers, amid which the flowers of the bignonia, with their open trumpet-shaped corollas, are conspicuous. The capim is bright with the blossoms of the mallow growing in its midst, in some places edged with the broad-leaved aninga—a large aquatic arum. Through these forests, where animal life is no less rich and varied than the vegetation, our canoe glides silently for hours.

The sedgy grasses on either side are full of water birds. One of the most common is a small chestnut-brown wading bird—the jacana—whose toes are immensely long in proportion to its size, enabling it to run over the surface of the aquatic vegetation as if it were solid ground. It is their breeding season—January. At every turn of the boat we start them up—usually in pairs. Their flat, open nests generally contain five flesh-coloured eggs, streaked in zig-zag with dark brown lines. Among the other waders are a snow-white heron, another ash-coloured, and a large white stork. The ash-coloured herons are always in pairs—the white always singly, standing quiet and alone on the edge of the water, or half hidden in the green capim. The trees and bushes are full of small warbler-like birds. The most numerous and interesting is one which builds a very extraordinary nest, considering the size of the bird. It is known among the country people by the name of pedreiro, or the forneiro—both names referring to the nature of its habitation. This singular nest is built of clay, and is as hard as stone—pedra; while it is the shape of the mandioca oven—forno—in which the country people prepare their farina. It is about a foot in diameter, and stands edgewise upon the branch or crotch of a tree. Among the smaller birds are bright tanagers, and a species resembling the canary. Humming-birds are scarce, though here and there a few appear; while countless numbers of parrots and parrakeets fly overhead in dense crowds, at times drowning every other sound with their noisy clatter.

Birds of prey are not wanting. Among them is the red hawk, about the size of a kite—and so tame, that even when a canoe passes under the branch on which he is sitting, he does not fly away.

Among the most striking are the gallinaceous birds. The commonest is the cigana, to be seen in groups of fifteen or twenty perched on trees overhanging the water, and feeding upon berries. At night they roost in pairs; but in the daytime are always in larger companies. In appearance they have something of the character of both the pheasant and peacock, and yet do not closely resemble either. With the exception of some small partridge-like gallinaceous birds, the representatives of this family in Brazil belong to types which do not exist in any other parts of the world. Here the curassow, the jacu, the jacami, and the unicorn resemble as much the bustard and other ostrich-like birds as the hen and pheasant.

The most numerous insects to be met with are dragonflies; some with crimson bodies, black heads, and burnished wings; others with large, green bodies, crossed by blue bands.

The Campos.

Although the forests cover generally the whole length and breadth of the Amazonian Valley, there are here and there, on the higher ground, open dry plains with scanty vegetation,—the ground in the water-courses or gullies, formed of clay, being baked by the heat of the sun into slate-like masses. One of these spots we now reach. The most prominent plants of this sandy or clayey region are clusters of cacti and curua palms—a kind of stemless, low palm, with broad leaves springing, vase-like, from the ground. Here also grow wild pineapples; and in broad sunlight numerous humming-birds delight to sport and feed upon the blossoms of the various plants which find no room to bloom in the darker shades of the forest.

Geology of the Amazonian Valley.

Professor Agassiz remarks that no formation—known to geologists—resembling that of the Amazon exists on the face of the earth. Its extent is stupendous. It stretches from the Atlantic shore through the whole width of Brazil into Peru, to the very foot of the Andes—one vast extent of red sandstone, capped by a yellow-ochred clay; not only along the banks of the main river, but forming the sides of those of its tributaries, to their far-off sources, probably over the whole basin of the Paraguay and the Rio de la Plata. How are these vast deposits formed? is the question. The easiest answer, he observes, and the one which most readily suggests itself, is that of a submersion of the continent at successive periods—to allow the accumulation of these materials—and its subsequent elevation. This explanation is rejected, for the simple reason that the deposits show no signs whatever of a marine origin. No sea-shells, or remains of any marine animal, have as yet been found throughout their whole extent—over a region several thousands of miles in length, and from five to seven hundred miles in width. It is evident, he considers, that this basin was a fresh-water basin, these deposits fresh-water deposits. It is true that calcareous layers thickly studded with shells have been found interspersed with the clay; but though supposed to be marine fossils, he recognised them for what they really are—fresh-water shells of the family of the Naiades. As their resemblance is very remarkable, the mistake as to their true zoological character is natural: indeed, many travellers have confounded some fresh-water fishes from the Upper Amazon of the genus of Pterophyllum with the marine genus Platax. He considers that the immense glacier which probably existed at the same time that ice, thousands of feet thick, covered the centre of Europe, must have been formed in this valley, and then, ploughing its bottom over and over again, and grinding all the materials beneath it into a fine powder, must ultimately have forced its way through the colossal sea-wall which it had built up eastward into the Atlantic.

A Day and Night on the Amazon, with their Sights and Sounds.

Day is beginning to dawn, the birds are astir, the cicada have begun their music; flocks of parrots and macaws, and other winged inhabitants of the forest, pass by in numbers, seeking their morning repast; beautiful long-tailed and gilded moths like butterflies fly over the tree-tops. Rapid is the change from the dark night. The sky in the east assumes suddenly the loveliest azure colour, across which streaks of thin white clouds are painted. The varied forms of the numberless trees, imperceptible during the gloom of night, now appear, the smaller foliage contrasting with the large glossy leaves of the taller trees, or the feathery, fan-shaped fronds of palms. For a time the fresh breeze blows, but flags under the increasing power of the sun, and finally dies away, the heat and electric tension of the atmosphere becoming almost insupportable.

The heat increases as the day draws on. Languor and uneasiness seize on every one;—even the denizens of the forest betray it by their motions. By this time every voice of bird or mammal is hushed. Only in the trees is heard at intervals the whir of the cicada. The leaves, so soft and fresh in the early morn, now become lax and drooping. The flowers shut their petals. The natives, returning to their huts, fall asleep in their hammocks, or, seated on mats in the shade appear too languid even to talk. White clouds now appear in the east, and gather into cumuli, with an increasing blackness along their lower portions. The whole eastern horizon becomes rapidly black, the dark hue spreading upwards. Even the sun is at length obscured. Then the rush of a mighty wind is heard through the forest swaying the tree-tops. A vivid flash of lightning bursts forth, then a crash of thunder, and down streams the deluging rain. The storm soon ceases, leaving the bluish-black motionless clouds in the sky till night. Meantime all nature is refreshed, but heaps of flower petals and leaves are seen under the trees.

Towards evening life revives again. The noises of the forest animals begin just as the sun sinks behind the trees, leaving the sky above of the intensest shade of blue. The briefest possible twilight commences, and the sounds of multifarious life come from every quarter. Troops of howling monkeys, from their lofty habitations among the topmost branches—some near, some at a distance—fill the echoing forest with their dismal noise; flocks of parrots and blue macaws pass overhead, the different kinds of cawing and screaming of the various species making a terrible discord. Added to them are the calls of strange cicada—one large kind perched high on the trees setting up a most piercing chirp. It begins with the usual harsh jarring tone of its tribe, rapidly becoming shriller, until it ends in a long and loud note resembling the steam whistle of a locomotive engine. A few of these wonderful performers make a considerable item in the evening concert. The uproar of beasts, birds, and insects lasts but a short time; the sky quickly loses its intense hue, and the night sets in. Then begin the tree-frogs—Quack, quack! Drum, drum! Hoo, hoo! These, accompanied by melancholy night-jars, keep up their monotonous cries till late at night.

The night, however, is not given over to darkness. In every forest path, across the calm waters of the igarapes, along open spaces, in the village as well as in spots remote from man’s abode, the whole air is full of bright and glittering lights of varied hue; now darting here, now there, like meteors flashing through the sky—now for a moment obscured, to burst forth again with greater brilliancy. Beautiful as is the English glow-worm, the fire-flies and fire-beetles, the elaters of the tropics, far surpass them in brilliancy. Their light is redder and more candle-like, and being alternately emitted and concealed, each of the tiny vermilion flames performing its part in the aerial mazy dance, the spectacle is singularly beautiful. In the marshy districts is seen the large elater, which displays both red and green lights; the red glare, like that of a lamp, alternately flashing on the beholder, then concealed as the insect turns his body in flight, but the ruddy reflection on the grass beneath being constantly visible as it leisurely pursues its course. Now and then a green light is displayed, and then the mingling of the two complementary colours, red and green, in the evolutions of flight, surpasses description. Even the brilliant elaters, however, will scarcely enable the traveller to find his way amid the darkness through the forest.

Wallace describes a midnight walk he was compelled to take. He was barefooted, every moment stepping on some projecting root or stone, or treading sideways on something which almost dislocated his ankles. Dull clouds could just be distinguished in the openings amid high-arched, overhanging trees, but the pathway was invisible. Jaguars, he knew, abounded, deadly serpents were plentiful, and at every step he almost expected to feel a cold gliding body under his feet, or deadly fangs in his leg. Gazing through the darkness, he dreaded momentarily to encounter the glaring eyes of the jaguar, or to hear his low growl in the thicket. To turn back or stop were alike useless. Unpleasant recollections of the fangs of a huge dried snake’s head he had just before examined, would come across his memory; and many a tale of the fierceness and cunning of the jaguar would not be forgotten. Suddenly he found his feet in water, and then he had to grope for a narrow bridge it was necessary to cross. Of its height above the water, or the depth of the stream, he was utterly ignorant. To walk along a plank four inches wide, under such circumstances, was a nervous matter. He proceeded, however, placing one foot before the other, and balancing steadily his body, till he again felt himself on firm ground. Once or twice he lost his balance, but happily he was only a foot or two from the ground and water below—though, had it been twenty it would have been all the same. Half-a-dozen such brooks and bridges had to be passed, till at length, emerging from the pitchy shade upon an open space, he saw two twinkling lights, which told him that the village was ahead.

But we were describing a tropical day. Night is over. The sun rising again in the cloudless sky, the cycle is completed—spring, summer, and autumn, as it were, in one tropical day. The days are more or less like this throughout the year. A little difference exists, between the dry and wet seasons. The periodical phenomena of plants and animals do not take place at about the same time in all the species, or in the individuals of any given species, as they do in temperate countries. The dry season here is not excessive, nor is there any estivation, as in some tropical countries. In these forests the aspect is the same or nearly so every day in the year—budding, flowering, fruiting, and leaf-shedding, are always going on in one species or other. The activity of birds and insects proceeds without interruption, each species having its own breeding-times. The colonies of wasps, for instance, do not die off annually, leaving only the queens, as in cold climates, but the succession of generations and colonies goes on incessantly. It is never either spring, summer, or autumn, but each day is a combination of the three. With the day and night always of equal length, the atmospheric disturbances of each day neutralise themselves before each succeeding morning. With the sun in its course proceeding midway across the sky, and the daily temperature the same within two or three degrees throughout the year, how grand in its perfect equilibrium and simplicity is the march of nature under the equator!

“Oppressive, almost fearful, is the silence and gloom of the Brazilian forest,” says Bates. “The few sounds of birds are of that pensive or mysterious character which intensifies the feeling of solitude, rather than imparts a sense of life and cheerfulness. Sometimes, in the midst of the stillness, a sudden yell or scream will startle one. This comes from some defenceless fruit-eating animal, which is pounced upon by a tiger-cat or stealthy boa-constrictor. Morning and evening howling monkeys make a most fearful and harrowing noise, under which it is difficult to keep up one’s buoyancy of spirit. The feeling of inhospitable wildness which the forest is calculated to inspire, is increased tenfold under this fearful uproar. Often, even in the still hours of mid-day, there is a sudden crash, resounding afar through the wilderness, as some great bough or entire tree falls to the ground. Sometimes a sound is heard like the clang of an iron bar against a hard hollow tree, or a piercing cry rends the air. These are not repeated, and the succeeding silence tends to heighten the unpleasant impression which they make on the mind. The natives believe it is the curupira—the wild man of the forest—who produces all the noises they are unable to explain. He is a mysterious being,—sometimes described as a kind of orang-outang, covered with long shaggy hair, and living in trees; at others, he is said to have cloven feet and a bright red face. He has a wife and children, who, as well as himself, come down to the plantations to steal the mandioca.”

Such is a faint outline of some of the more prominent features of the great Amazonian Valley—the most interesting portion of the southern half of the New World. No verbal descriptions can do justice to the reality—although drawn, as some of the above are, by master hands. We will next range along the mighty Cordilleras to the ancient kingdom of the Incas, looking down on the Pacific shores; and then, again descending from the mountain heights, take a brief glance at the debased human beings who people the valley, and pass in review the more interesting of the countless wild creatures which inhabit its forests and waters. Afterwards we will traverse Venezuela, Guiana, the rest of the Brazils, and the wide-spreading level regions to the south of that vast country, the river-bound province of Paraguay, the territories of the Argentine Republic, the wild district of the Gran Chaco, the far-famed Pampas, and the plains of Patagonia.

Part 3—Chapter V.

The Cordilleras.

The voyager sailing from the Atlantic into the Pacific Ocean passes a dark granite headland rising nearly three thousand feet out of the water, and which may be distinctly seen at a distance of sixty miles. It is Cape Horn—the southern end, broken off by the Strait of Magellan, of that range of mighty mountains which runs in a northerly course along the western coast of South America, rising into lofty pinnacles—the summits of many covered with perpetual snow—sinking at length only at the northern extremity, where the narrow Isthmus of Panama unites the two continents. Again it gradually rises in Mexico, and runs on under the name of the Rocky Mountains, at a less elevation and a greater distance from the sea, till it sinks once more into the snow-covered plains of the Arctic region. We must, however, confine ourselves to the South American portion of the range. For the entire distance its summits are distinctly seen from the ocean, many at a distance of upwards of a hundred miles. Between their base and the shores of the Pacific there is, however, a level tract, in some parts consisting of arid plains, from fifteen to fifty miles in width. In crossing them the traveller finds not a drop of water to quench his raging thirst, nor a blade of grass to feed his weary steed. Among the rocky caverns of those mountain heights the savage bear has its abode, the mighty condor takes its flight from their rugged peaks into the blue ether, and the cold-looking llama, the vicuña, and alpaca find ample pasturage. In the lower, the fierce jaguar ranges amidst its forests of graceful palm-trees, the terrible alligator dwells on the banks of its streams, and the anaconda watches for its prey; while bananas, yams, mandioc, and all the fruits of a tropical clime, attain perfection. This mighty range, however, does not run its length in one distinct line, but separates; in some parts with deep valleys between them, like that of the Puncu of Avisca, while at others there are vast table-lands; again, however, to unite and spread out into numerous rugged sierras.

The western portion of these ranges is properly the Cordilleras; while the eastern, which slopes towards the wide-extending plains of Brazil, forms the true Andes. The southern portion skirts the bleak shores of Patagonia in a single sierra, for a distance of nearly one thousand miles, in some parts rising to the height of seven thousand feet above the ocean. Entering Chili, the mountains rise higher and higher, till they culminate in the mighty peak of Aconcagua, the most lofty height of the whole range.

At the boundary-line of Bolivia the chain separates into two portions, enclosing the great table-land of Desuguadero, thirteen thousand feet above the sea. At one end of this lofty region is the city of Potosi, rising above the clouds—the highest in the world, erected amid the groans and tears of the hapless natives compelled to labour at its far-famed silver-mines. At the other is found Cuzco, the ancient capital of the Incas. Between them lies the Lake of Titicaca, the centre of bygone Peruvian civilisation.

Running still parallel with the coast, and looking down upon the modern city of Lima, the range passes through Peru till it again divides in three portions at the confines of the equator, where it once more forms two lines, which rise in that magnificent congregation of mountains which surround the famous Valley of Quito. Here no less than twenty-one volcanoes rear their lofty summits, many of them crowned with perpetual snow, amid which Chimborazo and Cotopaxi are pre-eminent.

To the north of the equator, the Cordilleras again form one vast ridge, and passing through New Granada, spread out like the branches of a palm through Venezuela and along the northern shores of the continent washed by the Caribbean Sea.

The whole of this vast range, from Cape Horn to Panama, gives evidence of the hidden fires which glow beneath its base, and by which it was originally created. Fifty-one volcanoes are found along the line. Of the twenty which surround the Valley of Quito, three are active, five dormant, and twelve are supposed to be extinct. By far the larger number rise out of the eastern range; indeed, the western contains only one active volcano, but out of it tower the peerless Chimborazo, and Pichincha with its deep crater. The whole region is subject to terrific earthquakes, which have from time to time shaken down its cities, caused huge waves to flow over the level land, and destroyed countless thousands of its inhabitants. Chimborazo was long supposed to be the most lofty mountain on the globe. It is 21,420 feet high; but Aconcagua in Chili rises to the height of 23,200 feet. Several of the summits of the Himalayan range in Asia are over 25,000 feet; and Kilima Njaro, the most lofty peak in Africa, is about the same altitude as Chimborazo. Chimborazo, for solitary grandeur—and from the excessive steepness of its sides, which has prevented the foot of man from reaching its summit—stands, however, unrivalled.

From the lofty heights over which we have thus rapidly passed, numberless streams take their rise, rushing and foaming down their steep sides to feed those mighty rivers which, flowing across the continent, seek an outlet in the far-distant Atlantic. On the western side, comparatively few and insignificant rivers cross the narrow plains into the Pacific. Thus the inhabitants of the tropical portions have to depend on artificial irrigation for the cultivation of the land.

What mighty force must have been required to raise those mountains to their present elevation,—and how fearful must be the fires which still rage beneath their bases! Gigantic, however, as they seem to human eyes, the most lofty could be represented on a globe six feet in diameter by a grain of sand, less than one-twentieth of an inch in thickness. How insignificant then must the proudest works of man appear—what a mere speck himself—to One who looks down from on high on this earth of ours!

On examining their sides in various parts, proof is afforded that these vast mountains have been heaved upwards from beneath the ocean. Shells are found 1300 feet above the sea, covered with marine mud. On a beach elevated 2500 feet above the Pacific, numerous species of patella and other shells can be picked up, identical with those obtained on the coast with the living animal inhabiting them. At Huanuco, in Peru, there is a coal-bed existing at the height of 14,700 feet. Shells have also been found at the height of 13,000 feet; and on the side of Chimborazo there is a salt spring 13,000 feet above the ocean.

The surface of the great lake of Titicaca—the largest piece of fresh-water in South America—is 12,795 feet above the Pacific; an elevation greater than that of the highest peaks of the Pyrenees. In the neighbourhood of this lake, remains exist which speak of the advanced state of civilisation of the inhabitants before the appearance of the Incas, with whose latter history alone we are acquainted. So completely is the lake surrounded by mountains, that, though fed by numerous streams, not the smallest rivulet escapes to find its way either into the Pacific or Atlantic. One large river, however, the Desaguadero, flows out of its south-west corner, and disappears in the swampy Lake Aullagas in the south of Bolivia. Its superabundant water must, therefore, be taken off by evaporation, excessive in that elevated region. High above it, amid chilling mists and biting storms of driving snow, are found the silver-mines of Potosi and Pasco.

However, before we wander further amid the giddy precipices and snow-capped summits of this mighty range of mountains, we will descend for a time to the lower world, and glance round its southern extremity and along its western shores, bathed by the waters of the wide-stretching Pacific.

Part 3—Chapter VI.

Southern and Western Shores of the Continent.

Tierra Del Fuego appears as if a mountain region had been partly submerged in the ocean, so that deep inlets and bays occupy the place where valleys would have existed had its base still been above the sea. The greater portion of the mountainsides are covered, from the water’s edge upwards to the elevation of 1500 feet, by one wide-extending forest of evergreen beeches. Scarcely a level spot is to be found throughout the whole country; and so dense is the wood, and encumbered by the trunks of fallen trees and waterfalls, that it is scarcely possible to penetrate it. Here and there on the western side, and in the Strait of Magellan, the forest disappears, and magnificent glaciers extend down to the very water’s edge. The mountains on the north side rise to the height of 4000 feet, with one peak above 6000 feet high, covered with a mantle of perpetual snow; while numerous cascades pour their waters through the woods into the narrow channel below. It is scarcely possible to imagine anything more beautiful than the beryl-like blue of these glaciers, especially contrasted with the dead white of the upper expanse of snow.

The inhabitants of this region are among the lowest in the scale of human beings, living in wretched hovels, composed often merely of boughs and leaves, their only clothing scanty pieces of skin, worn on one side, to defend themselves from the icy winds.

These evergreen forests, consisting of only two or three species of trees, with several Alpine plants growing on the heights above them, continue round the coast for six hundred miles or more northward of Cape Horn, till, in the more northern and warmer latitudes, they give place to semi-tropical vegetation. Now stately trees of various kinds appear, with smooth and highly-coloured bark, loaded with parasitical plants; while large and elegant ferns, and numerous and arborescent grasses, entwine the trees into one entangled mass. Palm-trees appear in latitude 37 degrees; and an arborescent grass, very like the bamboo, three degrees further north.

In many places the ocean washes the base of the Andes, or huge spurs project from the mountains; and in others a narrow belt alone is left between them and the water. The whole of Chili, indeed, consists of a narrow strip of land between the Cordilleras and the Pacific; while this strip is often traversed by several mountain lines, which in some parts run parallel to the great range. Extending to the south, between these outer lines and the main Cordilleras, we find a succession of level basins, generally blending into each other by narrow passages.

In the neighbourhood of Valparaiso, above which Aconcagua (23,000 feet in height) looks down on the Pampas on one side and the blue Pacific on the other, is the beautiful valley of Guillota, thoroughly irrigated and brought under cultivation. It has, during the whole summer, the hot sun striking down from a cloudless sky. It is only in these parts where the nature of the streams affords means of irrigation that vegetation can exist.

Further north, the western shore is in many parts very arid; and about latitude 20 degrees south the burning desert commences, extending 540 leagues—almost to the Gulf of Guayaquil—and varying in width from three to twenty leagues. Over this region of death, heaps of stone or mounds of sand are alone seen, except where, at wide intervals, some mountain stream, fed by the melting snows of the lofty peaks, finds its way into the ocean. It is only in the neighbourhood of these rivers that man can venture to take up his abode. On the banks of most of them have been built the few cities which exist near the sea in Peru. For some miles the traveller finds not a drop of water, no trace of vegetation. His weary horse sinks, overcome with the pangs of thirst and the fatigue of dragging its limbs through the soft sand. Through this region the mule can alone be trusted, as, like the camel of the Eastern desert, it will longer endure fatigue and want of water. Here, as in the deserts of Africa, violent winds stir up the sand, forming vast columns, as terrible in their effects as the flames of the prairie. Rising to a hundred feet in height, they are seen approaching, whirling through the air, till the unhappy traveller finds himself surrounded by an overwhelming mass, and, unable to breathe, sinks exhausted on the ground. Flight alone can save him. Many have here perished. On several occasions, troops attempting to cross the desert have been overwhelmed. Others have lost their way when traversing the sandy plains, and have wandered about, in vain seeking for water to quench their burning thirst. On one side is the salt ocean, on the other the rocky precipices of the mountains. Wandering on for hours and hours, at length, exhausted, they have abandoned themselves to despair. These sand-storms occur more especially during the heats of summer, so completely altering the appearance of the country, by covering it with large hillocks, that the most experienced guides find it at times impossible to discover their way; and perhaps, when searching for it, another storm arises, and once more spreads the mounds over the level plain.

In some places the whole soil is covered with a thick crust of salt, white and hard, giving the country the appearance of being covered with snow. For months and months together, in many parts not a drop of rain falls. At length a shower descends, and, as if by magic, the grass springs up in spots where not a blade was before visible; and for a short time the whole country puts on a green mantle, soon, however, to be withered up by the burning heat.

Northward of this desert region, the land on the shores of the Gulf of Guayaquil and its neighbourhood is covered with the richest vegetation, supported by the numerous streams which descend from the Andes of Quito and Columbia.

Part 3—Chapter VII.

The Indians of the Cordilleras.

Leaving the burning sand-coast, we will ascend once more the steep sides of the Cordilleras to those fertile tracts found at an elevation of many thousand feet above the ocean; but, before describing the brute creation and the vegetable products of this interesting region, we should properly take a glance at the human beings inhabiting it.

When, in 1524, the Spaniards first reached the western coast of South America, of which they were soon to become the conquerors, they found a people greatly advanced in civilisation. They consisted of two distinct races; the one, known as the Incas, showing a decided superiority in intellectual power over the other. Whence they came is unknown; but a tradition existed, that two persons—husband and wife—had appeared some four hundred years before that period in the neighbourhood of Lake Titicaca, announcing themselves as the Children of the Sun. The husband, Manco Capac, taught the men the arts of agriculture; and his wife, Mama Oello (mama, meaning mother), initiating her own sex in the mysteries of weaving and spinning. The wise policy which regulated the conduct of the first Incas (kings, or lords), was followed by their successors, and under their mild sceptre a community gradually extended itself along the surface of the broad table-land, which asserted its superiority over the surrounding tribes.

Fine cities sprang up in different parts of their kingdom, connected by well-formed roads, suited to the nature of the country. Their capital was Cuzco, at some distance to the north of the lake, in latitude 14 degrees south; while the city next in importance to it was Quito, in a rich valley, beneath the equator. These cities were connected by two roads; one passing over the grand plateau, and the other along lowlands at the borders of the ocean. The first was conducted over mountain-ridges, frequently buried in snow; galleries were cut through the living rock; rivers crossed by suspension-bridges; precipices scaled by stairways; and deep ravines were filled up with solid masonry.

This road was upwards of fifteen hundred miles long; and stone pillars, to serve the purpose of mile-stones, were erected at intervals of about a league along the route. Its breadth was about twenty feet. In some places it was covered with heavy flagstones; and in others, with a bituminous cement, which time has rendered harder than the stone itself. Where the ravines had been filled with solid masonry, the mountain torrents have eaten a way beneath it, leaving the superincumbent mass still spanning the valley like an arch. The suspension-bridges—instead of which wretchedly inferior ones of wood are now used—were composed of the tough fibres of the maguey; a species of osier, possessing an extraordinary degree of tenacity and strength. The fibres were woven into cables of the thickness of a man’s body, which were then stretched across the water, and conducted through rings or holes cut in immense buttresses of stone raised on the opposite banks of the river, and there secured to heavy pieces of timber. Several of these enormous cables bound together, side by side, formed a bridge—which, covered with planks well secured, and defended on each side by a railing of the same material, afforded a safe passage for the traveller. The length of this aerial bridge, sometimes exceeding 200 feet, caused it—confined as it was only at the extremities—to dip, with an alarming inclination towards the centre; while the motion given it by the passenger created an oscillation frightful to one whose eye glanced down into the dark abyss of waters, that foamed and tumbled many a fathom beneath.

Over these roads a system of communication throughout the country was kept up by running postmen, called chasquis. Along the roads small buildings were erected, within five miles of each other, at which a number of chasquis were stationed. They were trained to the employment, and selected for their speed and fidelity. As the distance each had to perform was small, he ran over the ground with great swiftness, and messages were carried along all the routes at the rate of a hundred and fifty miles a day. The chasquis not only carried despatches, but brought fish from the distant ocean, and fruits, game, and other commodities, from the warm regions on the coast.

It is not our province to describe the gorgeous temples, palaces, and convents, in which the Virgins of the Sun resided, and the numerous other public buildings, extensive remains of which still exist scattered throughout the region. The glory of the Incas has departed. But few of their descendants remain, and their blood has generally mingled with that of their conquerors.

The Native Indians.

The tribes over whom they ruled are still to be found, though in diminished numbers, and debased by the cruel system of oppression under which they long groaned. The native inhabitants of the central region of the Andes are known as the Quichuas, and their chief characteristics are common to the greater number of the tribes along the whole extent of the range. Though the languages of the different tribes vary, they are probably derived from the same source. The head of the Quichua is an oblong longitudinal, somewhat compressed at the sides. He has a low and very slightly arched forehead; a prominent, long, aquiline nose, with large nostrils. The mouth is large, and the teeth very fine, while the lips are not thick; the chin is short, but not receding; cheek-bones not prominent, eyes horizontal and never large, eyebrows long, the hair jet-black—and, though thick, straight and coarse, yet soft. He has little or no beard. In stature they seldom reach five feet. The chest is long, broad, deep, and highly arched. The hands and feet are small. The colour is between olive, brown, and bronze,—somewhat like that of the mulatto. Though their chests are broad, and their shoulders square, their arms are weak—their chief strength existing in their backs and legs. Mild, generous, and submissive, they have existed when a fiercer race would have been exterminated; but, on several occasions, they have shown that they can be goaded into revolt. About the year 1770, under Tupac Amaru, they broke into rebellion, when, had they possessed better arms and more discipline, they might, with the courage they exhibited, have driven the Spaniards from the country. The rebellion was put down with the atrocious cruelties to which the Spaniards have invariably subjected this unhappy race.

On the eastern slopes of the Andes are found savage tribes, wearing few or no clothes, painting their skins, and ornamenting themselves with the coloured feathers of birds. Towards the southern end of Chili, the fierce Araucanians inhabit the mountains. Beyond them are the large-limbed Patagonians, clothed in skins; and at the extreme end, the wretched Fuegans, living in nearly a state of nature, on seals and fish.

The race supposed to have been the most civilised before the time of the Incas were the Aymaras, whose descendants still inhabit the shores of Lake Titicaca. Their language differs from the Quichua, though evidently a sister-tongue.

This expanse of water, already mentioned, is about eighty miles long and forty broad. Numerous rivers flow into it; in some places it is very deep, but in others so shallow that there is only just room to force the balsas through the rushes. It abounds in fish of peculiar form, and in aquatic birds. Several islands rise above its surface. That of Titicaca, from which it takes its name, is most celebrated.

During one of the several occasions when the Indians rose against their taskmasters to free themselves from the mita—a system which compelled one-seventh part of the male population to labour in the mines—the lake, for a long time, afforded them a place of refuge. In some places along the shores, beds of rushes exist nine leagues long and one broad. In the midst of them there is an island, to which lanes were cut through the tangled mass. This watery labyrinth was navigated by the Indians in their balsas; and, secure in their retreat, they contrived to make inroads on the Spanish towns in the neighbourhood for a length of time. (These balsas are composed of reeds, tightly fastened together on the sides, in the form of boats, and are propelled both by sails and paddles.) Several of the Indian chiefs were at length captured and executed. This, however, only exasperated the rebels, who, under an enterprising leader, attacked the bridge over the Desaguadero, and carried off the heads of their chiefs, which had been stuck on poles above it. The Spanish troops sent against them waded to some islets, but the Indians, hovering round them in their balsas, prevented them from advancing further. At length the Spaniards embarked in twenty balsas, and came in sight of the native squadron. The Indians, however, going in and out among the lanes and rushes, baffled their oppressors, cutting off several Spanish balsas. A party of cavalry also, advancing into the swampy ground, was suddenly surrounded and cut to pieces, with a loss to the Indians of only three men.

These outbreaks, and the far more important rebellion under Tupac Amaru, show that Spanish tyranny had not entirely succeeded in crushing the spirit of the Indians. During the civil wars which for so long devastated the Spanish provinces of South America, the Indians fought with a courage fully equal to that of the whites.

The Puna.

An elevated region called by the Quichuas the Puna, or “the uninhabited,” must be described. A scanty vegetation covers these vast plains. Man can with difficulty breathe on them, or produce the means of existence. Barley, though cultivated, seldom ripens; the chief plant which grows to maturity being the maca, which has tuberous roots, and is used like the potato. In consequence of the diminished pressure of the air, water begins to boil at so low a temperature that neither meat, potatoes, nor eggs, can be sufficiently cooked. From the same cause, those unaccustomed to the rarefied air are afflicted with an attack called the vela—consisting of headache, nausea, and producing even spitting of blood, and other disorders of the mucous membrane. Horses suffer in the same way; and cats are so affected that they die in violent convulsions. There is another complaint, called the chanu, affecting the skin of the hands and face, as well as the eyelids; when, the skin breaking, blood flows from every opening. The surumpe, by which travellers are affected—the inflammation of the eyes caused by the reflection from the snow—is still more painful. Often the agony which even an Indian suffers from it is so great, that he has been known to sit down and utter cries of anguish; while, occasionally, total blindness has been the ultimate consequence.

But it is time that we should turn to the brute creation existing in these regions, noticing the interesting specimens of the vegetable kingdom as we proceed in our survey. As the camel is the characteristic animal of the sandy deserts of Arabia and Africa, the royal tiger of the jungles of Bengal, and the kangaroo of the wide-extending plains of Australia, so the llama brings to our recollection the lofty plateaus of the Andes, and the mighty condor its still higher peaks.

Part 3—Chapter VIII.

The Wild Animals of the Cordilleras.

The Llama.

It is on the above-mentioned bleak table-land that the llama, with its kindred—the alpaca, vicuña, and huanucu—are found. The historian of the conquest calls them the sheep of Peru, but the llama is more allied in its characteristics to the camel of the desert. In outward form, except that it has no hump on its back; in the structure and cellular apparatus of the stomach, which enable it to abstain for a long time from water; in the expression of its large full eye; in the mobility and division of the upper lip; in its fissured nostrils; in the nature of its teeth; and in its long woolly clothing and slender neck,—the llama has a strong resemblance to the camel of the deserts of Arabia. While the camel’s feet, however, are formed for passing over the burning sands or level ground, and are therefore broad and cushioned, those of the llama, to enable it to climb the rugged crags of the Cordilleras, are slender, elastic, and claw-tipped. The llama has indeed been rightly called the camel of the mountains, and was employed by the ancient Peruvians—as it is at present—as a beast of burden. The load laid upon its back rests securely upon a bed of wool, without the aid of girth or saddle. It cannot carry more than from eighty to one hundred pounds. If overladen it will lie down, and nothing will induce it to rise till it has been relieved of its burden.

The llamas move in troops of five hundred or even one thousand, and thus, though each individual carries but a little, the aggregate is considerable. The whole caravan travels at a regular pace—passing the night in the open air without suffering from the cold—marching in perfect order, and in obedience to the conductor. Thus they proceed over rugged passes from twelve to fifteen miles a day. They were especially employed in bearing the produce of the mines of Potosi to the coast, often in places where the hoof of the mule could find no support. It was estimated, after the conquest, that 300,000 were thus employed. As they never feed after sunset, it is necessary, when journeying, to allow them to graze for several hours during the day. They utter a peculiar low sound, which at a distance resembles, when the herd is large, the tone of numerous Aeolian harps. On seeing any strange object which excites their fears, they immediately scatter in every direction, and are with difficulty reunited. The Indians treat them kindly, ornamenting their ears with ribbons, and hanging little bells about their necks. When any of them, over-fatigued, fall to the ground, their conductors endeavour by every gentle means to induce them to proceed. In spite, however, of the kind treatment they receive, numbers, from the heat of the coast region, which they cannot stand, annually perish.

When offended, the llama shows its anger by turning its head at its driver, and discharging a saliva with a bad odour in his face. It is about the size of the stag. It carries its long neck upright, constantly moving its long ears. The animals vary in colour. Some are of a light brown, the under part being whitish; others dappled; but they are seldom found quite white or black. In consequence of the introduction of the mule and horse into the country, which have superseded them in many places as beasts of burden, their price seldom exceeds three or four dollars. The flesh of the llama is eaten; and as many as 4,000,000 were, in days gone by, annually killed for food.

The Alpaca.

The alpaca is smaller than the llama, and somewhat resembles the sheep. It has a long, soft, fine fleece of a silky lustre. In the domestic breeds the wool falls in large flakes reaching down to the knees. This wool was employed by the ancient Peruvians for weaving a kind of cloth. It approximates in character to silk, and a large quantity is now exported to Europe for the manufacture of shawls and other delicate fabrics. Immense herds of the llama or alpaca were held by the Peruvian government, and placed under the protection of herdsmen, who conducted them from one quarter of the country to another, according to the season. They were exclusively the property of the Incas; as were the vicuñas, which roam in native freedom over the frozen ranges of the Cordilleras.

The Huanucu.

The huanucu is considerably larger than the llama, which it so much resembles, that it was formerly considered to be the same animal in a wild state. The body is brown, with the under parts white; the face is of a blackish-grey, approaching to white about the lips. The fleece is shorter and not so fine as that of the llama. The huanucus are very shy, and only when caught young can they be tamed—and even then they can rarely be induced to carry burdens. They generally live in small troops of from five to seven. Not unfrequently they may be seen scaling the snow-covered peaks to a height which no other living thing save the condor can reach. They find sustenance in the ychu, a species of grass which grows all along the great ridge of the Cordilleras, from the equator to the southern limits of Patagonia.

The Vicuña.

The vicuñas are very beautiful and graceful creatures, with the habits of antelopes. They have long, slender necks, and rich fawn-coloured coats, with patches of white across the shoulders and inside the legs. The wool is shorter and more curly than that of the three other species, and, from its extreme fineness, is of much greater value.

During the dry season, when the grass of the plains has withered, they descend to the swampy ground below. One male is followed by a dozen or more females, over whom he watches with the most faithful care. Should he apprehend danger, he utters a loud, shrill cry of alarm, and rapidly advances. The herd then collecting, moves forward slowly; but immediately they discover the approach of an enemy they wheel round and fly—at first at a slow pace, frequently looking round, and then away they dart, fleet as the wind, the male covering their retreat. Should their protector be wounded, the females return and keep circling round him, uttering piercing notes of sorrow, and remain to be shot rather than desert their companion.

Although it is only when enraged that the llamas and huanucus spit upon those near them, the vicuñas and alpacas invariably eject saliva and undigested food—which has a peculiarly disagreeable smell—upon all who approach them.

Vicuñas in vast numbers are found ranging over the more remote and lofty regions of the Puna, where they are able to find a safe retreat from the attacks of man. They have, however, a very formidable enemy in the ravenous condor, who frequently robs them of their young.

These two wild species the Peruvian peasants were never allowed to hunt, they being as much the property of the government as if enclosed within a park. Only on stated occasions, once a year, great hunts took place under the superintendence of the Inca, or his principal officers. They were never repeated in the same quarter oftener than once in four years, that time might be allowed for the waste occasioned by them to be replenished. At the time appointed the whole surrounding population—sometimes, it is said, amounting to nearly ten thousand men—formed a circle round the area which was to be hunted over. Armed with spears, they gradually closed in, destroying the beasts of prey, and driving the huanucus, vicuñas, and deer towards the centre, where the male deer and the huanucus were slaughtered. Their skins were reserved for various useful manufactures; and their flesh, cut into thin slices, was distributed among the people, who converted it into chasqui, or dried meat (constituting then, as it does now, the principal animal food of the lower classes of Peru).

The vicuñas are hunted at the present day. A member from each family of the Puna villages joins the hunting party, forming altogether a band of about one hundred persons. They carry poles with cordage. The poles are placed in the ground, and united by ropes at about the height of two feet, forming a circle of half a league in circumference, enclosing a space called the chasqu. Coloured pieces of rag are attached to the ropes, which are moved about by the wind. Some of the hunters are on horseback, others on foot. Each man is armed with the well-known bolas; which consists of three balls of lead, two of which are heavy and one lighter, attached to a long leathern thong knotted together at one extremity. The hunter takes the lighter ball in his hand, and swings the other two in a wide circle over his head. When at a distance of fifteen or twenty paces from the animal, the lighter is let loose, when the three fly in circles towards it, encompassing it in their snake-like folds. Thus prepared, the hunters disperse, forming a circle several miles in circumference, driving all the vicuñas before them towards the entrance of the circle. As soon as the animals have entered, it is closed. The vicuñas, afraid to spring over the ropes with the coloured rags fluttering in their faces, are attacked by the hunters with their bolas, the hind-legs being generally aimed at. The huanucus, which are much wilder, invariably leap the barriers and escape, when frequently the vicuñas follow their example. As soon as the animals within the chasqu are killed, it is carried off and again erected at a distance of twelve or more miles, when the same operation is gone through. Thus from one hundred to three hundred animals are killed during the chase, which generally lasts for a week.

Notwithstanding the opposition from the Peruvian government, a large herd of alpacas were, some years ago, successfully carried to the coast and shipped off to Australia, where, in a high and dry district, they appear to be flourishing.

The Condor.

The traveller standing on the rocky heights of the Cordilleras, at an elevation which Etna does not surpass, though still with many a snow-capped mountain round him, may see, on one of the dizzy pinnacles amid which he stands, a vast bird. It is the condor, the largest of the vulture tribe; the monarch of the birds of that region. He may know it by the glossy black colour, tinged with grey, of its body; the greater wing-coverts, except at the base and tips, and the quill-feathers being mostly white. Round the neck is a white ruff of down; the skin of the head and neck is excessively wrinkled, and is of a dull reddish colour with a tinge of purple. Surmounting the forehead is a large, firm comb, with a loose skin under the bill which can be dilated at pleasure. Now it expands its wings, nine feet from tip to tip. Off it flies from its rocky perch, now appearing to sink with its own weight; but, gradually rising, it soars aloft, even above the glittering dome of Chimborazo, no vibration seen in its powerful wings. Higher and higher it soars, till it appears a mere speck in the blue ether; then, lost to the sight of human eye, darts rapidly downwards towards the sultry coast of the Pacific, there to prey upon the putrefying carcasses of animals it may espy from afar.

On that lofty pinnacle, or some jutting ledge near it, the female has laid its two eggs, and here it rears its young. The eggs are large and white, and laid upon the bare rock. The young are covered with a whitish down, and, it is said, are unable to fly for an entire year. Few other birds can fly to so great a distance above the earth. It appears to respire as easily in the most rarefied air as on the seashore. They do not live in pairs, like the eagle, but several are generally found together. When an animal falls dead, a number of the vast birds are soon seen coming from afar to feast on the carcass.

Great as is the altitude to which the condor can fly, and although it ranges through clouds and storms to the southern end of the Andes, it is not found to the north of Panama.

The condor is a true vulture, gorging itself on dead and putrid carcasses. It will also attack the young llama, as well as lambs and calves, which it carries away in its powerful talons. This makes it dreaded and hated by the shepherds of the hills and plains alike, who seek its destruction by a variety of means. Firearms are, however, useless, as its thick and strongly-constructed coat of feathers will turn aside a bullet. Besides, it is so tenacious of life, that one has been known to receive several bullets in its body, and to have lived a considerable time afterwards. The shepherds train their dogs to give notice of the approach of a condor; and the moment one appears in the sky, they look upwards, and bark violently till their masters appear. Among other modes which the natives employ to capture it, they kill an old mare—which they have an idea is better than a horse—and allow the bird to gorge itself. It then becomes so sluggish, that they can without difficulty throw their bolas round its neck and legs. It also sleeps so soundly, that they frequently manage to approach it when at roost, and capture it in the same way.

In the province of Abacay, in Peru, another method is employed. A native fastens a quantity of putrid flesh to a fresh cow-skin, under which he lies hid with a supply of rope. When the condor pounces down upon the meat, and remains gorging himself, the native fastens its legs by means of the rope to the skin. As soon as this is done, he creeps from beneath it. The frightened bird in vain attempts to escape. Immediately the hunter’s companions, rushing forward, throw their bolas over the bird, and make it captive. Frequently several are thus caught at the same time.

The cruel and disgusting custom of bull-baiting is still kept up in the country, and the condors are employed to add to the terror and sufferings of the unhappy bull. Before the unfortunate animal is driven into the circus, his back is laid bare with a lance, and one of the birds, which has been starved for a week or more, is bound upon it. The famished condor immediately attacks the raw, quivering flesh of the poor beast; and while it is thus engaged, the bull is driven into the midst of the arena, to afford amusement to the savage spectators.

There is among the mountains a natural funnel-shaped excavation, sixty feet in depth, and about eighty feet in diameter at the top. The Indians place, on the edge of the pit, the putrid body of a mule, so balanced that it will easily fall over. In a short time it is discovered by numbers of condors, which, darting down, greedily attack it. Tugging and pulling at the flesh, they soon draw it over the edge, when it falls to the bottom of the pit. Not to be disappointed of their prey, they hold tightly to the body, and descend with it. Here, having gorged themselves, they are unable to rise again to the mouth of the pit, and are speedily killed with stones and sticks by the natives who collect round it, or are drawn captive to the surface. Dr Tschudi, in his Travels, mentions having seen twenty-eight birds at one time thus destroyed.

They are caught in a similar manner in other places, and brought down to the coast, where they are sold for a few dollars; and often thus find their way to Europe. It was long an unsettled point whether the condor discovers the dead animals on which it feeds by the power of sight or of scent; but Darwin, by several experiments, has settled the question in favour of the bird’s keenness of vision.

A number of condors were kept captive in a garden, secured by ropes. Wrapping up a piece of meat in white paper, and holding it in his hand, he walked up and down in front of the birds; but they took no notice of it. He then threw it down in front of an old male bird; but it was still disregarded. He then pushed it with a stick till it touched the condor’s beak, when the paper was torn off with fury, and every bird in the row began struggling and flapping its wings to reach the food. Under the same circumstances, no dog would have been deceived.

The condor is said formerly to have been worshipped in Peru. Perhaps the Peruvians, seeing it descend through the air from beyond their sight, supposed it a celestial messenger from the sun, which they worshipped. If so, their descendants treat it in a very different way to what they must then have done.

A condor ordinarily measures nine feet from tip to tip of the wings, and slightly over four feet from beak to tail.

Part 3—Chapter IX.

The Vegetable Productions of the Cordilleras.

Chinchona or Peruvian Bark.

The chinchona (it is erroneously spelt cinchona) tree constitutes the type of a natural order (Chinchonaceae), which also includes ipecacuanhas and coffees.

On the western slopes of Chimborazo, and in several other regions extending from the wooded heights of Merida and Santa Martha, at the northern end of the Cordilleras, as far as the Republic of Bolivia, 19 degrees south, the chinchona-tree has its range. Vegetation in the Cordilleras within the tropics reaches to a much greater height than in higher latitudes. The sun’s rays have there great power in heating the soil; while the mists drawn from the broad Pacific, rising above the plains, rest upon the lofty sides of the mountains. The warm and humid atmosphere thus created is especially favourable to the growth of certain trees and shrubs. Among others is the chinchona-tree, from which quinine is obtained. It is generally found growing at a height of from 6000 feet to 10,000 feet above the ocean.

It would have been strange had not the native Peruvians been acquainted with the qualities of the bark. The Quichua name for the tree, quina-quina—“bark of barks”—shows that they believed it to possess medicinal properties; indeed, there is little doubt that they were aware of its febrifugal qualities, though they might not have attached much importance to them. Through them, probably, the Spanish colonists in the neighbourhood of Loxa first discovered its virtues. It was, however, but little known till the year 1638, when the wife of the Count of Chinchon, Viceroy of Peru, lay sick of an intermittent fever in the palace of Lima. The corregidor of Loxa, who had himself been cured of an ague by the bark, hearing of her sickness, sent a parcel of powdered quinquina bark to her physician. It was administered to the Countess Anna, and effected a complete cure. She, in consequence, did her utmost to make it known. Her famous cure induced Linnaeus long afterwards to name the whole genus of quinine-yielding trees Chinchona, in her honour. The Jesuit missionaries, who had learned its virtues, also sent parcels of the bark to Rome, whence it was distributed to members of their fraternity throughout Europe by the Cardinal de Lugo. Hence it was sometimes called Jesuits’ bark, and sometimes Cardinal’s bark. For many years, however, great opposition was made by European physicians to its use. Some Protestants, indeed, went so far as to decline taking it, because it was favoured by the Jesuits. Although the bark was used for many years, it was not till Dr Gomez, a surgeon in the Portuguese navy, in 1816 isolated the febrifugal principle, and called it chinchonine, that its true value became known. But the final discovery of quinine, as it is now used, is due to the French chemists Pelletier and Caventon, in 1820. It is a white substance, without smell, bitter, fusible, and crystallised.

Chinchonine is of less strength than quinine, and is used in mild cases of intermittent fever; but in severe cases, the use of quinine is absolutely necessary. Since the discovery of the medicinal properties of this bark, it has proved an inestimable blessing to the human race. For many years the bark itself was used as a febrifuge; but quinine, which is extracted from it, is of still greater value in curing or preventing ague. On various occasions it has rendered great service by preserving the health of troops. Many lives were saved by it in the disastrous Walcheren expedition. In India it is now universally used with the same beneficial effect; and several African explorers have been enabled to prosecute their journeys through pestiferous regions by its frequent use. Dr Livingstone, among others, speaks of it as the chief remedy he has employed when attacked by sickness on his journeys.

Most of the Chinchonae, when growing in good soil, and under favourable circumstances, become large forest-trees. When crowded, they frequently run up to a great height without a branch; while at the upper limit of their zone, they become mere shrubs.

There are numerous species of chinchona, producing bark of greatly different values. There are upwards of nineteen different species of the true Chinchonae, and upwards of seventy once received as such, though now considered of no commercial value. The three characteristics by which the true chinchona may be known are—the presence of curly hairs bordering the laciniae of the corolla; the peculiar mode of dehiscence of the capsule from below upwards; and the little pits at the axils of the veins on the under sides of the leaves. The leaves are of a great variety of shapes and sizes. In the finer species they are lanceolate, with a shining surface of bright green, traversed by crimson veins and petioles of the same colour. The flowers are very small, and hang in clustering panicles like lilacs. They are generally of a deep roseate colour, paler near the stalk, and dark crimson within the tube, with white curly hairs bordering the laciniae of the corolla. The colour of one species is entirely white. They send forth a delicious fragrance, which scents the air in their neighbourhood.

The region round the little town of Loxa, on the southern frontier of Ecuador, is the original home of the chinchona. In its sheltered ravines and dense forests were found those precious trees which first made known to the world the healing virtues of Peruvian bark. They grow at a height above the sea of from 6200 to 8200 feet. The trees are there from 30 to 48 feet high, with three or more stems growing from the same root. The leaves are like those already described. The bark is black when exposed to the sun and wind, but of a brownish colour when surrounded by other trees; and is always covered with lichens. The bark from the Loxa region is known as crown bark; that from Chimborazo, as red bark; while in the Huanaco region of Northern Peru grey bark is produced.

When first the demand for the bark was established, bark-collectors, called cascarilleros, entered the forests in parties of a dozen or more, supplied with food and tools. At their head was a searcher (cateador), who, climbing a high tree, looked out for the manchas, or clumps of chinchona-trees, which experience taught him to know by their dark colour and the peculiar reflection of the light from their leaves amidst those endless expanses of forest. Having marked the spot, he descended, and led his party, sometimes for hours together, through the tangled wilderness, using the wood-knife to mark his way to the chinchona clump. As soon as it was found, rude huts were built, and the parties commenced their work. Having with their axes laid the tree level with the ground, cutting it as close as possible to the roots, the work of stripping off the bark was commenced. The original mode of doing this is still continued. It is done by dividing the stems into pieces of uniform length. The bark is then cut lengthwise, so as to remove the rind without injuring the wood, or severing any of the fibres. In a few days the bark is taken off in strips as broad as possible, and is afterwards pressed out into flat pieces. That, however, taken from the thinner branches is allowed to retain its form, and is known as quill bark—called by the natives canuto; that from the solid trunk is called tabla or plancha. It is sewn up in coarse canvas, with an outer covering of fresh hide, forming packages called serons. Thus prepared, it is transported to the coast for shipment.

From the careless way in which the bark-collectors have hewn down the trees, often digging up the roots themselves, the production has greatly decreased. When the root is allowed to remain, and the stem hewn as near as possible to it, an after-growth is produced, which, in the milder regions, in the space of six years again produces bark. In the colder regions twenty years are required before a tree is fit to be cut down.

With great care and trouble chinchona plants and seeds have been transported from South America to India by Professor Markham; and in the mountainous regions of the East the tree is now cultivated and flourishing. It had some years before been carried by the Dutch to Java, where, however, from want of sufficient care at first, its cultivation has not been so successful as it appears to be in India, Coca.

The native Indian, as he climbs the dizzy precipice, or passes over the rocking bridge, in his journey across the rugged mountains, or leads his troop of llamas to the seashore, or labours in the dark mines, bringing up vast weights from the bowels of the earth, is enabled to bear the fatigue he is called on to undergo by putting a few dried leaves into his mouth, which he chews, and replenishes from time to time. Thus the coca leaf is a great source of comfort and enjoyment. As he journeys, his chuspa or coca-bag, made of llama cloth, dyed red and blue in patterns, is hung over his shoulders. In his bag he also carries small cakes—composed of carbonate of potash mixed with lime and water—called clipta. Sitting down, he first puts a few leaves into his mouth, which he chews, and turns over and over till he has formed a ball. He then adds a small piece of the cake; and, sustained by the wonderful qualities of the morsel, will go on for many hours without food. He usually replenishes his mouth about three times in the day.

The smell of the leaf is agreeable and aromatic, and gives out a grateful fragrance. When, however, used to excess, like other narcotics, coca—though the least injurious—is still prejudicial to health.

The coca plant (Erythoxylon coca) grows at an elevation of between 5000 and 6000 feet above the level of the ocean, in the warm valleys of the eastern slopes of the Andes, where rain frequently falls. It is from four to six feet high, with straight and alternate branches. The leaves, which are of a light green, are alternate, and in form and size similar to tea leaves. The flowers, which are solitary, have a small yellowish white corolla. It requires careful cultivation. It is produced from seeds, and the plants are then transplanted into soil carefully weeded and broken up. It is found growing on terraces on the mountainsides, which will allow of but a single row of plants. At the end of eighteen months the plants yield their first harvest, and continue to yield for upwards of forty years. The green leaves, when picked, are carefully spread out in the sun to dry. The name of “coca” is bestowed on them only when they are dried and prepared for use.

Some writers, objecting altogether to stimulating narcotics, assert that the use of coca produces all the evil results of opium; but this, from the evidence of many enlightened travellers, seems not to be the case. Taken immoderately, no doubt it is injurious,—as is tea, coffee, tobacco, or wine; but used as it generally is by the natives, it is to them a great blessing. The valleys, however, most suitable for its cultivation are reputed to be unhealthy.

So valuable was coca considered in the days of the Incas, that divine honours were paid to it, and it was especially the property of the sovereign. Even at the present day the miners of Peru throw a quid of coca against the hard veins of ore, under the belief that they are thereby more easily worked. The natives also sometimes put coca in the mouth of the dying man, believing that if he can taste the fragrant leaf it is a sure sign of his future happiness.

Its moderate use is considered wholesome; and European travellers who have chewed coca state that they could thus endure long abstinence from food without inconvenience, and that it enabled them to ascend precipitous mountainsides with a feeling of lightness and elasticity, and without losing breath.

Part 3—Chapter X.

Humming-Birds (Trochilidae) of the Cordilleras and Western Coast.

We should scarcely have expected to find the smallest specimens of the feathered tribe inhabiting the same region as the mighty, coarse-feeding condor; but whereas the latter pounces down on his carrion banquet into the plains below, the little humming-bird seeks his food from the bright flowers which clothe the mountainside, or the minute insects which fly amid them.

Humming-birds are found throughout the whole of the New World, from the borders of the great Canadian lakes, along the entire range of the Cordilleras, down to the shores of Tierra del Fuego; also in the West India Islands, and over the whole wide-extending plains watered by the Orinoco, the Amazon, and other great rivers which empty themselves into the Atlantic. The greater number of the species exist about the equator, and, as might be expected, diminish as we proceed either to the south or north.

They obtain their name on account of the humming sound which their wings produce when they are hovering over the flowers in which they seek their food. The sound, however, varies in the species; and the well-practised ear of the naturalist is often able to distinguish without difficulty one from the other. Some are furnished with strong wings, with which they can extend their flight over a large extent of country; and many are migratory. Others again have only small wings, and are compelled to remain always in the same locality. So rapid is their flight, that the eye can scarcely distinguish the little bird as it cleaves the air; and when hovering over a flower, the wings appear like filmy grey fans on either side.

The food of most species consists partly of insects and partly of the honey extracted from flowers. In order to obtain its food from the deep recesses of flowers, it possesses a long delicate beak; in some birds straight, in others curved downwards, while some, again, have a double curve. These variations in form are undoubtedly to suit the particular flowers on which they feed. By means of the peculiar structure of its tongue, which is long, filamentous, and doubled nearly to the base, it is enabled to project it to a great distance—even into the very depths of the largest flowers.

There are upwards of three hundred species of these beautiful birds, and others are being constantly discovered—one vying with the other in beauty and richness of plumage—truly described as the “feathered gems of the mountain and forest.” Some humming-birds tower, like the lark, to a great height in the air; while others keep always near the ground, among the shrubs in which they live.

The nests of humming-birds vary in form and structure, but they are all of a most delicate nature. The external parts of some are formed of light grey lichen, and so perfectly arranged round it as to appear at a little distance as if only forming part of the branch to which it is attached. The interior consists of the silky fibres of the cotton-tree, extremely delicate and soft. The female lays a couple of eggs only, purely white, and about the size of peas. Ten days are required for their hatching, and the birds raise two broods in a season. When first hatched they are not larger than an ordinary-sized fly. Small as is the male humming-bird, he is a brave little fellow, and will courageously fly at the largest bird which approaches his nest; while, by the rapidity of his flight, he can avoid the attacks of even the swiftest of the larger race.

There is a remarkable circumstance connected with humming-birds, especially in lofty regions, where they are more particularly susceptible of electric influences. It is well known that in many regions small birds are found killed after a thunder-storm, in consequence of the amount of electricity in the air. The humming-birds, as if conscious of this danger, build their nests of peculiar form, and of materials which are bad conductors of electricity, within which they are thoroughly protected. The nests of some are shaped like inverted cones, tapering to a fine point—that, as is supposed, the electricity which would destroy the delicate young ones, or the vitality of the eggs, may pass off into the air.

Their notes are very feeble, rarely rising into a whistle. In one week after they are hatched, the young birds are ready to fly, but they are fed by their parents for nearly another week. Their plumage, however, does not attain its full brilliancy till the succeeding spring.

But we must confine ourselves to the humming-birds of the Cordilleras, on the western coast.

Sword-Bill Humming-Bird.

At the north of the range, between Santa Fé de Bogota and Quito, at an elevation often of 12,000 feet, is found the sword-bill humming-bird. Its name is derived from the length of its beak, which is nearly as long as its body, and enables it to seek its food from the long pendent corollas of the Brugmansae. Nothing can exceed the elegance of its movements as it probes the pendent blossoms, searching to their inmost depths. Its nest, woven with wonderful skill and beauty of construction, is fastened to the end of a twig. The head and upper part of the body of the male bird are green, glossed with gold in some parts, and with bronze in others. The wings are dark black-brown, with a purple gloss; while the tail is dark black, the upper surface being bronzed. A conspicuous white, slightly elongated spot exists behind each eye, and on each side of the chest there is a broad crescent-shaped mark of light green. The under parts are of a bronzed green, and the under tail-coverts are flaked with a little white.

Copper-Bellied Puff-Leg.

In the neighbourhood of Santa Fé, another very beautiful and curious little bird, the copper-bellied puff-leg, is found, at an elevation of about 9000 feet. (Unlike the greater number of birds, the female humming-birds are generally as richly ornamented as the male.) It is named from the curious white puffs or ruffs—looking as if formed of swan’s-down—on the legs. The head of the male, the sides of the neck, and back, are green, with a bronzed tint, except on the tail-coverts, where the green is pure, and of metallic brilliancy. The tail is black, with a purple gloss; the throat is of a shining, metallic green; while the breast and under portion of the body is green, glossed with gold.

This bird, probably on account of the vegetation of the locality, from which it obtains its food, is restricted to a narrow mountain-ridge, not three-quarters of a mile in width.

White-Booted Racket-Tail.

The rapid flying white-booted racket-tail is likewise common near Santa Fé. It possesses muffs, like the former, and is found at an elevation of nearly 10,000 feet. It is named from the long, racket-shaped feathers of the tail, which, when flying, are in constant motion, waving softly in the air, opening and closing in the most beautiful manner. In its flight it may vie with the arrow as it darts from a bow; and when the bird rapidly cleaves the air, the tail-feathers lie straight behind it.

The chief colour of this bird is a bronzed green, the upper tail-coverts being of a richer and redder hue. The wings are of a purple-brown, as is the tail; but the rackets are black, shot with green. The feet are yellow, with two beautiful white ruffs surrounding the legs.

Columbian Thorn-Bill.

In the same district, invariably keeping at the bottom of the valleys, is found the Columbian thorn-bill. It does not even mount, as do many humming-birds, to the tops of the trees, but seeks its food among the low, flowering shrubs. It is of a golden green colour on the upper parts, and of a dull green below; except on its curious tuft, which hangs from the chin, and is of a light green at the base, and a purple-red towards the points. The wings are of a purple-brown hue, as is the tail, with a bronzed gloss, while the under tail-coverts are brown-yellow. It is curious that the hen, though in other respects like the male, has no beard.

Black Warrior.

At the height of 13,000 feet above the ocean is found a curious bird, which, from the pointed plume crowning the top of its head, and the long beard-like projection from its chin, is very appropriately called the helmet-crest or black warrior. It inhabits regions immediately below the line of perpetual snow, where we should least expect to find so delicate a creature. Its food it gathers from the thinly scattered shrubs projecting from the ledges of rock near the snow. Its flight is swift, but very short. When launching itself from the lofty height on which it is perched, it flies obliquely downwards, uttering at the same time a plaintive, whistling sound. It is more sedate in its habits than its brethren, nor does it seem to partake of their joyous spirit. The head and neck of the male are black, with a line running along the centre. The long beard is white, and round the neck and back of the head is a broad band of white. The upper surface of the body and the two central feathers of the tail are bronzed green, the others being of a warm reddish bronze. Its length is a little over five inches.

The female is chiefly brown, and possesses no beard or helmet-like plume; it is also considerably smaller.

The Sickle-Bill.

In the humming-birds, we see the same perfect adaptation of their construction to their peculiar wants which is found throughout the whole animal creation. This is beautifully exhibited in the sickle-bill, which is occasionally found in Bogota. Its bill is very short and sharply curved, in order that it may enter the short, curved flowers of that region. It is generally of a duller hue than most of its tribe. Its head and small crest are blackish-brown, each feather having a spot of buff on its tip. The upper part of the body is of a dark, glossy green, slightly touched with buff. The under part is a brownish-black, with a few buff streaks upon the throat and breast. It is about four and a half inches long.

Mars’ Sun-Angel.

Mr Gould describes the Mars’ sun-angel as among the most beautiful of the genus Heliangelus inhabiting the northern end of the Cordilleras.

“It has all the charms of novelty to recommend it, and it stands alone among its congeners; no other member of the genus, similarly coloured, having been discovered up to the present time. The throat vies with the radiant topaz, while the band on the forehead rivals in brilliancy the frontlet of every other species. The male bird has a fiery red mark on its forehead, and the crown of the head and upper surface of the body are bronzed green. The throat is ornamented with a gorget of deep fiery red, and below it is a crescent-shaped band of light buff, while the under part is of a deeper buff, changing to green at the sides. The tail is of a bronzed brown, with the two centre feathers of bronzed green. The female is destitute of the red mark on the throat and forehead.”

Heliangelus Clarissa.

Another sun-angel, the Heliangelus Clarissae, has a deep ruby crimson gorget.

Snow-Cap Humming-Bird.

In New Granada is also found the curious little snow-cap humming-bird, one of the most rare of the Trochilidae. It is of a brown colour, with a coppery hue, in which, in certain lights, a purple reflection can be perceived. The crown of the head and the tip of the tail-feathers are of a dazzling white.

Mr Gould describes one he saw perched on a twig, pluming its feathers. At first he was doubtful whether so small an object could be a bird. It was standing over a pool of water. “At first the little creature would poise itself about three feet or so above the water, and then, as quick as thought, dive downwards, so as to dip its miniature head in the placid pool. Then up again it would fly to its original position, as quickly as it had descended. These movements of darting up and down it repeated in rapid succession, producing a wonderful disturbance of the surface of the water for so diminutive a creature. After a considerable number of dips it alighted on a twig near at hand, and commenced pluming its feathers.”

Spangled Coquette.

The spangled coquette, like all of its genus, possesses a well-defined crest on the head, and a number of feathers projecting from the neck. This singular crest it can raise or depress at will, producing a curious effect in the appearance of the little bird. When depressed, the crest lies fiat, and projects on either side, so that the sparkling eyes can scarcely be seen. The crest and feathers projecting from the neck are of a light, ruddy chestnut, the latter having dark bronzed green spots on the tip. The head is of the same colour; the throat and face of a lustrous green. Below the gorget projects a small crossing from side to side, and the rest of the plumage is of a dark, ruddy chestnut colour. The female has neither crest nor gorget.

Train-Bearer (Leobia Amaryllis).

Professor Orton tells us that the valley of Quito swarms with those winged jewels—of varied hue—the Trochilidae.

Among them is the train-bearer, which, small as it is, has a straight tail nearly six inches in length.

Hill Star.

The neighbouring heights of Chimborazo and Pichincha are adorned with two beautiful little creatures, well called “Hill Stars;” and it is curious that the hill star of Chimborazo never visits Pichincha, nor does the latter ever approach Chimborazo. They are very like each other; but while that of Chimborazo has a triangular green spot upon the throat, it is wanting in the Pichincha hill star. The colour of the upper part of the Chimborazian hill star is of a somewhat dark olive-green, except the wings, which are of a purple-brown tint. The under parts are white; but they deepen into a dusky black upon the under tail-coverts. The head and throat are of the most glorious blue, with the exception of the before-mentioned emerald-green patch on the centre of the throat, which is of a triangular form, one angle pointing upwards. It has a broad collar of velvety black round the neck, the dark hues of the head contrasting curiously with the dark body. In the tail there are two white feathers, edged with greenish-black. The hen is of a more sombre hue, having an olive-green head, and the throat white, spotted with green.

The Sappho Comet.

Proceeding southwards, we find numerous beautiful humming-birds in Bolivia. Among them is the sappho comet, or bar-tailed humming-bird. In winter it descends into the lowlands of Peru, among the abodes of men, visiting their gardens and orchards with perfect fearlessness. The larger part of the plumage is of a light green, the lower portion of the back a deep crimson-red. The throat is metallic green, and the wings are purple-brown. The base of the tail is brown, but the greater part is of a fiery hue, tipped with velvety black.

As it darts from flower to flower—now describing a circle, now turning and performing numberless other evolutions—the eye is unable to follow it, and it is lost to sight, until it again returns to the flower which at first attracted its attention.

On arriving at its winter abode, it takes up its residence in the shrubberies and gardens of the Indian cottages, says Mr Bonelli. The hill-side of the neighbouring country, clothed with the indigenous trees and shrubs, also affords it a fit place of abode, whence it descends several times a day to the cultivated plains below, particularly to the fields of maize and pulse, and other leguminous plants. The rich flowers of the large cacti are also frequently visited, as they afford it a constant and abundant supply of insect food.

The nest is a somewhat loose structure, outwardly composed of vegetable fibres, slight twigs, and moss, and frequently lined with soft hair. The lower portion is prolonged considerably below the cup-shaped interior, which is about an inch and a half in diameter, and an inch in depth; the total length of the nest being nearly three inches. The nest is placed against the sides of the walls, supported by any hanging root or twig that may be best adapted to afford it security. The eggs are two in number, and oblong in form, of a pure white, half an inch in length, by about five-sixteenths of an inch in breadth.

The Phaon Comet—Blue-Tailed Sylph.

The phaon comet is considerably larger, but very similar to the former, except that the whole of its tail is of a crimson-red.

The blue-tailed sylph has a wide range along the temperate regions of the Cordilleras. The genus of sylph to which it belongs is among the most beautiful and graceful in form of the humming-birds. The body is of a bronzed green, and the crown of the head of a metallic golden green; while the throat is adorned with a gorget of the most intense purple-blue. It has a superb tail, the two central feathers of which are of a shining metallic green; the two next are black at their base, and rich blue towards their extremities, tipped and edged with bright metallic green, shot with blue.

But we have not space to describe one-tenth part of those wonderful, bright, and small specimens of the feathered tribe which inhabit the mountains for their entire length. Darwin found one of the species—the Trochilus forficatus—flying about amid the snow-storms in the forests of Tierra del Fuego; while in the wooded island of Chiloe, which has an extremely humid climate, he saw it skipping from side to side amid the dripping foliage.

In the same island is found another species, the Trochilus gigas—a very large bird for so delicate a family. When on the wing, it moves from place to place with the most rapid flight; but whilst hovering over a flower, it flaps its wings with a very slow and powerful movement, totally different from that of the vibratory one common to most of the species which produces the humming noise. When hovering by a flower, its tail is constantly opened and shut like a fan, the body being in a nearly vertical position. This action appears to steady and support the bird between the slow movements of its wings. It feeds chiefly on insects. The note of this species, like that of nearly the whole family, is extremely shrill.

In Bolivia are found the Bolivian violet-ear, Warren’s wood-star, and many others; but we must bring our description of the humming-birds of this region to a conclusion.

Part 3—Chapter XI.

Mammalia.

The Savage Inhabitants of the Amazonian Valley.

Full of animal life as are the forests of South America, the number of species of what are generally called wild beasts is remarkably small. Four only are capable of attacking man—the jaguar, the puma, the great ant-eater, and the savage little peccary, with its lancet-like tusks. The first only is universally dreaded; the puma flies when bravely confronted; the great ant-eater is not dangerous, except to those who get within its reach; and the peccary is dreaded chiefly when hunting in a pack, as it does, like the wolf. The burly tapir, the largest animal of the continent—though a hippopotamus would look at it with contempt—is perfectly harmless; and, with the exception of a few species of tiger-cats, nearly all the other Mammalia are rodents, or belong to the order Quadrumana. The latter are by far the most numerous inhabitants of its wide-extending forests. It is especially the country of monkeys, where they have arrived at their highest development. Several of the species are not only furnished with four hands, but they have tails which serve them, to all intents and purposes, as a fifth hand. They can hang by them, or insert them into a hole and pick out a bird’s egg, or a minute insect, with the greatest ease. They are generally, with the exception of the howlers, amicably disposed, easily tamed, with beautiful coats of fur, and, if not exactly elegant in their forms, very agile, and generally attractive, interesting little creatures.

The serpents and insects are far more dreaded and annoying than the wild beasts. Many of the former are fearfully venomous. The boa occasionally finds a human being in the forest, sick or wounded, and unable to fly, and winds its huge coils round his body. The anaconda is equally dangerous to those sleeping near the river’s edge; while the cunning and savage alligator lies in wait for the unwary bather or drawer of water who ventures into the stream; and termites and ants devour the stores of the inhabitants, and, in certain localities, well-nigh sting them to madness.

The Puma.

The gaucho of the Pampas, the llanero of the savannahs in the north, the herdsman on the slopes of the Cordilleras facing the Pacific, and the settlers on the eastern shore, dread the wide-ranging puma—or the American lion, as the creature, on account of its tawny hide, is wrongly called. Supplied with powerful limbs, capable of climbing tall trees and swimming rivers, neither mountains, forests, open plains, nor streams stop its progress. Like the cat, to which genus it belongs, it stealthily approaches its prey, and, seizing it with a sudden spring, rends it to pieces. When coming upon a flock of sheep or vicuñas, it deals havoc and destruction on every side, often striking down in mere wantonness a far greater number than it can carry off or devour. Yet, though far larger than the jaguar, it is inferior to it in courage, and, when boldly opposed by man, will always take to flight; though, like the jaguar, it will track a human being through the forest, in the hope of springing on him when unobserved. Yet, boldly faced, it plays the coward, and will creep off, unable to stand man’s steady gaze. Like a wild cat, it climbs a tree with ease; and, taking post on a branch, crouches down, stretched out at full length along it, its colour harmonising with the bark, so that it cannot be seen by its unwary prey moving near it. As the deer or vicuña passes below, it launches itself on the doomed creature, and, drawing back its neck with its powerful claws, breaks the vertebra, and instantly kills it. Darwin states that he has frequently seen skeletons of huanucus with their necks thus dislocated.

In the Amazonian forests the puma is not so common as the jaguar. The colour of its fur resembles that of the deer in these forests. The natives call it the sassu-arâna, or the false deer, as it frequently, in consequence, deceives them at first sight. “It was from this name being misspelt that it is called the cuguacuarana, the first c being soft,” observes Bates. Hence the name cougar, employed by French zoologists, and copied in most works on natural history. The hunters do not fear it, describing it as a coward; and such, in spite of its strength, it undoubtedly is. Still, instances have occurred of its killing human beings.

It is often found at an elevation of upwards of 10,000 feet. After killing an animal and eating its fill, it covers over the carcass with bushes, and lies down to watch it. This habit frequently causes its destruction, for the condors, attracted by the carcass, assemble from far and near to their expected feast, when the puma springs out to drive them off. The gauchos of the Pampas, observing the birds rise together on the wing, hurry with men and dogs to the chase. Whirling their bolas round their heads, they quickly entangle the animal’s limbs, and then, throwing their lassoes over it, drag it along the ground till rendered insensible, when its brains are quickly beaten out. In Chili it is hunted with dogs, or, driven up a tree, is easily shot. It is noted for its craft. When once it has been betrayed when watching a carcass, and has managed to make its escape, it is said never to resume that habit. When pursued it will stop and spring on one side, and wait till the dogs have passed by. Unlike the jaguar, which is among the most noisy of beasts of prey, the puma seldom utters any sound, even when wounded, but silently takes its way, its presence only known as it makes the fatal spring on its victim.

The Jaguar.

The Indian, as he roams through the forest, turns many a cautious look over his shoulder, lest the savage jaguar, with stealthy feet, may be following his trail. Meeting the monarch of his forests face to face, he fears it not, provided he is armed with a bow and poisoned arrows, or sumpitan and envenomed dart, which will soon compel the fierce creature to succumb to its deadly influence.

Of the jaguar, or ounce (Felis onca), there are two species—the one of a palish brown-yellow, variegated on the upper parts of the body with streaks and regular oblong spots of black; while the other is of a general black hue, and is considered the more savage of the two. It reaches a size which may vie with the tigers of India, though it is often not much larger than a wolf. It is frequently called the tiger or panther of the New World. The tail is not so long as the body. In outward appearance it closely resembles the leopard, especially in its arborial habits, as by means of its powerful claws it can with ease spring up the trunk of a tree, and make its way along the branches, ready to pounce down upon a foe. Nearly every creature of the forests and arid plains over which it roams, and many which frequent the margins of the rivers and lakes, have to dread its voracious jaws. It will spring from the bough, along which it lies crouching, on the back of the thick-skinned tapir, which, with those powerful claws clinging to its hide, dashes terror—stricken through the thickets, endeavouring to shake off its foe. It will even fearlessly attack the alligator, in spite of the latter’s enormous jaws,—avoiding which, by its agility, it will tear open the reptile’s side, and devour it before life is extinct. It lies watching from a projecting trunk for the huge manatee swimming by, and grappling it with its claws, holds it fast in the struggle for life and death, by degrees dragging the vast body out of the water, and never letting go its grasp till it has succeeded in capturing its prey. Turtles become its easy victims. Watching for them as they crawl up the sandy banks, it turns them helplessly over with its paws. The capybara, or water-hog, seems born for the especial purpose of serving it as food, enormous numbers of that big rodent being devoured by it. Even active monkeys cannot escape it. It will climb the trees and surprise them when sleeping; or sometimes, lying in concealment, springs out among a troop of them joyously gambolling, unsuspicious of danger, when their shrieks of terror and the hoarse roar of the jaguar may be heard resounding through the forest.

But where flocks and herds are collected in the neighbourhood of man’s abode, the jaguar is especially dreaded, as it will spring upon a horse and bring it to the ground with ease; it has been known to drag one many yards to the water’s side, and swim across the river with its prey, carrying it away on the opposite side to its home in the forest. Sheep and deer fall easy victims. When seizing a deer or horse, it leaps on the animal’s back, and grasping the head with its claws, wrenches it back till the vertebrae of the neck are broken.

There are but two animals who do not fear the jaguar. The great ant-eater is defended from the monster’s attacks by its shaggy, thick coat. It will often grasp the jaguar in its powerful claws, and keep it in a close embrace, while these formidable weapons tear open its side—treating it as some chiefs in India were in the habit of treating their guests, whom they pretended to receive with an embrace of friendship, their hands armed with the steel-formed claws in imitation of those of tigers. Though the savage little peccaries, when caught singly, are quickly despatched by the jaguar, yet when meeting it collected in a herd, they so fiercely assault it with their sharp tusks, that it is either pierced to death, in spite of the blows of its claws, or compelled to take to flight.

It catches fish as it does the manatee, suddenly thrusting forth its talons as they pass below it; while it scrapes up the turtle’s eggs in numbers. It even pounces on birds and lizards, in spite of their activity and means of escape; and, when pressed by hunger, it will attack a native village, and carry off, not only fowls and other tame animals, but the children, and sometimes full-grown people, whom it may catch unawares.

Darwin says, that when the floods drive these animals to drier ground, they are most dangerous; and mentions many instances of people being destroyed by them. On the Parana they have been known to get on board vessels at night. He heard of a man who, coming up from below when it was dark, was seized on the deck by a jaguar. He escaped, however, with the loss of the use of an arm. At Santa Fé, two padres entering, one after the other, a church into which a jaguar had made its way, were both killed. A third, who came to see what was the matter, escaped with difficulty. The beast was destroyed by being shot at from a corner of the building which was unroofed.

The gauchos say, that when wandering at night, it is frequently followed by foxes yelping at its heels. If such is the case, it is a curious coincidence with the fact, generally affirmed, that jackals accompany the East Indian tiger.

The jaguar often leaves marks on the bark of trees, which it scrapes for the purpose of tearing off the rugged parts of its claws; a habit common also to the puma, as Darwin says he frequently found in Patagonia scores so deep on the hard soil, that no other animal could have made them.

Brett mentions several instances which came under his notice of human beings being killed by jaguars. A Carib Indian had gone into the forest to procure touari,—the inner bark of the sapucaya-nut tree, of the thin papery layers of which the Indians form the envelopes of their cigarettes. While employed in cutting off the long strips of the bark, on turning round he discovered a jaguar stealthily approaching. His friends, as he did not return, set out in search of him. For a whole day they searched in vain; but on the second they discovered his foot-tracks, and those of a large jaguar. Following these for a long way in anxious suspense, they at length came to a spot where there were marks of a conflict, and they discovered their comrade’s bow lying broken on the ground. Still it was apparent that the Indian had beaten off his assailant, for the tracks of both led still further into the forest. At length they reached the scene of the last desperate struggle. On the ground lay the man’s knife, which he had lashed to the end of a stick; but it had been loosened and turned aside against the tough hide of the animal. From the marks on a tree it was evident that the poor fellow, in dire extremity, at the approach of night, had been trying to climb it, but ere he had ascended ten feet the jaguar had sprung after him, and pulling him down, had torn him to pieces. The remains, terribly mangled and half-devoured, lay near. One of the Caribs who had found the body described the sickness which came over him at the sight, and remarked that he had never since felt secure when traversing the forest with only his knife and bow and arrows. On the banks of the Pomaroon lived a Carib family, with a number of small children. The young ones had gone into the water to bathe, when they were startled by the cry of the smallest of their party—a little boy—whom they had left seated at the water’s edge. On looking round they beheld a huge jaguar which had been attracted by their noises of splashing, and which, having come behind the poor child, was standing with one paw on his shoulder. The elder children, screaming for help, attempted bravely to drive away the savage beast, but their efforts only resulted in it seizing the poor little fellow’s head with its powerful jaws. It was a moment of agony. Their father was absent, but another Carib who was near rushed to the spot, followed by the child’s mother and some other females. The beast, startled at this sudden increase in the number of its assailants, dropped its victim, whom the man immediately took up and gave to the mother. But assistance had come too late. The child gave his last struggle as his mother received him in her arms. When night set in, the disappointed beast came back to claim his prey, roaring and yelling through the hours of darkness around the open shed which formed their dwelling. Females alone were present, as the man had gone off to call the child’s father; and they had great difficulty, with firebrands and shouting, in keeping the brute off till help arrived.

Some time after this, another man, of considerable personal strength and cool courage, was one day in his field, with a little dog playing by his side, when he saw a jaguar at a distance watching his movements. The beast slunk away when observed, and as the Carib had no gun, he went on quietly with his work, clearing away the bush with his cutlass, which was a new and sharp one. The jaguar had, however, marked the dog for its prey, and only retreated to execute a flank march through the bush, and to come unperceived on his rear. Having effected this, it crept noiselessly forward, and sprang on the dog, which was instantly killed. The Carib rushed to the assistance of his favourite, compelling the savage jaguar to relinquish its hold, but the creature turned and sprang upon him. The man, however, anticipating the attack, dashed forward and decided the contest by a single blow, which buried his cutlass deep in the jaguar’s skull. The same man, on another occasion, clove the skull of a second jaguar with an axe with which he was about to fell some trees.

The jaguar, however, is capable of being tamed. The well-known Captain Inglefield possessed one, afterwards placed in the Zoological Gardens. It was so tame that he used to lie down and place his head on its body as on a pillow. It was allowed to roam at liberty about the ship. It was remarkable, however, that this creature could never be trusted when a young child or a dog was present. On such occasions it became greatly excited, endeavouring to break away from the chain with which it was secured when on shore. Probably in its native wilds both would have fallen victims to its natural ferocity.

The Bishop of Demerara witnessed an instance of the way in which these savage creatures may occasionally be tamed, while on an expedition up the River Demerara. On approaching the falls, he and his party halted at an Indian settlement on the left bank, where they saw a young jaguar only a few weeks old, which appeared to be extremely savage, when any of them went near it. “But,” he continues, “never did I observe such apparent gentleness and attachment in any animal; as, when one or two of our party had certainly not gone the way to win the creature’s affections, it allowed itself to be drawn close to us by an Indian woman, and afterwards by a little child. Not a moment before, it was as angry and savage as could be; but no sooner did the child draw it towards her, than, looking up with an expression of intelligence and trustfulness quite new to me, it nestled itself within the embrace of its kind protectress.”

The Indians are proverbially famous for the facility with which they attract animals towards them. Bates and Wallace also mention having seen, on several occasions, jaguars perfectly tame, roaming in and out of the huts, as their smaller feline relatives would have done.

Ant-Eaters.

Within the recesses of the primeval forest, near the borders of a river or lake, a large mass of what looks, at a little distance, like a collection of some long, coarse, curled, fibrous substance, is often seen by the hunter. The jaguar glances at it askance and passes it by,—although, when hunger presses him, he may long to obtain the dainty meal which lies beneath. The huge hairy mass is the tail of the ant-bear, which serves it as a shelter from the rays of the noonday sun and from the deluges of the rainy season: spread out over its body, it is the sole covering it seeks, as it neither burrows, nor takes up its abode in the hollows of trees nor in artificial caves. With its elongated toothless head and thin tongue, it seems utterly incapable, at the first glance, of defending itself, not only against the jaguar or puma, but, notwithstanding its great size, against even the attacks of the smallest carnivorous animals of the wilds, as it moves with toilsome and awkward steps over the ground. It cannot climb the trees; unadapted for swimming, it dare not seek safety in the water; and incapable of moving rapidly, it is unable to run from its foes. Its hind-feet, unlike those of many animals, are valueless for defence; but yet it has not been left without ample means of protection. Examine its fore-feet, and on each will be seen two large, powerful, trenchant claws. With these, aided by its muscular power, and thick hide covered with long coarse hair, it boldly defies the attacks of the fiercest creatures.

Of a peaceable disposition, it makes its solitary way through the forest; but woe betide the hunter’s dogs, or any other animals, which venture to assail it! With one blow of these sharp weapons it rips up its assailant, or hugs it in a close embrace, where its own thick skin resists the teeth of its foe; and, able itself to endure hunger longer than any other animal, it keeps it thus till starved to death.

Vast numbers of ants and termites swarm in the tropical forests of South America, of great varieties of form and mode of life and occupation. Their business in the economy of nature is chiefly the consumption of decayed vegetable matter, which would otherwise contaminate the atmosphere. They are furnished with incalculable powers of increase, and, to prevent their too great excess, other animals have been created to prey on them. The chief creature engaged in that work is this most extraordinary denizen of the forest—the ant-bear, or great ant-eater (Myrmecophaga jubata), called also the tamanoir. It often measures, from the tip of its snout to the extremity of its tail, eight feet; and though it seems wonderful that so large an animal should be able to subsist solely on such minute insects, yet, from the formation of its mouth, it is unable to consume any other. It has a long slender head, with a pointed snout; and its mouth, entirely destitute of teeth, is furnished with a long flexible tongue, covered with a glutinous saliva. This it passes lightly over the swarms of ants which rush out when it attacks their dwelling, and they, adhering to it, are speedily dragged into its maw.

Its body is covered with long, coarse, shaggy hair, except on the head, where it is short and close; while its black bushy tail is of great size and length. It is plantigrade —that is, it stands lower on the hind-legs than in front. Though its mouth appears so incapable of enabling it to defend itself, it can do so effectually with the two long, sharp claws of its fore-feet. With these claws it opens the ant-hills, on whose inhabitants it subsists. Its hind-feet have five toes, but they are furnished with short, weak claws, similar to those of ordinary quadrupeds.

Its favourite resort is the low swampy marshes of the rivers and stagnant pools; but it also ranges widely in search of its prey. It lives in solitude; its habits are slothful; it sleeps during the greater part of the day. Its long claws, when not employed, are folded upon a thick rough pad, which renders the exertion of walking less difficult. As, however, it is compelled to step upon the outer edge of its fore-feet, it progresses in an awkward and painful manner, and it cannot move for any length of time. Its eye possesses a peculiarly cunning expression.

Of a peaceable and harmless disposition, the ant-bear, when not provoked, never attacks any animal; but on the approach of an enemy, it assumes the defensive in such a way as to make the boldest aggressor pause. Resting on its left fore-foot, it strikes out its right with a force sufficient to tear off the hide of the thickest-skinned assailant. When attacked from behind, it turns round with the rapidity of lightning; and when assailed from several quarters at once, it throws itself on its back, fighting desperately with both its fore-legs, and uttering angry growls of defiance. So thick is its hide, that no animal has been found with teeth capable of piercing it; and even when the jaguar, pressed by hunger, dares to assail it, the monarch of the American forest is often driven off, or left weltering in its blood from the wounds inflicted by the formidable claws of the ant-bear.

When attacking an ant-castle, the tamanoir strikes a hole in the wall of clay with his powerful, crooked claws. The warrior-ants then issue out by thousands to resent the insult, while the labourers retire to the inmost recesses. The soldiers swarm on every part of their assailant, but their sharp mandibles are unable to pierce its thick skin. The bear then putting forth its long tongue, which is lubricated from two large glands situated below its root, the insects remain sticking in the glutinous liquid. When a sufficient supply has been thus obtained, it draws back its tongue within its mouth, and swallows the whole army at a gulp.

Myrmecophaga Tamandua.

While the vast citadels of the white ant formed on the ground are attacked by the great ant-eater, the too great increase of the arborial termites is kept under by three smaller species, formed to live among the branches of the trees.

The tamandua is seen climbing the loftiest monarchs of the forest in search of its insect prey. It is about the size of a cat. Though its head is elongated, it is considerably less so than that of the ant-bear; while its hair is short and silky, resembling fine wool. The feet are formed in the same manner as those of the larger animal, but, to enable it the better to climb among the branches, it possesses a prehensile tail.

Though it cannot be said to possess a sweet tooth—as its mouth is as destitute of teeth as that of the tamanoir—yet it does not confine its food to the termites alone, but seeks the nests of the stingless bees, which form their hives among the loftiest branches of the forest, and robs them of their honeyed treasures.

Little Ant-Eater.

There is another curious little ant-eater, about the size of a squirrel,—which animal it resembles very much in its habits, and somewhat in its appearance. It possesses a prehensile tail, like that of the ateles and other American monkeys, with which it can swing itself from branch to branch. The tail is covered with fur, with the exception of about three inches of the under surface at the extremity. It has a small head, the snout sharpened and bent slightly downwards. A soft, curled, and pale yellow-brown fur clothes its body. It has only two claws on each of its fore-feet, the exterior one being stronger and larger than the interior. With these weapons it is enabled to hook out the small insects from the crevices of the bark, or grubs from the nests of bees or wasps. Like the squirrel, it sits upon its hind-limbs when eating, supporting itself with its prehensile tail. It may more properly be called the twisted-tail ant-eater (Cyclothurus didactylus).

There is another small ant-eater found in Guiana, called the striped ant-eater (Myrmecophaga striata), from the marks on its body. Its general colour is of a tawny hue, the under parts being white. It is marked with broad, distinct, blackish transverse stripes, and the tail is annulated with similar ones. Its whole length, from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, is about twenty inches. The snout is elongated, the upper mandible extending very little beyond the lower.

The Sloth.

That shaggy-haired creature, which may be seen hanging from the boughs of the lofty cecropia—the much-abused sloth—is generally described as a type of laziness, doomed to a helpless and wretched existence; but such an animal the all-beneficent Creator has not placed on the earth. To each animal that he has formed he has given an instinct and organisation specially adapted to their mode of life and the part they are destined to perform in the economy of nature. The sloth is formed to pass its time in trees, and to feed on the superabundant leaves, which would otherwise impede the circulation of the air, retard their growth, or bring on premature decay. This duty it shares with numberless other animals of the luxuriant forests of Tropical America. Place the sloth out of its natural position, and, as would be the case with other animals, it finds itself in a difficulty. Its destiny is to live in the dense forest, where, the branches of the trees meeting each other, it can move along from bough to bough, and make its way for considerable distances without difficulty, or having to descend to the ground. When by force or accident placed on the ground, it is unable to move along except at a slow and toilsome pace. When by any chance thus seen, its arms appear much too long, while its hind-legs, which are very short, look as if they could be bent almost to the shape of a cork-screw. Both fore and hind-legs, by their form, and the manner in which they are joined to the body, are incapable of acting in a perpendicular direction, or in supporting its body. Hence its belly touches the ground. Even could the animal thus raise itself, it would be in pain, as it has no soles to its fore-feet, and its claws are very sharp, long, and curved. Thus, were its body supported by its feet, it would be on their extremities; just as a man would be were he to go on all-fours, and try to support his body on the ends of his toes and fingers. “Were the ground polished like glass,” says Waterton, “the sloth would actually be quite stationary; but as it is generally rough, the sloth moves its fore-legs in all directions, in order to find something to lay hold of; and when it has succeeded, it pulls itself forward, and is thus able to travel onwards, though in a slow and awkward manner. Indeed, as its looks and gestures betoken its uncomfortable situation, and as a sigh every now and then escapes it, it may be concluded that it actually is in pain.”

Thus it is evident that the sloth is formed, not to live on the ground, but in trees; and on further observation it will be seen that, unlike most other arborial animals, it lives, not on the branches, but under them. It moves, suspended from the branch; it rests, suspended from the branch; and sleeps, suspended from the branch. “Hence its seemingly bundled position is at once accounted for,” adds Waterton; “and in lieu of the sloth leading a painful life, and entailing a miserable existence on its progeny, it is but fair to conclude that it enjoys life as much as any other animal, and that its extraordinary formation and singular habits are but further proofs to engage us to admire the wonderful works of Omnipotence.”

In proportion as the sloth’s organisation unfits it for terrestrial progression, it is wonderfully adapted for climbing trees. With its long arms it reaches right up, and clings to the branches with its long and crooked claws. It has thus the power of grasping a tree which no other mammal possesses. It is indeed the best climber among mammals, while it is the only mammal that can neither walk nor stand. When sleeping, the sloth does not hang head downwards, like the vampire, but supports itself from the branch parallel to the earth. It first seizes the branch with one arm, and then the other, and then brings up both its legs—one after the other—to the same branch, so that all four are in a line.

It is almost tailless. Had it a tail it would be at a loss to know what to do with it in this position. Were it to draw it up between its legs, it would interfere with them; and were it to let it hang down, it would become the sport of the winds.

Waterton observes that he has never seen a tree entirely stripped of its leaves; indeed, he believes that by the time the animal had finished the last of the old leaves, there would be a new crop on the part of the tree it had stripped first, ready for him to begin again, so rapid is the process of vegetation in that region. In calm weather it remains tranquil, probably not liking to cling to the brittle extremities of the branches, lest they should break with it in passing from one tree to another; but as soon as the wind rises, the branches of the neighbouring trees become interlocked, and then the animal seizes hold of them, and pursues his journey in safety, travelling at a good round pace—showing that he does not deserve the name of sloth.

The head of the sloth is short, the face small and round, the hair coarse and shaggy. There are several species, differing considerably in colour, but resembling in general dry, withered grass, or moss. The species vary in size from two feet to the size of a rabbit. Its face resembles the human countenance as much as that of the monkey, but with a very sad and melancholy expression. It brings forth its young and suckles them like ordinary quadrupeds. The infant sloth, from the moment of its birth, adheres to the body of its parent, until it acquires sufficient size and strength to shift for itself. Its cry is low and plaintive, resembling the sound of “ai.” Hence the three-toed sloth has obtained the name of the ai.

Mr Bates says that the natives consider the sloth the type of laziness, and that it is very common for one native to call another—reproaching him for idleness—“beast of the cecropia tree;” the leaves of the cecropia being the food of the sloth. “It is a strange sight,” he adds, “watching the creature’s movements from branch to branch. Every movement betrays not indolence, but extreme caution. It never loses its hold of one branch without catching the next; and when it does not immediately find a branch to grasp with the rigid hooks which serve it for paws, it raises its body, supported by its hind-legs and claws, and feels round in search of a fresh foothold.” In one of their voyages, he and Mr Wallace saw a sloth (Bradypus infuscatus) swimming across a river, at a place where it was probably three hundred yards broad. It is not generally known that this animal takes to the water.

The Tapir.

Throughout the densely-wooded regions on the banks of the rivers from Demerara, across the Brazils, to Paraguay, the long-nosed tapir has its range. It and the peccary are the only two Pachydermata, or thick-skinned animals, indigenous to the southern continent. It is considered one of the links which connect the elephant and rhinoceros to the swine; its habits, indeed, are somewhat similar to those animals.

Six feet in length, and four in height, it is the largest quadruped in South America. In form it is somewhat like the hog; but its snout is lengthened into a flexible proboscis, which resembles the rudiment of the elephant’s trunk, and serves for the same purpose—that of twisting round the launches of trees and tearing off the leaves, on which it partly feeds. Like the rhinoceros, it delights in water, is a good swimmer and diver, and enjoys wallowing in the mud.

Though in its wild state its food consists of the shoots of trees, buds, wild fruits, gourds, and melons, when in captivity it is an indiscriminate swallower of everything, filthy or clean. During the day it remains concealed in the deep recesses of the forest, issuing out at night to seek its food. On its front feet are four toes, but there are only three on the hinder—their tips cased in small hoofs. The eyes are small and lateral, and the ears long and pointed. The teeth are strong and powerful, to enable it to crush its food, or defend itself against its enemies. The hair, of a deep brown, approaching to black, is short, scanty, and closely depressed to the surface; while it has little or no tail. It possesses enormous muscular power; and as its body is defended by a thick, tough hide, it can force its way through the dense underwood where no other creature can penetrate. Generally it moves in a trot, but when pursued breaks into an awkward gallop, carrying its head downwards, like the hog.

Its chief enemy is the fierce jaguar, which, leaping on its back, endeavours to bring it to the ground. The tapir, on being seized, darts through the forest, attempting to destroy its foe, and dislodge it from its back by rushing under the low boughs of the trees. Should this fail, and water be near, it quickly frees itself by diving down—as the jaguar, unable to dive, must either let go its hold or be drowned.

Of a peaceful and harmless disposition, it never willingly attacks man or beast; but when hunted and brought to bay, it will defend itself desperately, frequently inflicting, with its strong teeth, severe wounds on its assailants.

The Peccary.

The only other pachydermatous animal besides the tapir indigenous to South America is the little truculent peccary—a herd of which creatures is more feared by the natives than the jaguar, boa, or anaconda. There are two species—the Dicotyles tajacu and Dicotyles labiatus, or white-lipped peccary; the latter being the larger and fiercer of the two. The peccary is very like a small hog. Its form is short and compact, thickly covered with strong, dark-coloured bristles, except the lower part of the body, which is nearly destitute of hair. It has a somewhat large head, short snout, and short, upright ears; while a fleshy protuberance is its representative for a tail. At the first glance it seems harmless enough, but inside its mouth are found some short tusks, double-edged, and as sharp as lancets, with which the creature is capable of inflicting the most deadly wounds. It is remarkable for a glandular orifice at the lower part of the back, surrounded by strong bristles. From this gland exudes a strong-scented fluid; so that, as soon as the creature is killed, it is necessary to cut it out, or the rest of the flesh becomes so imbued as to make it unfit for food.

In its habits it is like the hog, and lives on the same kind of food, but its chief duty in the economy of nature is that of destroying reptiles and snakes of all sorts,—particularly the rattlesnake, which it attacks without the slightest hesitation; nor does it appear to suffer in any way when bitten. It gives voice with a sharp, shrill grunt; but when angry, it smartly clashes its tusks together, making a sound heard at a considerable distance, and announcing its approach.

The flesh is somewhat dry and insipid, and entirely destitute of fat. That of the female is considered the best.

The larger species—the white-lipped peccary—is dreaded by the farmers, as it frequently, in large numbers, attacks their crops, choosing always the most flourishing fields.

The peccary, though occasionally found by itself, is a gregarious animal. A herd will attack a jaguar or puma, and even the sturdy tapir, without fear; and rushing at their antagonist with their sharp tusks, never fail to come off victorious. Knowing their power, the jaguar, when meeting a herd, flies through the forest to avoid them. When the hunter and his dogs encounter one of these armies, his only chance of escape is to climb the nearest tree, when they can only stand below gnashing their teeth, and gazing up at him with their vindictive little eyes. His dogs, however, quickly fall victims to their fury.

On one occasion a party of hunters had brought a bear to bay, when, in the midst of the fierce contest, a herd of peccaries came charging over the ground, putting not only the bear, but the men and the dogs to flight.

The peccary will, indeed, attack man or beast without hesitation, its assaults being not the less dangerous because it seems utterly ignorant of the danger it runs itself. It is, however, hunted by the natives for the sake of its flesh. It frequently takes up its abode in some forsaken burrow or the hollow of a tree. The creatures back in, one after the other, till there is no room for more. The outer one then takes the post of sentinel, and gives notice of the approach of any desirable quarry. The hunters, aware of this habit, cautiously—sometimes with firearms and sometimes with pointed weapons—approach the peccaries’ abode. A slight noise draws the sentinel from the hollow, when it is immediately shot down or transfixed by a spear. Another at once takes its place, coming out to see what is the matter, when it is killed in the same way; and thus a whole family may be killed in detail.

Hydrochaerus Capybara.

In all parts of the continent,—on the banks of the streams flowing through the Llanos of Venezuela, as well as by the side of the La Plata and its tributaries,—the capybara, the largest rodent in existence, may be seen, seated on its haunches, like others of its family. It is of the size of a moderately large hog about two years old. It has a large head, and thick divided nose, on each side of which are long whiskers. The ears are small and rounded; the eyes are black and of considerable size; and the upper jaw much longer than the lower,—which gives the face a curious appearance. The body is thick, covered with short, coarse brown hair, and destitute of a tail. The neck is short, as are the legs—with remarkably long feet, which are also very broad, the claws of a blunt form, and approximate in shape to the hoofs of the Pachydermata. They are partly webbed, and thus adapted to the aquatic life it enjoys, and which has gained for it the name of the water-hog. Though it feeds on vegetables, it is also fond of fish, to catch which it enters the water, swimming after them with the rapidity of an otter. When seen at a distance as they run over the ground, from their colour they look like pigs; but when seen seated on their haunches, attentively watching any object with one eye, as is their habit, their true character is known.

Darwin describes his observing a party of several. As he approached nearer and nearer they made their peculiar noise,—which is a low, abrupt grunt, not having much actual sound, but rather arising from the sudden expulsion of air. The only noise like it is the first hoarse bark of a large dog. Having watched them from almost within arm’s-length and they him for several minutes, they rushed into the water with the greatest impetuosity, emitting at the same time their usual bark. After diving a short distance they came again to the surface, but just showed the upper part of their heads. When the female is swimming and has young ones, they are said to sit on her back.

The capybara is classed with the Cavidae or guinea-pig tribe. When not persecuted, it is very tame; but in the regions frequented by the jaguar it becomes his easy and constant prey. It is of a mild disposition, and is sometimes tamed. Its flesh is rather dry, and has a somewhat musky flavour, but affords wholesome food to man.

Agouti Dasyprocta.

Of agoutis there are several species. The larger agouti, mara, or Patagonian cony—twice the size of a hare—are seen three or four together, hopping quickly one after the other in a straight line across the Pampas. It is somewhat like a hare, but has the external covering of a hog, its long coat concealing its little stump of a tail. It has also the hog’s voracious appetite.

It is fond of occupying the burrows of the bizcacha when it finds them, but when they do not exist it is compelled to make a house for itself. It here stores away the food it does not require for present use. When eating, it sits up like the squirrel, using its fore-paws to convey the food to its mouth. Its hind-legs being very long, it leaps over the ground at considerable speed. As it is very fond of the sugar-cane, wherever plantations exist it is hunted without mercy, and driven from the district.

The smaller agouti, rather less than a rabbit, generally inhabits forest districts; and as it is there a nocturnal animal, it spends the chief part of the day in its hiding-place—usually the cleft of a rock or the hollow of a decaying tree—twenty or thirty creatures congregating together. Here their nests are formed of soft leaves, where the young are placed till they are able to accompany their parents on their predatory expeditions. It is a gentle little creature, and when caught, instead of attempting to bite, only gives vent to a piteous cry.

The larger agouti, or mara, is sometimes classed between the agoutis and the pacas. It is more easily tamed than the smaller species, and the fur is handsomer—of black, white, and golden brown.

The Paca (Coelogenys).

The paca—another rodent—is remarkable for its enormously-developed cheek-bone, and for the thick pouch which it possesses. Like its big relation, the capybara, it always takes up its abode in the neighbourhood of water. It forms a burrow so near the surface, that a person walking over it suddenly steps through. It generally makes three openings, which it covers with dry leaves and branches. The Indian easily discovers the entrances, when he closes up two of the apertures, and watches till the paca ventures out of the third. The little animal, however, defends itself bravely, and will severely bite its assailant.

It is of a thick, clumsy form, measuring about two feet in length from the tip of the nose to the extremity of the body, and about one foot in height. The hinder limbs are long, the front ones much bent. Its feet are armed with thick, strong, conical claws, suitable for digging.

Though a clumsy-looking creature, it can run and jump with great activity. It makes a noise somewhat like the grunting of a young pig. It lives upon fruits and tender plants, going out from its hole to forage at night, but generally remaining concealed during the daytime. When alarmed it readily takes to the water, and dives and swims remarkably well.

Bates describes a tame cutea, or an agouti, which he found feeding in the neighbourhood of a village, nibbling the fallen fruits of the inaja-palm. On his trying to catch it, instead of betaking itself, as he thought it would, to the thicket, it ran on to the house of its owners, which was at a distance of about two hundred yards.

The paca and agouti belong to the peculiar family of the rodent order confined to South America, and which connects the Rodentia to the Pachydermata—the order to which the elephant, horse, and hog belong.

The fossil toxodon resembled the Rodentia in its dentition, and, at the same time, was nearly related to the elephant. These facts make it probable that these animals are living representatives of a group which existed at a distant epoch of the world’s history, and which possessed a structure partaking of the character of the two great orders—Rodentia and Pachydermata—now so widely distinct in the majority of forms.

The Armadillo.

In days gone by, huge monsters—their backs covered with bony armour—ten feet and upwards in length, some perhaps of the bulk of the rhinoceros, crawled along the plains of South America. They have become creatures of the past, and their places have been taken by others of a similarly curious formation, of which even the giant armadillo, when compared to them, is a mere pigmy. These creatures abound in all parts of the continent, from Paraguay to Venezuela; but, incased as they are in coats of complete armour, and running so quickly, and so rapidly digging into the earth, they can rarely be overtaken by the hunter.

The armadillo (Dasypus) belongs to the order of Edentata. The armour, which covers the whole body, consists of a triangular plate on the top of the head, a large buckler over the shoulders, and a similar one covering the haunches; while between the solid portions a series of transverse bands intervene in such a manner as to allow the creature to move its body in a variety of postures. The tail is likewise covered with a series of calcareous rings. It can, in consequence of this peculiar conformation of its covering, roll itself up, like the hedgehog, into a ball, and thus present a solid surface, impervious to the attacks of birds of prey or small quadrupeds. The part over the shell is covered with short hairs, which appear between the joints of the armour. It has a pointed snout, long ears, thick, short limbs, and powerful claws. With these claws it burrows with extraordinary rapidity, and can inflict severe wounds.

The common armadillo, or the poyou, is about twenty inches in length, including the tail. As its hearing is very acute, and it never ventures far from its home during the daytime, it easily escapes the attacks of its foes, with the exception of man. It readily takes to the water when pursued, and swims well, but does not enter it by choice. The Indian hunter, however, attacks the creature with a skill it cannot escape.

It is a curious fact that mosquitoes often inhabit the burrows of the armadillo. The Indian, knowing this, as soon as he finds a burrow, puts a short stick down it. If a number of insects come out, he knows there is an animal within. When he finds no mosquitoes, he is sure there is no armadillo. If he is satisfied that the armadillo is at home, he cuts a long, slender stick, and introduces it into the hole, carefully observing the line which it takes, and then sinks a pit in the sand to catch the end of it. This done, he puts it further into the hole, and digs another pit; till he at last comes up with the poor armadillo—which has been making a passage in the sand, till, from its exertions, it has lost all its strength.

The armadillo feeds on all vegetable or animal matter not too hard for its sharp teeth. It is especially useful in devouring the offal or the putrid carcasses of animals which might otherwise affect the air. In spite of this coarse style of feeding, its flesh is esteemed by the natives—who for the sake of it perseveringly hunt the poor creature throughout the country.

The species are distinguished from one another chiefly by the number of bands on the trunk of the body, between the shield on the fore-shoulders, and that on the rump. Baron Cuvier, however, divides the whole genus into five small groups,—distinguishing one from another by the number and form of their teeth and claws.

The great armadillo (Dasypus gigas) has enormous claws and unequal toes, with twenty-four broad teeth on both sides of its jaws. It measures, exclusive of the tail, nearly three feet in length.

Darwin describes another, living on very dry soil, the pechy (Dasypus minutus), which wanders by day over the open plains, and feeds on beetles, leaves, roots, and even small snakes. So rapidly does it burrow, that scarcely is one seen before its hind-quarters disappear in the sand. It likewise tries to escape notice by squatting down close to the ground.

The Opossum.

There are numerous species of opossum, most of them marsupial, in the Brazils, where they take the place of the shrews of Europe. They are very destructive to poultry. One of the species is aquatic, and has webbed feet. The terrestrial species are nocturnal. They sleep during the day in the hollows of trees, and come forth at night to prey on birds in their roosting-places. Some live entirely on trees.

The Crab-Eating Opossum.

The crab-eating opossum is a curious creature, about ten inches in length; with a prehensile tail, fifteen inches long, in addition. It has a somewhat pointed nose, and a darkish fur. When born, the young are transferred by the mother to her cradle pouch, where they live for some weeks before they are sufficiently developed to venture abroad.

The creature is formed especially for living among the trees, about which it moves with the activity of a monkey. It advances carefully, always entwining its tail round one branch before venturing on to another.

The crabs and other crustaceans on which it lives—from which circumstance it obtains its name—are found on low marshy soils, in the neighbourhood of which these species exist.

Merian’s Opossum.

A still more curious creature is Merian’s opossum (Philander dorsigerus). It has no true pouch, and the mother, therefore, while her young are in their infancy, carries them on her back. From this circumstance the name of dorsigerus, or back-bearing, has been given to it. They cling to her fur with their little hand-like feet, while they twine their tails round hers, which she places over her back in a convenient position for that purpose. Other species of opossums carry their young in the same manner,—some even which are furnished with well-developed pouches.

Yapock Opossum.

The little yapock opossum is a representative of the aquatic species (Cheironectes yapock). It is of a fawn-grey tint, with dark black marks. It measures in length about ten inches, with a tail of twelve or fifteen inches. The hind-feet are furnished with a membraneous web, which connects the toes together, and serves as a paddle. The fore-paws possess great grasping powers, and have a hand-like appearance. The ears are small, sharp, and pointed, and the head tapering. It possesses also large cheek-pouches, similar in their use to those of monkeys. It is thus enabled to stow away the creatures it catches on its aquatic excursions, and to keep them there till it returns to the shore to dine. It feeds principally on fish, crustaceans, and aquatic insects. So similar is it in its habits to the otter, that it is frequently described as one, and has been called the Demerara otter; but it is in reality a true opossum.

Bats.

No animal’s physiognomy can be more hideous, when seen from the front, than the countenance of the largest South American vampire-bat. Fancy a creature measuring twenty-eight inches in expanse of wing, its large leathery ears standing out from the sides and top of the head, and an erect spur-shaped appendage on the tip of the nose,—the grin, and the glistening black eye, all combining to make up a figure which reminds one of some mocking imp of fable. No wonder that imaginative people have conferred diabolical instincts on so ugly an animal.

Ugly as is the broad leaf-nosed family of bats, it is in reality the least harmless. The little grey Phyllostoma is the guilty blood-sucker which visits sleepers and bleeds them in the night. It is of a dark grey colour, striped with white down the back, and having a leaf-like fleshy expansion on the tip of the nose. Although they undoubtedly attack sleeping people, yet they appear to be somewhat partial as to the individuals they select. Bates, when sleeping in a room up the Amazon, long unused, was awoke at midnight by a rushing noise made by vast hosts of bats sweeping round him. The air was alive with them. They had put out the lamp, and when he relighted it the place appeared black with the impish multitudes that were whirling round and round. After he had laid about him well with a stick for a few minutes they disappeared among the tiles; but when all was quiet again, they returned once more and extinguished the light. The next night several got into his hammock, and on waking in the morning he found a wound, evidently caused by one of them, on his hip. There were altogether four species. One of them (the Dysopes perotis) has enormously large ears, and measures two feet from tip to tip of the wings. The natives, however, assured him that it was the phyllostoma which had inflicted the wound, and they asserted that it is the only kind which attacks man. But Mr Bates considers that several kinds of bats have this propensity.

Darwin, when travelling in Chili, noticing that one of the horses was very restive, went to see what was the matter; and fancying that he could distinguish something, put his hands on the beast’s withers, and discovered a vampire-bat. In the morning, the place where the wound had been inflicted was easily distinguished by being slightly swollen and bloody.

Waterton describes the mode in which the vampire-bat makes the orifice through which to suck its victim’s blood. It does so by pressing gently the point of its sharp projecting teeth, noiselessly circling round, and making them act the part of a centre-bit,—performing the operation so quietly that no pain is felt. He says, however, that at times they commit a good deal of mischief. A young Indian boy suffered greatly by being frequently attacked; and the son of an English gentleman was bitten so severely on the forehead, that the wound bled freely on the following morning. The fowls also suffered so terribly that they died fast; and an unfortunate jackass on whom they had set their fancy was almost killed by inches.

The vampire rises in the air by means of a wide flattened membrane connecting the whole of the limbs and tail, the thumb of the fore-paws and the hind-feet alone being left free. This membrane, though wonderfully delicate, is furnished with minute blood-vessels. It also possesses a system of nerves of the most exquisite power of sensation, which enables it to fly rapidly among the boughs and foliage, avoiding all impediments even in the darkest hours of night. The vampire can run along the ground and climb trees by means of the sharp hooks on the fore-paws. They sleep, however, like ordinary bats, hanging by their hind-feet—being thus able at a moment’s notice to take to flight.

Of the other species, some have the fur of a blackish colour, some of a ruddy hue.

When flying, the larger ones wheel heavily round and round, somewhat in the manner of a pigeon, so that they may easily be mistaken for birds. Although they live largely on insects, they also greedily devour fruits; indeed, some species live chiefly on them. Bates opened the stomach of several, and found them to contain a mass of pulp and seeds of fruit, mingled with a few remains of night insects. On comparing the seeds taken from their stomachs with those of cultivated trees, he found that they were unlike any of them: he concludes, therefore, that they resort to the forest to feed, coming only to human habitations in the morning to sleep, where they find themselves more secure from animals of prey than in their natural abodes in the woods.

Part 3—Chapter XII.

Quadrumana.

Monkeys.

The American monkeys consist of two chief families,—the Cebidae, and the Midas or Marmosets—which are again separated into thirteen genera, consisting of about eighty-six species, greatly diversified among themselves. In America neither Pithecidae or Lemurs are found: they exclusively inhabit the Old World.

The Cebidae have thirty-six teeth; the Marmosets possess but thirty-two: three of them, however, are pre-molar, as are three of those of the Cebidae, thus distinguishing them both from all the forms of the Old World.

The Marmosets are a low type of apes—their brain being smooth, and they having claws instead of nails; but from their intelligent-looking countenances, and their gentle, playful disposition, they appear to have as much sense as the larger apes.

The American monkeys differ greatly in size and form. The largest—the savage black howler—is nearly two feet and a half in length of trunk; while the beautiful timid marmoset is so small that it may be inclosed in the two hands. Some have tails twice the length of their bodies; the caudal appendages of others appear to have been docked, or are altogether absent. The long tails of some are prehensile, and have a smooth surface, which enables them to employ it as a fifth hand; others are covered with thick bushy hair, and are employed apparently only in balancing the animal. When night comes they roll themselves into a ball, huddled together as close as may be, to keep themselves warm. Sometimes it happens that a few little monkeys have not been alert enough to get into the ball, and are left shivering outside. They keep up a pitiful howling the whole night through.

One family—the Marmosets—have, as has been remarked, claws instead of nails. Others are covered with short, coarse hair; while others, again, have coats of a long, soft silky texture.

Some sport among the branches, seeking their food in the daytime; others, again, only come forth from the hollows of trees, where they have their beds during the night season—their eyes being formed, like those of owls, incapable of meeting the glare of day.

It is remarkable that the smallest of all—the Hapali pygmaeus, measuring only seven inches in length of body—is among the most widely dispersed, having found its way into Mexico: the only monkey known to have wandered far from the great river-plain.

All the monkeys of the New World are arborial; as, indeed, are many of the animals which, in other parts of the world, live entirely on the ground. They are mostly furnished with long, prehensile tails. Some have the under part of the extremity perfectly smooth, so as to serve the purpose of a fifth hand, by which the creatures can swing themselves from bough to bough, and hold on securely while their four hands are actively employed. On passing through an Amazonian forest, sometimes the branches of the trees are seen alive with active little creatures swinging backwards and forwards, climbing up the sipos with the agility of seamen on the rigging of a ship, scampering along the boughs, playing all sorts of antics, or engaged in plucking the juicy fruit or hard nuts to be found in ample abundance, even on the tallest monarchs of the woods.

Spider-Monkeys.

Among the most curious of the monkey tribe are the ateles, or spider-monkeys,—called also Cebidae, and, by the natives sapajous, one of the species of the coaita, or quata. As they are seen gambolling among the trees, with their long limbs, and still longer tails, ever actively employed, their resemblance to huge spiders is remarkable. Not that the creature is always in a state of activity, for it will often sit swinging slowly backwards and forwards, or place itself in the oddest of attitudes without moving a limb, as if resting after its exertions, or, in a contemplative mood, watching the proceedings in the world below. Sometimes a whole colony may thus be seen, when the native huntsman, approaching with his deadly blow-pipe, can without difficulty pick them off one by one, and secure his prey. But let them be alarmed, and away they go through the forest, swinging themselves from bough to bough, at a rate which no other creature, without wings, can exceed.

In the spider-monkeys, the tail, as a prehensile organ, reaches its highest degree of perfection, and they may therefore be considered as the extreme development of the American type of apes. Their tails are endowed with the most wonderful degree of flexibility. They are always in motion—except when the animal is perfectly at rest—coiling and uncoiling themselves, like the trunks of elephants, seeking to grasp, apparently, whatever comes within their reach.

The coaita can apply its tail to all sorts of uses. So delicate is its touch, that one would almost think it possessed the power of sight. Should it discover a nest of eggs or any creature in a crevice too small for its paw to enter, it inserts the end of its tail and hooks out the tit-bit.

The animal is of considerable size, and is covered with coarse black hair—with the exception of the face, parts of which are of a tawny flesh-coloured hue. There are various species, each of which has its peculiar district; and they vary slightly in appearance.

In the neighbourhood of Obydos, the Ateles paniscus has its abode; while in the Upper Amazon the white-whiskered coaita (Ateles marginatus) takes its place. It is remarkable that animals which apparently have the means of moving without difficulty at a rapid rate in any direction should thus be confined to particular localities.

The Chemeck.

The chemeck appears to have a wider range. It possesses a thumb, slightly projecting, and furnished with a nail—though the thumb cannot be used like that of a human being, as it is incapable of being opposed to the fingers. It is a gentle creature, and capable of considerable cultivation. Although playfully inclined, it is seldom spiteful; while its disposition is very different from that exhibited by the capricious temper of the Old World monkeys. It soon learns to distinguish its friends; and will playfully pretend to attack them, but never does any real harm. It is covered with a long fur, which falls densely over the body; as is its tail, which at once distinguishes it from its relatives. The ear is somewhat similar to that of man, but has no lower lobe. The nostrils open at the sides, and are separated by a wide piece of cartilage. The habits, however, of the ateles, are so similar, that they require no separate description.

Wandering through the forest with an Indian guide, we reach an igarape or stream, where the lofty branches of the trees do not completely meet overhead, but where the opening is as yet of no great width. Lying concealed, we hear a strange chattering and rustling among the foliage in the distance. Pieces of rotten wood, husks, and nuts come dropping down, and we may see the boughs alive with numberless dark-haired little creatures, their long lithe tails twisting and twirling, their active limbs stretched out in all directions, as they make their way through the forest. We recognise them as a troop of ateles, migrating to some other district, or on some expedition in search of food.

On reaching the boughs above the banks of the stream, they seem somewhat puzzled. Several of the elders of the tribe go to the outer ends of the boughs, and appear to be measuring the distance across. As they have an especial dislike to wetting their hairy skins—although they would undoubtedly swim if no other means could be found of getting to the opposite bank—they have devised a method more suited to their tastes. They leap from bough to bough, till they find one projecting in a line with the trunk or branch of any tree inclining over the water from the opposite side. The larger and stronger members of the tribe now assemble, leaving the younger ones to gambol and frisk about among the boughs, and amuse themselves in juvenile monkey fashion. One monkey—the Hercules probably of the tribe—twisting his tail round the outer end of the branch, now hangs by it with his head downwards, at his full length. Another descends by the body of the first, round which he coils his tail. A third adds another link to the chain: and thus, one by one they increase its length, till the surface of the water is almost reached. The chain now begins to oscillate backwards and forwards towards the opposite bank, each movement increasing the length of the arc, till the lower monkey, with fore-arms outstretched, reaches the stem of the tree on the opposite bank. He grasps it tightly, gradually clambering up, and drawing the line composed of his comrades after him, till the monkey immediately below him is also able to seize the trunk, and assist in dragging up the rest. They thus form an almost horizontal bridge above the water. The rest of the agile tribe, now summoned from their sports, begin to cross; the younger ones, in the exuberance of their spirits, taking the opportunity of playing all sorts of pranks during their passage over the bodies of their self-sacrificing elders—giving many a sly pinch of the ear, or pull of the hair, for which they well know they cannot at the moment receive punishment. Thus the whole party—the mothers with their infants on their backs, and the other juvenile members—cross in safety, and assemble among the branches to watch the further proceedings.

The great difficulty now appears to be for the individuals composing the bridge to get across without touching the water. Trusting to the muscular power of their tails and limbs, they appear in no way daunted. The monkeys which have hitherto formed the lower links of the chain, still holding on by their tails to their friends, work their way up the trunk and along a branch of equal or greater height than that on the opposite side, to which the long-enduring Hercules has hitherto clung. On their attaining the point selected, he at length unwinds his tail, and swings downwards—with a force which seems sufficient to dislocate the limbs of those holding on above—and now becomes the lowest in the line. The force with which he has descended enables him to swing towards the side which his comrades have reached, and to grasp the trunk, up which he also climbs, till his neighbour can catch hold of it. He follows his example, till all, one after the other, have grasped it: and thus they perform an operation which the most renowned of human athletes would find it difficult to imitate.

A troop will cross a gap in the forest in the same way, rather than venture down from the leafy heights they find it safest to occupy. When compelled to descend to the ground, they scuttle over it in the most awkward manner—their long limbs straggling out, and their tails in vain seeking some object to grasp. On these occasions the spider-monkey turns its hind-feet inwards, and thus walks on the outer sides, while the fore-paws are twisted outward; thus throwing the whole of its weight upon their inner edges. It is when thus seen that the appropriateness of the name given to it is more especially observed. When hard-pressed, however, the knowing little animal, finding no bough round which to coil its tail, rears itself up on its hind-limbs, and balances itself by curling up its tail in the form of the letter S, as high as its head; thus—by altering the centre of gravity—being enabled to got over the ground in a posture such as no other member of its tribe can maintain. It will thus run on towards some friendly stem or low-hanging bough, which it seizes with its lithe and prehensile limb, and joyfully swings itself up in its usual monkey fashion, quickly disappearing amid the foliage.

The ordinary size of the coaita’s body is about a foot from the nose to the root of the tail, while the tail itself is rather more than two feet in length.

Macaco Barrigudo.

Seated among the boughs may often be seen, in the forests of the Upper Amazon, a number of large, stout-bodied, fat-paunched monkeys, with long flexible tails, furnished underneath with a naked palm, like the hand, for grasping. Their faces are black and wrinkled, their foreheads low, and eyebrows projecting; their features bearing a wonderful resemblance to those of weather-beaten old negroes. The heads of some are covered with black hair, and others with grey. They are called by the Portuguese macacos barrigudos, or big-bellied monkeys. They belong to the species of Lagothrix, and are closely allied to the coaitas. They are bulky fellows, and though able, by means of their prehensile tails, to get along at a good rate among the boughs, seldom trouble themselves to move rapidly.

With the exception of the black howler, which will be described anon, they are the largest monkeys in America—their bodies measuring about twenty-eight inches in height. Their flesh being highly esteemed by the natives, they are unceasingly hunted by the Indians. Though their manners are somewhat grave, yet, from their mild and confiding temper similar to that of the coaitas—they are much sought after for pets. They live exclusively on fruits.

The Uakari.

On the western side of the River Yapura, near where it pours its waters into the Amazon—a forest region inundated during the greater part of the year—there lives in small troops, high up among the crowns of the lofty trees,—where it feeds on fruits of various descriptions,—a small, almost tailless monkey, its face glowing with the most vivid scarlet hue. Its body, about eighteen inches in height, exclusive of limbs, is clothed from head to tail with very long, straight, shining, whitish hair. Its head, nearly bald, is sprinkled over with a short crop of thin grey hair; whilst round its ruddy countenance, bushy whiskers, of a sandy colour, meet under the chin. It has reddish-yellow eyes. It belongs to the Cebidae family. The Indians call it the white uakari. It inhabits, as far as is known, no other district.

In spite of its want of tail, it is an active little creature, running up and down the larger branches, but seldom leaping from one to the other. The mothers, as is the custom with the other monkey orders, carry their young on their back. They are highly valued as pets; but being of a delicate constitution, seldom live long when transported from their native district.

The native hunter, on wishing to obtain one of these creatures alive, goes forth with his blow-pipe, and arrows tipped with diluted wourali poison. This poison, though producing so deadly an effect on animals, as well as human beings who exist without salt, appears to have little or no effect on salt-consuming Europeans. Salt, indeed, is the great antidote to the poison. The hunter, in consequence, supplies himself with a small quantity of salt. As soon as he has shot a monkey, he follows it through the forest, till, the poison beginning to take effect, it falls exhausted into his arms. He then immediately puts a pinch of salt in its mouth, and in a short time the creature revives, and is led away captive. If old, however, when thus caught, it appears to be discontented in confinement, and, seldom becoming tame, in a short time pines away and dies. When a young one is thus caught, it frequently becomes a playful and interesting pet, and is highly valued by the Brazilians.

Further to the west, an allied species of this monkey is found, clothed with red instead of white hair; while, at a still greater distance, a black-faced and grey-haired species takes the place of the two former.

Alouattes, or Howlers.

The voyager up the Amazon, or one of its numerous tributaries, when his montaria has been moored to the banks, a fire lighted to keep prowling jaguars or pumas at a respectful distance, his hammock hung up in his temporary hut, and he is expecting to enjoy a quiet night’s rest, is, ere long, often awoke by the sound of the most fearful howling proceeding from the recesses of the forest. Now it sounds like the dreadful roar of the jaguar as it springs on its prey. Now it changes to the terrible and deep-toned growlings of the wild beast as he is pressed on all sides by his foes, and now it seems like his last dying moan beneath a mortal wound. Nothing can be more dismal or dispiriting than the fearful uproar. Hour after hour it goes on during the night, increasing as the dawn approaches. Now the howls come from one direction, now from another, and in far-off parts of the forest. Yet, terrific as they appear, they are produced by animals not much larger than a full-grown fox. It is the mycetes, or ursine howler—the largest monkey of South America.

On advancing into the forest in the morning, three or four may be seen seated on the upper branches of a tree—shaggy-haired animals, with long prehensile tails like those of the spider-monkeys—hideous-looking creatures, with pyramidical heads, the upper jaw descending much below the cranium, while the branches of the lower one ascend very high, for the purpose of containing a bony, drum-shaped expansion of the larynx, which gives to its voice that prodigious volume of sound which makes night hideous.

They differ somewhat in colour. Some are entirely black, others brownish-black, while the Mycetes ursinus is of a shiny yellow.

These unmusical howlings are supposed by some naturalists to be merely the nocturnal serenades of lover mycetes addressed to their mistresses, seated high on the branches in some distant part of the forest; others regard them rather as noises which serve to intimidate their enemies, though not emitted in general for any sudden alarm.

The female howler carries its young on its back. It is the least attractive in appearance of its western brethren, and is the only one of the monkey tribe which the natives are unable to tame. Though often caught, they do not survive many weeks in captivity. It lives on fruits and nuts, and is hunted for the sake of its flesh, which, though rather dry, is much esteemed. The natives entrap this monkey in a curious fashion. They take a large nut, and scraping out the interior, leave only a small mouth, and, filling it with sugar, leave it near the trees inhabited by the mycetes. The inquisitive monkey soon descends to examine the nut, and putting in his hand, grasps the sweet contents. Knowing that it is well-suited to his taste, he will not let go, but runs off with his prize, which greatly impedes his progress. Although he might easily draw out his hand by opening it, this he does not think of doing; and thus, unable at the best to move rapidly over a level surface, is soon overtaken by the hunter, and captured.

The Cuxio (Bearded Saki).

Among the host of curiously-shaped, long-tailed, active little monkeys which inhabit the American forests, the cuxio is one of the most remarkable. Its general colour is a grizzly-brown; but the head, limbs, and tail, are black. As the passer-by sees the odd little creature gazing down on him, he might fancy that it had just escaped from the hands of the perruquier. The black hair of its head is parted carefully on either side. Its enormous black beard seems as if just freshly dressed; while its bushy tail looks as if equally cared for. Notwithstanding its somewhat fierce and Turk-like visage, it lives a respectable, domestic life, with one partner alone—the sharer of its home—engaged in the task of rearing its infant progeny.

She is not of so dark a colour as her mate, her hair being chiefly of a rusty-brown.

The odd little creature’s head is of a round form, and considerable size, greatly increased in appearance by the amount of hair which surrounds it. The nostrils are wide, and divided by an unusually large cartilage. It is furnished with large jaws, and teeth so sharp that it has been seen to drive them, when angry, into a thick plank. When in a rage it grinds them together, and, rubbing its long beard in a most curious way, leaps about in every direction. At the slightest cause of offence, it gives a savage grin, wrinkling the skin of its face and jaws, and threatening the offender with the most menacing grimaces.

It seems perfectly conscious of the unusual adornment of its head, treasuring its bushy beard with as much care and pride as does a human exquisite. When drinking, it dips its paw, curved into the shape of a spoon, into the water, and thus brings the liquid to its mouth. The natives declare that it does so to avoid the risk of wetting its long beard, of which—being generally destitute of such appendages themselves—they fancy it must be excessively vain. As it is chiefly nocturnal in its habits, it might be classed among the Nyctipitheci, or night monkeys. From its fierce countenance, long, sharp teeth, and savage temper, it has gained its second scientific name—Brachyuras Satanus.

The Cacajao.

The cacajao is a curious contrast to the cuxio. It is called also the black-headed saki. Unlike most of its brethren, it has but a short, hairy tail, looking as if it had been docked. The head is perfectly black, somewhat flattened at the temples, with large ears approaching in shape to those of the human head, and devoid of hair. The fur on the body is generally of a bright yellowish-brown. When full-grown, the animal reaches to upwards of twenty inches in length, while the tail is from three to five inches long. Its legs are covered with rough hair, and its fingers are unusually long and slender, giving it an awkward appearance when feeding. In captivity it is a docile and peculiarly timid animal. A little creature which had been caught exhibited great alarm at the appearance of several small monkeys of its own country; and when a serpent was placed before its eyes, it trembled violently.

It is found on the borders of the Negro, where it is known by several names—among others, as the mono faio, or ugly monkey.

Marmosets, or Midas Monkeys.

The most active, playful, and amusing of animals are the midas monkeys, which form the second family of American Quadrumana, several species of which exist, each in its respective district. As they are seen gambolling among the branches,—now running round and round the trunk of a perpendicular tree, now with their sharp claws rapidly mounting the branches, sending down showers of rotten bark and twigs, and uttering sharp twittering cries,—they might be mistaken for a troop of squirrels.

They are restless, inquisitive little creatures, possessed of a large share of curiosity. When a stranger is passing through the forest, they invariably stop for a few moments to have a stare at him.

Though in no way related to squirrels, which belong to the rodent order, they may easily be mistaken for them at a distance. They are all of small size, and very similar, in their mode of climbing, to squirrels. Their nails, also, except those of the hind-thumbs, are long and claw-shaped; and the thumbs of the fore extremities, or hands, are not opposable to the other fingers. Their bodies are long and slender, clothed with soft hair; and their tails, though not prehensile, are nearly twice the length of their bodies.

Midas Ursulus.

The midas ursulus is found in the Lower Amazon, frequently in the neighbourhood of towns, and it seems much less afraid of man than most other monkeys. It is seldom that more than three or four individuals are seen together. It moves generally among the larger boughs and trunks of trees, its long nails assisting it to cling securely to the bark.

It lives on both animal and vegetable food; the former including various insects, eggs, and occasionally a young bird—while its vegetable diet consists of all the sweetest fruits it can find. The smaller insects—flies, and other soft-bodied creatures—it pops into its mouth whole; but when eating a larger one—such as a cockroach—it nips off the head, wings, and legs, before putting it into its mouth.

It has gained the name of oustiti, in consequence of its giving vent to a little sharp whistle when alarmed or irritated; but it otherwise generally preserves silence.

The midas ursulus is about nine inches long; and the tail measures fifteen inches. It is clothed in a thick, long fur, and has a reddish-brown streak down the middle of the back.

It is often seen in the houses at Para, and when treated kindly becomes very tame and familiar. When, however, strangers approach it, its dark, watchful eyes, expressive of distrust, observe every movement which takes place.

Midas Leoninas, or Jacchus Rosalia.

Another species, the Midas leoninas, or Jacchus Rosalia, inhabits the Upper Amazon. It is only seven inches in length. It is so named on account of the long brown mane which hangs from the neck, and gives it very much the appearance of a diminutive lion.

One of these little creatures, kept tame, became familiar with every one, and used to climb up the chairs, over their shoulders and heads, just as a squirrel does. Mr Bates relates that one he met with, having reached his shoulder, looked into his face, showing his little teeth, and chattering, as though it would say, “Well, and how do you do?” It exhibited more affection towards its master than to strangers, and would climb up to his head a dozen times in an hour, and make great show of searching for certain animalcule.

Audubon the naturalist possessed a little creature of this species, which could distinguish different objects depicted in an engraving. On showing it the portrait of a cat and a wasp, it became much terrified; but when the figure of a grasshopper or beetle was placed before it, it precipitated itself on the picture, as if to seize them.

Another, which belonged to a lady, used, when angry, to pull at her hair, and nibble the ends of her ringlets. It also possessed the accomplishment of being able to stand on its head.

It is certainly one of the most beautiful of its tribe. It is covered with long glossy locks of a bright and lustrous chestnut, having a golden sheen, almost varying in texture with the fine fibres of unwoven silk. The colour darkens somewhat on the paws. The fur is everywhere long, but on the head and shoulders it is of extraordinary length in proportion to the size of the animal, which has thus gained a name very inappropriate to its disposition, as it is an especially timid little creature, and unable to do battle with any foe. It is, however, so active and clever in hiding itself, that it is enabled to escape from its enemies. When pleased, its voice is soft and gentle; but when angry or terrified, it utters a somewhat sharp hiss.

Midas Argentatus.

Among the rarest of the tribe is the Midas argentatus, measuring only seven inches in length of body. It resembles a little white kitten,—being covered with long white silky hair. The tail, however, is blackish, and the face nearly naked and flesh-coloured. The eyes, which are black, are full of curiosity and mistrust; and one seen in captivity—except when in the arms of its owner—shrank back and trembled with fear, while its teeth chattered, and it uttered a tremulous, frightened tone, at the approach of a stranger.

Sai Capicinus.

The most attractive little creatures in the American forests are the capucins, the best-known of which is the Sai capucinus. Their tails, though covered with hair, are prehensile. They are active and lively in the extreme, leaping about from bough to bough, and eagerly watching all that goes forward in the world below. There are several species of similar habits, their quaint ways and general intelligence making them all great favourites when tamed. They live chiefly on vegetable food, but they devour insects and eggs, and do not object to a bird when they can manage to catch one.

Horned Capucin.

The horned capucin, or sapajou (Cebus fatuellus), is remarkable for two points of hair which stand out from the forehead, and give it the appearance of having horns. The colour is sometimes of a deep brown, and at others of a purple-black, while occasionally it has a chestnut tint.

The Common Capucin.

The hair of the common capucin is of a golden olive, with white fur bordering the face.

These curious little creatures are noted for forming a friendship with other animals when in captivity. Baron Humboldt mentions one which used to mount on the back of a pig every morning, and continued sitting there during the whole of the day; and even when the pig went out feeding on the campos, it still kept its seat, riding back again in the evening to its home. Others have been known to choose cats for their steeds, and perseveringly to keep their hold in spite of their active movements—seeming to enjoy them as much as the llanero does those of a colt he is engaged in breaking-in.

Parauacu.

On the dry lands to the north of the Upper Amazon, a little timid inoffensive monkey is found with a long bear-like coat of speckled grey hair. The long fur hangs over its head, half concealing a pleasing diminutive face; the tail—to the very tip—which is of some length, is also completely covered.

Pithecia Hirsuta—Pithecia Albicans.

There are two more species—the Pithecia hirsute and the Pithecia albicans. They are especially capable of attachment to those who treat them kindly. Being somewhat dull and cheerless, they seldom indulge in the usual sportive movements of their race.

Mr Bates relates that a friend of his possessed one of these little creatures. His friend, accompanied by the monkey, was in the habit of paying him a daily visit. One day the little animal, having missed its master, concluded, as it seemed, that he had gone to his house, and accordingly came straight to it, taking a short cut over gardens, trees, and thickets. This it had never done before; they learned it, however, from a neighbour who had observed its movements. On arriving at Mr Bates’s house and not observing its master, it climbed to the top of the table, and sat with an air of quiet resignation waiting for him. Shortly afterwards he arrived, and the gladdened pet then jumped to its usual perch on his shoulder.

Saimibi—Callithrix—Teetee—Collared Teetee.

There is another genus of light and graceful little monkeys, known by the name of Callithrix, or “beautiful hair.” Among them is the Saimiri, or teetee, of which there are several species. The collared teetee is among the most attractive—Callithrix torquatus. The general colour is a greyish-olive, the limbs looking as if washed with a rich golden hue. The ears are white, and the body whitish-grey. The tip of the long tail is black.

They are very engaging little creatures, and possess an intelligence which makes them the most attractive of their race. Their temper, too, is amiable, and they are never known to get into a passion. Their countenances express almost an infantine innocence, and this exhibits itself especially when the creatures are alarmed. Tears fill their hazel eyes; and, with imploring gestures, they seem to claim the protection of their human friends. They have also a curious habit of watching the lips of those who address them, as if they could understand what is spoken; and apparently wishing the better to comprehend their master, they will place their fingers on his lips in the most attractive, confiding way.

The creature’s long tail possesses no prehensile power, but it appears to use it as a lady does a boa,—coiling it round its body to keep itself warm.

Night Apes, or Douroucouli.

When travelling through some parts of the Amazonian forests, and looking up into an ancient tree, a number of little striped faces crowding a hole in the trunk may suddenly be seen gazing inquisitively down at the intruder who has disturbed their noonday sleep. These are Nyctipitheci, or night apes, which the Indians call ei-a, and are named also Douroucouli. Sleeping soundly during the day in some dark hollow, out of harm’s way, they come forth at night to prey on insects or small birds, which they hunt and capture,—as well as fruit. The body of the creature is about a foot long, and the tail fourteen inches, thickly covered with soft grey and brown fur. Its face is round, and encircled by a ruff of whitish fur. The forehead is of a light colour, and adorned with three black stripes,—which in one species meet at the top of it, and in another continue to the crown; the muzzle is somewhat flat, and the mouth and chin small. The ears are very short, scarcely appearing above the hair of the head; and the eyes are large and of a yellowish colour, imparting that staring expression observed in owls or night animals. From this they have obtained the name of owl-faced night apes. The creature has nails of the ordinary form to its fingers, and semi-opposable thumbs; but the molar teeth are studded with sharp points, showing that it lives chiefly on insects.

Though in the daytime it appears torpid and dull, yet at night, shaking off its drowsiness, its large dull eyes, which shrunk from the rays of the sun, are full of eager animation as it sets off in quest of its prey. So active and quicksighted is it, that it catches the rapidly-flying insects as they flit by, or chases the beetles as they run over the bark of the trees on which it lives.

Mr Bates describes a tame one he met with, which was excessively confiding in its disposition, very lively and nimble, and in no way mischievous. It delighted to be caressed by all persons who came into the house. It used to sleep in the hammock of its owner, or nestle in his bosom half the day as he lay reading. From the cleanliness of its habits, and the prettiness of its features and ways, it was a great favourite with every one. He himself had a similar pet, which was kept in a box, in which was placed a broad-mouthed glass jar. Into this it would dive when any one entered the room, and, turning round, thrust forth its inquisitive face to stare at the intruder. It was very active at night, giving vent at intervals to a hoarse cry, like the suppressed bark of a dog, and scampering about the room after cockroaches and spiders. Although it preferred insects, it ate all kinds of fruit, but would not touch either raw or cooked meat. Its brothers, when let loose about the house, are very useful in clearing the chambers of bats, as well as insects and vermin.

It is monogamous. The ei-a and its wife may often be discovered together tending their small family in some hollow trunk. Its cry is wonderfully loud, considering its small size; and curious as it may seem, is not unlike the roar of the jaguar. It can also hiss or spit in the fashion of an angry cat, while it utters a curious mew resembling the same creature. It sometimes gives a guttural, short, and rapidly-repeated bark.

There are several species of night monkeys with very similar habits.

It is difficult, except when they are in captivity, to obtain a correct idea of the habits of these interesting little, animals,—though, of course, when they are tamed, they must abandon some of those they possessed in a state of nature. Of their dispositions, however, a very fair notion may be formed from the way they behave when in captivity. The above descriptions refer only to a few of the numerous species of monkeys which exist in the South American forests, but as typical forms have been selected, a tolerable idea of the whole may be obtained.

Part 3—Chapter XIII.

Birds.

Humming-Birds.

Most of the humming-birds found on the banks of the Amazon belong to the genus Phaethornis; remarkable for their long, graduated tails, the central feathers of which greatly exceed the others. Their nests are curious and beautiful, being formed in a long funnel-like shape, tapering below to a slender point. They are woven with great delicacy, and attached to some twig, or hanging leaf, by means of spider’s webs. They are lined with a soft silky cotton fibre; and composed, externally, of a woolly kind of furze, bound together with which appears also to be spider’s web.

One of the largest is the Eupetomena macroura, with a swallow tail, and a livery of brilliant emerald-green and steel blue. When feeding, it remains a shorter time than usual poised in the air before the flowers, frequently perching, and occasionally darting after small insects flying by.

When the orange-trees become fully covered with flowers, the humming-birds appear in vast numbers. Their motions are totally unlike those of other birds. So quickly do they dart backwards and forwards, that the eye can hardly follow them. Even when poising themselves before a flower, with such inconceivable rapidity do their wings move, that even then their bright colours are scarcely perceptible; and anon they shoot off to sip the nectar from another cup. Unlike the systematic way in which bees proceed, they seem to delight in darting, now in one direction, now in the other; now for a moment they perch on a spray, probing, as they sit, the flowers nearest to them; then again they fly off, in their eccentric course, to another spot.

“Wherever a creeping vine opens its fragrant cluster, or wherever a flower blooms, may these little things be seen,” writes Edwards, in his usual graphic way; “in the garden, or in the woods, over the water, everywhere, they are darting about, of all sizes, from one that might easily be mistaken for a different variety of bird, to the tiny hermit—T. Rufigaster, whose body is not half the size of the bee’s—buzzing about. Sometimes they are seen chasing each other, in sport, with a rapidity of flight and intricacy of path the eye is puzzled to follow. Again, circling round and round, they rise high in mid-air, and then dart off like light to some distant attraction. Perched upon a little twig, they smooth their plumes, and seem to delight in their dazzling hues; then, starting off leisurely, they skim along, stopping capriciously to kiss the coquetting flowerets. Often two meet in mid-air and furiously fight, their crests, and the feathers upon their throats, all erected and blazing, and altogether pictures of the most violent rage. Several times we saw them battling with large black bees who frequent the same flowers, and may be seen often to interfere provokingly. Like lightning our little heroes would come down, but the coat of shining mail would ward off their furious strokes. Again and again would they renew the attack, until their anger had expended itself by its own fury, or until the apathetic bee, once roused, had put forth powers which drove the invaders from the field.”

Bates remarks, that he several times shot, by mistake, a humming-bird hawk-moth, instead of a bird. This moth (Macroglossa Titan) is smaller than humming-birds generally are, but its manner of flight, and the way it poises itself before the flower whilst probing it with its proboscis, are precisely like the same actions of humming-birds. This resemblance has attracted the notice of the natives, who firmly believe that one is transmutable into the other. The resemblance between this hawk-moth and the humming-bird is certainly very curious, and strikes one, even when both are examined in the hand. Holding them sideways, the shape of the head and position of the eyes in the moth are seen to be nearly the same as in the bird, the extended proboscis representing the long beak. At the tip of the moth’s body there is a brush of long hair-scales, resembling feathers, which, being expanded, looks very much like a bird’s tail; but, of course, all these points of resemblance are merely superficial.

He one day saw a little pigmy, belonging to the genus Phaethornis, in the act of washing itself in a brook. It was perched on a thin branch, whose end was under water. It dipped itself, then fluttered its wings, and plumed its feathers, and seemed thoroughly to enjoy itself alone in the shady nook which it had chosen. “There is no need for poets to invent,” he adds, “while nature furnishes us with such marvellous little sprites ready to hand.”

But these beautiful little creatures require a separate description.

Topaz Humming-Bird.

The topaz humming-bird is perhaps the most resplendent and beautiful of its tribe. The fiery topaz (Topaza pyra) is found on the shores of the Rio Negro. The larger part of its feathers are of a blazing scarlet, which contrasts beautifully with the deep velvet-black of the head and part of the neck. The throat is emerald-green, with a patch of crimson in the centre. The lower part of the back, and the upper tail-coverts, are of a resplendent green with an orange gloss; and the wings and tail of purple-black, the two elongated feathers of the tail excepted—they being of a purplish-green. Its nest appears as if formed of leather, and is so cleverly woven that it can scarcely be distinguished from the bark or fungi growing on the branch to which it is fixed.

Ara Humming-Bird.

The crimson topaz, or ara humming-bird (Topaza pella), vies with it in beauty. Its hues are of a deeper crimson. The tail is of a reddish-buff, except the two central feathers, which are of the same hue as the preceding. Unlike most humming-birds, it is of a shy and retiring disposition, and seldom ventures from among the deep shades of the forest; and then only at early dawn, or late in the evening, when it may be seen darting across the stream in search of insects, on which it chiefly feeds.

The Racket-Tail Humming-Bird.

The racket-tail humming-bird (Discúra longicauda) takes its name from the curious form of its tail, the feathers of which are forked,—the two exterior ones being twice the length of the second pair. The colour of the tail is purple-black; the face, throat, and part of the neck light green; while under the chin there is a little velvet-black spot. The upper part of the body is a bronze-green, and a bright buff band crosses the lower end of the back.

The Cayenne Fairy.

The beautiful little Cayenne fairy (Heliothrix auritus) is often seen flitting among the flowers which adorn the trees near the mouth of the Amazon. It may be known by the snowy-white under part of its body, while the upper surface is of a glossy golden green, extremely light on the forehead. The middle feathers of the tail are blue-black, and the three exterior ones are white. Across each side of the face is a jet-black line, terminated by a small tuft of violet-blue, while below the black line runs a luminous green one. Few of these beautiful little creatures have any voice which rises above a mere twitter.

The best songster of the tribe is the Vervain humming-bird, found in the West India Islands. Those on the Amazon are almost mute. Small as they are, they are brave little creatures, and several of the species are tamed without difficulty.

Mr Webber describes one of the means by which nature has gifted these little creatures of escaping the observation of their foes. On leaving the spot where a number had perched not far from their nests, he observed them shoot suddenly and perpendicularly into the air till they had got out of sight. After a time, down came the hen-bird, like a fiery aerolite from the sky, upon the very spot where she had built her nest, so rapidly, as almost to escape observation.

Different species, of great varieties of form and colour, are found throughout the continent. Although the greater number are confined to particular localities, others have a wide range.

The Trochilus forficatus is found over a space of 2500 miles on the west coast, from the hot, dry country of Lima to the forests of Tierra del Fuego, where it may be seen flitting about in snow-storms; as also in the humid climate of the wooded island of Chiloe, where Darwin found it skimming from side to side amidst the drooping foliage. On the mountain heights, in the thick forests and open plains, wherever flowers and insects exist, there one or more species make their home throughout the continent.

Cotingas.

Lovely as are the humming-birds, the cotingas, belonging to the order of Passeres, and of which there are several species, almost rival them in beauty of plumage. The crown of one is of a flaming red, abruptly succeeded by a shining brown reaching half-way down the back. The remainder of the back, rump, and tail, the extremity of which is edged with black, is of a lively red. The belly is of a somewhat lighter red, the breast reddish-black, the wings brown.

This cotinga is a solitary bird, and utters only a monotonous whistle, which sounds like quet. Another has a purple breast with black wings, and tail and every other part of a light and glossy blue.

The pompadour cotinga has a purple body and white wings, their four first feathers tipped with brown.

None of these have any song. The last, however, utters sounds something like wallababa. They feed on the fig, wild guaco, and other fruit-trees.

The Campanero, or Bell-Bird.

Far-away in the forest a singularly loud and clear note, like the sound of a bell, is heard; mile after mile, and still the same strange note reaches the ear. A single toll; then a pause for a minute, then a pause again, then a toll, and again a pause; then for six or eight minutes no toll is heard; then another comes strangely and solemnly amid the tall columns and, fretted arches of the sylvan temple. Sometimes of a morning, and sometimes in the evening, and even when the meridian sun has silenced all the other songsters of the grove, that strange toll is heard. At length, high up on the dried top of an aged maura, a snow-white bird may be seen, no larger than a pigeon; and yet it is the creature who is uttering those strange sounds. It is another species of the cotinga—the well-known campanero, or bell-bird. On its forehead rises a spiral tube nearly three inches long, which is of jet-black, dotted all over with small white feathers. Having a communication with the palate, it enables the bird to utter these loud clear sounds. When thus employed, and filled with air, it looks like a spire; when empty, it becomes pendulous. Though, like most of its tribe, it is sometimes seen in flocks, it never feeds with other species of cotingas.

The witty Sydney Smith, remarking on the account Waterton gives of the campanero, observes: “This single bird then has a voice of more power than the belfry of a cathedral ringing for a new dean. It is impossible to contradict a gentleman who has been in the forests of Cayenne; but we are determined, as soon as a campanero is brought to England, to make him toll in a public place, and have the distance measured.”

Had the witty dean been aware of the fact—stated by the astronomer and aeronaut, Mr Glaisher—that a female voice is heard a mile further than that of the most hirsute and sturdy “tar,” he might have been less sceptical of the powers of the little cotinga to make itself heard for the distance of three miles through the pure and calm air of the tropics.

The Umbrella, or Fife-Bird.

In the yearly submerged gapo forests and the plains of the Upper Amazon, a singularly deep and long-sustained flute-like sound is often heard. It might be supposed that it was produced by the pan-pipes used by the natives of that region. It is, however, the note of a bird, named by the Indians uira mimbeu, or fife-bird, from the peculiar tone of its voice. It is, from the ornament on its head—consisting of a crest, with long curved hairy feathers, having long bare quills; which, when raised, spread themselves out in the form of a fringed sunshade over the head—called the umbrella-bird (Cephalopterus ornatus). It resembles in size and colour the common crow. In addition to this umbrella-like ornament on its head, it has what may be called a pelerine suspended from the neck, formed by a thick fan of glossy steel-blue feathers which grow on a long fleshy lobe or excrescence. This lobe is connected with an unusual development of the trachea and vocal organs, undoubtedly assisting the bird to utter its strange note. While singing, it draws itself up on the bough, spreads widely out the umbrella-formed crest, waves its glossy breast lappet, and then, in giving vent to its loud, piping note, bows its head slowly forward.

The female has only the rudiments of a crest and lappet, and is of a much duller colour than the male.

The Cock of the Rocks.

Among the forest highlands at the foot of the sierras to the north of the Amazon, the magnificent orange-coloured cock of the rocks enjoys existence. About the size of a pigeon, it belongs to the tribe of the diminutive manakins, most of which have beautiful and curious plumage. It, however, surpasses them all.

It has gained its name from the slight external resemblance that it bears to the gallinaceous form.

Its plumage is of a rich orange tint; with the exception of the quill-feathers of the wings, which are of a sooty black hue, and those of the tail, which are brown tipped with yellow. On its head it wears a peculiar fan-like crest, which, overhanging the forehead, extends to the back of the head, and which bears a strong resemblance to the plume of an ancient helmet. The tips of these crest-feathers are tinged with brown and yellow. Between the wing and upper tail-coverts appear flowing plumes, which droop gracefully over the firmer feathers of the tail and sides.

Like some birds of paradise in the Eastern Archipelago, the cocks of the rocks assemble in numbers to perform a kind of dance for their amusement, selecting generally the smooth rocks or roots of trees,—moving here and there, round and round, backwards and forwards, and erecting their gorgeous plumes, to exhibit their beauty. Wallace observed a company of birds engaged in this singular way, though he says that no females or young birds were present.

Schombergh describes a similar scene. A troop of these beautiful birds was celebrating its dances on the smooth surface of a rock. About a score of them were seated on the branches as spectators, while one of the male birds, with proud self-confidence, and with spreading tail and wings, was dancing on the rock. He scratched the ground, or leaped vertically in the air; continuing these saltatory movements until he was tired, when another male took his place. The females, meanwhile, looked on attentively, and applauded the performances of the dancers with laudatory cries.

Wallace, in his later work on the Eastern Archipelago, gives an equally animated picture of the king birds of paradise enjoying a similar performance on the topmost boughs of the most lofty trees in the Aru Islands.

Golden-Winged Manakin.

The golden-winged manakin—another tribe—are often seen perched in large flocks on the summits of the trees, or rapidly moving amid the branches in search of the rich fruits and numerous insects found in the gapo forests.

The beautiful little troupiale, arrayed in plumage of rich orange and shining black, with delicate and well-shaped form, pours forth a variety of sweet and plaintive notes among the dry forest lands, and has gained from the Portuguese the name of the nightingale of America.

There is another of a smaller size, and of less rich a colour, which also sings melodiously. It is a fearless bird, and the hen builds her nest often in the roofs of cottages, while her mate sings for hours close by. There are several species, one of which (the oriolus varius) builds a curious nest like a basket, of a conical form, and of a loose texture; securing it to the flexible end of a branch, thus enabling it the better to endure the movement to which it is subjected when agitated by the wind.

A fourth species flies in flocks—especially when the Indian maize is ripe—and is looked on with a jealous eye by the farmers, whom it robs, and whom it does not repay by the melody of its song.

Goatsuckers.

Numerous species of the goatsucker, well known as the bird of night, inhabit the forests of the Amazon as well as the settled districts. Their pretty mottled plumage is destitute of the lustre which is observed in the feathers of the birds of day. One is nearly the size of the common wood owl. Its cry once heard will never be forgotten. It seems like one in deep distress. “A stranger,” says Waterton, “would never believe the sound to be the voice of a bird. He would say it was the last groan of a midnight murdered victim, or the cry of Niobe for her children before she was turned into stone. Suppose a person in great sorrow, who begins with a loud note, Ha, ha, ha, ha! and so on, each note lower and lower, till the last is scarcely heard, pausing a moment or two between every note, and some idea may be formed of the moaning of the largest goatsucker.”

Other species articulate some words so clearly, that they receive their names from the sentences they utter. One cries “Who are you? who, who, who are you?” Another bids you “Work away; work, work away.” A third shrieks mournfully—“Willy come, go Willy, Willy, Willy come, go;” and a fourth exclaims—“Whip poor Willy; whip, whip, whip poor Willy!” Happily for it, neither the negro nor the Indian—who believe it to be a bird of ill-omen—will venture to kill it; supposing the bird to be the receptacle for departed souls, come back to earth, unable to rest for crimes done in their days of nature.

Ignorance alone has given the goatsucker its name. When the moon shines bright, it may be seen close by the cows, goats, and sheep, jumping up every now and then under their bellies. “Approach a little nearer,” says Waterton; “he is not shy, he fears no danger, for he knows no sin. See how the nocturnal flies are tormenting the herd, and with what dexterity he springs up and catches them as fast as they alight on the bellies, legs, or udders of the animals! Observe how quiet they stand, and how sensible they seem of his good offices; for they neither strike at him, hit him with their tails, tread on him, nor try to drive him away as an uncivil intruder. Were you to dissect him, and inspect his stomach, you would find no milk there. It is full of the flies which have been annoying the herd.”

Caciques.

A species of cacique—of which there are several—like the blue jay of the northern part of the continent, is celebrated for its imitative powers. It is one of the handsomest in form of the feathered tribe, in size somewhat larger than a starling. On each wing it has a yellow spot; and its rump, belly, and half the tail are of the same colour. All the rest of the body is black; while the beak is of the colour of sulphur.

It lives on the fruits and seeds which nature has provided in the forest; but wherever human habitations are found, it delights to take up its station on a tree close by, and there, for hours together, pour forth a succession of imitative notes. Its own song is sweet, but very short. If a toucan is yelping in the neighbourhood, it drops its own note and imitates the huge-beaked bird. Then it will amuse itself with the cries of different species of woodpeckers; and when the sheep bleat, it will distinctly answer them. Then comes its own song again; and if a puppy-dog or a Guinea-fowl interrupt it, it takes them off admirably,—and by its different gestures during the time, it might be supposed that it enjoys the sport.

The cacique is gregarious, and is generally found in large flocks,—sometimes one species building their nests on one side of a tree, while another, with a neighbourly feeling, appears to have selected the opposite side; and they may be seen working amicably away, without interfering with each other. They show wonderful instinct in the selection of trees, sometimes hanging their large pendulous nests to the extremities of palm branches, that they may thus be as much as possible out of the reach of enemies who might attempt to take their young brood. Others are said to select the trees on which the stinging-wasps have already built their nests, as no tiger-cat nor reptile of any description would venture to attack such adversaries.

One species (the casicus cristatus) weaves its nest of lichens, bark fibres, and the filaments of the tillandsias; another (the casicus ruba) of dry grasses, and always suspends it over the water. This has a slanting opening in the side, so that no rain can penetrate it.

Toucans.

During the dry season, on the topmost boughs of the lofty trees growing on the gapo lands, large gaily-coloured birds, with huge beaks of the shape of a banana or pacova, are perched, in bands of five or six, uttering loud, shrill, and yelping cries, having somewhat the resemblance to “Tocano! tocano! tocano!” Hence the Indians give them the name from which we derive toucan—a bird especially characteristic of the forests of Tropical America. The Brazilians also call them “preacher-birds,”—from their habit of lifting up their beaks, and clattering them together, and shouting hoarsely. One, mounted higher than the rest, acts either as the leader of the inharmonious chorus, or does the duty of sentinel. He keeps a bright look-out on every side, and as danger approaches, gives a warning cry, when his companions stretch their necks downwards in an inquisitive manner, to ascertain what foe is below; and on espying the least movement among the foliage, fly off to a distance.

Sometimes the whole flock, including the sentinel, set up simultaneously a deafening loud yell, which can be heard a mile off, and serves to lead the hunter to their haunts. They are said also to mob any strange bird which gets among them, surrounding it, and shrieking at it in whichever way it turns; so that it sees itself surrounded on all sides by huge snapping bills, and long tails bobbing regularly up and down with threatening gestures, till it is seized by its foes or manages to make its escape.

It seems wonderful at first sight that any creature should be encumbered with so huge a beak; but the toucan knows well how to use it. Though of great size, it is of light structure, and serrated at the edges. In some species it attains to a length of seven inches, and a width of more than two inches. It assists the bird in climbing the branches of the trees on which he lives, and from which he never willingly descends to the ground. It enables him to seize the large fruits and small birds which serve him for food; and enables him to chew the cud—his huge tooth-bill being useful in holding and re-masticating the food.

As the flowers and fruits which crown the large trees of the forest grow principally towards the end of slender twigs, which would not bear his weight; and as he has a heavy body, with feeble organs of flight, he cannot seize his food on the wing. He therefore sits on some opposite branch, eyeing the fruit which he thinks will suit his taste, and then darting off, seizes a mouthful, and returns to his perch.

Though their general diet is fruit, they also devour small birds and their eggs, as well, probably, as caterpillars, and the larvae of insects in general. Mr Broderip describes the curious way in which he saw a toucan seize a small bird, pluck off the feathers, and having broken the bones of the wings and legs with his beak, continue working away till he had reduced it to a shapeless mass. He then hopped from perch to perch, uttering a peculiar hollow, chattering noise, and began pulling off piece after piece, till he had swallowed the whole, not even leaving the beak and logs. In a quarter of an hour he had finished, when he cleansed his bill from the feathers. After a time he returned his food into his crop, and after masticating the morsel for a while in his bill, again swallowed it.

The bird mentioned was in captivity; and though his food consisted of bread, boiled vegetables, and eggs, he showed a decided preference for animal food when given to him.

The toucan (Ramphastos) belongs to the genus of scansorial birds. There are several species, five of which inhabit the forests of the Upper Amazon. The largest of that region is Cuvier’s toucan, and is distinguished from its nearest relatives by the feathers at the bottom of the back being of a saffron hue instead of red. It lays its eggs in hollows of trees, at a great height from the ground, and moults between March and June.

Solitary toucans are sometimes met with, hopping silently up and down the larger boughs, and peering into the crevices of tree trunks. When the gapo is flooded, they fly to the drier ground, assembling in large flocks, when they are easily shot by the hunters. The birds are then very fat, and their flesh sweet and tender.

In some species the bill is nearly as large and as long as the body itself. It is light, cellular, and irregularly notched at the edge, having both mandibles arched towards the tip. The tongue is also of a singular form, being narrow and elongated, and literally barbed like a feather. The feet are short—formed, like those of parrots, rather for grasping than for climbing; the tail long, and the wings moderate. It has a straight but laborious flight, and seems awkward, except on the boughs, when it moves lightly and actively from branch to branch. When eating, it throws up its head, apparently to allow the food to fall down its throat with greater ease. When the toucan is at roost, it turns its long tail directly over its back, and thrusts its beak beneath the wing, so as to appear very much like a large mass of feathers.

The common or crested toucan (Ramphastos dicolorus) inhabits chiefly the lower part of the Amazon. It is about eighteen inches in length, of a black colour, with a gloss of green. The cheeks, throat, and fore part of the breast are either of a sulphur or orange-yellow. Across the lower part of the breast is a broad crimson bar. The rump is crimson or orange-yellow. The bill is of a dark olive-green, with a pale yellow base, bounded by a thick bar.

The tocano pacova has a beak of a rich glowing orange, with a large patch near the tip, a black line round the base, and a number of dark red bars upon the sides. The body and head are black, the throat and cheeks white; while the breast is of a yellow brimstone hue, edged with a line of blood-red. The upper tail-coverts are greyish-white, and the under deep crimson. A large orange circle surrounds the eye, and within it is a second circle of cobalt-blue. A green ring incloses the pupil, with a narrow yellow ring round it.

Cuvier’s toucan inhabits the woods of the Upper Amazon. There are several smaller toucans, one of which (the Pteroglossus Havirostris) has the most beautiful plumage,—its breast being adorned with broad belts of rich crimson and black.

The most curious, however, is the curly-crested toucan (Pteroglossus Beauharnaisii). The feathers on its head consist of thin, horny blades of a lustrous black colour, curled up at the ends, and resembling shavings of steel. The curly crest assumes, indeed, the grotesque form of a coachman’s wig dyed black, and produced apparently by the tongs of the hair-dresser.

None of the smaller species utter the loud yelping notes of the larger. The cries of the curly-crested toucan are very singular, resembling somewhat the croaking of frogs.

Mr Bates had one day wounded one; and on attempting to seize it, it set up a loud scream. In an instant, as if by magic, the wood seemed alive with its companions, who descended towards him, hopping from bough to bough, some of them swinging on the loops of the lianas and sipos, croaking and fluttering their wings like so many furies. Had he had a long stick in his hand, he could have knocked over several of them. The screaming of their companion which he had killed having ceased, they remounted the trees; and before he could reload his gun, which he had left at a little distance, they had all disappeared.

He possessed a tame toucan of one of the large species, which was allowed to go free about the house. Having chastised it for mounting his work-table, the first time it made the attempt, it never again repeated it. It slept on the top of a box in a corner of the room, with its long tail laid right over its back, and its beak thrust underneath its wing. It ate of everything—beef, turtle, fish, farina, fruit—and was a constant attendant at meals. It learned the hour to a nicety, and he found it difficult to keep the bird away from the dining-room at these hours. When it had become somewhat impudent and troublesome, he tried to shut it out in the back-yard; but Tocano used to climb the fence, and hop round by a long circuit, making its appearance with the greatest punctuality as the meal was placed on the table. One day it was stolen, and given up for lost; but two days afterwards it stepped through the doorway at the dinner-hour, with its old gait and sly magpie-like expression, having escaped from the house of the person who had stolen it, situated at the further end of the village.

The Realejo, or Organ-Bird.

(Cyphorhinus Cantans; called also the flute-bird.)

While the strange, harsh voice of the goatsucker is hushed, the mycetes has ceased to howl, and no roar of jaguar is heard, a few slow, sweet, and mellow notes reach the ear, following one another like the commencement of an air. The unimpressible natives stop their paddles as they are floating up an igarape to listen to the dulcet strains. The sounds appear to be those of a human voice; some young girl gathering fruit in the neighbouring thicket, it would seem, warbling a few notes to cheer herself in her solitude. Now the tones become more flute-like and plaintive,—now they seem to be those of a flageolet. It is difficult to imagine that they can be produced by a bird. No bird, indeed, can be seen, however closely the surrounding trees and bushes are scanned. Yet that sweet voice seems to come from a thicket close at hand. The listeners are silent, expecting to hear the strain completed, but disappointment follows. An abrupt pause occurs, and then the song breaks down, finishing with a number of clicking, unmusical sounds, like a piping barrel-organ out of wind and out of tune.

This is the organ-bird—the most remarkable songster by far (says Bates) of the Amazonian forests. When discovered, he seems habited in sober colours; but he need not envy his gaily-dressed companions—while, as a songster, he remains unrivalled in his native woods.

The Curassow.

High up among the lofty boughs of the thick forest sit a flock of magnificent birds, each the size of a turkey. They are the crested curassow (Crax elector). The plumage is of a deep, shining black colour, reflecting purple and green shades. The abdomen and tail-coverts are white, but the tail is black, and generally tipped with white. On its head it carries a handsome golden crest, the feathers narrow at the base and broad at the tip, which it raises and depresses as it moves along. Its voice, far from sweet, sounds like a hoarse cough, and each time it utters its cry it partially spreads its feathers and throws up its tail. The hen, however, has another way of expressing herself, uttering a whining sound.

Among the trees where they are perched are their large nests, roughly formed of sticks and leaves and plaits of grass. Their eggs, of which there are six or seven, are about the size of those of a turkey, and of a pure white. They feed on bananas and other fruits, as well as maize and rice.

There are several species. One (the mitu tuberosa) has an orange-coloured beak, surmounted by a bean-shaped excrescence of the same hue. It lays two rough-shelled white eggs.

Another species (the crax globicera) inhabits the Upper Amazon, and possesses a round instead of a bean-shaped excrescence on the beak.

These birds are easily tamed. Bates mentions one which used to attend the family with whom he lived at all the meals, passing from one person to another round the mat to be fed, and rubbing the sides of its head in a coaxing way against their cheeks or shoulders. At night it went to roost in a sleeping-room—beside the hammock of one of the little girls, to whom it seemed to be greatly attached, following her wherever she went about the grounds. These birds, however, do not breed in captivity, and are therefore only kept by the Indians as pets; though possibly they might be induced, by proper management, to do so, when they would prove a valuable addition to the poultry-yard in England.

In its wild state it seldom descends from the lofty trees.

Macaws.

On observing the curious, powerful beak of a macaw, we at once see that it must be an inhabitant of a region producing hard fruits, which require the application of considerable strength to break them. At morning and evening flocks of this large and richly-plumaged bird may be observed flying across the streams in all directions—their loud, harsh screams echoing among the forests through the calm air—wheeling and turning before they alight on the tops of the palms to feed. They belong to the Psittacidae, or parrot tribe, and are known at once by the great length of their tails, and by having their cheeks destitute of feathers.

There are several species which frequent the trees growing on wet and swampy ground. The red and blue macaw, the largest and handsomest of the family, is well described by Waterton. Rare in size and beauty among all the parrots of South America, the macrocercus macao will force you to take your eyes from the rest of animated nature and gaze at him. His commanding strength, the flaming scarlet of his body, a lovely variety of scarlet, yellow, blue, and green in his wings, the extraordinary length of his scarlet and blue tail, seem all to join and demand for him the title of Emperor of all the Parrots.

When the coucourite palm-trees have ripe fruit on them, they are covered with this magnificent parrot. He is not shy or wary. You may take your blow-pipe and a quiver of poisoned arrows, and kill more than you will be able to carry to your hut. They are very vociferous; and, like the common parrots, rise up in bodies towards sunset, and fly, two and two, to their places of rest. It is a grand sight to see thousands of aras flying over your head, low enough to let you have a full view of their flaming mantles. The Indians find the flesh very good, and the feathers serve for ornaments in their head-dresses.

Bates saw a flock feeding on the fruits of a Bacana palm, and looking like a cluster of flaunting banners beneath its dark green crown.

They build their nests in the hollows of decayed trees, and lay twice in the year—generally two eggs at a time, the male and female alternately watching over them. They are said to increase the size of the hole with their powerful beaks, should it not be sufficiently large for their purpose. They fly to a distance of several miles to feed, but—like rooks in England—return to their homes in the evening.

This macaw frequently measures, from the tip of the bill to the extremity of the tail, forty inches and more.

There are, besides, several other species of the red and yellow, blue, and blue and yellow, which equal the scarlet and blue in size,—their habits being very similar. They are easily tamed, and can be taught to repeat words, and sometimes even phrases. They are remarkable for their longevity, some having been known to live to one hundred years.

The magnificent great green macaw is noted for his depredations on the maize-fields; but, being a sagacious bird, he always places a sentinel to give the alarm to his marauding associates when danger approaches.

Parrots.

Parrots much inferior in size and less richly decked fly amid the foliage in vast numbers. The two most common species are the Amazon green parrot and the festive green parrot.

Of the former (Psittacus Amazonius) there are several varieties. They have their homes in the midst of the impenetrable forests. The female lays four white eggs in the hollow of a tree. The usual length is about fourteen inches. The bills vary in colour; the plumage is of a bright green, with the feathers marked by dusky or blackish margins. On the top or edges of the shoulders there is a brilliant scarlet patch, bounded by shades of blue, green, and yellow. A bright blue band reaches from eye to eye, beyond which the feathers of the crown, cheeks, and throat are of a rich yellow.

The Brazilian green parrot is a large and beautiful bird, of a fine grass-green, rather paler beneath the feathers, edged with purplish-brown. The front and round the base of the bill is bright red, the cheeks rather deep blue, and the top of the head yellow. The edge of the wings, at some distance from the shoulders, is red. The tail is especially handsome, the outside feathers being deep blue, tipped with yellow; the next red, with a similar yellow tip; and all the remaining ones green, with yellow tips. The bill is of a light colour, and the legs and feet dark. It is the species most ordinarily brought to England, and is valued on account of its powers of imitation—individuals having been taught not only words, but whole sentences.

Anaca Parrot.

One among the most rare of the beautiful parrot family is the anaca (Derotypus coronatus). It is of a green colour, and at the back of its head rises a hood of red feathers bordered with blue, which it can elevate or depress at pleasure. It is the only American parrot which resembles the cockatoo of Australia. It is of a solemn, morose, and irritable disposition. The natives often keep the bird in the house for the purpose of seeing the irascible creature expand its beautiful feathers, which it readily does when excited. The crest is something like that of a harpy eagle. It is known also as the hawk-headed parrot.

Marianna Parrot.

There is also a beautiful black-headed species—the macái of the Indians—known as the marianna. It has a white breast, orange neck and thighs. It is a remarkably lively little bird, and when tamed, shows its playful and inquisitive disposition.

Wallace describes one which he had on board his canoe, which used to climb into every crack and cranny, diving into all the baskets, pans, and pots it could discover, and tasting everything they contained. It was a most omnivorous feeder, eating rice, farina, every kind of flesh, fish, and vegetables; and drinking coffee too. As soon as it saw him, basin in hand, it would climb up to the edge, and not be quiet without having a share; which it would lick up with the greatest satisfaction, stopping now and then to look knowingly round,—as much as to say, “This coffee is very good,”—and then sipping again with increased gusto.

It has a pretty, clear whistle, which the Indians imitate, making it reply, and stare about in a vain search for its companions.

Trogons.

Among the smaller birds in these forests, the trogons—a genus of scansorial birds—are the most beautiful, surpassing their relatives found in other parts of the world. There are numerous varieties, differing in size—from the trogon viridis, scarcely larger than a sparrow, to the beautiful trogon, with its handsome tail, the size of a rook. Often they are to be seen in the depths of the forest, sitting motionless for hours together, simply moving their heads, watching apparently for insects, or sometimes scanning the neighbouring trees for fruit. Having selected a ripe one, they dart off now and then at long intervals to secure it, returning always to the same perch.

Their wings are feeble, and they are of a dull, inactive temperament. They have long spreading tails, and a dense plumage, which makes them appear larger than they are in reality. They are solitary birds, and may be seen sitting singly, or in pairs—some species on the taller trees, and others but a few feet above the ground—occasionally uttering a mournful note, which sounds like curucua,—the name which the Indians give to them. “This would betray them to the hunter,” says Edwards; “but they are great ventriloquists, and it is often impossible to discover them, though close above one’s head.”

Their feathers are fixed in a very loose manner, so that in falling, when shot, numbers fall off.

The Resplendent Trogon.

The resplendent trogon—the largest of the species—is one of the handsomest of birds, on account of the richness and brilliancy of its colour, the beautiful blending of tints, the flowing grace of its plumage, and the elegance of its colour. On its forehead is a curiously-shaped tuft, of slight and elastic feathers which curl over something like those of the umbrella-bird. This ornament—as also the head, throat, back, wings, and upper tail-coverts—is of the very richest green, with a gloss of gold, which glows, when moved by the breeze, with a changeable sheen. The upper tail-coverts are exceedingly long, projecting considerably beyond the tail, and flowing gracefully over the stiffer feathers beneath them. The lower part of the body is of a rich carmine.

Another species, called by the natives the curucua grande, has a soft, golden green plumage, a red breast, and an orange-coloured beak.

In the Gapo territory a yellow-bellied trogon, with a back of a brilliant metallic green colour, and a breast of steel-blue, is found.

The trogon melanurus is remarkable for the beauty of its plumage, having a glossy green back and rose-coloured breast. Bates found one seated alone on a branch, at no great elevation, uttering at intervals, in a complaining tone, its usual cry of “quaqua.” It appeared to be a dull, inactive bird, and even when approached seemed very unwilling to take flight.

Jacamars.

Among the characteristic members of the feathered tribe in these forests are the jacamars, as they are found in no other part of the world. They have straight, long, pointed bills, with a keel on the upper mandible. Some species have only three toes, while others possess the usual number of four. They live on insects, but in many respects resemble the trogon; being even still less disposed to fly than they are. “Their stupidity, indeed, in remaining at their posts, seated on low branches in the shady parts of the forest, is somewhat remarkable in a country where all other birds are exceedingly wary,” observes Bates.

The green jacamar (galbula viridis) is a beautiful bird, about the size of a lark; the upper parts of the body being generally of an exceedingly brilliant, changeable green, glossed with copper-gold. The beak is two inches long, black, slightly incurved, and sharp-pointed. The legs are short and weak, of a greenish-yellow, and the claws black. It is a very solitary bird, and delights to take refuge in the thickest parts of the forest, where insects abound, and is seldom seen in company with others. It has a short, quick flight, and a sweeter voice than most of its feathered companions.

The paradise jacamar (galbula paradisea) frequents the more open parts of the forest, and is generally found in pairs. It is a larger bird than the former, being nearly a foot long. The prevailing plumage is green, but the throat, front of the neck, and under wing-coverts are white.

It seizes its food in the same way that the trogons do. It will sit silent and motionless on a branch, moving its head slightly, and when an insect passes by, within a short distance, it will fly off and seize it with its long beak, and return again to its perch.

Most jacamars are clothed with a plumage of the most beautiful golden, bronze, and steel colours. They bear a strong outward resemblance to kingfishers, but are not further united to that group of birds. They appear to have the same peculiar attachment to particular branches as many humming-birds possess; and the spot can generally be discovered by the number of legs and wings and hard cases of the insects they have caught, and which they have plucked off before eating their victims.

The little three-toed jacamar possesses a few of the brilliant hues which adorn his brethren.

The great or broad-billed jacamar is very like a kingfisher. The beak is very broad, while the dilated ridge on the upper mandible is distinctly curved. It feeds very much like the kingfisher,—darting down from a branch to secure, with its bill, the active insects as they fly by. It feeds exclusively on them, however, never attempting to obtain food from the waters.

The Jacana.

The light-bodied jacana, supported by its spider-like, widely extended feet, treads over the floating pan-like leaves of the Victoria Regia, and other aquatic plants, without sinking them in any perceptible degree below the surface of the calm pools in which they float. They take up their dwelling on the borders of the remote lakes and igarapes of the Amazonian Valley.

They are called by the natives oven-birds, because frequently seen on the pan-shaped leaves of the before-mentioned magnificent lily.

The common jacana has a black plumage, with a greenish gloss. The legs are very long and slight,—as are the toes and claws, especially that of the hind-toe, which is nearly straight. The body is about ten inches long; and the beak upwards of an inch, and of an orange colour.

The jacana feeds on aquatic insects and vegetable matter. While feeding it utters a low-sounding cluck, cluck, at short intervals. When flying it throws out its long legs horizontally to their full length, generally skimming above the surface, out of danger.

Its body is of a peculiarly light construction, so that, large as it appears, it weighs but little when pressing the floating leaves, on which it delights to walk in search of its prey.

Frigate-Bird Pelicans.

Even to the distance of fifteen hundred miles and more from the mouth of the Amazon, large flocks of the high-flying frigate-birds are descried hovering at an immense height above the stream, preparing to plunge down and seize their finny prey.

They measure seven feet from wing to wing, and appear almost to live in the air. The neck is partly bare, and very extensible; the bill long, and hooked at the end; the feet small, and webbed. The body of the male is entirely black, while the hen has the head and neck white.

It is probably a different species from the frigate-bird, or sea-hawk, of the Eastern tropical seas.

The Horned Screamer.

On the shores of a sand-bank, flocks of wild gulls may be seen flying overhead uttering their well-known cries, sandpipers coursing along the edge of the water, here and there lonely wading birds stalking about, and among them the curious Palamedea cornuta—the anhima of the Brazilians, or the horned screamer of Cuvier—called also the kamichi. Startled by the approach of the canoe, up it flies, its harsh screams resembling the bray of a jackass—but shriller and louder, if possible—greatly disturbing the calm solitude of the place.

It is the size of a swan, but more nearly resembles a crane. On its head it wears a long, pointed horn, surrounded with small black and white feathers. It has a tail about eight inches long; its wings, when folded, reaching to more than half the length of the tail. They are armed with sharp spines, with which it can inflict a wound on its foes, and which assist it in repelling the attacks of snakes and guarding its young from their rapacity. Unless when attacked, however, it seldom uses its weapon of defence. It walks boldly along, as if conscious of its power; and when on the wing, has a strong and easy flight.

The head and neck are of a greenish-brown colour, and covered with soft feathers. The back is black, except the upper part, which is brown, with yellow spots; the whole lower part, with the thighs, of a silvery white.

It feeds on grain and aquatic plants, in search of which it wades through the reptile-haunted morasses.

Vultures.

Monarch of the feathered tribes of the forest, the king vulture fears no rival throughout his wild domain. While the condor has its home on the mountain-tops, the sovereign of the vultures confines himself exclusively to the thickly-wooded regions along the banks of the rivers or lagoons, where he can more readily obtain the carcasses on which he feeds.

He is a magnificent bird, of about two feet and a half in length, and upwards of five feet across the expanded wings. The neck is brilliantly coloured of a fine lemon tint; both sides of the neck, from the ears downwards, are of a rich scarlet. The crown of the head is scarlet, and between the lower mandible and the eye, and close to the eye, there is a part which has a fine blue appearance; the skin which juts out behind the neck, like a carbuncle, is partly blue and partly orange. The bill is orange and black. Round the bottom of the neck is a broad ruff of soft, downy, ash-grey feathers, and the back and tail-coverts are of a bright lawn. The middle wing-coverts and tail-feathers are glossy black.

These superb birds may sometimes be seen seated in pairs on the topmost boughs of trees, but occasionally in large flocks. The great expanse and power of his wings enables the king vulture to soar to a prodigious height, whence he can survey with his piercing sight a wide extent of his domain; possibly also his exquisite sense of smell enables him to detect the odour of the putrefying carcass which rises through the pure air.

He is somewhat of a tyrant among his subjects; for not only will he allow no other vultures or carrion-feeding birds to approach the carcass he has selected, but on his appearance the other species, who may already have discovered it, fly to a distance, and stand meekly looking on while their sovereign gorges himself.

The king vulture makes his nest in the hollow of a tree, where his queen lays two eggs.

The Black Vulture.

The gallinaso, or black vulture (Cathartes atratus), acts the part of a scavenger, and as such is of great use throughout the whole centre of South America, as also in the northern continent. Disgusting as are its habits and appearance, it is carefully protected, on account of the service it renders to mankind.

It may easily be distinguished from the turkey-buzzard, which it greatly resembles, by the shape of the feathers round its neck, which descend from the back of the head towards the throat in a sloping direction; whereas those of the turkey-buzzard form a ring round the throat. Its general colour is a dull black. The head and part of the neck are destitute of feathers, wrinkled, and sprinkled with a few black hairs. The throat is of a yellowish tint.

It flies high, sweeping through the air with a beautifully easy motion, and is generally found in the neighbourhood of fresh-water.

The black vultures are gregarious, brought together apparently by the pleasure they seem to have in society rather than by the attraction of a common prey. Darwin describes seeing flocks of them on a fine day at a great height, each bird wheeling round and round without closing its wings, and performing the most graceful evolutions.

The Turkey-Buzzard.

The turkey-buzzard (Cathartes ora) is similar in its habits to the black vulture, and is frequently mistaken for it. It is seldom found southward of latitude 41 degrees. Of late years, however, they have become numerous in the Valley of the Colorado, three hundred miles further south. It is not found on the desert and arid plains of Northern Patagonia, except near some stream; and it is supposed not to have passed into Chili, although in Peru it exists in great numbers, where it is preserved to act the part of a scavenger.

It is a solitary bird, and goes in pairs; and may at once be recognised at a distance, from its lofty soaring and most elegant flight. It ranges from North America to Cape Horn.

Such are some of the more notable members of the feathered tribes inhabiting the Valley of the Amazon. There are numberless others,—both land and water birds,—a description of which would occupy too much space, some of them also being common to other parts of the world. Several, likewise, are seen more frequently either in Venezuela and Guiana, or in the La Plata region, and will be noticed when we visit those countries.

From the Birds, then, we will pass on to the Reptiles and Insects of South America; in which, as to number and the variety of their forms and habits, it equals, if it does not surpass, any portion of similar size of the Old World, in the same latitude.

Part 3—Chapter XIV.

Reptiles.

Alligators.

Along the river-banks, in every igarape, stream, and pool, the hideous and ravenous alligator lurks for its prey. It is greatly dreaded by the natives for its treachery and cunning, numbers falling victims to its powerful jaws. The largest, the jacare-uassu, or great cayman, is often found from fifteen to twenty feet long, and of enormous bulk.

There is a smaller species, the jacari-tinga, which has a long slender muzzle, and black banded tail. This, when full-grown, is about five feet long.

A still smaller one exists, said to be found only in shallow creeks. It does not attain, when full-grown, a length of more than two feet. Its eggs are rather larger than those of a hen, and oval in shape, the shell having a rough, hard surface. So numerous are they, that Bates observes “it is scarcely exaggeration to say that the waters of the Solimoens are as well stocked with alligators in the dry season, as a ditch in England is in summer with tadpoles.”

Like the turtle, the large alligator has its annual migrations. During the wet season it retreats to the interior pools and flooded forests, and descends to the main river in the dry season. During the hot months, when the pools are dried-up, and the alligator cannot reach water, it buries itself in the mud, and becomes dormant, sleeping till the rainy season returns.

As the alligator cannot turn its head, it is little feared on shore, as a person can easily leap out of its way; but he must beware of its tail, which, when angry, it will lash about in a furious manner, sufficient to break a limb. The alligator never attacks human beings when on their guard, but, lying in wait, seizes them when he can venture, to do so with impunity. These savage saurians are called indiscriminately, though improperly, alligators, crocodiles, and caymans.

The real alligator is distinguished by having its toes only partly webbed—the outer ones being free. It will never willingly seek an encounter, and shows great terror, even, when attacked by dogs. The creatures are often killed by jaguars, who pounce upon them, and with their powerful claws tear out their entrails. But when aroused to anger it blindly attacks all opponents, and is then a truly formidable foe. With a single blow of its tail it can overturn a canoe. The instant it seizes its prey it sinks with it below the surface, to devour it at its leisure. It usually feeds on fish, fowl, turtle, or any creature it finds floating on the surface of the water; but when these fail, it lies concealed among the sedges on the banks, waiting for any land animal which may approach to drink. Sometimes it thus retaliates on the jaguar, and seizing the fierce brute, drags it down below the surface, where it is soon drowned.

The great alligator usually lays fifty or sixty eggs, rather oblong than oval, and about the size of those of a goose,—covering them up with sand, and allowing them to be hatched by the heat of the sun. The mother, however, does not desert her young, but conducts them to the water, and watches over them till their scales have hardened, and their limbs have gained sufficient strength to enable them to take care of themselves.

Waterton relates an anecdote showing the daring ferocity of the creature when pressed by hunger. It was on the banks of the Orinoco, near the city of Angostura. The tale was told him by the governor of that place.

“One fine evening, as the people of the city were sauntering up and down the alamada by the banks of the river, a large cayman rushed out of the water, seized a man, and carried him down, before any person had it in his power to assist him. The screams of the poor fellow were terrible as the cayman was running off with him. The monster plunged into the river with its prey, and we instantly lost sight of him, and never saw or heard of him more.”

Bates also relates that a native crew, having arrived at Egga, got drunk, when one of the men, during the greatest heat of the day, while everybody else was enjoying an afternoon nap, took it into his head, while in a tipsy state, to go down alone to bathe. He was seen only by a feeble old man, who was lying in his hammock in the open verandah at the rear of his house, at the top of the bank. He shouted to the besotted Indian to beware of an alligator which had of late taken to frequenting the neighbourhood. Before he could repeat his warning, the man stumbled, and a pair of gaping jaws, appearing suddenly above the surface, seized him round the waist, and drew him under the water. A cry of agony—“Ai Jesús!”—was the last sound made by the wretched victim. The young men of the village, going in search of the monster, came up with it when, after a little time, it rose to breathe, with one leg of the man sticking out from its jaws. It was immediately despatched, with bitter curses.

One night Bates and his party were asleep in their hammocks in an open shed on the banks of the river, with a fire made up in the centre. He was awoke by his attendants hurling burning firewood, with loud curses, at a huge cayman which had crawled up the bank, and passed beneath his hammock towards the place where a little dog lay asleep. The dog had raised the alarm in time. The reptile backed out, and tumbled down the bank into the water, the sparks of the brands hurled at him flying from his back and sides. Notwithstanding this, the next night he repeated his visit.

The alligator, in its daring attempts to seize human beings, does not always come off victorious. An Indian and his son had gone down to the water, when the boy, whilst bathing, was seized by the thigh, and carried under. The father, rushing down the bank, plunged after the rapacious beast, which was diving away with its victim. He followed it unarmed, and overtaking the creature, thrust his thumb into its eye, and forced it to release its booty. The lad, who was present when the story was told, exhibited the marks of the alligator’s teeth in his thigh.

On another occasion an alligator was shot by one of the passengers on board a steamer, and hauled up on deck. When the knife was applied, it showed that it still possessed some sparks of life, by lashing out its tail, and opening its enormous jaws, sending the crowd of bystanders flying in all directions. It is extraordinary how tenacious the creature is of life, and what a prodigious amount of battering it may receive and still live.

Fortunately for other animals, the young alligators have numerous enemies, even the males of their own kind occasionally gobbling them up; while they are terribly persecuted by wild beasts and birds of prey,—the latter esteeming their soft bodies delicate morsels, and frequently pouncing down into their midst and carrying them off.

The alligator, far from being a silent animal, as is generally supposed, makes a hideous noise at times, bellowing with so singular a cadence and loud a din, that he can even outroar the jaguars and mycetes.

Sir Richard Schombergh describes the way in which the alligator seizes its prey. He secured a bird or fish to a piece of wood, and then turned it adrift on the river. No sooner was it seen than a cayman, slowly and cautiously approaching—without even rippling the surface of the water—and then curving its back, hurled its prey by a stroke of its tail into its wide-extended jaws.

It makes also a loud sound, by clacking its teeth, and lashing its tail on the water. It has a voice not readily to be distinguished from that of the animals of the forest. It is similar to a hollow suppressed sigh bursting forth on a sudden, loud enough to be heard a mile off. First one gives vent to this fearful sound, then another answers from a distance; and from up and down the river, and across the current, these horrible noises are heard, showing that the hideous saurians are in a lively mood, watching for their suppers. It is supposed that when once they have tasted human flesh they will always endeavour again to procure it.

Humboldt mentions another instance, where an Indian, landing on the banks of a shallow lagoon, was seized by a cayman. With wonderful presence of mind the Indian searched for a knife, but not finding it, he pressed his fingers into its eyes. The monster, however, did not let go, but dragged the unfortunate man down into deep water, and, to the horror of several spectators, was seen swimming off with the poor fellow in its jaws, to devour him on a neighbouring island.

Humboldt states that during the inundations of the Orinoco, alligators have been known to crawl into the streets of Angostura and carry off human beings.

Schombergh once saw an enormous cayman seize one of a smaller species, and bear it away—not, however, without a desperate struggle. In a short time the monsters reappeared, wildly beating the surface with their tails. Now a huge head rose up, now a tail, indistinctly seen in the seething whirlpool. At length, however, the larger was beheld swimming off to a sand-bank, where it immediately began to devour its prey.

The Iguana.

See yonder hideous-faced creature, nearly six feet in length, the size of many alligators, its head covered with scaly plates, a huge dewlap depending from its throat, its body and long tail covered with small imbricated scales, its back garnished with a row of spines, and on its thigh a number of porous tubercles, while its legs and claws are wide-spreading.

As it crawls along a bough overhead, the bravest man who had never before seen it would undoubtedly get out of its way, expecting it to leap down and seize him. Yet the iguana, ugly as is its countenance, is perfectly harmless; except that it can give a sharp bite with its compressed triangular and serrated teeth. It lives generally on trees. When hard-pressed it takes to the water, and swims with ease,—pressing its legs close to its sides, and sculling itself on with its tail; while it can remain an hour or more under water without suffering.

The flesh of the iguana, unfortunately for itself, is considered excellent; and hunters go out to catch it with a noose at the end of a long stick, which they cast round its neck, and then by a sudden jerk pull it to the ground. As the creature seems to fancy that it cannot be reached on the bough, it seldom moves on the approach of the hunter, and is thus easily caught. It lashes out with its tail, however, and tries to bite, when once it finds itself entrapped; and being also very tenacious of life, it is not killed without repeated heavy blows, or a pistol-shot in its head.

The common iguanas are numerous in the neighbourhood of villages, where they climb the trees for the sake of their fruit. Some species lay their eggs—which are about an inch and a half in length, and oblong—in hollow trees. Others are known to do so in the sand, to be hatched by the heat of the sun. They are considered delicacies, and are much sought after in consequence.

The colour of the iguana changes, like that of the chameleon. The Brazilians, indeed, call it the chameleon. Its food consists almost entirely of fruits and other vegetable substances, though some species are supposed to be omnivorous. The natives frequently tame it, when it willingly allows itself to be carried about by its owner, though it at once distinguishes strangers.

There are, however, numerous species of iguanas; indeed, the family contains fifty genera—the true iguanas being all inhabitants of the New World. To its predecessor, which it closely resembles in bony structure, the largest is but a mere pigmy—for that extinct monster must have been about seventy feet in length, the length of the tail alone being fifty-two feet, and the circumference of the body fourteen and a half feet; while its thigh-bone was twenty times the size of that of the modern iguana. Vast as was the inhabitant of the ancient world, it was herbivorous, like that of the comparatively Lilliputian creature of the present day.

Everywhere the agile, beautifully-tinted lizards abound, sunning themselves on logs of wood, or scampering over the sandy soil. Now they may be seen turning round the trunk of a tree, much as a squirrel does, watching the passer-by, and trying to keep out of sight. Some are of a dark coppery colour, others have backs of the most brilliant silky green and blue, while others are marked with delicate shades of yellow and brown.

The largest of their family is the teguexin, or variegated lizard. Sometimes it is called the safeguard, from the idea—probably an idle fable—that, like the monitors of the Nile, they give notice of the approach of the alligator by their loud hissing.

There are several species which inhabit the hot, sandy plains, or dense, damp underwood near the rivers and lakes. One of them exceeds five feet in length, and is extremely active. It feeds almost entirely on snakes, frogs, and toads, but occasionally devours poultry, and breakfasts off their eggs. It is also somewhat of a cannibal, for though it will not eat its own species, it does occasionally those of a somewhat smaller lizard allied to it. It possesses strong teeth, and can bite with great force; indeed, when attacked it defends itself fiercely, and when seizing a foe can seldom be compelled to let go.

Its colour is variable, but generally the upper parts of the body are deep black, with mottlings of yellow or green; while on the higher portions of its sides are a series of white spots, the under part being chiefly yellow, with black bands.

The little ameiva, on which it occasionally preys, is of a dark olive colour, speckled with black about the neck.

There is another large lizard, known as the great dragon (Ada Guianensis). It is of an olive colour, with yellow below, and mottled with brown; and frequently attains a length of six feet. While the former cannot climb trees, it is a good swimmer. The great dragon climbs with wonderful agility, but is said not to be very much at home in the water. It also bites fiercely.

Both are hunted for the sake of their flesh; while their eggs—of which thirty or forty are laid—are considered great delicacies.

Geckos.

Not only in the huts of the natives, but in the abodes of the wealthy white men, hid during the day in dark corners, are numbers of dark grey, hideous-looking lizards, which, when night comes on, crawl rapidly over the walls and ceilings, hunting for the flies and other insects to be found there. Repulsive as are these little geckos, and undeservedly possessing a bad name for being poisonous, they are not only harmless, but render good service by the destruction of numerous household pests. Their large eyes are so constructed that they can discern objects in the dark, and are at the same time capable of bearing the rays of the bright sun. Their colour, too, enables them to escape detection by the creatures which attack them, while they are thus hid from the prey for which they lie in wait. They can also bend themselves in an extraordinary way into hollows and crevices.

But their feet are especially curious, being admirably adapted for clinging to and running over smooth surfaces. The under side of their toes is expanded into cushions, beneath which folds of skin form a series of flexible plates. By means of this apparatus they can run or crawl across a smooth ceiling with their backs downwards—the soft soles, by quick, muscular action, exhausting and admitting air alternately. They are also provided with sharp claws, which enable them to climb up the trunks of trees, and over rough surfaces.

The Brazilians call them osgas, and believe that they poison by their touch whatever they pass over. Probably, however, if any annoyance does arise from them, it is when with their sharp claws they run across a sleeping man, or small blisters have been raised by the adhering apparatus at the bottom of their feet. By some “the spider, which taketh hold with her hands,” is believed to be a gecko, as a species of this creature is very common in the East. The popular prejudice against them causes the death of many a poor gecko, who, had he been allowed to live, would have rendered good service to his persecutors. Those in the houses are of small size; but others, existing in the forest, and living in the crevices of the trees, are of considerable magnitude. Their tails are easily struck off—the loss being, however, as is the case with other lizards, repaired by a new growth, though less perfect than the original member.

The Anaconda.

With its ill-favoured head protruding above the surface of the water near the banks of slow-flowing rivers, pools, and swamps, the vast anaconda lies in wait for its prey. The fish swimming along in its neighbourhood,—the birds which, rising from the reeds, skim by overhead,—the animals which come to the banks to drink,—even man himself, have cause to dread a blow from the snout, and the powerful coils of the huge water-serpent. Its appearance is most hideous, being very broad in the middle, and tapering abruptly at both ends. Fish, and the smaller animals, it swallows whole; but a larger animal it seizes by the nose with its powerful jaws, and surrounds with the mighty coils of its huge body, pressing one coil upon another till it crushes its prey to death.

Though generally found from twenty to thirty feet in length, it is said to attain a length of forty feet; and one of that size is fully capable of swallowing an ox or horse,—there being many instances of its having been done. Its voracity is prodigious. The French naturalist Firmin found in the stomach of an anaconda a large sloth, an iguana four feet long, and a good-sized ant-bear; all three in the same state almost as when they were swallowed—a proof that they had been captured within a short time. Bates relates that an Indian father with his son went one day in their montario to gather fruit a short distance from Egga, when, landing on a sloping, sandy shore, the boy was left to take care of the canoe while the man entered the forest. The boy was playing in the water under the shade of some myrtle and wild guava trees, when a huge reptile stealthily wound its coils round him. His cries brought the father to the rescue, who, rushing forward, seized the anaconda boldly by the head, and tore its jaws asunder.

This formidable serpent lives to a great age; and Bates heard of a specimen being killed which measured forty-two feet in length. Those he measured were only twenty-one feet long, and two feet in girth. He was a sufferer, on one occasion, from one of these. While on a voyage up the river, his canoe being moored alongside the bank, the neighbourhood of which had been haunted for some time past by one of the creatures, he was awoke a little after midnight, as he lay in his cabin, by a heavy blow struck at the side of the canoe, close to his head. It was succeeded by the sound of a heavy body plunging into the water. When he got up all was again quiet, except the cackle of fowls in the hen-coop, which hung at the side of the vessel, about three feet from the cabin door. In the morning the poultry were found loose about the canoe, two of the fowls being missing; while there was a large rent in the bottom of the hen-coop, raised about two feet from the surface of the water. The Indians went in search of the reptile, which, being found sunning itself on a log at the mouth of a muddy rivulet, was despatched with harpoons.

It is extremely tenacious of life; and though the head may be nearly cut off, and the entrails taken out, it will still move about for a considerable time. It is detested by the farmers on the banks, as it has the habit of carrying off poultry, young calves, or any animal it can get within reach of. It is often seen coiled up in the corner of farm-yards, waiting for its prey.

The statement that the anaconda kills its prey by its pestilent breath, is wholly fabulous. Waterton altogether denies the existence of any odour in the snake’s breath. It is possible, however, that some species may produce a horrible stench, from a substance secreted in certain glands near the tail—a fact which has probably given rise to the fable.

The Boa.

Among the semi-civilised, idolatrous inhabitants of the continent, several snakes were objects of worship. The boa-constrictor especially was regarded as an emblem of strength and power, from its vast size, and the fearful effect produced by its encircling coils as it winds itself round the body of its victim.

See the creature as its shining body moves rapidly among the fallen leaves and dried husks in the forest, rather like a stream of brown liquid than a serpent, with skin of varied colours! Onwards it goes, with scarcely a perceptible serpentine movement. Even the huge trunk of a fallen tree does not stop it, but it glides over the impediment in its undeviating course, making the dry twigs crack and fly off with its weight. Now it stops, watching for its prey. An agouti runs by, regardless of the seeming rivulet; but the hapless creature is seized by the serpent’s jaws, and those terrible folds surrounding the body—coil above coil—crush the bones, till it becomes a mere mass of flesh. And now it begins to suck in its prey; not lubricating it, as is generally stated, although a large quantity of saliva surrounds the animal while it is descending the monster’s throat. After a time the meal is finished, and the serpent—its body greatly distended—remains at rest, unwilling to move, when it may be easily captured by the daring hunter.

The body of the boa is of a rich brown colour. A broad chain of large black spots, alternating with white, runs along its back; while the scales round the eyes are set in a circle, separated from those of the lips by two rows of smaller scales. The jaws are not united, but attached to the skull by muscles and ligaments, which enable it to dilate the mouth sufficiently to swallow bodies much larger than itself.

The largest grow to a length of thirty feet and upwards; but boas ordinarily do not attain more than twenty feet in length.

The Spotted Boa.

The boa scytale, or spotted boa, is of a greyish colour, marked with round spots, and scarcely inferior in size to the former.

The Ringed Boa.

There is another species—the ringed boa, or boa cenchris—which, though growing to a considerable size, does not attain that of the former species.

A curious species (the boa canina) has a large head, shaped somewhat like that of a dog; the general colour a bright Saxon-green, with transverse white bars down the back. The sides are of a deeper green, and the belly is white.

Wallace describes a small one only eleven feet in length, but as thick as a man’s thigh. It was secured by having a stick tightly tied round the neck. It went about dragging its clog with it, sometimes opening its mouth with a very suspicious yawn, and sometimes turning its tail up into the air. Being put into a cage, and released from the stick, it began to breathe most violently, the expirations sounding like high-pressure steam escaping from a Great Western locomotive.

The boa, however, is not much dreaded in South America, as it seldom or never attacks man; which the anaconda is said always to do, if it can find him unprepared. Stories are told of desperate encounters between travellers in the forests of the Amazon and pythons or boas. A French traveller narrates how, on one occasion, the whole of his attendants took to flight on seeing a huge python approaching,—with the exception of a gallant native, who, attacking the monster vigorously with a long, lithe pole, struck it a blow which paralysed its powers; when, the party returning, it was easily killed.

The Rattlesnake.

Venomous as is the bite of the rattlesnake, and abounding as it does in all parts of the continent, it is less dreaded than many other serpents. It is, in the first place, very sluggish in its habits; and it is happily compelled to bear about it an instrument which gives notice of its approach and intention of biting. The South American rattlesnake—the Boaquira crotalus horridus—has the rattle placed at the end of the tail. It consists of several dry, hard, bony processes, so shaped that the tip of each upper bone runs within two of the bones below it. By this means they have not only a movable coherence, but also make a multiplied sound, each bone hitting against the others at the same time. The rattle is placed with the broad end perpendicular to the body, the first joint being fastened to the last vertebra of the tail by means of a thick muscle under it, as well as by the membranes which unite it to the skin. Indeed, an idea of this curious structure may be formed by placing a number of thimbles one within the other. These bony rings increase in number with the age of the animal; and they are generally found with from five to fourteen. The sound produced has been compared to that of knife-grinding. It cannot be heard at a distance, and in rainy weather is almost inaudible.

The effects of the bite vary according to the season of the year; indeed, at times it will seldom strike a foe, and the venom is comparatively mild in its effects. At other times the poison is of deadly intensity, and, should a large vein be bitten, the victim speedily dies.

Waterton describes handling a number of rattlesnakes—removing them from one apartment to the other—with his hands alone. They hissed and rattled when he meddled with them, but did not offer to bite him. Possibly this might have occurred during the time when they were sluggish, and their venom less deadly.

The little peccary is a great enemy of the rattlesnake, as it is of all other serpents, and ordinary hogs destroy it easily without suffering from its bite; so that as man makes progress through the country and introduces these animals, rattlesnakes speedily disappear.

Although the fascinating powers of the rattlesnake have been doubted, it seems probable that small birds and animals are frequently attracted when they catch sight of it coiled up on the ground below the branches on which they are posted—and, if not fascinated, fall through terror into its open jaws; or it may be that, influenced by the same overpowering impulse which induces human beings to rush into danger, the animal or bird, on beholding its deadly enemy, approaches it against its own will, and is drawn nearer and nearer, till it either falls into the deadly fangs, or comes near enough to be entrapped.

Bates was one day in a forest with a little dog, which ran into a thicket and made a dead-set on a large snake whose head was raised above the herbage. The serpent reared its tail slightly in a horizontal position, and shook its terrible rattle. It was some minutes before he could get the dog away. This shows how slow the reptile is to make the fatal spring.

On another occasion, he heard above his head, as it seemed, a pattering noise, when the wind, which had been blowing, lulling for a few moments, he discovered that it proceeded from the ground, and, turning his head, was startled by a sudden plunge, a heavy gliding motion betraying a large rattlesnake making off almost beneath his feet.

The Fer De Lance.

More dreaded than the jaguar or alligator is the jararaca—the native name for the terrible serpent, the fer de lance (Craspedo cephalus lanceolatus). The hideous creature, with brown colour, flat, triangular head, connected to its olive-tinted body by a thin neck, lies coiled up among a heap of leaves, from which it can scarcely be distinguished till the passer-by is close upon it; then suddenly it rears its head, which is armed with four long poisonous fangs, and, darting forward, strikes its victim with a deadly blow. Man, as well as all animals, dreads it—except the hog, and its relative, the little peccary, which are indifferent to the effects of its poison.

On human beings its bite is generally fatal. Bates mentions several instances of death from it, and only one clear case of recovery,—but in that instance the person was lame for life. Although most other serpents fly from man, the jararaca frequently attacks him; leaping from its concealment among the leaves, and inflicting a wound which in a few hours produces death. The first symptoms caused by the poison are convulsions, pains at the heart, and distressing nausea, the whole nervous system appearing to be greatly affected. The only known remedy is the copious use of spirits, a large amount of which is required to counteract the enervating power of the poison.

The jararaca is generally six feet long, but sometimes reaches the length of eight feet. It is marked with dark cross bands, while below it is of a whitish-grey hue, covered with small dark spots.

Even birds seem to have a slight dread of this fearful serpent, and may be seen hovering about the spot where it lies coiled up, uttering cries and screams, produced by fear and anger.

The Bushmaster.

Almost as much dreaded as the jararaca is the enormous cuanacouchi (Lachésis mutus), or bushmaster, as it is called in Demerara. Its proper name is the curucucu. It sometimes reaches to a length of fourteen feet, being the largest known poisonous snake. It is equally remarkable for the glowing radiance of its fearful beauty, displaying as it does, when gliding amid the sunshine, all the prismatic colours. Though generally remaining on the ground, it mounts trees with perfect ease in search of its prey—birds or their eggs; while from the overhanging bough it can dart down on the unwary passer-by.

It is said that furious battles sometimes occur between snakes of different species,—that the boa will watch for the rattlesnake as it issues from its hole,—or that the latter will sally forth, and, relying on its envenomed fangs for victory, attack the huge boa as it glides by; though, as no naturalists appear to have witnessed such combats, it may be doubted whether they ever take place. But we may fancy how desperate would be the strife between a python and the venomous bushmaster of Demerara.

Labarri, or Elaps Lemniscatus.

The labarri—another beautiful snake, adorned with the colours of the rainbow—produces certain death by its envenomed bite. It, too, is a tree-climber, and may be seen lying coiled up on a low, thick branch or decayed stump, or sometimes on the bare ground, apparently selecting spots where it can be least easily distinguished. Though generally smaller than the bushmaster, it attains a length of eight feet or more.

Whip Snakes.

There are two or three species of whip snakes, or Dryadidae, remarkable for the slender elegance of their forms, and in general for the great beauty of their colouring, as well as for the rapidity of their movements. The whip snake, having seized its prey, winds its light and lithe body round its victim, coil upon coil, like the boa and anaconda, and strangles it in its embrace.

The emerald whip snake (Philodryas viridissimus) is one of the most beautiful. So slender is its body that, although two feet long or more, it can coil itself up within a space not larger than the hollow of the hand. It lives in trees, and may be seen sporting amid the branches; but the moment it catches sight of a person, away it darts, scarcely moving the branches and leaves amid which it makes its way.

The Green Snake.

Delicate in form, and of the brightest grass-green—while, like the rest of its family, perfectly harmless—the green snake is a great favourite with the Brazilians; and as it is easily tamed, young girls may often be seen carrying it about, winding it round their throats or wrists, forming it into living necklaces or bracelets. It lives in trees, among the green foliage, over which it rapidly glides in search of insects—its usual food.

Frogs and Toads.

Frogs abound of all sizes, living in marshes, some on dry ground, and others inhabitants of trees—many with voices which resound loudly through the midnight air. Toads, too, are numerous, some of enormous size. They may be seen on bare, sandy places—huge fellows, seven inches in length and three in height—crawling over the ground, utterly indifferent to the appearance of a stranger among them.

Among the frogs is the curious tingeing frog (Hylaplesia tinctoria), which is an inhabitant of the forest. It may be seen during the day crawling along the branches, but at night it takes up its abode under the loose bark. Except during the breeding season, it seldom visits the water. It then, like the rest of its species, goes there for the purpose of depositing its eggs. It is generally of a dark colour—sometimes quite black—with a white spot on the head and two white lines running along each side.

It gains its name from the use the Indians are said to make of it. They employ it as they do the parrot-fish, to give a different colour to the plumage of their parrots. To do this they pull out the feathers from the spots to which they wish to impart a new tint, and then rub the blood of the frog into the wounded skin. When the new feathers grow, they are said to be of a bright yellow or vermilion hue.

The bi-coloured tree-frog (Phyllomedusa bicolour) is of considerable size, and is the only one of its family at present known. The upper part of the body is of the deepest azure-blue, while the under parts are of a pure white, sometimes of a rosy tinge. The thighs and sides are spotted with the same tinge as the abdomen.

Darwin found a curious little toad, the Phryniscus nigricans, on the dry sandy soil of the Pampas, “which looked,” he says, “as if it had been steeped in the blackest ink, and then, when dry, allowed to crawl over a board freshly painted with the brightest vermilion.”

Instead of being nocturnal in its habits, as other toads are, and living in obscure recesses, it crawls about over dry hillocks and arid plains during the day, where not a single drop of water can be found. It depends on the dew for its moisture, which is probably absorbed by the skin. The creature seems to dread water, and is utterly unable to swim.

The Surinam Toad.

The Surinam toad is one of the most curious, though, at the same time, among the most hideous of batrachians. It is remarkable on account of the extraordinary way in which its young are developed. The skin of the female is separated, as is the case with others of its family, from the muscles of the back, and is nearly half an inch thick. She deposits her eggs, or spawn, at the brink of some stagnant water, when the male manages to take them up in his paws and places them on her back, where they adhere by means of a glutinous secretion, and are pressed into cells which, at that time, are open to receive them. Gradually the cells are closed by a membrane which grows over them, when her back greatly resembles a piece of honeycomb, the cells of which are filled and closed. Here, in the course of about three months, the eggs are hatched, and the creatures undergo the usual change of the rest of the genus; first assuming the form of tadpoles, and gradually acquiring their complete shape. When perfected, and possessed of their limbs, they work their way out of the cells; and it is a curious sight to see them struggling out—their head and paws projecting in all directions from their mother’s back—and sliding down on the ground, when they begin to hop merrily about.

The cells are considerably deeper than wide, and each would contain an ordinary bean thrust endwise into it. The head of the creature is of an unusual shape, as it has a snout with nostrils lengthened into a kind of tube. The skin is of a brownish-olive above, and white below; and is covered with a number of small, hard granules, with some horny tubercular projections among them. After the brood have left the mother’s back, the cells again fill up—the whole process occupying about eight days.

In spite of the repulsive appearance of the creature, the negroes occasionally eat it.

Tortoises.

Tortoises (Testudinata, or Chelonians) belong to a very numerous order of reptiles, the usual form of which is too well known to require description. They are shut up, as it were, in a box and breast-plate: the carapace and plastron, in reality, are external developments of certain parts of the skeleton.

The land tortoises have the strongest plastrons. In some species it is slightly movable, but generally fixed by a uniting suture. In one—the pyxis—the plastron is furnished with a transverse hinge, so that the animal can retract its head and fore-limbs within the carapace, and close the plastron upon it, first shutting them in. In another—the kinixis—the carapace has the posterior portion distinct from the anterior, and movable, so as to shield the hind-limbs and tail.

In water tortoises, or turtles, as they are generally called, the plastron is united to the edges of the carapace by intervening cartilage, and not by suture. The jaws of tortoises are not furnished with teeth, but are cased in horny coverings, resembling somewhat the sharp hooked beak of a parrot; which enable them either to crop and mince the vegetable aliment on which most of them live, or to masticate the small, living animals, such as birds and reptiles, of which the food of others consists. Round the outside of this beak are thick fleshy lips.

In the curious matamata, the jaws of which open very wide, these parts, instead of being armed by a strong beak, are protected by a sheath of horn.

In the land tortoises, the feet are stump-like, the toes being enveloped in the skin, so that they can move but slowly. The marsh and lake tortoises have their feet palmated, to enable them to move either on the water or on land. In the turtles, these limbs appear in the form of broad, flat, undivided paddles, well-adapted for moving in the water, but awkward as instruments of locomotion, even on the level, sandy shores to which they resort at the breeding season.

The tortoise has a fleshy tongue like that of a parrot. The brain is but slightly developed, scarcely filling the cavity of the skull in the marine species. At the same time, the animal possesses great muscular irritability, and extreme tenacity of life. All are oviparous, and bury their eggs, which are hatched by the warmth of the sun. The water tortoises, when seen below the surface, move like birds in the air, the paddles flapping like wings.

The order is divided into four groups: first, Chersians, or the land tortoises; second, the Elodians, or marsh tortoises; third, the Potamians, or river tortoises; fourth, the Thalassians, or sea tortoises, generally called turtles. These groups are again variously subdivided.

The waters of Tropical America abound with the second and third families. The Elodians, found in the shallow pools of the Amazonian Valley, swim with facility, and move quickly over the ground. They feed not only on vegetables, but prey on living animals—river molluscs, and other water creatures.

The Potamians, which are found in vast numbers in the larger rivers, grow to a great size,—some weighing seventy pounds. They feed much as the last described. They swim with ease, both on the surface and at mid-water. The upper part of the body is generally brown or grey, with regular dotted spots; while the under parts are pale white, rosy, and bluish. When they seize their food, they dart out their heads and long necks with the rapidity of arrows, and bite sharply with their trenchant beaks, not letting go till they have taken the piece out. The females are said to be far more numerous than the males; indeed, Father Gumilla, describing the turtles of the Orinoco, states what might be doubted,—that “in each nest of eggs there is one, larger than the rest, from which the male is hatched. All the others are females.” The eggs are spherical; their shell solid, but membraneous or slightly calcareous.

A further description of them will be given when the mode in which they are captured is described. The species, however, deserves particular notice.

The Chelys Matamata.

Grotesque, and unlike what we fancy a reality,—such as those creatures which the wild imagination of the painters of bygone days delighted in producing,—is the curious matamata (Chelys matamata), found along the banks of the Amazon, as well as in Guiana. It is covered with armour on the back, neck, and head. On its head it wears what looks like a curiously-shaped helmet, with a long tube in front, which serves as a snout; while its feet are webbed, and armed with sharp claws at the end of its thick, powerful legs. From the chin hang down two fringe-like membranes, and the throat and neck are similarly ornamented. It is often three feet long; and, from its formidable appearance, it might easily make a stranger eager to get out of its way. This helmet consists of two membraneous prolongations of the skin, which project on either side from its broad and flattened head. A long, flexible, double tube forms its snout. The shield on the back is marked with three distinct ridges, or keels, along it, and is broader before than behind. It has a stumpy, pointed tail.

This curious monster, concealing itself among the reeds on the bank, lies in wait for its prey, darting forward its long neck, and seizing with its sharp beak any passing fish, reptile, or water-fowl; or, should they not come near enough, it swims at a great rate after its prey.

Part 3—Chapter XV.

Wonders of Insect Life.

Termites, or White Ants.

The great ant-eater, dozing during the hot hours of the day within the shady coverts of the forest, sallies forth in the cool of the evening to search for its insect prey on the open Campos. The surface of the ground is there, in many districts, raised into conical hillocks, some five feet in height, and streaked by lines which differ in colour from the surrounding earth, and lead in all directions, over decayed timber and the roots of herbage, from one hillock to the other. These hillocks are the habitations of those curious small pale-coloured and soft-bodied insects called termites, or white ants. They differ very greatly from the true ants in their mode of growth, or metamorphosis, though similar to them in their habits.

The true ant, when emerging from the egg, is a footless grub, and remains in the pupa, or quiescent stage, inclosed in a membrane, till its limbs are developed. The termites at once possess the form they are to bear through life, except that the sexual individuals, during the latter stages of their growth, gradually acquire eyes and wings. They belong, indeed, to two very dissimilar orders of insects. The ant-bear, however, never troubles himself about this matter; but, scraping away with his powerful claws, soon breaks open the citadel which the industrious insects have formed during days of unremitting toil.

The mounds of the termites differ in composition. Some, consisting of earth, are worked into a substance as hard as stone. The coloured lines on the ground mark the covered ways which lead from the places where the insects obtain their food, or the materials for their habitations. The mounds exhibit no openings for egress or ingress. They are often formed by several distinct species of termites, each of which keeps to its own portion of the mounds, and uses different materials. Within the fortress exist a vast number of chambers, with galleries connecting them, composed sometimes of particles of earth, and at others of vegetable matter, cemented by the saliva of the insects. As they live on dry food, and in regions where no water is found, it is supposed that they may possess the power of combining, by vital force, the oxygen and hydrogen of their vegetable food, and thus form water. This supposition, if correct, accounts for the large amount of liquid which they employ in the construction of their cells. The inhabitants of these structures consist of differently formed insects, employed in various distinct occupations. The most numerous are the labourers, who have to toil for the benefit of the community. They are sexless and blind; yet, without the power of sight, they are ceaselessly employed in the construction of these curious mounds, or in taking care of the young, and in collecting and bringing in food for the support of the population. Then come the soldiers, who defend the fortress, or, as more frequently happens, sacrifice themselves for the protection of the rest. The two most important personages of the community are the king and queen, who are the parents of future colonies. These are always found in every perfect termitarium. There are also a large number of winged termites, male and female, who, at a certain period of the year—generally at the commencement of the rainy season—issue forth from the hive into the world. Although a large number are destroyed, a few escape, and, pairing, become the parents of fresh colonies. The formation of a new citadel or colony takes place somewhat in the following manner:—On a mound becoming overstocked, a party of workers, guarded by a body of soldiers, issue forth, and commence a fresh edifice at a distance from the old one. Here they form a large cell in the centre, surrounded by numerous galleries leading to smaller cells. From thence they run their covered ways, in suitable directions, towards spots whence they can obtain their necessary supplies of food and building materials. This being accomplished, they go in search of a royal pair; whom, when they have found, under a leaf or clod of earth, they conduct into the interior cell, where they are installed in due state. The newly-married couple, who have by this time got rid of their wings, are considerably larger than the rest of the population, but are helpless individuals, having neither the power of working nor fighting. The king soon dies; but his consort, instead of pining for his loss, sets herself to work for the benefit of posterity, by laying a countless number of eggs. As soon as these are deposited the workers carry them off, and place them in the cells, where they watch over them with the most vigilant care, supplying the larvae with food as soon as they are hatched; and when the nursery becomes full, carrying some off in their mouths to another cell. While some are thus employed, others increase the size of their abode by running fresh corridors round the edifice, and forming new cells; while other parties, protected by soldiers, are foraging far and wide for food for the ever-increasing population.

In process of time—always within twelve months—the numberless progeny of the queen become full-grown. Some become developed into labourers, with smooth, rounded heads, and mouths adapted for carrying loads and working up the materials for the construction of their abodes; others—the fighting class—have heads of large size, provided with pointed weapons of defence of various shapes, resembling, in different species, horns, pikes, rams; while others are furnished with powerful jaws, resembling either sabres, swords, or sickles. A third class appear with eyes, and long, delicate wings—gay, happy creatures, far better formed, it would seem, to enjoy existence than their hard-working brethren. These are the males and females of the community. When they are prepared to issue forth from their birth-place, the labourers busily set to work to clear a passage to allow of their speedy egress. This takes place generally on a damp, close evening or cloudy morning. Countless numbers issue forth at intervals, till the whole progeny of males and females have emerged from their pupa state. They make a loud rustling noise as they fly through the air in all directions; but they are immediately set upon by numberless enemies,—goatsuckers, lizards, spiders, and ants,—who greedily eat them up. On reaching the ground they immediately divest themselves of their wings; and the few pairs which escape from their foes seek safety in some hollow beneath a leaf or lump of earth, where they await the arrival of the faithful labourers, who now come forth in search of them, and conduct them, as has before been said, to the newly-formed abode prepared for their reception. And thus the wonderful process goes forward year after year.

So utterly helpless are these males and females, that, were it not for the assistance of other individuals, the race would speedily become extinct. The warrior termites are utterly regardless of personal safety. When their castle is attacked, they appear in vast numbers at the breach, to cover the retreat of the labourers. As the long tongue of the ant-eater is projected among them, they throw themselves on it; and no sooner is one regiment swallowed up than another rushes out to take its place—thus, by the sacrifice of themselves, enabling the rest of the community to seek safety in flight.

Sauba Ants.

Of the numerous true ants which exist in all parts of Tropical America, the sauba is one of the most remarkable. In all parts of the country—as well near the abodes of man as in the distant wilds—large mounds are seen, two feet in length, and often upwards of forty yards in circumference, and distinguished from the surrounding soil by the difference of colour. Yet these mounds are merely the domes or upper works of the vast subterranean galleries which run for enormous distances and to great depths below the surface. Unlike the termites, the armies go forth in open daylight in vast hordes, to obtain food or materials for the construction of their wonderful habitations. Sometimes, many hundred yards away from these mounds, the whole ground seems covered with animated leaves, each of the size of a sixpence, moving at a steady pace over the ground. Each leaf is held vertically in the mandibles of an ant, which is conveying it for the purpose of thatching the domes which cover the entrance to its subterranean abode; the roof thus formed protecting the cells beneath, rilled with young, from the heavy rains. Going in the direction whence the army is seen coming, we may find a tree covered by innumerable multitudes employed in cutting off leaves. Here the labourers are protected by the warrior class, who appear also to perform the duties of overlookers, and keep them to their tasks. Each ant, on gaining a leaf, commences with its scissor-like jaws to make a semicircular incision on the upper side. It then takes it into its jaws, and detaches it by a sharp jerk. Having done this, it descends to the ground, and joining its comrades, who have been similarly employed, they return with their loads to the colony. Frequently, however, while an ant is up the tree, the piece of leaf falls to the ground, when it sets to work to cut off another; while fresh labourers appear, to carry away the pieces which have thus accumulated.

The sauba ants are greatly dreaded by the inhabitants, as they frequently attack their coffee and orange-trees, and utterly destroy them. Sometimes, indeed, plantations have to be abandoned in consequence of the inroads of these persevering insects.

The body of the sauba ant is of a pale reddish-brown colour, and of a solid consistency. The head is armed with a pair of sharp spines, while the thorax has three pairs of the same character.

There appear to be three orders of workers among them, greatly differing in size. One order has an enormously large head; the head of another is very highly polished; while that of a third is opaque—to enable it, apparently, to perform the duties of a subterranean labourer. The earth of which the domes of the sauba ants are composed is brought up from a considerable depth below. There are numerous entrances leading to the galleries, but, under ordinary circumstances, they are kept closed. The smaller galleries lead, at a depth of several feet, to a broad, elaborately-worked tunnel of four or five inches in diameter, which conducts downwards to the centre chamber; the abode of the royal pair, on whom devolves—as is the case with the termites—the duty of propagating the species. Here they are guarded much in the same way by the labourers, who deposit the eggs in the cells, and finally assist in the exit of the winged males and females—which fly forth to be destroyed in vast numbers, the few who remain becoming the parents of other families.

The female winged ants are of considerable size, measuring fully two and a quarter inches across the wings. The male is very much smaller.

The royal chamber is curiously constructed. As soon as the newly-wedded pair are conducted within, the workers, who are themselves much smaller, so diminish the size of the entrance that it is impossible for the king and queen to escape. Round it are numerous exits and entrances, through which the workers convey the eggs when laid. The queen, after the death of her consort, lives for two or three years, employed during the whole of the time in laying eggs, at the rate of fifty in a minute. This will give some idea of the rapid increase of the population.

The workers vary somewhat in size and appearance. While a large number are employed in bringing in leaves and granules of earth for thatching their domes, as well as various sorts of provision, others are engaged in tending the royal chamber—carrying the eggs to the cells, and watching over the young. There is another class, whose heads are covered with hairs, and who appear to be employed entirely below ground, probably as excavators or tunnellers.

Like the Cyclops, they have in the centre of their forehead a single eye, very different in structure to the compound eyes on the sides of their head. The other workers do not possess this peculiar frontal eye, nor is it found in any other species of ant.

It is wonderful what extensive tunnels these ants will form. Near Rio de Janeiro a tunnel was discovered, excavated by the creatures under the River Parahiba, as broad as the Thames at London Bridge. Near Para they, on one occasion, pierced the embankment of a large reservoir to such an extent as to allow the escape of a vast body of water before the damage could be repaired. In the same neighbourhood an attempt was made to destroy their colonies, by blowing fumes of sulphur down the galleries by means of bellows. Mr Bates relates, that he saw smoke issuing from a vast number of outlets, one of which was seventy yards distant from the place where the bellows were used.

They wander to a great distance in search of plunder, and enter houses for the purpose of carrying off the farina or mandioca meal. The same naturalist relates that he was one night awoke by his servant telling him that rats were robbing the farina baskets. On listening, he was certain that the noise was unlike that made by rats. On going to the storeroom he there found a broad column of sauba ants, consisting of thousands of individuals, passing to and fro between the door and his baskets of meal. Most of those passing outwards were loaded each with a grain of farina, larger and many times heavier than the bodies of the carriers. The baskets, which were on a high table, were entirely covered with ants, many hundreds of whom were employed in snipping the dry leaves which served as a lining; and this had produced the rustling sound which had disturbed him. He and his servant in vain attempted to exterminate them by killing them with their wooden clogs. Fresh hosts came on to take the place of the slain. The next night they returned, when he attempted to get rid of them by laying trains of gunpowder along their line to blow them up. Not, however, till he had repeated this operation several times, did the survivors of the daring depredators retreat.

The Amphisbaena.

A curious snake, with something the character of the English slow-worm, the amphisbaena—called by the natives Mai das Saubas, or the mother of the saubas—is frequently found in these mounds. The natives believe that the ants treat it with great affection, and will, if the snake is removed, leave the spot. It is probable, however, that the amphisbaena takes up its abode in the nest for the convenience of devouring the inhabitants, whenever unable to procure other food.

Some of the American ants are of great size. One species (the Dinoponera grandis) is an inch and a quarter in length, and proportionally stout. It is seen marching in single file through the forest; but though of considerable size, its sting is not severe, while there is nothing particularly interesting about its habits.

Ecitons.

There are, however, several species of foraging ants, called ecitons, which move in vast bodies through the forest in search of prey. They are carnivorous, and attack not only insects and grubs of all sorts, but even other ants,—assaulting their citadels and carrying off the slaughtered inhabitants. The natives, when they meet them in the forest, hurry out of their way, to avoid their fierce attacks. Their communities appear to be composed, besides males and females, of two classes of workers, one with head and jaws very much larger than the others.

One species of these foraging ants is known as the Eciton rapax, the larger workers among which are half an inch in length.

The two common species of ecitons are, Eciton hamata and Eciton drepanophora, which are very similar in their habits and appearance.

They are of the most pugnacious character, and a person incautiously getting in their midst finds himself furiously attacked. They climb up his legs, and, holding on by their pincer-like jaws, double in their tails, and sting with all their might. The natives, on seeing them, cry out, “Tauoca”—the name which they give to the ecitons—and scamper off to a distance. The only way of getting rid of them is to pluck them out one by one; but so securely do they fasten themselves to the skin, that their head and jaws are left sticking to it.

As they advance through the forest, the creatures on which they prey endeavour to get out of their way; but vast numbers of maggots, caterpillars, larvae, and ants of other species fall victims to their ferocity. They advance in a long column live or six deep, while thinner columns forage on either flank, till they arrive at a mass of rotten wood abounding in insect larvae, when they surround it, and do not again move forward till every particle of food has been carried off!

When they discover a wasp’s nest, they attack the papery covering to get at the larvae pupae and newly-hatched wasps. In spite of the rage of the parents, who vainly keep flying about them, they carry off their spoil in fragments; the carriers having their loads apportioned to their size—the dwarfs taking the smaller pieces, and the stronger fellows the heavier portions. Sometimes two ants join in carrying one piece.

Robber Ecitons.

Another species (the Eciton legionis) has been known to attack other ants’ nests for the sake of plunder. Mr Bates saw an army of them employed on the face of an inclined bank of earth. They were excavating mines to get at the nest of a larger species of ant of the genus Formica. Some were rushing into the passages, others were seen assisting their comrades to lift out the bodies of the formicae, while others were tearing them in pieces—their weight being too great for that of a single eciton. A number of carriers then seized each a fragment and carried it down the slope. When the naturalist dug into the earth with a small trowel, the eager freebooters rushed in as fast as he excavated, and carried off the ants, so rapidly tearing them in pieces that he had great difficulty in rescuing a few entire specimens.

The little ecitons seemed to be divided into parties, some excavating, others carrying away the grains of earth. When the shafts became rather deep, the mining parties had to climb up the sides each time they wished to cast out a pellet of earth; but their work was lightened by their comrades, who stationed themselves at the mouth of the shaft and relieved them of their burdens, carrying the particles to a sufficient distance from the edge of the hole to prevent them rolling in again. All the work seemed thus to be performed by intelligent co-operation among the host of eager little creatures. Still, there was not a rigid division of labour; for some of them, whose proceedings he watched, acted at one time as carriers of pellets, and at another as miners, and all shortly afterwards assumed the office of conveyers of the spoil. In about two hours, all the nests of the formicae were rifled.

He frequently saw these little creatures engaged apparently in play, in the neighbourhood of their homes. Some were walking slowly about, others were brushing their antennae with their fore-feet; but the drollest sight was to see them cleaning one another. Here and there an ant was seen stretching forth first one leg, then another, to be brushed or washed by one or more of its comrades; who performed the task by passing the limb between the jaw and the tongue, finishing by giving the antennae a friendly wipe.

There are two species of blind ecitons—which, however, go on foraging expeditions, and even attack the nests of other stinging species; but, avoiding the light, they move always under leaves and fallen branches: when the columns have to pass a cleared space, the ants form covered ways with granules of earth, arched over and holding together mechanically.

Blind Ants.

Two other species—Eciton vastator, and Eciton erratica—both of which are blind, move entirely under covered ways in search of promising hunting-grounds. Their arcades are sometimes two hundred yards in length, the grains of earth being taken from the soil over which the column is passing, and fitted together without cement. In this they are distinguished from the covered ways made by the termites, who use a glutinous saliva for cementing their edifices. These blind ecitons build up the side of their convex arcade, and in a wonderful manner contrive so to fit in the key-stones, without allowing the loose uncemented structure to fall to pieces. Whenever a breach is made in any of their covered ways, the workers remain behind to repair the damage, while the soldiers issue forth in a menacing manner, rearing their heads, and snapping their jaws with an expression of fiercest rage and defiance.

The above account will give some idea of the vast numbers and varieties of the termites and ants of this region, and of the wonderful way in which Providence has furnished them with the means of sustaining existence, and taking their part in the economy of nature. Science is deeply indebted to Mr Bates, for his persevering efforts and acute observation in making known the varieties and habits of these curious insects.

Centipeds—Cockroaches—Fire-Ants.

Although the rest of the animal creation is small compared with the creatures of the Eastern world, insects and reptiles attain a size which will vie with those of any portion of the globe. Here we have a centiped nearly a foot in length, with innumerable legs, and two horns or feelers, which it protrudes with the most venomous expression. These animals are not only hideous to look on, but their bite is very painful, though not dangerous.

Cockroaches swarm everywhere; but the fire-ant is, for its size, probably the most terrible of created beings. Its bite produces the most acute pain; and where they swarm, on the dry sandy shores of the streams, they frequently compel the natives to desert their villages. Mrs Agassiz mentions having on one occasion hung some towels to dry on the cord of her hammock, and was about to remove them, when suddenly her hand and arm seemed plunged into fire. She dropped the towels as if they were hot coals, which for the moment they literally seemed to be. She then saw that her arm was covered with little brown ants. A native brushed them off in all haste; and an army of them was found passing over the hammock, and out of the window, near which it hung. He said they were on their way somewhere, and if left undisturbed would be gone in an hour or so.

Insects—Fire-Flies.

Of those diamonds of the night, the fire-flies and fire-beetles, there are numerous species. One of the most abundant—and of much larger dimensions than the rest of the elaters or beetles—pyrophorus noctilucus, called by the natives cocuja, displays both red and green light. On the upper surface of the thorax there are two oval tubercles, hard and transparent, like bull’s-eye lights let into a ship’s deck. These are windows out of which shine a vivid green luminousness, which appears to fill the interior of the chest. Then on the under surface of the body, at the base of the abdomen, there is a transverse orifice in the shelly skin, covered with a delicate membrane, which glows with a strong ruddy light; visible, however, only when the wing-cases are expanded. It is about an inch and a half long, of a brown colour, and has a strong spine situated beneath the thorax, which fits at pleasure into a small cavity on the upper part of the abdomen. By means of this machine it can, when placed on its back, spring up a couple of inches, and regain its feet. When preparing to do this it moves its head and thorax backwards, so that the pectoral spine is drawn out and rests on the edge of the sheath. The same backward movement being continued, the spine, by the full action of the muscles, is bent like a spring, and the insect at this moment rests on the extremity of its head and wing cases. The effort being suddenly relaxed, the head and thorax fly up, and in consequence the base of the wing-cases strike the supporting surface with such force that the insect by the reaction is jerked upward, while the projecting points of the thorax and the sheath of the spine serve to steady the whole body.

So brilliant is the light of these creatures, that even one moved over the print of a book wall enable a person to read by it, while eight or ten placed in a clear glass bottle serve the purpose of a lamp. The Brazilian ladies ornament their dresses with these fire-beetles, by securing them so as not to injure the creatures; while they frequently wear several in the braids of their dark hair, which, when they walk abroad in the evening, has a curious and beautiful effect. (Gosse and Darwin.)

Prescott relates that when the Spaniards first invaded America, on seeing the air filled with cocujas during the darkness of night, their excited imaginations converted them into an army with matchlocks, and they waited, expecting to be attacked by an overwhelming force. A similar story is told of the British, when first landing in the West Indies, being induced to hastily re-embark on seeing at night innumerable lights moving about, which they supposed were Spaniards approaching to defend the shore.

Suspended Cocoons.

The forests of Brazil exhibit numerous beautiful examples of insect workmanship. Among others is the work of a caterpillar—a cocoon about the size of a sparrow’s egg, woven in broad meshes of either buff or rose-coloured silk, and seen suspended from the tip of an outstanding leaf by a strong thread, five or six inches in length. It forms a conspicuous object hung thus in mid-air. The glossy threads with which it is knitted are stout, and the structure is not likely therefore to be torn by the beaks of insectivorous birds; while its pendulous position makes it doubly secure against their attacks, as the apparatus gives way when they peck at it. There is a small orifice at each end of the egg-shaped bag, to admit of the escape of the moth when it changes from the little chrysalis which sleeps tranquilly in its airy cage.

Other caterpillars form cases with fragments of wood or leaves, in which they live secure from their enemies, whilst they are feeding and growing. Some of these, composed of small bits of stick, are knitted together with fine silken threads, and others make tubes very like the cadis-worms of English ponds. Others choose leaves, with which they form an elongated bag, open at both ends, having the insides lined with thick webs. As the weight of one of these dwellings would be greater than the caterpillar inside could sustain, it attaches the case by one or more threads to the leaves or twigs near which it is feeding.

Lantern-Fly.

There is a large and beautiful insect, with an enormous transparent prolongation of the forehead, which is supposed to have a resemblance to a lantern: it is called the lantern-fly (Fulgora laternaria). Though often described as possessing luminous properties, it is now known to be destitute of any phosphorescence whatever.

The Tanana.

(Chlorocelus tanana.)

Often through the woods a loud, sharp, resonant stridulation is heard, sounding like the syllables “Ta, na, na,” succeeding each other with little intermission. It is produced by a species of wood cricket, called by the natives after the sound it produces. The total length of the body is two inches and a quarter when the wings are closed. The insect has an inflated bladder-like shape, owing to the great convexity of the thin, firm, parchmenty wing-cases; the little creature being of a pale green colour. The instrument by which it produces its music is contrived out of the ordinary nervures of the wing-case. In each wing-case the under edge of the wing itself has a horny lobe. On one wing this lobe has a sharp raised margin, on the other the strong membrane which traverses it on the under side is crossed by a number of fine and sharp furrows like those of a file. When the insect rapidly moves its wings, the file of the one lobe is scraped sharply across the horny margin of the other, thus producing the sounds; the parchmenty wing-cases and the hollow drum-like space they enclose assisting to give resonance to the tones. These notes are the call notes of the males, inviting a mate to his burrow. (Bates.)

Wood Beetles.

Enormous as are the trees of the Amazonian forests, and able to withstand the fiercest storms, they have frequently to succumb to the attacks of minute insects. Many a monarch of the woods has been brought low by the efforts of the persevering termites; but they have other enemies. The palm-trees are assailed by a group of beetles (the Histeridae) which take possession of the moist interior of their stems. One of these is an enormous fellow—the hister maximus. Another group have their bodies as thin as wafers, to enable them to live in the narrow crevices of the bark. One set of species, however (the trypanaeus), are totally different, being cylindrical in shape. They drill holes in the solid wood, and look like tiny animated gimlets when seen at work; their pointed heads being fixed in the wood, while their smooth glossy bodies work rapidly round so as to create little streams of sawdust from the holes.

The caribi, which in Europe perform the important duty of scavengers, and live on the ground, are in South America nearly always found on trees. Some are of enormous size.

The Hercules beetle, which lives on the mamma Americana, attains a length of five and sometimes six inches. It is known by the singular horn-shaped proboscis rising from the head and thorax, which gives it so formidable an appearance. Its duty is probably to eat up the rotten wood.

Other members of the family,—known as the elephant, Neptune, and typhon,—excavate burrows in the earth, living on the decomposed trunks of trees during the day, and flying about at night with a loud humming noise—apparently to enjoy the air, of which they are deprived in the daytime.

The megasominae is of an enormous size, as is also the beautiful Inca beetle.

Among the most beautiful beetles in the Brazils is the diamond beetle (Entrinus nobilis), of a lustrous azure green, and with golden wings. With it, and other species, the ladies form necklaces, and ornament their dresses.

In Venezuela, the cactus plants, which grow so abundantly, serve to nourish the valuable though odd-looking little coccus cacti. The male and female differ greatly. The female resembles a Lilliputian tortoise, and is of a dark brown colour, with two light spots on the back covered with white powder. The male, possessed of a pair of wings, is much smaller, and roves about at will from plant to plant. The female, a short time after she has become full-grown, secures herself to a leaf, where she remains immovable. She now grows to such a size, that she more resembles a seed belonging to a plant than an insect, all her limbs being completely concealed by her wide-expanded body. In process of time, before the young insects are born, the cochineal-gatherers detach the insect by means of a knife dipped in boiling water, which kills them. They are then dried in the sun, and appear like small dry berries of a deep mulberry colour.

Spiders.

Fear-inspiring is the appearance of the great crab-spider—the Mygale avicularia, one genus of the formidable Arachnida family—with a body two inches in length, and, when the legs are expanded, seven inches across, covered entirely with coarse grey, reddish hairs. It lives among the rocks in the drier regions; some dwell under stones, others form artistic tunnels under the earth, and some build their dens in the thatch of houses. Bates one day saw some Indian children with one of these monsters secured by a cord round its waist, by which they were leading it about the house as they would a dog. The hairs with which it is covered come off when touched, and cause a peculiar and almost maddening irritation. This is, however, probably owing to their being short and hard, and thus getting into the fine creases of the skin, and not to any poisonous quality residing in the hairs. These monstrous spiders prey on lizards, small birds, and other diminutive vertebrates. Their muscular power is very great. When the creature is about to seize its prey, it fixes its hind-feet firmly in the ground, and lifting up the front ones, darts them forward, and fastens them with the double hooks which terminate its feet between the cranium and the first vertebra, thus preventing the possibility of their escaping. Nothing will then tear it from its prey. When pressed by hunger, it climbs at night the trees and shrubs in which humming-birds and other small birds are perched, or have built their nests, and springing on them, grasps them with its powerful claws. It seizes the anolis, a kind of water-lizard, in the same way. The fact of its seizing on birds, so long doubted, though asserted by Madame Marian, the French naturalist, has been corroborated by Monsieur Jonnes, her countryman. He states that it spins no web to serve it as a dwelling, but burrows and lies in ambush in the cliffs and hollow ravines. It often travels to a considerable distance, and conceals itself under leaves, thence to dart out on its prey; or it climbs along the branches of trees to surprise the humming-birds and other small tree-creepers. Bates still further settles the point.

With regard to the habits of another species which does spin a web, he says that, catching sight of one of these spiders, he was attracted by its movements. It was in the crevices of a tree, across which was stretched a dense web. The lower portion of the web was broken, and two small birds,—finches,—were entangled in the pieces. They were the size of the English linnet, and probably male and female. One was quite dead, the other lay dying under the body of the spider, and was smeared with the filthy liquor or saliva exuded by the monster.

The mygale carries its eggs enclosed in a cocoon of white silk of a very close tissue, formed of two round pieces uniting at their borders. It supports this cocoon under its corselet by means of its antennulae, and transports it along with itself. When hard-pressed by its enemies, it abandons it for a time, but returns to take it up as soon as the combat is concluded. Nearly two thousand eggs are contained in these cocoons.

The young ones when they appear are entirely white, gradually assuming the colour of the adult.

The falces, or reaping-hook claws, of the great crab-spider are of enormous size, and ai-e sometimes set in gold and used as toothpicks, from the idea that they possess some medicinal virtue to cure the toothache.

The different species vary very much in their habits. One big fellow—the Mygale Blondii—forms a broad slanting gallery about two feet in length, the sides of which he lines beautifully with silk. Just before sunset he may be seen keeping watch near the mouth of his tunnel, disappearing suddenly when he hears a heavy foot-tread near his hiding-place.

Many are of the most showy colours. Some double themselves up at the base of leaf-stalks, so as to resemble a flower, and thus deceive the insects on which they prey. One of the most extraordinary in appearance—the Arosoma arcuatum—has two curved, bronze-coloured spines, an inch and a half in length, proceeding from its abdomen. It spins a large web, those huge spikes apparently being no impediment to its work.

Bees and Wasps.

Bees and wasps of a countless number of species abound in every region of the continent. Some build their habitations, composed of a papery substance, attached to the under side of the broad leaves of the tucuma and other palms. Others, again, form them in hollow trees, or among their roots in the earth. Many build in houses, or pierce their mud walls till they look as if riddled with shot. Others make holes in the ground, especially in sandy places. Others, again, construct their habitations of clay, and fasten them to the boughs of trees or to buildings. There are, indeed, mason bees, carpenter bees, and miner bees and wasps.

Watch the little, pale green bombex, or sand-wasp, at work, throwing out with its fore-feet jets of sand from the hole it is forming in the sloping bank. In a wonderfully short time the female miner has formed a gallery two or three inches in length. Out she backs, making a few turns round the entrance to admire her work—or, probably, to take note of the locality—and then away she flies. She may be absent for a few minutes, or perhaps for an hour, according to her success in hunting. At length back she comes with a big fly in her grasp, benumbed by her sting. She carries it in, lays an egg in the body, which will serve as food for the soft footless grub soon to be hatched, and then closing the entrance, sets to work to form a new nursery like the first, which she will furnish in the same careful manner. It is curious how she can find her way back, for often she has to go half a mile before she can find a fly to suit her purpose.

Another species,—the Monedula signata,—as large as a hornet, is particularly useful in carrying off the teasing flies, the bloodthirsty motucas, which buzz round the voyager on the Amazon when at anchor near a sand-bank. Bates was rather startled by seeing one fly directly at his face, on which it had espied a motuca, and which it carried off, holding it tightly to its breast.

The pelopaeus wasp builds a nest of clay, shaped like a pouch, two inches in length, and attaches it to a branch. It forms the clay in little round pellets, kneading it with its mandibles into a convenient shape, and humming cheerfully while engaged in its work. On arriving with the ball of moist clay it lays it on the edge of the cell, and then spreads it out round the circular rim by means of the lower lip, guided by the mandibles—sitting astride while at work. On finishing each addition it takes a turn round, patting the sides with its feet inside and out, before flying off for a fresh pellet. It feeds on small spiders, which it reduces to a half dead state by its sting, thus to serve as food for its progeny.

One bee,—the Trypoxylon aurifrons,—builds a nest of clay like a squat round bottle or carafe; generally in rows, one beside the other, on a branch, or in the corners of a building.

The melipona bees are the most numerous of the honey-producing insects, their colonies being composed of vast numbers of individuals. They are smaller than the English hive-bee, and have no sting. The workers collect pollen as do other bees, but a great number are employed in gathering clay for forming walls as an outer protection to their nests. They first scrape the clay with their fore-mandibles, passing it on to the second pair of feet, and then to the large foliated expansions of the hind-shanks, patting it in the process, till the little hodsmen have as much as they can carry, when they fly off with their loads to their nests. One species builds a tubular gallery of clay of a trumpet shape at the mouth. Here a number of the pigmy bees are stationed to act the part of sentinels.

Thus the melipona bees are masons as well as workers in wax and pollen gatherers. Although they have no sting, they defend their habitations, and bite furiously when disturbed. Bates found forty-five species of these bees in different parts of the country, and one hundred and forty of other species. Several of them were attended by drones, which deposit their ova in the cells of the working bees, some of them having the dress and general appearance of their victims.

Butterflies.

This is a region of magnificent butterflies. In the neighbourhood of Para alone seven hundred species have been found. Many seldom leave the shady paths which pierce the forests; others, however, occasionally come forth into the broad sunlight and more open glades. See the slender Morpho menelaus, with splendid metallic blue wings seven inches in expanse, flapping them as does a bird as it flies along.

Far surpassing it, however, is the Morpho rhetenor; which, conscious of its beauty, revels in the sunlight, but seldom ventures nearer than twenty feet from the ground. So dazzling a lustre have the upper wings of this butterfly, that when it flaps them occasionally, and the blue surface flashes in the sunlight, it may be seen a quarter of a mile off.

Another species of the same genus has a satiny white hue; but, infinite as they are in number, so most diversified are they in their habits, mode of flight, colours, and markings. Some are yellow, others bright red, green, purple, and blue. Many are bordered or spangled with metallic lines and spots of a silvery or golden lustre. Some have wings transparent as glass.

One of these (the Hetaira esmeralda) is especially beautiful, having an opaque spot on its wings, of a violet and rose hue; and as this is the only part visible when the insect is flying low over the dead leaves of the darker recesses of the forest—where it is alone found—it looks like the wandering petal of a flower.

Of moths, too, there are great numbers,—among them, the Erebus strix, the largest of its family, sometimes measuring nearly a foot in expanse of wing. In the open sunny spots the bright air is often alive with superb dragonflies. Upwards of one hundred species are found near Para. Some live only in the gloom of the forest. Often, however, they are the most beautiful, being more brightly coloured and delicate in construction than the others. Many delight to flit over the igarapes and calm pools.

Among these, the Chalcopteryx rutilans has four wings, each transparent,—while the hind-wings, of a dark colour, glitter with a violet and golden effulgence. They all wage unceasing war against the day-flying insects. When one is captured, the dragon-fly retires to a tree, and there, seated on a branch, devours the body at its leisure. It is wonderful the number of flies which these beautiful insects destroy. When evening comes on they eagerly fly off to the chase, amid the swamps and around the tree-tops, or wherever their victims congregate.

Part 3—Chapter XVI.

Wonders of the Forest.

Of the palms alone, upwards of a hundred species are found in these forests. These supply the Indian with nearly all he wants to support existence. Their fruit, or pith, or crowns, furnish him with an abundance of food. He builds his hut and floors it with their wood, and thatches it with their leaves. From the trunks of some species he forms his canoes, of different sizes. He obtains from them oil, cord, thread, wine—or a beverage which answers the purpose—wax, mats, baskets, arrows for his sumpitan or bow, and numberless other articles. Pure, clear oils are made from some of the nuts and palm fruits; while many palms yield a fibrous material admirably suited for cordage, being singularly elastic and resistant.

From the curious candella-tree,—called by the Spaniards arbol de la manteca, by the Indians cuajo,—he obtains tallow for candles and excellent oil for lamps, and a beverage which is made from its fruit.

The cow-tree supplies a milk in appearance like that of the animal from which it takes its name, but thicker. On analysing this product, it is found to consist of water, animal milk, and wax as pure as that obtained from bees. By dipping cotton in the liquid, too, candles can be made.

In the hotter regions grows the bajuco d’agua, which supplies the place of wells and fountains,—each yard of it affording a pint of water. High up on the mountainside, in the regions of icy wastes, called the paramos, grows the frailejou, which yields a pure turpentine, and assists to warm the human body. Of the palms, a few only can be described. There is the cocoa-nut palm, with its swollen bulb-like stem when young, its tall straight trunk when full-grown, its cluster of heavy fruit, its long plume-like drooping flower; the coccoeiro, with its slighter trunk and pendent branches of small berry-like fruit; the palmetto, with its tender succulent bud on the summit of the stem, used as a vegetable, and proving an excellent substitute for cabbage; the thorny icari, or cari—a variety of fan-palm. Its spiny stems and leaves, which cut like razors, make it difficult to approach. Its bunches of bright chestnut-brown fruit hang from between the leaves which form its crown, each bunch about a foot in length, massive and compact, like a large cluster of black Hamburg grapes.

The syagrus palm has a greenish fruit, not unlike the olive in appearance, which hangs in large pendent bunches just below the leaves. The fruit resembles somewhat that of the bread-tree, but is more slender and cylindrical in form.

The leaves of different kinds of palms are used for thatching the Indian huts, the curua palm among others. When young, they grow closely round the mid-rib attached to the axis by a few fibres only, so that when the mid-rib is held up they hang from it like so many straw-coloured ribbons. With these leaves both the walls and roofs are covered. The mid-rib, which is strong, and sometimes four or five yards long, is set across to serve as a support, and bind down the pendent leaves. Such a thatch will last for years, and is an excellent protection from rain as well as sun.

The Indian furnishes himself with cups and vessels of all sorts from the cuieira-tree (Crescentia cajeput). It is of immense size, the fruit being like a gourd. It is spherical, of a light green shining surface, and grows from the size of an apple to that of the largest melon. It is filled with a soft white pulp, easily removed when the fruit is cut in halves. The rind is then allowed to dry. Cups and basins of various sizes are made from it, which the Indians adorn with a variety of brilliant colours.

One of the staple productions of the Upper Amazon is the guarana. It is a trailing plant, a sort of vine; when full-grown, about eight feet high, and bearing a bean the size of a coffee-bean, two being enclosed in each envelope. This bean, after being roasted, is pounded in a small quantity of water till it becomes compact, and, when dry, is about the colour of chocolate. It is then grated with the rough tongue of the piraracu, and when mixed with sugar and water makes a refreshing beverage. It is said to have an excellent effect when administered in cases of diarrhoea.

Aspects of the Forest.

Although at some times of the year the forests present only varied tints of green and brown, unrelieved by brighter colours; at others, when, after the rains, nature has revived, the banks of the streams are gay and beautiful in the extreme. Thousands of brilliant blossoms of varied colours rise amid the trunks of the trees, or hang in rich festoons from the branches, while the air is laden with the almost overpowering perfume of numberless flowers.

“Wild flowers,” says Mrs Agassiz, “are abundant; not delicate small plants growing low among the moss and grass, but large blossoms covering tall trees, and resembling exotics at home by their rich colour and powerful odour—indeed, the flowers of the Amazonian forests reminded me of hot-house plants—and there often comes a warm breath from the depth of the woods laden with perfume, like the air from the open door of a conservatory.”

“Beautiful as are the endless forests, however,” she remarks in another place, “we could not but long, when skirting them day after day, without seeing a house or meeting a canoe, for the sight of tilled soil, for pasture lands, for open ground, for wheat-fields and hay-stacks; for any sign, in short, of the presence of man. As we sat at night in the stern of the vessel, looking up the vast river stretching many hundred leagues, with its shores of impenetrable forests, it was difficult to resist an oppressive sense of loneliness. Though here and there an Indian settlement or a Brazilian village appears, yet the population is a mere handful in such a territory.”

Wonderful is the change in the appearance of the tropical representatives of well-known families in the Old World.

The india-rubber tree belongs to the milk-weed family. The euphorbiaceae assume the form of colossal trees, constituting a considerable part of its strange and luxuriant forest growth. The giant of the Amazonian woods, whose majestic flat crown towers over all other trees, while its white trunk stands out in striking relief through the surrounding mass of green—the sumaumera—is allied to the mallows of the North. Some of the most characteristic trees of the river-shore belong to these two families.

Buttress Trees.

One of the most striking characteristics of the forest vegetation is the way in which many of the trunks of the trees are supported by buttresses. The huge sumaumera is especially remarkable; but this disposition to throw out supports is not confined to one tree. It occurs in many families. These buttresses start at a distance of about ten feet from the ground, separating greatly towards the base, where they are often ten to twelve feet in depth. The lower part of the trunk is thus divided into several open compartments, so large that, if roofed over, they would form a hut with sufficient space for two people to stand up or lie down in. Others, however, rise to the height of twenty or thirty feet, and run up in the form of ribs to forty or fifty feet. Other trees appear as if they were composed of a number of slender stalks bound together, and are ribbed to their entire height. In some places the furrows reach completely through them, and appear like the narrow windows of a tower. The stems of others again rise on the summit of numerous roots, like the bulging-stemmed palm, apparently standing on a number of legs at the height of a dozen feet or more from the ground. Often the roots thus form archways sufficiently large for a person to walk beneath.

Sipos or Wild Vines.

Circling round the stems of trees in innumerable coils, and grasping them with a deadly embrace, grow in rich luxuriance countless wild vines, well meriting the name of murdering sipos. They hang in festoons from their boughs, and form an intricate tracery of network from tree to tree,—often of sufficient strength to support the falling monarchs of the forest when time has wrought decay among their roots.

Here are seen tillandsias and bromeliaceae, like the crowns of huge pineapples; large climbing arums, with their dark green and arrow-head shaped leaves, forming fantastic and graceful ornaments swinging in mid-air; while huge-leaved ferns and other parasites cling to the stems up to the very highest branches. These are again covered by other creeping plants; and thus we see parasites on parasites, and on these parasites again. As we gaze upwards, we see against the clear blue sky the finely divided foliage, many of the largest of the forest-trees having leaves as delicate as those of the trembling mimosa: among them appear the huge palmate leaves of the cecropias, and the oval glossy ones of the clusias, countless others of intermediate forms adding to the variety of its scenery,—the bright sunshine playing on the upper portion of the foliage, while a solemn gloom reigns among the dark columns which support this wondrous roof of verdure.

In truth, in these woods a thousand objects attract the eye, each a world of varied vegetation in itself; while the ear listens to the quick rustling breeze moving the palm-leaves fifty feet or more above the head,—not like the slow gathering, rushing wind among the pine-trees in northern climes, but like rapidly running water. Now an immense butterfly of the most vivid blue comes sailing by to alight on a neighbouring shrub, when, suddenly folding his azure wings out of sight, it looks merely like some brown moth spotted with white.

As evening comes on, in some districts a strange confusion of sounds is heard, as from a crowd of men shouting loudly at a distance. Now it seems like the barking of dogs, then like that of many voices calling in different keys, but all loud, varied, excited, full of emphasis; and yet, after all, the rioters are but the frogs and toads uttering their usual notes.

The Seringa or India-Rubber Tree.

Along the whole extent of the submerged region on the banks of the Amazon, beginning at a distance of about fifty miles from Para, as well as on the shores of many of its tributaries, grows a tree with bark and foliage not unlike that of the European ash. The trunk, however, shoots up to an immense height before throwing off branches. It is the valuable seringa-tree (Siphonia elastica), belonging to the family Euphorbia, which produces india-rubber. As soon as the waters after the rainy season have subsided, the natives go forth in parties to procure the sap with large bowls, clay moulds, pans in which to collect it, and axes for cutting the wood for their fires. They build their huts in the neighbourhood of the trees.

The first business is to make gashes in the bark, keeping them open by pegs, under which they place little clay cups, or shells. Each person has a certain number of trees under his charge. Every morning he goes round, and pours what has collected in the cups into a large bowl. The sap is at first of the consistency of cream, but it soon thickens. The moulds, which are generally in the form of bottles, are then dipped into the liquid. As soon as the coating is dried, the mould is again dipped in, and the same process is gone through for several days. The substance is at this time hard and white. Meantime fires are made with the nuts of several species of palms—the inaja and others. These produce a thick black smoke. The india-rubber is then passed several times through it. By this means a dark colour and the proper consistency are obtained. The moulds being broken, the clay is poured out, and the material is ready for the market.

Sometimes it is formed in large flat pieces; and of late years it has been preserved in a liquid state in hermetically closed vessels.

The seringa-tree differs greatly from the group of plants which furnish the caoutchouc of Africa and the West Indies; the latter being the product of certain species of ficus of a climbing character, and inferior to the india-rubber of South America.

The Cow-Tree.

Among the noblest of the forest monarchs appears a tree with deeply-scored reddish and ragged bark. Who would have supposed that from that vast trunk would issue a milky liquid scarcely distinguishable at first from that of the cow? Yet such is the sap coming from the opening made by the axe from the massaranduba or cow-tree. When fresh it serves every purpose of real milk when mixed with coffee; but drunk pure has a somewhat coarse taste—and it is considered dangerous to drink much of it, however refreshing a small quantity may be. It soon thickens, and forms a tenacious glue, which can be usefully employed in cementing crockery. A decoction of the bark is employed as a red dye for cloth. The fruit, also, is largely consumed; while the wood is excessively durable in water.

Monkeys’ Drinking-Cups—Brazil-Nut Tree.

Two lofty trees, closely allied to each other—the Lecythis ollaria and the Bertholletia excelsa—produce enormous capsules full of nuts. The first, called the sapucaya, yields these curious capsules known as cuyas de maccao, or monkeys’ drinking-cups. At the top is a circular hole, to which a natural lid fits exactly. On the nuts becoming ripe the lid is loosened, and the heavy cup falling to the ground, the nuts are scattered far and wide, when they are eaten by numerous animals on the watch for them. The collectors, therefore, have difficulty in obtaining them. The other tree, known as the Brazil-nut tree, produces similar wooden vessels; but as they have no lid, they fall entire to the ground, and are thus preserved till human beings come to collect them, when they are shipped to England and other parts of the world.

The Victoria Regia.

On the surface of the tranquil pools, amid the recesses of the forest, float the wide-spreading circular leaves of the magnificent Victoria regia, like vast dishes—their edges turned up all round—with beautiful flowers rising amid them. The colour varies from the velvety white outer petals through every shade of rose to the deepest crimson, and fading again to a creamy yellowish tint in the heart of the flower. The natives call it the forno do piosoca, or oven of the jacana—the leaves being like that of the baking-pans, or ovens, on which the mandioca meal is roasted. The leaf rises from the root at the bottom of the pool, on a stock armed with sharp spines.

When young, the leaf may be seen in the form of a deep cup or vase surrounded with ribs, at that time comparatively small, the whole green expanse of the adult leaf covered in between them in regular rows of puffings. As the ribs grow their ramifications stretch out in every direction, the leaflets one by one unfolding to fill the ever-widening spaces; till at last, when it reaches the surface of the water, it rests horizontally above it without a wrinkle—the colossal leaf being thus supported by a heavy scaffold of ribs beneath it, sufficient not only to support the light-stepping jacana, but even a young child. Some of the leaves have a diameter of from four to five feet; some may grow even to a larger size.

“Here, seen in its own home, it has in addition to its own beauties the charm of harmony with all that surrounds it,” observes Mrs Agassiz,—“with the dense mass of forest, with palm and parasite, with birds of glowing plumage, with insects of all bright and wonderful tints, and with fishes which, though hid in the water beneath it, are not less brilliant and varied than the world of life above.”

Palms.

Almost countless are the varieties of trees in the Amazonian forests, and wonderful the diversity in their combination. Rarely is the soil found occupied for any extent by the same kind of tree. A vast proportion are yet unknown to science. The palms surpass in number and variety all their sylvan brethren. They differ wonderfully in form and size: some, sturdy giants towering up towards the sky with wide-spreading branches; others, delicate little pigmies with slender stems and small broom-like crowns; while others assume the form of creepers, and wind in many folds round the supporting trunks of other trees.

“Among them are four essentially different forms:—the tall ones, with a slender and erect stem, terminating with a crown of long feathery leaves, or with broad fan-shaped leaves,” remarks Professor Agassiz; “the bushy ones, the leaves of which rise, as it were, in tufts from the ground, the stem remaining hidden under the foliage; the brush-like ones, with a small stem, and a few rather large leaves; and the winding, creeping, slender species. Their flowers and fronds are as varied as their stalks. Some of these fruits may be compared to large woody nuts with a fleshy mass inside, others have a scaly covering, others resemble peaches or apricots, while others, still, are like plums or grapes. Most of them are eatable, and rather pleasant to the taste.”

Among the most beautiful is the mauritia, or miriti, with pendent clusters of reddish fruit; its enormous, spreading, fan-like leaves cut into ribbons. Contrasted with it appears the manicaria, or the bussu, with stiff entire leaves, some thirty feet in length, almost upright, and very close in their mode of growth, and serrated all along their edges. The leaves all sprout from, a comparatively short stem.

More curious is the raphia, with plume-like leaves, sometimes from forty to fifty feet in length, starting also from a short stem—almost from the ground. Its vase-like form is peculiarly graceful and symmetrical.

Among the most curious is the pashiüba barrigudo, or bulging-stemmed palm (Iriartea ventricosa); which, rising on a pyramid of roots for several feet, runs up in a single column for some distance, and then swells in a curious spindle-form, again to assume the same proportions as below, till its head spreads out in several fan-like branches with web-shaped leaflets. The tree looks as if supported on stilts, and a person can stand upright among the roots of old trees with the perpendicular stem above his head. These roots have the form of straight rods, and are studded with stout thorns, whilst the trunk is quite smooth. The purpose of this curious arrangement is probably to recompense the tree by root-growth above the soil for its inability, in consequence of the competition of neighbouring roots, to extend itself underground.

Here, too, grows the slender and graceful assai-palm, with its perfectly smooth trunk,—the fruit appearing in a heavy cluster of berries just below the cluster of leaves on its summit. The stem is hard and tough as horn, and is much made use of, when split into narrow planks, for the construction of walls and flooring of houses.

The fruit is about the size of a cranberry, and of a dark brown colour. When boiled and crushed it yields a quantity of juice of about the consistency of chocolate, somewhat of the colour of blackberry juice, when it has a sweetish taste—and is eaten, made into cakes with the flour of the mandioca root. From it also is formed the favourite beverage of the people. To obtain the fruit, the native fastens a strip of palm-leaves round his instep, thus binding his feet together, to enable him to climb the slippery trunk, which he does with wonderful rapidity, to obtain the fruit at its summit.

Wherever a native village exists, there are seen growing in clusters, beautiful ornaments beside the palm-thatched huts, the tall and elegant pupunha, or peach palm—Guilielma speciosa—to the height of sixty feet, and often perfectly straight. A single bunch of the fruit weighs as much as a man can carry, and on each tree several are borne. It takes its name from the colour of the fruit, not from its flavour or nature, for it is dry and mealy, and may be compared in taste to a mixture of chestnuts and cheese. It is eagerly devoured by vultures, who come in quarrelsome flocks to the trees when it is ripe. Dogs often feed on it. It is one of the few trees which the natives brought with them, it is said, from their original home, and have here cultivated from time immemorial. The fruit, when boiled, is nearly as mealy as a potato; and in perfection is the size of a large peach. It is generally supposed that there is more nutriment in the fruit than in fish,—about a dozen forming a meal for a grown-up person. The leaves of its crown are evenly arched over, forming a deep green vault—the more beautiful from the rich colour of the foliage. When the heavy cluster of ripe red fruit hangs under its dark vault, the tree is in its greatest beauty.

The palms are among the most characteristic features of tropical scenery. The variety of their forms, fruit, foliage, and flowers is perfectly bewildering, and yet as a group their character is unmistakable. On the whole, no family of trees is more similar; generically and specifically, none is more varied. Their leaves follow the simple arrangement of those of grasses, in which the leaves are placed alternately on opposite sides of the stem, thus dividing the space round it in halves. As the stem of the branches elongates, these pairs of leaves are found scattered along its length, and it is only in the ears, or spikes of some genera, that we find them growing so compactly on the axis as to form a close head.

Of this law of growth the palm known as the baccaba is an admirable illustration, its leaves being disposed in pairs one above another at the summit of the stem, but in such immediate contact as to form a thick crown. Its appearance is in consequence totally different from any other palm, except perhaps the jacitara, which has a slender, winding stem. Sometimes the crown is more open, as in the inaja—Maximiliana regia—in which the stem is not very high, and the leaves grow in cycles of five, separating slightly, so as to form an open vase rising from a slender stem.

Professor Agassiz remarks that the rest of this tropical forest is as interesting to the geologist as to the botanist, as it reveals to him its relation to the vegetable world of past ages, showing those laws of growth which unite the past and the present.

The tree-ferns—the chamaerops, the pandanus, the araucarias—are modern representatives of past types. The former is a palm belonging to the ancient vegetable world, but having its representative in our days. The modern chamaerops, with its fan-like leaves spreading on one level, stands, with respect to its structure, lower than the palms with pinnate leaves, which belong almost exclusively to our geological age, and have numerous leaflets ranging along either side of a central axis. The young palms, while their elders tower fifty feet above them, are often not more than two inches high; and to whatever genus they may belong, invariably resemble the chamaerops,—having their leaves extending fan-like on one plane, instead of being scattered along a central axis, as in the adult tree. The infant palm is, in fact, the mature chamaerops in miniature; showing that among plants, as among animals—at least in some instances—there is a correspondence between the youngest stages of growth in the higher species of a given type, and the earliest introduction of that type on earth.

More gregarious in their habits than most other palms are the urucuri palms—Attalea excelsa—groves of which beautify the higher lands, and grow in vast numbers under the crowns of the more lofty ordinary forest-trees; their smooth columnar stems being generally fifty feet in height, while their broad, finely pinnated leaves, interlocking above, form arches and woven canopies of elegant and diversified shapes. The fruit, in size and shape like the date, has a pleasant flavoured juicy pulp, and falls to the ground when ripe.

Part 3—Chapter XVII.

The Wonders of the Waters.

The Manatee, or Cow-Fish.

To maintain the claim of its ocean character, the Amazon possesses that huge, whale-like creature the manatee, or cow-fish, called by the Brazilians peixe boi, or vacca marina. It is generally about seven or eight feet long, though it attains a length of ten feet or more, and nine feet and upwards in girth. On the upper part the body is perfectly smooth, and of a lead colour. It tapers off towards the tail, which is flat, horizontal, and semicircular, without any appearance of hind-limbs. The head is in reality small, and the neck undistinguishable; though it has an enormous mouth, with fleshy lips like those of a huge cow, with an ugly countenance. On the lips are stiff bristles, while a few hairs only are scattered over the body. Just behind the head are two powerful oval fins, beneath which, in the female, are the breasts. The ears are very minute holes, and the eyes are extremely small. The skin of the back is fully an inch thick; and beneath it is a layer of fat, also an inch or more in thickness. The fins of the fore-limbs consist of bones exactly corresponding to those of the human arm, with five fingers at the extremity—every joint distinct, although completely encased in its thick inflexible skin.

The manatee ranges from the mouth of the Amazon to the upper waters. It feeds on the grass growing on the borders of the lakes and rivers. It swims at a rapid rate, moved by the tail and paddles. The creature is hunted and killed by the natives with harpoons, the flesh being much sought after. The taste is somewhat between that of pork and beef. The natives dress it by cutting the meat into small pieces and sticking them on skewers, which they place in a slanting position over the flames to roast.

The female produces one, though sometimes two at a birth, which she holds in her paddles while giving suck. From twenty to twenty-five gallons of oil are obtained from each sea-cow. The poor manatee, little able to defend itself, has other enemies besides man. The jaguar lies in wait for it on the trunk of a tree overhanging the placid pool, and seizing it with his powerful claws as it swims by, holds it in a vice-like grasp, from which in spite of its strength it in vain endeavours to escape.

Those who have voyaged on the ocean, know the solemn feeling and the idea of vastness which is conveyed during a calm at night, when monsters of the deep are heard far and near as they come to the surface to inhale the air, or “blow,” as it is called. The same feeling is experienced by the traveller up the Amazon when on board his montaria at anchor, when he hears the splashing and snorting sounds of its numerous inhabitants, as they rise through the mirror-like plain, in which countless thousands of bright stars are reflected. Here fresh-water dolphins roam in great numbers. In the Lower Amazon are two species; one of which,—the tucuxi,—when it comes to the surface to breathe, rises horizontally, showing first the back of its fin, and then, drawing an inspiration, generally diving down head-foremost; and another, called the bonto by the natives. When it rises, it first shows the top of the head, and then floating onwards, immediately afterwards dips its head downwards, its back curving over—exposing successively the whole dorsal ridge without showing the tail-fin; the well-known mode in which the sea-porpoise swims, which makes it appear to pitch head over heels. The natives regard the bonto or largest species with especial awe, and will never kill one voluntarily. Though their fat yields an excellent oil for lamps, they believe that blindness would result from its use.

The bonto is supposed to possess the characteristic of the malign water-nymphs of the Old World. They have a legend that a bonto was in the custom of assuming the shape of a beautiful woman, with hair hanging loose down to her heels; who, going on shore, endeavoured to entice young men to the river. When any unhappy youth, smitten with her charms, was induced to follow her to the water’s edge, she would grasp her victim round the waist, and plunging beneath the waves with a triumphant shriek, disappeared with him for ever.

Piranha.

There are several kinds of piranha, many of which abound in the waters of the Tapajos. The piranha, called also the caribe, is a kind of salmon (Tetragonopterus). They are caught with any kind of bait, their taste being indiscriminate, and their appetite most ravenous. They frequently attack the legs of bathers near the shore, inflicting severe wounds with their strong triangular teeth.

The Diodon.

The smaller inhabitants of the ocean are also represented in these fresh-waters. The little mamayacú, a species of diodon, which in the ocean attains a foot in length, is found in the Amazon three or four inches long, of a pretty green colour, banded with black. On being caught—which it easily is—it becomes in the hand as round as a ball. The natives, when a person gets corpulent, tell him that he has grown as fat as a mamayacú.

The ocean species, from having the skin about the abdomen looser than that above, floats, when it becomes distended with air, with its back downwards. It can thus move about as rapidly as in its usual position, by aid of its pectoral fins. By the movement of its jaws it makes a curious noise, and can give with its sharp teeth a severe bite. The skin is also covered with small spikes, which, when thus inflated, become erect and pointed.

It thus, though at first sight looking as helpless as can be, is well able to defend itself.

The diodon has been known to be swallowed alive by a shark, in whose stomach it was found floating, probably supported by the air with which it had become inflated. It is asserted that it also frequently eats its way, not only through the coats of the shark’s stomach, but through the sides of the monster, which is thus killed. Probably the little diodon of the Amazon has a similar means of revenging itself on the voracious monsters to whom it falls a prey; and though it might not be able to liberate itself through the scaly back of an alligator, it would inevitably kill the monster, or cause him such pain as to make him repent having swallowed so indigestible a morsel.

The magnificent pirarucú or anatto, of vast size, with its ornamental coat of mail, and broad large scales margined with bright red, peoples the waters in immense numbers. It is most frequently caught by the native fishermen; and when salted, forms the staple food of all classes on the banks of the Lower Amazon. It swims at great speed, and attains the length of eight feet when full-grown, and five feet in girth. The Indian name of pirarucú is given to it from the native words pira, fish, and urucú, red; in allusion, says Mr Bates, to the red colour of the borders of its scales.

Among the other fish most frequently caught are the surubim and piraepiéua (species of Pimelodus); very handsome fishes, four feet in length, with flat spoon-shaped heads, and prettily spotted and striped skins—two long feelers hanging from each side of their jaws like trailing moustaches.

The Acara.

The larger animals which inhabit the mighty river and the network of streams and pools which surround it on both sides, have been described; but numerous smaller creatures dwell within it, equally curious, and many totally unlike those to be found in other parts of the world. It has generally been supposed that, of all creatures, fish are the most destitute of parental feelings, and that from the moment the eggs have been deposited in the sand or mud, they are allowed to struggle into existence as best they can, to do battle with their foes, and the numerous dangers to which they are exposed. In the acara, however, we have an example of parental care and watchfulness unrivalled by any terrestrial animal.

The male of this curious fish has a conspicuous protuberance on the forehead, wholly awanting in the female and the young. Somehow or other, the eggs of the female are conveyed into the mouth of the male, the bottom of which is lined by them, between the inner appendages of the branchial arches, and especially into a pouch formed by the upper pharyngeals, which they completely fill. They are there hatched; and the little ones, freed from the egg, are developed until they are in a condition to provide for their own existence. In their head there is a special lobe of the brain, similar to those of the triglas, which sends large nerves to that part of the gills protecting the young, thus connecting the care of the offspring with the organ of intelligence. In this curious cavity of the father’s head the young fish are found in all stages of development,—the more advanced, a quarter of an inch long, and able to swim about, full of life and activity. These appear to exist outside the gills, within the cavity formed by the gill-coverts and the wide branchiostigal membrane. The eggs remain in the back part of the gills.

The parent’s care does not appear to cease even when the young are fully developed, but he allows them to swim in and out, and try their powers, if not to search for food; and when danger appears, opens his mouth, when they all swim back again in a shoal, for safety. The natives assert that some species, at all events, are not actually developed in the parent’s head, but are laid and hatched in the sand, the male and female watching carefully over them; and that the father only takes charge of them when they are hatched, and receives them within his mouth to protect them from danger. From the observations of Professor Agassiz, however, there is no doubt that in some species, at least, the whole process of development is begun and completed in the gill cavity.

The species which lay their eggs in the sand belong to the genera Hydrogonus and Choetobranchus. They build a kind of flat nest in the sand or mud, in which they deposit their eggs, hovering over them until the young are hatched.

Curious also is the little bill-fish—the lymnobellus—with its long beak.

Another fish (the anojas), common in the Amazon, takes shelter—for it cannot be said to build a nest—in a hollow log. It belongs to the genus Auchenipterus. Numbers of this fish are found crowded in dead logs at the bottom of the river. One examined by the Professor, was filled with fish of all sizes, from those several inches long to the tiniest young. The fish were so dexterously packed into the log from one end to the other, that it was impossible to get them out without splitting it open, when they were all found alive and in a perfectly good condition. They could not have been jammed artificially into the hollow wood in that way without injuring them.

Anableps.

We have heard of blind fish, but here is one—called by the Indians tralhote, and known to naturalists as the Anableps tetraophthalmus, signifying “four-eyed”—possessing four eyes. A membraneous fold, enclosing the bulb of the eye, stretches across the pupil, dividing the visual apparatus into the upper and lower half; a curious formation, suited to the peculiar habits of the anableps. These fishes gather in shoals on the surface of the water, their heads resting partly above and partly below the surface, and they move by a leaping motion somewhat like that of frogs on land. Thus, half in and half out of the water, they require eyes adapted for seeing in both elements, and the arrangement described just meets this want.

The Parrot-Fish.

The birds of the air have, in this region, their representatives in the water. Among them is the curious and handsome pirarara, or parrot-fish. It is a heavy, broad-headed creature, with a bony shield over the whole head. Its general colour is jet-black, its bright yellow sides deepening into orange here and there. The yellow fat of this fish has a curious property. The Indians assert that when parrots are fed upon it they become tinged with yellow, and they often use it to render their papagaios more variegated.

The Gymnotus.

On the Amazonian waters is found the carapus, called by the Brazilians sarapo, belonging to the genus Gymnotus; though far smaller than the electric gymnotus. They are very numerous, and the most lively of the whole group. Their motions are winding and rapid, like those of the eel; but yet different, inasmuch as they do not glide quickly forward, but turn frequent somersaults, and constantly change their direction.

Localisation of Fish.

The researches of Professor Agassiz prove that the localisation of species of fish in these waters is peculiarly distinct and permanent, their migrations being very limited—consisting chiefly in removing from shallow to deeper waters, and from these to shallow again, at those seasons when the range of the shore in the same water-basin is affected by the rise and fall of the river. Thus, the fishes found at the bottom of a lake covering, perhaps, a square mile in extent when the waters are lowest, will appear near the shores of the same lake when, at the season of high-water, it extends over a much wider area. In the same way, fishes which gather near the mouth of a rivulet at the time of low-water, will be found as high as its origin at the period of high-water; and those which inhabit the larger igarapes on the sides of the Amazon, when they are swollen by the rise of the river, may be found in the Amazon itself when the stream is low. There is not a single fish known to ascend from the sea to the higher courses of the Amazon at certain seasons, and to return regularly to the ocean.

The striking limitation of species within different areas does not, however, exclude the presence of certain kinds of fish simultaneously throughout the whole Amazonian basin. The piraracu, for instance, is found everywhere from Peru to Para; and so are a few other species more or less extensively distributed over what may be considered distinct ichthyological fauna. But these wide-spread species are not migratory. They have normally and permanently a wide range—just as some terrestrial animals have an almost cosmopolitan character—while others are circumscribed within comparatively narrow limits.

Surprising indeed is the variety of species of fishes contained in the Amazonian basin. Professor Agassiz, during his expedition, collected nearly two thousand, “for the most part,” as he observes—and which is still more surprising—“circumscribed within different limits, from Tabalinga to Para, where the waters differ neither in temperature, nor in the nature of their bed, nor in the vegetation along their borders. There are met with, from distance to distance, assemblages of fishes completely distinct from each other.”

Still more curious, perhaps, is the intensity with which life is manifested in these waters. All the rivers in Europe, from the Tagus to the Volga, do not nourish a hundred and fifty species of fresh-water fishes; and yet in a little lake near Manaos, called Lago Hyanuary, the surface of which hardly covers four or five hundred square yards, more than two hundred distinct species were discovered, the greater part of which have not been observed elsewhere.

Gymnotus, or Electric Eel.

In the forest pools, as well as in the marshy ponds and slow-flowing rivers of the Llanos, numbers of huge serpentlike heads may be seen bobbing above the surface; or a huge, thick-bodied, yellow, snake-like creature may be caught sight of gliding through the water. It is the gymnotus electricus, or electric eel,—one of the many curious inhabitants of this region,—from two to five, and even eight feet in length. Though really a fish, it resembles the eel, but is stouter in its proportions. It is nearly equal in thickness throughout. It has a rude, depressed, and obtuse head, and a compressed tail. So great is the electric power it possesses, that when in full vigour it is able to kill the largest animal, when it can unload its electric organs in a favourable direction. All other fish, knowing by instinct the deadly effects of its stroke, fly from the formidable gymnotus. When fish are struck, or any animals which enter the pools inhabited by gymnoti—to drink, or cool their bodies, heated by the burning sun of the Llanos—they become stupified, and thus easily fall a prey to the electrical tyrant.

The natives of Venezuela employ a cruel mode of catching the creatures, which, notwithstanding their nature, they use as food. Placing but little value on mules and horses, they collect a number of these animals, and, armed with harpoons and long slender rods, drive them with shouts towards a pool inhabited by gymnoti. The noise of the horses’ hoofs and the men’s shrieks make the fish issue from the mud, when the huge, hideous creatures swim on the surface of the water, and crowd under the bellies of the horses and mules. Some of the Indians climb the trees; others stand round the margin, urging forward the unfortunate animals, and preventing them from making their escape. The fish defend themselves by frequent discharges of their electric batteries. At first they seem likely to prove victorious. Some of the quadrupeds sink beneath the violence of the invisible strokes which they receive from all sides, and, stunned by the force and frequency of the shocks, disappear under water; others, with their manes erect and eye-balls wild with pain, strive to escape the electric storm which they have aroused, but are driven back by the shouts and long whips of the excited Indians. The livid, yellow eels, like great water-snakes, swim near the surface and pursue their enemy. After the conflict has lasted a quarter of an hour or so, the mules and horses appear less alarmed. They no longer erect their manes, and their eyes express less pain and terror. The eel-like creatures, instead of advancing as at first, swim to the shore, when the Indians attack them with their harpoons, and by means of a long cord attached to it, jerk the fish out of the water, without receiving any shock, as long as the cord remains dry.

Such is the description given by Humboldt, a witness of the extraordinary scene. The employment of their electric powers is evidently spontaneous, and exhausts the nervous energy. Like voluntary muscular effort, it needs repose, and the creatures require an abundance of nourishment and rest before a fresh accumulation of electricity is produced.

In the dry season they form deep circular holes for themselves in the mud of water-courses, and marshes which remain filled with moisture, and they are thus able to support existence in their usual localities, while alligators and turtles have to retire to the larger pools or rivers. In the shallow ponds of the forest they are easily driven out with long poles.

Bates amused his native companions, who had thus caught some of the creatures, by showing them how the electric shock could pass from one person to another. They joined hands in a line, while he touched the biggest and freshest of the animals on the head with the point of his hunting-knife. He found, however, that the experiment did not succeed more than three times with the same eel when out of the water, for the fourth time the shock was scarcely perceptible.

The limbs even of the strongest man are benumbed, and he is struck down helpless, by a discharge from the battery of the gymnotus. The organs which produce this curious electrical effect are placed along the under side of the tail. They may be compared to a series of columns inclosed in a thin membrane packed closely together, which, consisting of a series of fiat discs, may be imitated by placing a number of coins with their discs parallel to each other, and with a bladder between each, separated by a gelatinous substance. These columns are technically called septa; and La Cepède calculates that two hundred and forty transverse membranes are packed in each inch, thereby giving to an electric eel eight feet in length an organ cavity of two hundred and forty-six square feet—an enormous extent, as may be supposed, of electricity producing surface. The whole apparatus is supplied with nerves which run through the entire length of the body.

Sting-Rays.

A fresh-water species of sting-ray is an inhabitant of the creeks and lagoons of stagnant water; and so infested are some of them with the creatures, that it is almost certain destruction to venture into them. The sting-ray is circular and flat, with a tail above a foot in length, very thick at the base, and tapering towards the end. Near the middle, on the upper part, it is armed with a long and sharp-pointed sting, finely serrated on two sides, which the fish can raise or depress at will. When disturbed, by a quick movement of the tail out darts its sting towards the object, which it seldom fails to reach. The wound thus inflicted is so severe that the whole nervous system is convulsed, the person becoming rigid and benumbed in a few moments. Long after the most violent effects of the wound have subsided, the part affected retains a sluggish ulceration, which has often baffled the skill of the best surgeons.

They frequent the shallow banks of muddy pools, where they may be constantly seen watching for their prey, and, as if conscious of their powers, scarcely deign to move off when approached. They have their enemies in vultures and other birds of prey; and as they are considered fit for food, war with spear and talon is constantly waged upon them.

Serrosalmus Piraya.

In the Orinoco another dangerous creature exists, called by the natives piraya, with a head shaped somewhat like a sabre. The lower jaw is furnished with a formidable pair of fangs, not unlike those of the rattlesnake. With these it inflicts a gash as smooth as if cut with a razor.

The Caribe.

Every feature of the savage caribe denotes the ferocity and sanguinary nature of its tastes. The piercing eye, surrounded by a bloody-looking ring, is expressive of its cruel and bloodthirsty disposition. Its under jaw, lined with a thick cartilaginous membrane, adds greatly to its strength, protruding considerably beyond the upper, and increasing the ferocious expression of its countenance. Large spots of a brilliant orange hue cover a great portion of its body. Towards the back it is of a bluish ash colour, with a slight tint of olive-green; the intermediate spaces being of pearly white, while the gill-coverts are tinged with red.

So sharp are its triangular teeth, arranged like those of the shark, that neither twine, copper, nor steel can withstand them. At the sight of any red substance, blood especially, they swim forward to the attack; and as they usually move in swarms, it is extremely dangerous for man or beast to enter the water with even a scratch upon their bodies. Horses wounded by the spur are particularly exposed to their attacks when fording a stream; and so rapid is the work of destruction, that unless immediate assistance is rendered, the fish soon penetrate the abdomen of the animal and destroy it: hence the name given to them by the Spaniards means “tripe-eater.” When a net is drawn on shore, numbers of these little pests are seen jumping in the crowd, their jaws wide open, tearing whatever comes in their way, and especially the meshes of the nets, which they soon render useless.

Some tribes of natives place their dead in the water, when these creatures speedily eat the flesh off the bones, which are then preserved in baskets.

Even human beings, when bathing, or fording rivers, are attacked by these terrible little cannibals;—for cannibals they are, as, whenever any of their own race are killed, they instantly attack and devour them.

There are other species of this fish,—among them the black caribe of the Orinoco. There is also a small species—a harmless, pretty little fish, of a bright green colour on the back, and a white belly streaked with pink. The teeth are used by the Macoushi Indians for sharpening the points of their poisoned arrows. This they do by drawing them rapidly between two of the teeth, in the way that knives are sharpened by two circular steel files, now in common use.

Adaptation of Animals to their destined Mode of Existence.

Strange and unfitted for existence as are many of the animals formed by the Almighty to the short-seeing eye of mortals, on a further acquaintance with them all will be discovered admirably suited to the life they are destined to enjoy. Following Waterton, we may take five as an example. The sloth, which has four feet, is unable to use them to support his body on the earth. They are destitute of soles, and the muscles requisite for progress in a perpendicular position; yet no creature is more thoroughly at home when clinging to the trees on which it has been created to exist. The ant-bear, without a tooth in his head, roves fearlessly in the forests inhabited by the jaguar and boa-constrictor. The sharp claws of his fore-feet enable him to confront the former, and his powerful muscular body and thick hair set even the boa at defiance. The vampire is unable to use his feet for walking, but he possesses a membrane, stretched by means of his legs, which enables him to mount up into an element where no other quadruped can follow. The armadillo, without fur or wool or bristles, has in their stead a movable shell placed on his back, so formed that he can roll himself up in a ball, while with his sharp claws he can dig rapidly into the earth to escape his foes. The tortoise is compelled to accommodate itself to the shell, which is hard and inflexible, and in no way obedient to the will of its bearer; yet that very shell, although so apparently inconvenient, serves as its protection. The turtle is protected in the same way; but its delicious flesh brings numerous enemies to attack it, from whom it has a hard task to escape. The egg of the tortoise, it may be remarked, has a very hard shell; while that of the turtle is quite soft.

Part 3—Chapter XVIII.

Natives of the Valley of the Amazon.

A vast number of tribes inhabit the banks of the Amazon and its tributaries, who, though having a general resemblance, differ in their habits and customs. Those found on the Lower Amazon are more or less civilised, and are known as Tupis, or Tapúyas. They speak the lingua Geral, and sometimes Portuguese. The lingua Geral is the ancient Tupee language, considerably modified by the Jesuits, who taught it to all those under their control.

The Amazonian Indians have generally fine figures, their chests especially being well developed; their skin is of a copper hue, of various shades, sometimes almost of a dark brown. The hair is jet-black, straight and thick, and never curled. The eyes are black; and they have little or no beard. The face is generally wide, and somewhat flattened, with but little or no projection of the cheek-bones. Indeed, their features are often very regular; and many, except in colour, differ but little from well-formed European countenances.

The Mundurucus.

One of the largest semi-civilised tribes inhabiting the banks of the Tapajos are the Mundurucus. They are noted for tattooing their bodies more completely than any other tribe. The whole body is covered with straight lines in diagonal patterns from the mouth downwards, the upper part being left free. Some of the women, whose bodies are ornamented in the same fashion, have lines round their eyes, which look as if they were intended to represent a pair of spectacles. Even these marks, however, do not destroy the soft drooping look of the eyes common to Indian women. The countenances of some of the men are fine; the face, bold, solid, and square, possessing a passive dignity, with a look of tranquillity which appears immovable.

The more elaborate style of tattooing is only practised by the chiefs, as a mark of their birth and rank. It requires ten years to complete the whole process. The colour is introduced by fine puncturings over the surface—a painful process, which causes swelling and inflammation.

They are among the most warlike Indians of the Amazon, and keep the neighbouring and less civilised tribes on their good behaviour. They are expert agriculturists, and construct canoes and hammocks. They generally make a foray every year on an adjoining tribe,—the Parentintins,—when they kill the men, whose heads they preserve by drying and smoking, while they take the women and children for slaves. They have regular villages of conical huts, the walls and framework filled in with mud and thatched with palm-leaves. In the centre is a large hut in which the fighting men sleep, with their weapons ready for use. It is ornamented within with the dried heads of their enemies. They have of late years greatly decreased in numbers.

Some thirty tribes or families are found on the River Uapes. The men wear their hair in a long tail hanging down the middle of the back, while the women wear it loose, and cut to a moderate length. The only dress worn by the men is a small piece of matting passed between the legs, and secured round the loins by a string. The women wear none whatever, but paint their bodies in regular patterns,—generally red, yellow, and black colours. The only ornament worn by the women is a bracelet on the wrist; while below the knee a garter is fastened from infancy, for the purpose of swelling out the calf.

The men, however, adorn themselves in a variety of ways. Their hair is carefully parted and combed on each side. The young men, especially, wear it in long locks on either side of their necks, with a comb stuck on the top of the head—their feminine appearance being greatly increased by the large necklaces and bracelets of beads which they wear, and by their custom of pulling out every particle of hair from their beard. As these feminine-looking warriors always carry their large shields before them, it was but natural, when the Spaniards saw them, or other tribes similarly adorned, that they should have supposed them to be women. When, also, they saw in the distance parties of unadorned persons carrying burdens, they took them to be slaves captured in war. This, no doubt, was the origin of the fable of nations of Amazons found on the banks of the river.

General Character of the Natives.

Sometimes these natives wear circlets of parrot and other gay feathers on their heads, as well as armlets and leg ornaments of the same materials. Some of these tribes have the horrible custom of baking the bodies of their dead after they have become decomposed, till only a black carbonaceous mass is left. This is pounded, and mixed with an intoxicating liquor, called caxiri, in vats made out of hollow trees. The relatives having been invited, the whole company drink the mixture, under the belief that the virtues of the deceased will thus be transmitted to them. Some of them are cannibals, and make war for the express purpose of procuring human flesh. They smoke dry what they cannot at once consume, thus preserving it a long time for food. They have no definite idea of a God; but they dread an evil spirit, whom they believe delights in afflicting them, and is the cause of death.

Their houses hold a number of families; sometimes a whole tribe. They are upwards of 120 feet long, 80 feet broad, and 30 feet high. The plan is a parallelogram, with a semicircle at the further end. A passage twenty feet wide leads from one end to the other; while, on the sides, are partitions, like the stalls in an old-fashioned public room of an inn, each of which is inhabited by a separate family. The chief, or tushaúa, resides at the semicircular end, where he has a private entrance. The furniture consists of hammocks, with various pots and cooking utensils made of clay, as well as baskets. Their canoes are formed out of a single tree, hollowed and forced open by cross-pieces. Some are forty feet in length. The dead are nearly always buried in the houses: a large house having sometimes one hundred graves in it.

From the Rio Negro to the Andes there is a large region, inhabited entirely by savages of whom little is known, except that they are mostly cannibals, and kill all their first-born children. On the other side of the Amazon also is a still larger tract of virgin forest, where not a single civilised man is to be found.

The Purupurus.

Among these tribes, the Purupurus, although thorough savages, are perhaps the best-known. They wear no clothes whatever; their habitations are small huts rudely formed of boughs, which they set up on the sand. Their canoes are of the rudest construction, having flat bottoms and upright sides. They use neither the bow nor the gravatana, but instead have a weapon called the palheta, from which they can cast an arrow, as from a sling, with wonderful dexterity. In the septum of the nose and in the ears they bore holes, in which they wear rings.

The Catauixis.

In their immediate neighbourhood, the Catauixis tribe is found. Though they go naked, they build houses, and use bows and gravatanas. Their canoes are constructed of the bark of a tree taken off entire. They are also cannibals, and murder the people of other tribes whom they can surprise.

Many of the least barbarous tribes have frequently large meetings, when they dress up in feather ornaments of parrots and macaws in a variety of curious disguises. The chief wears a head-dress of toucan feathers, with the erect tail-plumes rising from the crown. The mask dresses are long cloaks, made of the inner bark of a tree. Sometimes they manufacture head-pieces, by stretching the cloth over a basketwork frame, to represent the heads of monkeys and other animals. When thus dressed, they perform a monotonous seesaw and stamping dance, accompanied by singing and drumming. Often this sport is kept up for several days and nights in succession. During the time, they drink large quantities of caxiri, while they smoke tobacco and take snuff. Their chief masker represents their demon Jurupari, but he does not appear to be treated with any particular respect.

Very little information has been gathered of the history of these tribes, as they seldom possess any knowledge of their ancestors beyond the times of their fathers or grandfathers. Few of them have benefited in any way by their intercourse with white men, but remain in the same barbarous condition in which they have probably existed for many centuries. A further description of their savage customs would be more disagreeable than satisfactory. We can only hope that the true gospel may be some day carried among them, and that they may be redeemed from their present barbarous condition.

Part 3—Chapter XIX.

Indian Weapons and Modes of Killing Game.

The Blow-Pipe.

The Indian, destitute of firearms, ranges through the forest in chase of the fiercest and largest animals which haunt its shade, armed with a slender tube, and a quiver full of needle-like arrows. The tube, ten or eleven feet long, is the celebrated gravatana, or blow-pipe; called also the zarabatana by the Spaniards. Slight as are the arrows which are blown through this weapon, they will penetrate the thickest hide; and being tipped with a deadly poison, carry death through the veins of the wounded animal in the course of a few minutes.

Blowpipes are formed in various ways,—for one, the stems of a small palm, the triatea setigera, are used. Outside they appear pointed, from the scars of the fallen leaves, but within they have a soft pith, which soon rots in water, and is easily extracted, leaving a smooth, polished bore. They vary from the thickness of a finger to two inches in diameter. Each of these stems is slender, the one of a size which may be pushed inside the larger. This is done that any curve in the one may counteract that in the other. A conical wooden mouthpiece is fitted on the one end, and the whole is spirally bound with the smooth black bark of a creeper. Two teeth, fastened about a couple of feet apart from the mouth end, serve as sights to enable the sportsman to take better aim. The end applied to the mouth is bound round with a small silk-grass cord to prevent it splitting; while the other is strengthened by having the seed of a nut, with a hole cut through it, secured round it.

The arrows, from nine to ten inches long, are made from the leaves of a species of palm, or from the spinous processes of the patawá, pointed as sharp as a needle. The other end is burned hard, and round it is wound a little conical tuft of tree-cotton, the silky covering of the bomba, so as exactly to fill up the bore of the tube. They are carried in a quiver, which holds some hundreds. It is in shape somewhat like a backgammon dice-box, formed of basketwork, and covered with a piece of the skin of the tapir. To it is attached a bunch of silk-grass, a small piece of bone for scratching the point of the arrows, and a basket for holding wild honey secured round the blunt end. The points of the arrows are tipped with the deadly wourali or urali poison.

Another kind of gravatana is made of two separate pieces of wood, each scooped out so as to form one half of the tube. The two halves are then secured together, by binding round them spirally long fiat strips of the jacitira, or wood of the climbing palm-tree, the whole being afterwards smeared over with the black wax of the melipona bee. The tube tapers towards the muzzle, and a cup-shaped mouthpiece is fitted in the broad end. It is so heavy that only a strong man, accustomed to its use, can employ it.

The boys learn to shoot with a smaller and lighter instrument. The tools used are made of the incisor teeth of the paca and cavy. A light arrow is put in at the inner end, and when the ball of silk-cotton secured to the shafts fits tightly, it can be propelled with such force by the breath that it makes a noise almost as loud as a pop-gun when flying from the muzzle. An expert Indian can propel arrows so as to kill at a distance of fifty or sixty yards. It is more useful in the forest than a gun, for the report of firearms alarms the birds or monkeys, while the silent poisoned dart brings them down one by one, until the sportsman has a heap of slain by his side.

Wourali Poison.

The wourali poison is made chiefly by the natives of the northern part of the Amazonian valley. It is looked upon as an important and somewhat mysterious operation. Waterton and Schombergh describe it. The Indian, when preparing to concoct this deadly compound, goes into the wilds where grows a vine—the strychnos toxifera. After this he collects a number of bundles, and then takes up a root with an especially bitter taste. After this he searches for two bulbous plants, which contain a green and glutinous juice; and lastly, collects two species of ants—one very large and black, and so venomous that its sting produces fever, and another little red ant which stings like a nettle. Having scraped the wourali vine and bitter root into thin shavings, he puts them into a sieve made of leaves, which he holds over the earthen pot, pouring water on them. A thick liquor comes through, having the appearance of coffee. He then produces the bulbous stalks, and squeezes a portion of the juice into the pot. He now adds the pounded fangs of the labarri and counacouchi snakes,—which he generally has in store, as well as the ants. The ingredients are next boiled over a slow fire, and the scum being taken off, the liquid remains till it becomes reduced to a thick syrup of a deep brown colour. It is now fit for use. The arrows are then dipped into it, and if it is found of sufficient strength, it is poured into small pots, which are covered over with leaves and a piece of deer-skin. It is then kept in a dry place, or suspended occasionally over a fire, to counteract the effects of damp.

The poison must be fresh to kill speedily. A bird dies in a minute or so, and the largest animals only survive a few minutes after being struck. Salt is almost a certain antidote to the poison. The Indians, when they wish to preserve an animal alive, scrape off part of the poison, and, as soon as the animal falls, put salt into its mouth, when it speedily recovers. Monkeys are frequently captured in this way. Europeans accustomed to eat salt seldom suffer from the effects of the poison; though it is said to produce its usual deadly effects on the natives, when wounded by it, as they rarely or never consume salt.

The flesh of the animals killed is in no way injured by the poison, nor does it appear to corrupt sooner than that killed by the gun or knife.

Bows, with arrows four or five feet long, are used to kill the larger animals. The arrows are made of a yellow reed without joint or knot. A piece of hard wood is inserted into the end, and in this a square hole is made, tightly bound round with cotton to keep it from splitting. Into this square hole a spike is fitted, and dipped in the poison, while at the butt-end a couple of feathers are fastened to steady it in its flight. The hunter carries a number of these poisoned spikes. As the spike easily breaks off, or slips out when the animal is wounded, he recovers his shaft, into which he can easily refit another spike. The spikes are cut half through, to facilitate their breaking off.

Timbó.

The Indian has also discovered the means of poisoning the fish of the lakes and pools, as well as the birds of the air. He extracts the poison from a certain liana—the paullinia pinnata—which he calls timbó. To do so, he collects a few pieces, about a yard long, and mashes and soaks them in water, which soon becomes discoloured with the milky poisonous juice of the plant. This he carries in a calabash, and pours out on the water. In about half an hour, all the smaller fish, over a wider space than that which he has sprinkled with the juice, rise to the surface, floating on their sides, with their gills wide open. So powerful is its nature, that but a slight quantity appeal’s sufficient to stupify them. Some time afterwards the larger fish appear; and even for twenty-four hours afterwards a number rise floating dead on the surface. The fish are evidently suffocated by the poison.

Mode of Shooting and Netting Turtle.

Both fish and turtle are shot by the natives with arrows. The Indian takes his post on a little stage made of poles and cross-pieces of wood, secured with lianas, on the margin of the pools frequented by the turtles, armed with his bow and arrows. The arrow used for killing the latter has a strong lancet-shaped steel point fitted into a peg which enters the tip of the shaft. The peg is secured to the shaft by twine made of the fibres of pineapple leaves. The line, some thirty or forty yards long, is neatly wound round the body of the arrow. When the muzzle enters the shell the peg drops out, and the pierced animal descends with it towards the bottom, leaving the shaft floating on the surface. The sportsman, hastening to the spot in his canoe, sends another arrow into the turtle, and then humouring it by means of the two cords, quickly gets it on board. It is extraordinary, the skill the Indians will display on these occasions. They do not even wait for the turtle coming to the surface, but watch for the tracks which it makes in the water when swimming beneath it, and shoot with unerring aim.—At certain seasons turtle in vast shoals wend their way up the Orinoco, when, as they come to the surface to breathe, the Indians—who are on the watch—shoot them with heavy arrows, which, falling perpendicularly, pierce their thick coats; and they drift on shore, or are picked up by the canoes kept in readiness for that purpose. Nets also are employed: the depth is about equal to that of the water; while the floats, buoyed up on the surface, thus form a complete track. One party takes either end of the net, while the rest beat the water with poles, in order to drive the turtles towards the middle. As the beaters advance, numbers of little snouts suddenly popping above the water show that all is going on well. The beaters continue shouting and striking the water with great vigour. The ends of the nets are then seized by numerous strong hands and dragged quickly forward, forming a circle to inclose all the body. The canoes being brought up, the turtles are thrown into them. Mr Bates describes having seen fully eighty turtles secured thus in about twenty minutes.

Another Mode of Catching Fish.

The natives on the banks of the northern rivers also employ a poisonous root for catching fish. It resembles a turnip, with a small plant rising from it, and is called by them cima. A decoction of it being made, it is mixed with boiled maize ground into paste. The Indian and his family go forth to the pool with a number of baskets to carry home their prey. Besides the poison-paste, he supplies himself with some pellets of paste free from it. On arriving at the pool or stream, he throws a quantity of the latter into the water, which attracts a variety of small fish from all quarters. He then begins to throw in the poisoned bait, which is no sooner swallowed than the fish begin to leap out of the water, and tumble about in all sorts of ways, when they are easily caught by the children, and thrown into their baskets, which in a short time are filled.

The Indians of the Orinoco also entrap fish in other ways. When the waters begin to ebb at the end of the rainy season, they form strong stockades across the outlet of the great lagoons in which a number of the larger fish, as well as turtles of enormous size, have taken refuse. The stakes of these stockades are driven into the bed of the channel, close enough to allow of the exit of the water and the smaller fish only. It is further secured by cross-beams thrown across the channel. Sometimes, however, so numerous are the fish, and so enormous their size, that they break through the stockade in spite of all the precautions taken.

Poisoning Birds.

In the neighbourhood of the Apoure, in Venezuela, a poisonous shrub abounds—the deadly guachamaca—belonging to the family of Apocinese, or dog-bane. The natives make a strong decoction from it, into which they dip a number of small fish, and spread them about in the neighbourhood of lagoons frequented by cranes, herons, and other aquatic birds, hiding themselves near at hand. Before the bird has fairly swallowed the fish it drops dead, when the hunter, cutting off the head and neck, carries off the body as his prize. It is said that when meat has been roasted on spits made of this wood, it has absorbed sufficient poison to destroy all who ate it.

The Long-Bow.

Some tribes, using a powerful long-bow, shoot birds in the air at a great distance. The hunter, throwing himself on his back, with his quiver by his side, places his feet against the bow, raised to the required elevation, and thus, stretching out his legs, draws the arrow to his head on the ground. By this means he is enabled to kill wild fowl and other game at an enormous distance. An amusing writer on Venezuela mentions an Indian who used to place a piece of money on the top of a lemon, close to the point of the big toe on his left foot, and then, leaning backwards, bend his bow with the help of his right one, and shoot into the air at an angle of 85 degrees,—the arrow never failing when it turned round to come down and strike the coin. Another would shoot a bird soaring above his head, without looking at the bird,—guided only by the shadow cast upon the ground about mid-day.

Stalking Game.

In the same legion, the Indians form a sort of trumpet out of bamboo, covering one end with a thick membrane. On blowing through the other, a sound is produced resembling the bleating of a young fawn. Hiding himself behind a tree, the hunter decoys the doe towards his place of concealment, when he easily shoots her with his poisoned arrow.

The following is another device for approaching the deer in the open plains. These animals seem to have a peculiar fondness for the tall crane of the Llanos—a large white bird, with long, slender legs, and at least five feet in height. It has a pouch of a bright scarlet, and a bill nearly a foot long, and wide at the base, which enables it to swallow a large fish at a mouthful. The hunter forms a mask to resemble the head of the crane, and, clothing his own dark body in white, holding his weapon low down, goes off in the direction of the deer, taking care to approach it to leeward. He then imitates the movements of the crane. When the deer stops to look at him, he bends down his head as if feeding. As soon as the deer again begins to browse, the hunter carefully approaches it till he gets within range, and can shoot his deadly dart with certain aim.

Mode of Killing Alligators.

The Indian bravely attacks the huge alligator, fearless of its enormous jaws, sometimes shooting it with arrows from his bow. The arrows are fitted in the same way as those used for killing turtle—the head remaining in the body of the animal, while the shaft, secured to it by a line, floats on the surface; which showing the direction taken by the saurian, it is chased and transfixed by either lances or arrows till it dies from exhaustion. On these occasions it is often attacked, it is said, by the caribes, and partially devoured, before it can be dragged on shore.

The creatures are also caught by another device. A piece of hard wood, pointed at both ends, is covered up with a large fish or lump of meat, and then thrown into the water, with a strong rope attached to the middle. The instant it is seized, the hunters, who have hold of the other end, drag the creature on shore, and despatch it with clubs or darts.

A story is told of a Llanero, who, accustomed to desperate encounters with savage bulls and fierce jaguars, determined on one occasion, when compelled to cross the river, to brave the risk of an attack from an alligator known to infest it. Plunging into the stream, with his saddle on his shoulders to prevent its being wetted, and his sharp dagger in his teeth, he swam on his horse’s back. As those who saw him expected, the crocodile soon appeared. Boldly facing the creature, he approached its jaws, and, throwing his saddle at it, the alligator jumped partly out of the water to catch it. At that instant the daring Llanero plunged his dagger up to the very hilt into the arm-pit—the most vital part of the monster—when, with a tremendous splash, it instantly sank beneath the waves.

The tenacity of life exhibited by these monsters is often marvellous. Sir Robert Schombergh gives an account of shooting one when ascending the River Berbice. The snout was taken off by one ball, and another entered the hinder part of the skull, when the Indians, attacking it with their clubs, appeared completely to have knocked out every spark of life. It was at last hauled up and placed on the bow of the corial. While the corial was being drawn across the rapids, two of the Indians took up the cayman in order to lay it in a more convenient position. Scarcely had they done so, when at one bound it jumped into the river and disappeared. They could never afterwards be persuaded to touch a cayman.

Turtle-Catching and Collecting Eggs.

Both the Amazon and the Orinoco, with their tributaries, are frequented by several species of turtles. The mode employed for capturing the animals, as well as collecting the eggs, applies equally to both rivers.

There are several species of fresh-water turtles. The largest in the upper waters grow to a great size, measuring nearly three feet long, by two in breadth; so that one is a load for the strongest man. The Brazilian Government make regulations for protecting the turtles whilst laying, so that all the inhabitants on the banks may have an equal chance of procuring a supply of eggs. The natives collect from all quarters for this object. The turtles select the highest and driest banks composed of the finest sand, which will be a sufficient time above water to allow of the eggs being hatched by the heat of the sun. Some of these banks are of great extent—many miles long, and often one or more broad. They are the haunts and breeding-places of many different kinds of animals, and are covered by tracks of alligators and turtles. Not only do these here make their nests, but birds lay in them their eggs during the dry season; and different kinds of fish use them for the same purpose when covered with water. Here, too, the wonderful little acara are found, with their young in their heads; and there are also rounded shallow depressions in the mud, which the fishermen say are the sleeping-places of the skates. They are certainly about the size and form of a skate, and it can easily be believed that these singular impressions in the soft surface have been made in this way. The creatures, however, only frequent certain praias out of the number existing. When the waters overflow the land, the young turtles move into the interior, where they remain during their infant days in the numberless lakes and pools in the forest. As the dry season approaches, the full-grown turtles descend from the interior pools while the outlets are still open (between July and August), and seek in countless swarms their favourite banks. Sentinels are then posted on high lookout places, situated at the ends of the banks, where they may watch the proceedings of the creatures, and mark the spots they have chosen. They also warn off any fishermen who may approach, as the sight of a man or a fire on the sand-bank would prevent the turtles from leaving the water that night to lay their eggs; and, if frequently alarmed, they would forsake the praia for some other place.

The turtles lay their eggs by night—crawling in vast crowds to the central and highest part of the praia—and are occupied till dawn in the operation. They excavate with their broad-webbed paws deep holes in the fine sand. The first which arrives makes a pit about three feet deep, and lays its eggs—about one hundred in number—covering them with sand. The next makes its deposit at the top of the former; and so on till every pit is full. They are so careful in covering up the eggs, that, when they quit the spot, the only marks distinguishable are those which they make when returning to the water—as they go round and round the nest several times in succession to obliterate all traces. The sand, however, remains so loose, that it gives way under foot, and thus the Indian easily discovers the spot.

A body of turtles occupy several days in the operation; one party succeeding the other, night after night, till all have deposited their eggs. As the season advances, however, those who have arrived late, in their hurry to lay, appear to take fewer precautions. So powerful is the effect of the sun on these sand-banks, that a few days only are required to hatch the young turtles.

It has been so arranged by the Creator, that they always come forth at night, as the heat of the sun would kill them, and they would be devoured by birds of prey and other animals on the watch to seize the dainty morsels. Although the hole from which they emerge may be half a mile or more from the river, instinct teaches them to go in a direct line to the water. A number, however, are caught by their enemies; while enormous quantities of eggs are taken,—both to be used as food, and for the sake of the oil they contain.

A curious sight is witnessed from the top of the sentinel’s stage at daybreak. The sand appears blackened with the multitudes of turtles—which, after depositing their eggs, are waddling towards the river; and often, where the margin of the praia is steep, tumbling down the declivity into the water.

Oil from Turtles’ Eggs.

As soon as the eggs have been laid, the Indians, arriving in their canoes from all directions, with their families, build reed huts on the banks—some merely driving poles into the sand, from which to swing their hammocks. The canoes are then drawn up on the beach and thoroughly washed out, while the whole praia is covered with natives with the baskets on their backs in which they collect the eggs. The eggs are then cleansed from the grains of sand adhering to them, and emptied into the canoes, when they are trodden on by the children, much in the same way as grapes are mashed for wine-making. The canoes, when full, are left exposed to the sun’s rays, and in a short time a fine clear oil rises to the surface. It is then skimmed off with shells and put into large pots, when it is boiled over the fire and becomes purified. It is next transferred to jars, and is ready for use. It is finer and clearer than that produced from olives.

Meantime, any stray turtles which have delayed their departure, as frequently happens, are turned over on their backs. Holes are dug in the sand near the water, in which the young turtles are kept till required for eating. When not actually employed in picking up eggs or catching turtles, the whole population are engaged in feasting off them—an enormous quantity being thus consumed. The flesh of the animals is cut up and dressed in the shells, which serve as pots, without the danger of burning; and it is washed down with copious draughts of chica.

The female turtles contain an enormous number of eggs, apparently ready to be laid during a succession of years—from the large ones covered with a white membrane, down to a confused mass resembling mustard-seeds. As it requires five thousand to fill a jar of oil, and as many thousands of jars are collected, it may be conceived what an enormous number of eggs are deposited every year. Were it not that many turtles lay in solitary places, which the Indians have not discovered, the rivers would soon be depopulated. The Indian children watch for the creatures as soon as they are hatched, and collect great numbers.

Humboldt calculates that nearly a million turtles annually deposit their eggs on the banks of the Lower Orinoco. In the Amazon, already the turtles have greatly decreased in numbers; and Bates states that, where formerly he could buy one for ninepence, he could with difficulty procure them latterly for eight or nine shillings each. Every house on the banks has a little pond, called a corral, or pen, in the back-yard, to hold a stock of large turtle during the wet months, till a fresh supply can be procured in the dry season.

The tracaja, or smaller kind, which lays its eggs a month earlier than the larger species, seldom lives, in captivity, beyond a few days.

The natives cook the turtles in various ways. The entrails make a delicious soup, called sarapatel; while the flesh of the breast is mixed with farina, and roasted in the breast shell over the fire. Steaks, cooked with fat, make another dish; and large sausages, composed of the thick-coated stomach, filled with mince-meat, and boiled, are considered great delicacies. Bates, however, found, that though the flesh is very tender, palatable, and wholesome, it becomes cloying after a person has lived on it for some time; and he at length could not bear the smell, even though suffering from hunger.

Fishing-Nets and Baskets.

The tribes on the River Uape’s use several kinds of bows, some from five to six feet long,—the arrows being still longer. The shaft is made of the flower-stalk of the arrow-grass. The head is composed of hard wood pointed, and sometimes armed with a serrated spine of the ray-fish, covered thickly with poison, and notched, so as easily to break off—a most deadly weapon. Their arrows for shooting fish are armed with iron heads, while smaller arrows are used for shooting small game. These alone have feathers at the base, generally from the wings of the macaw. They are secured spirally, forming thus a little screw on the base of the arrow, causing it to revolve rapidly, and assisting to keep it in a direct course.

They employ also several sorts of hand-nets for catching fish: one is very similar to the folding nets of entomologists, and another is like a landing net. Rods and lines are generally used by them. They also catch fish by means of a small conical-shaped wicker basket. The larger end is completely open. Into this, which is placed in a current, the fish enter, and swimming rapidly on, jam themselves into the narrow end, where, unable to turn, they are completely secured. They also use large cylindrical baskets, with reversed cones in the mouth like those of lobster-pots, but of much greater size.

Fish are also caught by means of weirs. These are well built, supported by strong posts. They are formed when the water is low. As the water rises, the fish, keeping by the sides of the stream, are guided by the side wings of the weir into its narrow opening, out of which they cannot make their way. Not only fish, but turtles find their way into these weirs, and sometimes electric eels—as also those dreaded fish, the piranhas. The Indian gets the fish out by diving into the weir armed with a small hand-net, and sometimes with a knife. He first endeavours, however, to learn whether any of his foes are within, and gets them out first. Another kind of weir is formed on a still larger scale, generally beneath cataracts or waterfalls. It is similar to the eel-traps sometimes used at mills. As the water pours into it, the fish are often caught in great numbers. These traps, however, require a considerable amount of ingenuity and a great exertion of strength for their construction, as large timbers must be used, to withstand the strength of the current.

Canoes.

Most of the tribes make their canoes out of single trees, which they hollow and expand by means of a fire placed beneath them, gradually inserting wedges and cross-pieces. It is first reared on trestles, with a slit downwards over the fire—which is kept up for seven or eight hours. The process requires great and constant attention, to avoid cracks, and make the canoe bend with the proper dip at the two ends. Additional planks are often secured to the sides, while the stem and stern are formed of semicircular boards pegged on to the ends of the trunk. The seams are then caulked with gum. The paddles have oval blades, and are about three feet in length, cut out of single pieces.

Musical Instruments.

A somewhat complicated musical instrument, consisting of twelve pipes or trumpets, made of bamboos fastened together, with trumpet-shaped mouthpieces of bark, is used by one tribe of Indians. The sounds are not disagreeable, resembling somewhat clarionets and bassoons. No woman, however, is allowed to see them; and as soon as they are brought out, all the females hurry off to hide themselves. Should any one attempt to observe the mysterious instrument, she is immediately put to death,—generally by poison. A father or a husband would not hesitate on such an occasion to sacrifice his daughter or wife.

The Indians of the Uapes manufacture with great neatness a variety of articles, such as fine hammocks, baskets, and gourds—which they paint with elegant devices; also earthenware water-pitchers and pans for cooking, and clay ovens. They also show skill in making several musical instruments—like fifes and whistles, as also drums—and all sorts of ornaments for the person. Their feather dresses are remarkable for their elegance and the labour bestowed on them.

The Purupurus, one of the most savage tribes, have an instrument—employed by no others—called the palheta. It is a piece of wood with a projection at the end, in which the base of the arrow is secured. The arrow is held with the handle of the palheta in the hand, and thus thrown as a stone from a sling. The natives exhibit wonderful dexterity in the use of this weapon, and with the greatest facility kill birds, fish, and game of all sorts with it.

Part 4—Chapter I.

Northern Regions of South America.

Venezuela.

New Granada is almost entirely a mountain region, occupied by the northern end of the Andes, except where it slopes down towards the Isthmus of Panama and the Caribbean Sea. Venezuela, however, contains three distinct zones or characters of country—mountains, forests, and open plains. The mountain regions, which are also three in number, are separated by wide plains. On the west, the mountains belong to the Andes—being spurs of that range—a large portion consisting of table-lands, called paramos, from 10,000 to 14,000 feet above the sea-level. Among them lies the Lake of Maracaibo, ninety-two miles in length, and eighty-two in width—the largest in South America. On the north-east is the Sierra de Bergantin, and in the south-east the Sierra de Parima. The forests extend from the Orinoco southward, joining that of the Amazon—a vast tract, but seldom penetrated by the traveller.

The natives call the three zones into which they divide their country the Tierras Calidas, or hot countries—rising not more that 2000 feet above the sea, and in which only tropical plants and fruits flourish; the Tierras Templadas, or temperate country—from 2000 to 7000 feet above the sea, where the agricultural productions of Europe succeed best; and the Tierras Frias, or cold countries—which rise above the former, to the height of 15,000 feet, the summits of the mountains reaching 148 feet above the snow-line.

Two seasons exist in the tropics, into which the year is divided—the wet and the dry. Though the heat is greatest in the former, it is called winter, as the sun then passes twice over the zenith; while during the dry season, which is called summer, the sun is in the southern hemisphere. During the whole year the north-east trade-wind blows across the country, but modified in direction and force by these seasons.

In consequence of the very different elevations of the land, the productions of nearly all parts of the world can here be cultivated successfully. In the hot districts, chiefly bordered by the sea, cotton, indigo, cacao, coffee, sugar, tobacco, and cocoa-nuts come to perfection. The cocoa-palm, enjoying the advantage of the sea-breeze, here grows to a height of seven hundred feet above the ocean. No tobacco surpasses that of the well-known Varina. Barley and millet, as well as wheat, are produced on the more elevated tracts; while maize is cultivated all over the country.

The wide-extending marshes and pools are frequented by pelicans, herons, and wild geese, ducks, and flamingoes; while other birds—chiefly belonging to the Falconidae, Ardeidae, Strigidae, and Psittacidae—are numerous. The savage alligator and fearful anaconda abound in all the rivers and lakes; while the jaguar, puma, ounce, tiger-cat, monkey, tapir, capybara, porcupine, wild hog, sloth, and ant-eater range through its forests and savannahs.

Numerous tribes of the aborigines, driven back by the whites, exist in the remoter districts. They are generally of a dark copper colour, while some are of a lighter hue; and though building huts, most of them go almost naked. They exist on plantains, yucca, batatas, and the sugar-cane—which they rudely cultivate; and the fish, as well as the manatees and alligators, which swarm in their waters.

The neighbourhood of the Caraccas is described as a terrestrial paradise, where spring perpetually reigns. In this favoured region, all the fruits of the tropics come to the greatest perfection. The delicious chirimoya takes the first place. It is likened to lumps of flavoured cream, ready to be frozen, suspended from the branches of some fairy tree, amidst an overpowering perfume of flowers—for it is in bearing all the year round. “He who has not tasted the chirimoya fruit, has yet to learn what fruit is,” says Markham.

Here, too, the grandilla, in shape like a water-melon, hangs from its delicate tendrils. When cut open, it is found filled with a juice-like nectar, having the flavour of the strawberry and peach. A species, of cactus—the nopal—produces the tuna or Indian fig.

It is on the fleshy, downy stems of the cactus that the cochineal insect is reared, producing the valuable crimson dyes which outshine the vaunted productions of Tyre; and from the same family of plants rises the magnificent pitahaya,—“those flowers known for size and effulgence, which begin to open as the sun declines, and bloom during the night, shedding a delicious fragrance, and offering their brimful goblets, filled with nectareous juice, to thousands of moths and other crepuscular and nocturnal insects,” as Gosse describes it.

The splendid mammey apple-tree (Mammea Americana), which bears numbers of round and heavy fruits, brown outside, and of a golden yellow within, valued for the marmalades and other delicacies formed from them.

Of the same family as the chirimoya is the guanabana (Anona muricata), or sour sop, an unattractive name for so delicious a fruit. From it a cooling drink is made, and ices of fine flavour.

A near relative is the custard apple, filled with a ruddy compounded substance, which no cook can surpass. As also the riñon (Anona squamosa), a kidney-like fruit in form, with a custard-like interior.

The superb alligator-pear, more properly called percia gratissima; its first name given probably from its being indigenous to a country abounding in saurian reptiles, otherwise it is difficult to account for its inappropriate designation. It resembles in shape a large pear; but the interior of its rind is lined with a marrow-like substance of a yellowish colour, somewhat like butter, and used at the breakfast-table.

Among other products is the tamarind, unrivalled either as regards beauty of foliage, brilliancy of blossoms, or the delicacy of its acidulous pulpy pods. In blossom the tree is a lovely object. Amid its feathery dark green foliage issue, in vast numbers, golden yellow branches with delicate flowers dazzling to the eye; while its fruits in a green state form a candied sweetmeat, or when ripe, and made into a decoction, a refreshing drink for fever-stricken patients.

The inaja-palm, of various species, produces pellucid pods, from one to two feet in length, containing a row of beans—enveloped in white cottony pulp—grateful to the taste.

The cocoa-palm, though at a distance from the coast, here flourishes in great perfection, adding to the splendour of the vegetation, with its glorious crown of monster leaves; while the plantain and banana are widely cultivated, a few plants of which are sufficient to supply a family with bread, vegetables, fruit, and preserves of various kinds. Humboldt observes that an area planted with plantains produces nearly twenty times as much food as the same space sown with corn.

Humming-Birds.

Amid this rich and varied vegetation, swarms of tiny and brilliant humming-birds flutter round the masses of highly-scented blossoms that perfume the air, and which might be mistaken by the stranger at first sight for some of the metallic-coloured beetles which dispute with them the nectar of the fragrant flowers, so brilliant is the lustre shed by both. As Gosse well remarks: “For that peculiar charm which resides in flashing light, combined with the most brilliant colours, the lustre of precious stones, there are no birds, no creatures, that can compare with the humming-birds, confined exclusively to America.” These lovely little winged gems were to the Mexican and Peruvian Indians the very quintessence of beauty; and were called by various names, signifying “the rays of the sun,” and the like. Fully four hundred distinct species of these winged gems are supposed to exist on the continent.

Trees.

Of the trees which have a wide range over the country, especially near the sea-coast, the lignum vitae is of great value. As from its hard nature it turns the edge of the best-tempered tools, it serves for the construction of wharves, as well as for the keels of ships,—the attacks of the teredo, or sea-worm, being futile upon the iron network of its fibres. It can remain under water for an indefinite period without rotting, and eventually becomes petrified.

Here the guayacan, or guayacum of the arts, is found in great abundance.

The alcornoque, a beautiful tree, scarcely inferior to it, here raises its graceful head above the rest, affording the cattle a permanent shade during the dry season; while in the Llanos it is used in the construction of houses and fences.

The Brazileto-wood tree grows in abundance, producing a beautiful dye.

Among others is the tree which yields the precious balsam of copaiba,—extracted by making incisions in the trunk, when the resinous fluid pours forth.

The natives form their piroques or canoes from the last which we will mention, the tacamahaca (the Elaphrium tornentosium), which here attains great dimensions. The bark is of the nature of the birch-bark of North America, and is stripped off the trees in a similar manner, the huge sheets being joined at the extremities by means of slender vines, while the interstices are filled with resin to keep out the water—the whole being then bound with stronger vines, and several sticks being fixed between the borders to prevent the bark from collapsing. The resin of this tree, an opaque lemon-coloured substance, resembles wax; and when mixed with algoroba, it forms a torch which burns with great brilliancy, and emits a delicious odour.

The vast Llanos, already mentioned, in the north cover a surface of about 110,600 square miles. Over a large portion of this wide-extending region, even the wild Indian, there unable to find subsistence, but seldom roamed; and thus for ages it remained a howling wilderness, inhabited, and that only at certain seasons, by the jaguar, the peccary, the agouti, and the timid deer. Here, when the summer sun sends down its burning rays day after day from a cloudless sky, the grass withered and shrivelled by its heat, the plain presents the appearance of a desert waste. No cooling breeze passes across it, no shelter is found from the scorching heat. The pools are dried-up, the surface of the swamps becomes cracked and dry—the brown stalks of the tall reeds alone marking the nature of the ground. Here, occasionally, when the blast sweeps across the plain, columns of dust are set in motion, like those of the African Sahara, overwhelming and stifling the incautious traveller, who is hurled senseless to the ground.

Here, too, as in other desert regions, the mirage mocks him as he journeys across it parched with thirst—often assuming a semblance of the ocean, slowly moving in wave-like undulations.

The few trees and shrubs which here and there rise from the plain assume a greyish-yellow tint, showing that the sap which has hitherto nourished their leaves has ceased to flow,—stopped by the burning heat, which has dried-up every particle of moisture from which they are wont to obtain nourishment. At this season even the animals take their departure; here and there the alligator and anaconda alone remain, in a torpid state, buried in the clay of the dried-up swamps.

The traveller who ventures across this arid region has not only to encounter the breath of the simoom, the sufferings of burning thirst, the attacks of wild beasts, the bite of the matacabello—which may kill his steed and leave him helpless—and many other dangers, but, more fearful than all, flames caused by some camp-fire incautiously left burning, seizing the parched vegetation, traverse the plain with inconceivable rapidity. He and his Indian guides, without whom he could not venture across it, discover far-away on the horizon columns of smoke ascending to the skies. The Indians, standing up in their stirrups, gaze at it anxiously for a moment to watch its direction, and then pressing their steeds to their utmost speed, urge him to fly for life. At first he can scarcely believe that yon distant line of smoke is menacing them with danger; but soon onwards it comes, the burning torrent rolling rapidly towards them. Now and then they turn their heads to watch its progress. In vain they look out in every direction for a darker patch in the plain, which may indicate a water pool, and amid which they may seek refuge. None appears. On they rush, urging their horses by whip and spur—their steeds seeming to know their danger. Already they see the bright glare of the flames below the dark mass of smoke. Already the bursting and crackling of the leaves, as the threatening column rushes on, reaches their ears. A fearful death is following them. At length the sharp eyes of one of the guides discover a slight eminence; towards this, though almost despairing of safety, they direct their course. They reach its base. It is but thinly covered with vegetation. Scarcely have they urged up their panting horses to the summit than the flames overtake them. And now the sea of fire rolls its devouring billows around, and the suffocating smoke, striking in their faces, compels them to fall on the ground, in the hope of obtaining sufficient air for breathing, till the flames have passed by. The fire mounts the hill, but happily, finding little nourishment, is speedily extinguished. And now the waving mass, rolling onwards, recedes further and further from their gaze.

Whole swarms of voracious vultures follow in circling flight the smoky column, like so many hungry jackals, and pounce upon the snakes and lizards which the blaze has stifled and half calcined in its murderous embrace. Then, with the rapidity of lightning, they dart on their prey and disappear in the clouds of smoke, as if they were voluntarily devoting themselves to a fiery death. Soon the deafening noise of the conflagration ceases, and the dense black clouds in the distance are the only signs that the flames are still proceeding on their devastating path over the wide waste of the savannah.

The travellers thus happily saved may now proceed on their course, provided they have a supply of water for themselves, and have certain information of the existence of some deep pool at which their steeds may quench their thirst. Let them be cautious, however, how they approach the pool; for beneath its surface the alligator and anaconda lie hid, or the electric eel—which with its powerful galvanic battery may strike the steed which ventures within its reach.

Even in this arid region the bountiful Creator has not left his creatures without the means of sustaining life. Here, on the driest soil, the globular melon-cactus, measuring a foot in diameter, flourishes; its tough and prickly skin surrounding a rich and juicy pulp. It is, however, covered with long, sharp thorns, which must be broken off before the refreshing juice can be obtained. It is curious that the wild horse and ox—strangers, as it were, to the region—are not possessed of the sagacity to do this; while the mule, when it discovers the melon, sets to work at once with its fore-feet, and then cautiously sips the refreshing liquid.

Day after day the sun, with a lurid glare spread far and wide over the cloudless sky, rises above the arid plains, drawing up every particle of moisture, and withering with the intense heat of his rays every blade of grass and green leaf, till it seems as if the whole region were doomed to eternal desolation. At length, however, a wonderful change takes place over the hitherto arid waste. A thick veil of mist is drawn across the blue sky. A low bank of clouds appears on the horizon. Gradually it rises, assuming the form of distant mountain-chains above the plain. Onwards it advances, increasing in density, while vivid flashes of lightning dart forth; the thunder is heard rolling in the distance, and now loud crashing peals burst from the clouds, which rapidly spreading across the vault of heaven, plenteous showers rush downwards on the parched earth, filling up the dry cracks in the marshes, replenishing the pools, and swelling the streams. The grass springs up on every long-dry spot, the leaves burst forth, while thousands of flowers of every tint and hue enamel the plain; and, as if by magic, the whole face of nature is in a few hours changed. In a short time the thorny bushes of the delicate and feathery-foliaged mimosas are loaded with masses of canary-coloured blossoms, from their summits down to the lowest branches, sending forth an almost overpowering perfume; while the fronds of the beautiful mauritias—the palm of the Llanos—rising to the height of one hundred feet above the plain, sprout forth in rich luxuriance.

Animal life, too, wakes up. The savage alligator and the huge anaconda crawl forth from the bed of clay in which they have passed their summer sleep, in search of prey; ibises, cranes, flamingoes, and numberless water-fowl, swarm on the newly-formed pools; the cattle of the Llaneros luxuriate in the abundant grasses which everywhere appear; while multitudes of insects crawl forth, seeking refuge from the flood in the higher grounds. The swollen rivers now inundate the plains, and the spots where the cattle wandered in vain to quench their thirst can now be passed for miles together by boats; and alligators lie in wait to seize in their savage jaws the horses and oxen compelled to swim across the flooded land in search of pasture.

The Llaneros.

Sterile as the Llanos appear during the dry season, numerous cattle-farms exist, scattered widely over large portions. The Llaneros, as the inhabitants are called—descendants of the white settlers, with an admixture of Indians and blacks—are a hardy, bold race, living almost entirely on horseback, engaged in watching over their herds, and in battling with the spotted jaguar, the savage cayman, the huge boa and anaconda, and occasionally the fierce natives of the surrounding deserts. Often, too, they have to struggle for their lives against the sudden inroads of the vast inundations which sweep off their herds and frail habitations. Armed with their unerring lasso and garrocha, or sharp lance, blunderbuss and sword, they fear no foes. These lances, formed of the tough stem of a small palm, are weapons of no slight importance to them. They are sharpened to a point at one end, and hardened in the fire, or sometimes have an iron head. Round the point a number of loose metal rings are secured, which when shaken produce a loud rattling sound.

See a band of these hardy horsemen in chase of the wild cattle which roam at large over the plains. In bands of six or ten, they form a circle of fifteen miles or so in circumference—bivouacking during the previous night at their respective stations. At early dawn they mount their horses; and now, shouting and shrieking, with their lasso coiled before them on their saddle, and their garrocha in their hand, whirled round and round, they advance, closing in towards the centre of the circle, and driving before them all the animals they meet. The animals, terrified by the cries and whirling spears, dash madly forward,—some endeavouring to break away from the circle, when they are speedily turned back by the sharp goads of the horsemen. Not only the cattle, but wild boars, deer, and other quadrupeds, starting up from the ground where they have been resting, dash on amid the confused herd. And now perhaps several thousand head of cattle are collected within the circle formed by a hundred or more horsemen. If a fierce bull, turning round, ventures to encounter them, they shake their rattling spears in his ears, and quickly again turn him.

When a bull is overtaken, the Llanero thrusts the point of his spear into the animal’s shoulder, and, leaning forward with the whole weight of his body upon the shaft, overthrows the savage creature, who rolls headlong on the plain, where he is quickly secured. Sometimes a fiercer bull than ordinary charges the horsemen, who fly on either side; but wheeling round speedily, with their lassos whirling round their heads, the noose is thrown over the animal’s horns, and the well-trained steeds assisting their riders, he is speedily brought to the ground. A hole being then pierced in the thick cartilage of the nostrils, a thong is passed through it, the other end being fastened to the horse’s tail. A jerk quickly brings the bull to his feet, and he is led off a captive.

A still bolder manoeuvre is accomplished by the expert horseman. Galloping after the bull, the rider seizes the animal’s tail, giving it a turn round his own wrist, and then again urges forward his horse till both are at full speed, when, suddenly turning in an oblique direction, by a powerful jerk—from the impetuosity imparted by their rapid speed—the bull is brought to the ground. Here, too, the horse, knowing what is about to be done, starts forward at the proper moment, and assists in accomplishing the work. Sometimes the daring Llanero will throw himself from his seat, still holding on to the tail of the bull, and seldom fails ultimately to overthrow it.

The whole scene is one of the wildest confusion. Clouds of dust rise from the dry plain, trampled on by the hoofs of numberless animals. The bulls, driven to fury, tear up the earth, and with deep, savage bellowings rush at their fellows as well as at their foes, unable to distinguish one from the other—often piercing the former with their sharp horns. The uproar is increased by the yells and shouts of the Llaneros galloping in all directions over the ground, rattling their garrochas, waving their ponchos, and whirling their lassos. Yet further to increase the turmoil and uproar, flocks of cranes and herons, startled by the hoofs of the horses and shouts of the riders as they rush onward, rise from the stunted frees of a neighbouring marsh, with loud cries and clashing of wings, into the air, hovering above the heads of the actors in such numbers as almost to darken the sky as they circle round and round.

The object of the hunt is to separate the cattle of the different owners, and to drive them into their respective corrals or majadas. Tame cattle are employed to assist in the operation, and are stationed at various places round the circle. The horsemen, dashing in among the mass of excited animals, fearless of the points of their sharp horns, drive out with their lances those they recognise as their own property—known by the notches on their ears—goading them with their lances. The animals, now separated with wonderful skill, are, with their calves, urged towards the groups of their well-trained kindred, who lead them on towards the destined corral. Often, however, suspecting treachery, they turn round and attempt to escape, rushing with mad fury towards the horsemen—many of whose steeds are thus pierced by their horns, and the riders, overthrown, with difficulty escaping.

Thus they at length reach the entrance of the corral, which is in the shape of a funnel, composed of stout posts strengthened by thick rafters. Here the most desperate struggle often ensues; but the bulls are met by an array of the rattling garrochas; and though some may escape at the last, the great mass are, by the skill of the Llaneros, at length secured within the corral,—many of the cattle receiving desperate wounds.

These farms of the Llanos, built in the roughest and most primitive style, are surrounded by fences, intended not only to resist the rush of a herd of cattle, but the attack of human foes. The inclosures are formed of huge trunks of trees, driven close together into the ground. It would seem difficult to account for the way in which they are brought across the plain. This is done, however, during the inundation of the savannahs, when they are transported to the spot on rafts made of lighter wood,—the timbers themselves being composed of a species of acacia of extreme hardness, and from their nature capable of resisting the effects of alternation of climate for many years. Many of these corrals are sufficiently spacious to contain three thousand head of cattle.

When the animal is to be caught for slaughter, the horsemen go in chase, the one securing it by his lasso over its head and dragging it along, while the other urges it on with his garrocha till it reaches the slaughter-post. The first then secures the animal by a few turns of the lasso round it, while a matador strikes his dagger into the vertebras at the back of the head, when the animal drops as if struck by an electric spark.

These wild horsemen, when crossing a river, hesitate not to plunge in, in spite of the alligators which may be swarming on every side. While their clothes are carried across in a hide-formed canoe, put together at the moment, they dash into the stream without clothes or saddles, and then slipping from the backs of their horses, support themselves on the animals’ haunches with one hand, while they guide them by means of the halter with the other—their companions on the shore shouting, yelling, and shaking their ponchos, to drive the rest of the herd into the water. The caymans, alarmed by the uproar, keep at a distance; but the savage little caribes frequently attack them, and many thus fall.

Besides cattle, horses, and mules, vast numbers of hogs range over the plain,—the descendants of those introduced by the early settlers, and which are now, from their ferocity, and the formidable size of their tusks, considered foes worthy of the lances of the bold horsemen. These lances, generally used in hunting, have played no insignificant part in the hands of the Llaneros, as well as in those of some of the fierce tribes of the desert, during the civil wars which so long disturbed the country.

A profusion of fruits in a state of nature grow in the woods and plains. Among them are several species of wild guavas. Some are of exquisite flavour and aroma. One sort bears in rich profusion a number of brilliant scarlet, highly perfumed, and acidulous fruits. There are various kinds of custard apples, the inside a sweet and highly aromatic pulp filled with small seeds. Also the madroña, which resembles the lemon in shape and colour, and filled with a pulp enveloping several large nuts, the flavour not unlike strawberries. The tree which produces these fruits attains a height of sixty feet, and has a dense foliage of a brilliant green.

On a vine grows the monkey cacao bean, which these animals eagerly devour.

There are many leguminous trees, some bearing pods ten inches long, filled with rows of black beans enveloped in a snow-white and agreeably sweet pulp. Here also is the algarobo, or locust-tree of the New World; bearing pods filled with beans surrounded by a sweet farinaceous substance, of a highly nutritious quality.

Indeed, Venezuela is behind no other region of the world in the variety and quality of its natural productions.

Part 4—Chapter II.

Guiana.

A wide belt of low land borders the ocean side of Guiana on the north-east of the continent, where white men dwell, in houses elevated on piles of timber, among sugar-estates and cotton-plantations, tall windmills, and numerous canals crowded with shipping, which would present a thoroughly Dutch scene were it not for the stately cocoa-nut and cabbage-palms rising amid them, the dark-skinned labourers, the blue sky, and burning heat. The province is, however, for the most part a region of rugged mountains, dense forests, open savannahs, broad streams, cataracts, waterfalls, and rapids; where the yet untamed savage, making war on his neighbours, and sunk in the grossest barbarism, lives as his predecessors have done for centuries past.

Through the centre of the territory flows the Essequibo, the largest river between the Amazon and the Orinoco. Its source is among the same mountains which give birth to some of the tributaries of those mighty rivers, the one running to the north, the other to the south; thus adding to the wonderful network which unites the waters of South America.

It was through this region that the gallant Raleigh, and many bands of Spanish adventurers in succession, in spite of the most terrific dangers and difficulties, fought their way amid hostile natives in search of the far-famed El Dorado. Among the first bands was that led by the celebrated Philip Von Huten. They had heard that in the interior of the country there existed a golden region, surpassing even the wildest descriptions of that of Peru. It was said that some of the royal race of the Incas, escaping from their Spanish invaders, had established a new dynasty amid the mountains, on the shores of a beautiful lake, the sands of which contained gold in prodigious quantities. The houses of his capital were covered with plates of gold. The vessels of the royal palace were of the same metal; and so abundant was it, that the natives, anointing their bodies with a glutinous substance, sprinkled them over with the dust. The person of the sovereign was especially thus adorned by his attendants. Oviedo remarks—“As this kind of garment would be uneasy whilst sleeping, the prince washes himself every evening, and is gilded afresh in the morning;” thus proving that the empire of El Dorado is infinitely rich in mines.

Von Huten and his band, after desperate fighting, were compelled to retire, just as they believed they had seen in the far-off distance the shining roofs of the splendid city. Their leader was preparing another expedition when he fell by the hand of an assassin.

Notwithstanding the dangers to be encountered from the fierce Caribs—who, sheltered by trees and rocks everywhere, attacked their foes with poisoned arrows—and the numerous disappointments which occurred, fresh bands of adventurers, age after age, still believing in the fabled wealth which was to be their prize should they succeed, set forth, in hope of reaching the wonderful city. Some of Sir Walter Raleigh’s followers declared, indeed, that they saw rocks shining brightly with gold, and a mountain containing diamonds and other valuable stones, the lustre of which blazed forth to a considerable distance.

Every marvellous fable found belief. The crew of an English ship, about that time exploring the Marowyne, stated that they had seen on its banks a gigantic race of men, who carried in their hands bows made of gold. Wherever mica was seen glittering on the side of a mountain, it was supposed to be the same precious metal. Sir Walter Raleigh sent his faithful lieutenant, Captain Keymis, to carry on the expedition he was himself unable to undertake. His chief object, and that of his successors, was to discover the site of the golden city. Keymis, while sailing up the Essequibo, heard that by ascending one of its tributaries—the Rupunoony—he would certainly reach it.

Numerous other expeditions were organised by Spaniards and Portuguese. Many of the unfortunate adventurers fell by the hands of the natives, others by famine and fatigue; and as late as the year 1776 a large band set forth, when many hundreds perished, one man only returning to tell the sad fate of his companions.

At length, in the quarter to which Captain Keymis had been directed, the small lake of Amucu was discovered, to which a river called the Parinia is connected; and from the geological structure of the surrounding country, is supposed to have been formerly much larger than at present. Within and around it are islands and, rocks of mica, slate, and talc; “the materials,” observes Humboldt, “out of which has been formed that gorgeous capital, whose temples and houses were overlaid with beaten plates of gold.” Schombergh, who visited the lake, agrees with the German philosopher. Another traveller, Hillhouse, in 1830 ascended the Masaruni, which flows from the northern side of the mountains of Roraima, among which the lake is situated; and believes that its romantic valley was once the bed of a large lake twelve miles in width, and upwards of one hundred miles in length,—which long ago burst its barriers and gave rise to the fable still preserved among the Indians, and, till within almost the present century, believed in by the colonists themselves.

Rivers:—The Essequibo.

Let us take a glance over some of the rivers of the land.

The Essequibo, called by the Indians the “younger brother of the Orinoco,” first claims attention. The mouth has rather the appearance of a vast lake than a river, its shores bordered by thick groves of that tree of curious structure, the mangrove, whose roots or seeds, borne on the ocean wave, strike wherever they can find a muddy soil, throughout every part of the tropics. Rising upwards on the roots, which it shoots downwards as it grows, the base of its stem is often six or eight feet from the ground—the stem itself seldom more than a foot in diameter, and from fifteen to twenty feet in height. Its thick stiff ribs, about eight inches long and nine inches wide, are of a dark sombre hue. This broad estuary, extending inland for thirty miles or more, with numerous picturesque islands covered by tropical vegetation rising out of it, is joined by the united streams of the Masaruni and Cuyuni, its own and their romantic waterfalls making a continuous navigation up them impossible. Yet, notwithstanding its impediments, these rivers afford the only means of communication, except along the foot-tracks of the Indians, through the dense forests, into the far-off interior. These forests commence in many parts close to the ocean, spreading often for thousands of square miles, broken sometimes by swamps, and at others by wide savannahs, open spaces covered with grasses, and here and there clumps of trees. Even the sand-hills of moderate height bordering the Atlantic are clothed by the superb vegetation of the tropics,—the forest extending to, and even climbing up the sides of the Rocky Mountains. Vast timber trees, the purple and green heart, the stately mora, the locust-tree, raise their heads above their smaller brethren, conquering in the struggle for room to allow their foliage to expand; while below, the moist carpet of fallen leaves, fungi, and moss, increases the richness of the vegetation. Here also are numerous graceful palms,—the cocorite, from which the Indians form their poisoned arrows; the troali, with broad and long leaves, used for thatching their huts. The graceful manicol, rising to a great height, bends, like the weeping willow, its slender stem over the stream; and, with several other species of palm, it affords the succulent cabbage. Beautiful parasites hang in every direction from the trunks and boughs—sipos ascending and clinging in intricate network, interlacing the trunks and branches, and often supporting the remnants of the trees they themselves by their fatal embrace have destroyed; indeed, the same style of forest here exists as throughout the Valley of the Amazon.

As the flora is much the same on a similar altitude, so there is little difference in the fauna, although some species are found in Guiana which are unknown in the latter region. The native tribes, however—the red men of the wilds—differ considerably. Near the supposed site of the famed El Dorado at Pirara, situated on the borders of Brazil, some thirty years ago, an attempt was made to carry, not the gold that perishes, but the joyful news of salvation, to the long-benighted Indians in that region. It was blessed, and was prospering greatly, and gave promise of the speedy conversion of the Macusi tribe and others, when some Brazilian Roman Catholic priests, hearing of it, determined on its destruction, and induced their government to claim the region as Brazilian territory. A detachment of militia was despatched, and took possession of the village. The Indians, fearing lest the Brazilians might conduct them into slavery, dispersed into the forests and mountains, while the missionary with difficulty escaped with his life.

The distance to be traversed from the British capital of George Town to Pirara is about three hundred miles; and though the scenery is of that enchanting character which, as the enthusiastic Waterton describes it, made his soul overflow with joy, and roam in fancy through fairyland, yet, as it is through an almost uninhabited country, with numerous rapids and torrents, woods to be traversed, and mountains to be climbed, the difficulties are not contemptible.

“To surmount these obstacles to navigation,” say Mr Brett, “it is necessary in some places to carry or haul the canoe overland at the sides of the fall. At others, advantage is taken of the eddies which are found at the base, and huge rocks that intercept the stream. The Indians pass from rock to rock by leaping, wading, or swimming, and, by means of a hawser, haul the boat through the rushing water from one resting-point to another, the steersman keeping his seat, and—sometimes lashed to it—striving with his large paddle to guide in some degree her course. The roar of the water dashing and foaming against the surrounding rocks renders this operation as exciting as it is difficult. Still more exciting and difficult is the task of descending these rapids. The safety of all then depends on their perfect steadiness, and on the bowman and steersman acting in concert, and with instant decision. The canoe is kept in the very centre of the current, one of her best hands kneeling with quick eye and ready paddles in the bow, and the rest of the crew exerting their strength to give her headway. Darting swiftly along, she arrives at the head of the fall, and bounding downward, shoots into the surf below it, dashing it up on either side, and leaving her crew alone visible. If all be well, rising above the foam, she obeys the guiding paddles in stem and stern, and dances over the tumbling waves, while her excited crew exult at their success. Whole families, however, even of Indians, are sometimes drowned; and in 1805 Captain Beresford, son-in-law of the governor, and four other gentlemen, with two of their crew, lost their lives in shooting the lower falls of the Masaruni.”

The Berbice River.

On the Berbice, which falls into the Atlantic about sixty miles eastward of George Town, the falls and rapids—which do not, however, reach to within one hundred and sixty miles of its mouth—are very numerous. While the scenery round them is highly picturesque, they are extremely dangerous. Here is found the cascade of Idurewadde; and higher up, the cataract of Itabru. Above these again are more than forty falls and rapids, called by Schombergh the Christmas Cataracts, and which cost him and his companions immense labour to surmount. On their return, one of the party, rashly standing on the thwarts of the canoe while shooting the falls, upset it and was drowned.

Huge caymans abound in the river, and lie like logs of wood at the foot of the cataracts or rapids, watching stealthily to catch and swallow whatever the fierce current may bring down to them.

Above these falls is a lagoon, on which he discovered the now far-famed Victoria Regia, before that time unknown to the world. At the head of the Masaruni rises Mount Roraima, 7540 feet in height. It is the principal watershed, from which various streams flow in different directions into the three great rivers—Amazon, Orinoco, and Essequibo. Hillhouse and Schombergh describe the side of the mountain as composed of cliffs, fifteen hundred feet in height, of compact sandstone, as perpendicular as if erected with the plumb-line, and overhung in part with low shrubs. Though distant, they appear as if in dangerous proximity. Around are detached masses, apparently torn from those gigantic walls of nature; and every moment it seems as if one of them would block up the path, or cut off all retreat. In places the channel of the stream is so narrow that the canoe can hardly pass, in others it widens out into a shallow claret-coloured lake. At length a capacious basin is entered, black as ink, surrounded by a bold and extensive shore as white as chalk. The roar of the water is heard, but no current perceived; though there is a foam-like yeast on the surface, which remains all day without visible alteration. At length, in the distance, a broken white line is seen struggling through a cluster of granite rocks at the base of two quartz cliffs of a mixed character. This is the fall of Macrebah.

The Arecuna Indians.

In those mountain regions dwell the Arecunas, a fine sturdy race—with clear copper-tinted skins—unencumbered by clothing, though wearing feathers and other ornaments; long sticks through the cartilage of their nostrils, and still longer, richly adorned with tufts of black feathers, through their ears. Both sexes are much tattooed; some of the women having dark blue lines across the upper lip, and extending in wavy curves over each cheek, looking like enormous curled moustaches. Others have a broad line round the mouth, which gives it the appearance of being far larger than it is in reality. The men wear the heads of humming-birds and of a bird of a beautiful blue colour in their ears; and round their waist, girdles of monkey’s hair.

Schombergh, who visited them, says they made a great feast in his honour, when there was a grand display of gorgeous plumes, and head-dresses,—the whole winged tribe having apparently been put in requisition to furnish forth the most brilliant of their feathers. They had also necklaces of the teeth of monkeys and peccaries, and porcupines’ quills; to which were attached long cotton fringes—which hung down their backs, and to which toucan and other skins were suspended securely. Feasting and dancing, kept up by the natives thus dressed, lasted the whole night; and the constantly-repeated burden of their song was—“Roraima of the red rock, wrapped in clouds, the ever-fertile source of streams.”

The Corentyn River.

Eastward of the Berbice, and greatly inferior in size to the Essequibo, is the Corentyn, which has its source near the equator, and forms the boundary of the British colony. A few Indians of various tribes dwell on its banks near the mouth, but above their last settlement desolation reigns supreme.

On the rocks near its banks may be seen a few rude carvings, the handiwork of a race long passed away. Day after day the voyager on its waters passes amid the wildest and most romantic scenery,—amid numerous islands, rocks, and rapids; but no human beings are seen—not a light canoe on its waters, not an habitation on its banks. At length, after a nine days’ voyage, enormous rocks appear heaped together, opposing progress; vast chasms yawn beneath his feet when he lands, and at certain places the streams sink into the earth as if by magic, to reappear where least expected. A thundering noise is heard, and a mist hovers in the air, in which thousands of birds disport themselves,—marking the position of the great cataracts of the Corentyn. The scene, however, is too vast to be beheld in its full grandeur from any single point of view. No waterfall in the territory surpasses them in grandeur.

The fierce Caribs, in the days of their power, inhabited the banks of the river, engaged in carrying into slavery the people of other tribes from far and near; but they, and those they oppressed, have passed away—a few families only of their descendants remaining here and there—the one to boast of the prowess of their ancestors, the other to tell the tale of their woes.

The Demerara River.

High up the River Demerara—on which George Town, the capital of the colony, is built—where the river forces its way through the dense forest, is a fall of great picturesque beauty. Here, says Mr Brett, the cataract precipitates itself in one body over the rocky barrier; and huge masses of rock, crowned with stately trees, divide it into channels ere it reaches its lower bed. Of these channels, there are two large ones in the centre, with smaller ones on either side. All are filled with great boulders, over which the dark waters toss and dash until they roll into the wide basin below, covering its surface and margin with masses of yeasty foam. The length of the fall appears to be three or four hundred feet, though the perpendicular difference between the levels of the river above and below is sixty-five feet. Three-fourths of this cataract is hid from view by the luxuriant forest which clothes its sides and covers its islands. The misty spray—rising, when the river is full, from the channels between the tall trees—the rushing noise, and a glimpse of the torrent here and there, show imperfectly its divided course. Could a clear view be obtained of it, it would be found to contain a spectacle full of beauty and interest.

Between that point and the Essequibo, with which the Demerara runs parallel, is a remarkable—almost perpendicular—rock called Maboora, the uppermost of a succession of natural terraces. The ascent to the summit from the forest below occupies some hours. From hence the broad Essequibo can be seen flowing, partly hidden by the range of hills. Its face is broken up by the rains of ages into huge boulders, but the top is level. In its western base is a large cavern, having an inner chamber with a narrow entrance. Here the beautiful cock of the rocks, adorned with golden orange tints and double fan-like crest, makes his abode. The nests of these brilliant birds are at some distance from the sandy floor, and attached to the rocky sides.

Native Tribes.

But we must pass from the scenery of this region of cataracts and forests, to take another glance at the wild tribes who inhabit it. The most numerous and ferocious at one time, by far, were the cannibal Caribs; who for ages had inhabited the country, and were joined by their brethren, driven by the Spaniards from the islands they had long occupied. Whether the whole race had originally come from the north, scattering their bands and taking possession of the islands they passed, seems uncertain.

When Columbus discovered the islands, to which he gave the name of the people, he had full evidence of their courage, ferocity, and cannibal propensities. At the same time, they paid great attention to agriculture, and brought home seeds and plants from the territories they overran. They were in the habit of attacking; other islands and the mainland, and carrying off the women as slaves; making prisoners of the men, to be killed and eaten. Their arms were clubs, and bows and poisoned arrows. Even the women were expert archers, and when their husbands were away remained to defend their homes. The hair of these savages was coarse and long—their eyes, surrounded with paint, giving them a hideous expression; while their limbs were bound with bands of cotton, causing them to swell out into disproportionate size where unconfined. When attacked by the Spaniards, the men refused to be taken alive, and the women defended themselves with the fiercest courage after the death of their husbands.

In the British island of Saint Vincent several bands remained, who devastated the plantations, and committed many atrocities,—especially in the revolutionary war, when they were stirred up by the French. They were removed by the British Government to the island of Ruatan, in the Bay of Honduras, whence they emigrated to the neighbouring coast. Meantime, they were extending their power on the Southern Continent, and became the dominant race on the Orinoco and Essequibo, their excursions reaching even to the provinces watered by the Amazon. Wherever they appeared, the other tribes were driven for refuge to the mountains and forests. They even ventured to attack the white settlers, and endeavoured to drive out the Spaniards from the city of Valencia when first established.

They incessantly attacked the natives on the banks of the Orinoco, sometimes ascending that river in numerous canoes; at other times crossing the highlands, and descending one or other of its tributaries, they would come suddenly on their foes, never failing to exterminate all who were their inferiors in power. They were, however, often fiercely opposed by some other tribes, and vast numbers cut off. During the fearful revolt of the negroes in the Dutch provinces, several tribes of them were engaged by the Dutch Government to assist the whites. Making their way through the forest, and concealing themselves by day, they would sally forth by night and attack the villages of the revolters—setting fire to their roofs, and slaughtering the inmates, who fled from their burning habitations.

Sir Walter Raleigh describes them as a naked people, but valiant as any under the sky: and thus they remained, still rude and savage, till the common fate of other tribes overtook them. Powerful as they were, these wild hordes could only fight, overrun, oppress, and destroy; and even in their highest prosperity they were incapable of accomplishing any great and useful work. Up to the close of the last century they were the most numerous, as well as the most warlike, of all the tribes.

Though their chiefs were not hereditary, if a son equalled his father in courage and skill, he succeeded to his power. To attain that office, it was necessary for him to be acquainted with every art and stratagem of savage warfare, and to possess more strength and bravery than the rest of his tribe. When a Carib aspired to be the chief, it was customary to expose him to the biting of ants; and if he could bear the torture without flinching, then he was considered fit for the office.

When a band determined on a predatory excursion, they would often, unlike other tribes, attack their enemies in the daytime, paddling their canoes against the current in order that the sound of their paddles should be heard by their enemies, and allow them time to prepare for battle. That they were cannibals, there appears no doubt; at least, they feasted on their enemies taken in battle, whose flesh they tore and devoured with the avidity of wolves. The men were put to death, while the women and children were preserved to be sold into slavery.

Scattered tribes still exist in different parts of the interior. The dress of the women is merely a narrow strip of blue cloth; and their naked bodies are smeared with arnatto, which gives them the appearance of bleeding from every pore. Some dot their bodies and limbs over with blue spots. They wear round the leg, just below the knee, a tight strap of cotton, and another above each ankle. These are bound on when a girl is young, and hinder the growth of the parts by their compression, while the calf, which is unconfined, appears in consequence unnaturally large. Through the lower lip, which they perforate, they wear two or three pins with the points outwards. Should they wish to use one of them, they take it out, and afterwards replace it. The men secure a cloth round the loins, often of sufficient length to form a kind of scarf; and to prevent it trailing on the ground, throw it in a graceful way over the shoulder, so that part of it falls on the bosom, while the end hangs down the back. It is often ornamented with cotton tassels, and is the most decent and serviceable, as well as the most picturesque, covering worn by any of the native tribes. Sometimes a coronal of flowers surrounds the head, which is usually adorned by a large daub of arnatto on the hair above the brow; while the forehead and cheeks are painted in various patterns with the same vermilion colour, which adds extreme ferocity to their appearance. Some of the men also smear their bodies with arnatto, as do the women. They are generally well-proportioned, and more elegant in figure than the other races. The women are noted for weaving excellent and durable hammocks of cotton—a plant which they cultivate for that purpose.

When a chief died, his bones, after burial for some time, were cleansed by the women, and carefully preserved in their houses. Several other tribes follow a similar custom; allowing, however, the bones to be deprived of flesh by the ravenous little caribes. After being carefully dried, and tinged with red, they are placed in baskets and suspended from the roofs of their houses. Among those who have embraced Christianity, these and many other barbarous customs have been abandoned.

The object of many of their raids of later years was to obtain captives to sell to the Dutch. When slavery was abolished by the British, this incentive to cruelty no longer existed. The fierce Caribs were, however, very indignant at the new order of things. A Carib chief arriving with a slave, offered him for sale to the English governor. On the refusal of the latter to make the purchase, the savage dashed out the brains of the slave, declaring that for the future his nation would never give quarter—one of many instances of their fearful ferocity. The Carib club is made of the heaviest wood to be found. It is about eighteen inches long, flat, and square at both ends, but heavier at one than the other. It is thinner in the middle, and wound round with cotton thread, with a loop to secure it to the wrist. One blow from this formidable weapon—which is called “patu”—is sufficient to scatter the brains of the person struck. Sometimes a sharp stone is fixed in one end to increase its weight.

The Arawaks.

Differing greatly from the Caribs, the Arawaks, who live in the neighbourhood of the British settlements, have ever been noted for their mild and peaceable disposition. But still they have been compelled to fight for their independence, and use bows and arrows and clubs—the latter formidable weapon being similar to that of the Caribs. More family affection than other tribes usually exhibit exists among them. Husbands and wives appear faithful and attached, and live happily together. The boys are early trained to fish and paddle their canoes; while the girls assist their mothers, who generally have to do more work than the men. The power of their chiefs, who were formerly called caciques, has almost entirely ceased; indeed, their ancient manners and customs have been greatly changed by their intercourse with the whites. Those living still further in the country, however, practise many of their barbarous customs.

Mr Brett describes a scene he witnessed on the Lake Wakapoa—a dance given in honour of a deceased female, who had been buried in the house where it took place. A broad plank lay on her grave, and on it were placed two bundles, containing the refuse of the silk-grass, of which whips—employed as will be described—were made. There were also two rudely-carved birds in wood, the other figures intended to represent infants. Two large tubs of paiwari—an intoxicating liquor—had also been prepared.

The young men and boys, fantastically adorned, were arranged in two parallel rows facing each other; each holding in his right hand a whip, called the maquarri, more than three feet long, and capable of giving a severe cut—as their bleeding legs soon amply testified. The dance in which they were engaged takes its name from this whip. They waved them in their hands as they danced, uttering alternate cries, resembling the note of a bird often heard in the forests.

At some little distance from the dancers were couples of men lashing each other on the leg. The man whose turn it was to receive the lash stood firmly on one leg, advancing the other; while his adversary, stooping, took deliberate aim, and, springing from the earth to add vigour to his stroke, gave his opponent a severe cut. The latter gave no other sign that he was hurt than a contemptuous smile, though blood must have been drawn by the lash. After a short dance, his opponent returned the compliment with equal force. Nothing could exceed the good-humour with which these proceedings were carried on. One of the men was scarcely able to walk, after the punishment; but, in general, after a few lashes they drank paiwari, and returned to the main body of dancers, from which fresh couples were continually falling out to test each other’s mettle.

At length, on a signal from the master of the house, the dancing ceased, and all the men, arranging themselves in procession, went round the building with slow and measured steps, the plank and the wooden images being carried before them.

After this they arranged themselves near the grave, and one of them chanted something in a low voice, to which the others answered at intervals with four moans by way of chorus. The articles carried in procession were then taken to a hole previously dug in the earth, and buried there. Two or three men appointed for the purpose then drew forth their long knives, and rushing in among the dancers, snatched the whips from them, cut off the lash from each, and buried them with the other articles.

The Guaranis.

The tribes of the Guaranis, or Waraus, who once inhabited the eastern side of the continent, from the La Plata to the Orinoco, still exist, sunk still lower in barbarism even than formerly. So little do they care for clothing, that even the females wear only a small piece of the bark of a tree, or the net-like covering of the young leaf of the cocoa-nut or cabbage-palm; while their appearance is squalid in the extreme. They still, however, exhibit the characteristics which distinguished them in days of yore,—readiness to yield to circumstances, to labour for wages, and to receive instruction from the white man. Thus they have continued to exist whilst more warlike tribes have been exterminated. They cultivate cassava and other vegetables. From the former they make the intoxicating paiwari—the cause of many savage murders among them. They depend greatly on the pith of the mauritia, or ita, as it serves them for bread; while of other parts of the tree they construct their dwellings.

The younger people possess good features—some of them wearing thin pieces of silver suspended from the cartilage of the nostrils. They are generally short, stoutly built, and capable of great exertion. They are much sought after for labourers. They are also noted for making the best and largest canoes in the country, and with the rudest implements. The Spaniards are said to have employed some of their canoes which could carry one hundred men. Those in use even at the present day are capable of carrying fifty people.

Though scattered throughout the country, the proper territory of their nation is on the low swampy country which borders the banks of the Orinoco; but their lands being completely inundated by the overflowing of the rivers for some months in each year, they construct their dwellings above the water, among the mauritia palms, whose crowns of fan-like leaves wave above their heads and shield them from the rays of the burning sun. Not only does this palm afford them shelter and the materials for constructing their habitations, but it gives them an abundance of food for the support of life. To the upright trunks of the trees, which they use as posts, they fix the lower beams of their habitations, a few feet above the highest level of the water. On this framework they lay the split trunks of smaller palms for flooring. Above it a roof is formed, thatched with the leaves of the same tree,—from which they also procure their chief means of subsistence. From the upper beams the hammocks are suspended; while on the flooring a hearth of clay is formed, on which fires are lit for cooking their food. Then their canoes, or woibakas, as they are called, enable them to procure food from the water, and give them the means of moving from place to place.

No tree is more useful to the natives than the mauritia. Before unfolding its leaves its blossoms contain a sago-like meal, which is dried in thin, bread-like slices. The sap is converted into palm-wine. The narrow scaled fruit, which resembles reddish pine-cones, yields different articles of food—according to the period at which it is gathered—whether the saccharine properties are fully matured, or whether it is still in a farinaceous condition.

The Guaranis have of late years come under the influence of Christian Protestant missions.

The Macusis.

In the neighbourhood of the Lake Parima, the Macusis, as well as other tribes, have their homes. The former are noted for being the manufacturers of the celebrated wourali poison described by Waterton. Numerous other tribes, or sections of tribes with different names, exist in the far interior,—both westward and to the north and south. Those inhabiting the Lower Amazon possess some degree of civilisation, and are known under the general name of Tapuyos—from a once powerful nation of that name, existing towards the southern part of the Brazilian coast, and driven northward by still fiercer hordes.

Though less cruel, and frequently sparing the lives of their captives, they had the strange custom of eating a portion of their dead relatives, as the last mark of affection. Many of the Brazilian tribes were reclaimed from their more barbarous practices by the Portuguese missionaries, who from their numerous dialects formed the language now generally in use—the Tupi, Guarani, or lingua Geral. The remoter tribes, however, seeing the way the milder races have been oppressed by unscrupulous traders, and hunted down by government officials to be taken as soldiers, resolutely defend their territories from all strangers, and retain the ferocity and cannibalism of their forefathers.

The Acawoios.

It is pleasing to read of a tribe described by McClintock as superior in domestic virtues to most of their countrymen. The Acawoios, or Kaphons, though warlike, differ from other tribes in many points. Polygamy is not permitted before a suitable age. The women are virtuous, and attentive both in sickness and old age. After a birth, the mother is relieved even from the labour of preparing food for her husband, that she may attend to her child. They are cleanly, hospitable, and generous, and passionately fond of their children. They seldom talk above a whisper among themselves, and however intoxicated—which they sometimes become—never quarrel; nay, more, an angry look is never discernible. They use tobacco; not chewing it, however, but simply keeping it between the lips, for the purpose of appeasing hunger and preserving their teeth. They live towards the head-waters of the Essequibo. On the whole, a more orderly and peaceably-disposed people can scarcely be found anywhere.

The customs of the fierce tribes, though differing in some respects, agree in many others. They are in general indolent, and find clothing unnecessary; they have little to provide beyond their daily food, and thus spend much of their time in their hammocks, leaving the women to labour in the plantations and attend to their domestic concerns. They are, perhaps, more apathetic in manner than reality, having great control over their feelings. Like the whole race, their senses are extremely acute, and kept in constant exercise by following game or tracking an enemy through the forest. They are keen observers of natural objects, and have a considerable knowledge of medicinal and poisonous plants, as well as of the habits of the animals, birds, reptiles, and insects which inhabit their country. They observe the virtue of hospitality, and are fond of paying visits to their friends at a distance—expecting to be treated in the same way. Theft is unusual among them; and so great is their love of liberty that they can seldom be induced to follow the customs of civilised life.

Drunkenness drives them often to fearful excesses—most of their quarrels springing from that cause. Their dances, though in a certain degree graceful, consist chiefly in stamping on the ground, balancing on one foot, and staggering in different attitudes as if intoxicated—the music being generally monotonous and dismal. Mr Brett describes a curious trial of strength which the Guaranis exercise at their drinking bouts. Each of the antagonists is furnished with a shield made of strips of the mauritia, cut into equal lengths, and firmly lashed across a frame three or four feet in height, but somewhat less in width, and slightly bending downwards. The front of each shield is painted in various colours with some peculiar device, while fastened to the upper edge are elastic stems adorned with coloured tassels and streamers. Each champion grasps the edges of his shield firmly with both hands, and, after various feints and grimaces to throw his opponent off his guard, a clash is heard as one springs forward and his shield strikes that of his antagonist. The contest is generally one of mere strength, the shield being pushed forward by the whole force of the body and supported by one knee, while the other leg is extended firmly behind. Sometimes one of the players is able to push the other off the ground, or, by a dexterous slip and thrust on the flank, sends him rolling on the sand; but more frequently they remain pressing, panting, and struggling until exhausted, when the contest ceases by mutual consent. It is then a point of etiquette to shake the shields at each other in a jeering manner—with a tremulous motion of their elastic ornaments—and to utter a defiant sound like the whinnying of a young horse. This is generally followed by a hearty, good-natured laugh, in which the bystanders join. Another couple then step forward and engage.

Polygamy exists among most of the tribes, and is the great bane of Indian domestic life. Among the Caribs, especially, the woman is always in bondage to her male relations. To her father, brother, or husband she is a slave, and seldom has any power in the disposal of herself. Among the Macusis, the custom of selling even their near relations prevails. When a man dies, his wife and children are at the disposal of his eldest surviving brother, who may sell or kill them at pleasure.

Among their worst features is their proneness to blood revenge, by which, as among other savages, a succession of retaliatory murders is long kept up. They believe also, when a person dies, that his death is caused by the agency of an evil spirit secured by some enemy; and, having settled who that person is, will follow his steps till they find an opportunity of assassinating him. They are acquainted with several poisonous plants, to which they sometimes resort to destroy those whom they consider their enemies.

Although the savage Indian has some idea of the power of God, which he deduces from the phenomena of nature—such as thunder and lightning—and believes in his goodness in supplying him with cassava and other provisions, yet his whole worship is devoted to propitiate the malignant spirits, to avert evil which might otherwise overtake him; while he has great faith in the power of the native sorcerers, who practise on his credulity. The Guaranis are the most renowned as sorcerers. The huts which are set apart for the performance of their superstitious rites are regarded with great veneration. They believe in various spirits—some of the forests and others of the water—as also in the power of charms and potions; while they have numerous legends by which they account for the creation of the world, the deluge, and many natural objects—some of them apparently derived from the Peruvians and Mexicans, and other more civilised races.

The languages spoken by different tribes are very dissimilar, many common objects being called by names which have no approach to each other in sound. This, however, rather proves the length of time they have existed in the country, their isolation from each other, and the admixture which has from time to time taken place, than that they sprang originally from different stocks. The Guarani appears to be the simplest and most easily acquired of any of the languages, and is still spoken as far south as the La Plata, as well as on the banks of the Orinoco. The Arawak language is remarkable for its softness. The Carib tongue, somewhat more guttural than the former, is spoken in a smart, vivacious manner. “Those who speak it in its purity, regard as corrupt the language of those Caribs who elsewhere have intermarried with other races,” observes Mr Brett. It may easily be understood how an unwritten tongue can, in the course of ages, be thus totally changed, so as to bear no resemblance to the original language. Although in some there is a wide distinction, there are others in which all the Indian dialects seem to agree. In their method of numeration, especially, the first four numbers are represented by simple words. Although the Indian children learn to read and write with facility, they acquire with difficulty the simplest rudiments of arithmetic. This arises from their general method of numeration—five is represented by one hand; two hands, ten; then they use the toes, and call twenty by the name of “loko,” or man. They then proceed by men or scores. Thus forty-five is laboriously expressed by a word signifying two men and one hand upon it. Some of the Indian words are of great length. Among the Arawaks, such words as lokoborokwatoasia (his thought, or remembrance), rabuintimen-rutibanano (eighteen), are continually used. “Notwithstanding these,” says Monsieur du Ponceau, “the Indian languages are rich in words and grammatical forms, and in their complicated construction the greatest order, method, and regularity prevail.”

Mounds full of Human Remains.

Undoubted proof has been discovered of the cannibal propensities of some large tribe now passed away, in mounds situated on high ground, and in swamps in the neighbourhood of the coast. On opening one of them—upwards of 20 feet in height and 130 in diameter at its base—it was found to be composed of shells mixed with a large number of broken bones, apparently the relics of meals. The shells were chiefly periwinkles; there were also mussels, the large claws of crabs, the bones of vertebrate fishes and land animals, as well as some hard slabs of pottery resembling the baking-pans used by the wilder tribes at the present day. Among them, the labourers were startled by coming upon human bones, in irregular positions and at unequal depths, huddled and jumbled together. The skulls, some of which were of great thickness, were in fragments. The long bones had all been cracked open, and contained sand and dust. Each mass appeared to have been deposited, without ceremony, in a common heap. Scarcely any were found in natural juxtaposition. Having dug up the bones of several adults, the labourers came upon the remains of a little child; one side of its head had been beaten in, and other bones broken open. With these human relics several stone axes or tomahawks, most of them broken, were dug up; and a sharp-edged stone, which might have been used as a knife. The Indians engaged in the work were very uneasy at having meddled with the human remains, or, as they said, “troubled the bones of the old time people.”

Other mounds of similar appearance were opened, and found filled with similar contents. Though some of the long bones had been broken up, in several instances they had not been severed from each other at the large joints, but merely doubled or twisted one upon the other before they were cast aside.

Mr Brett continues: “It was impossible to explain by any supposition of respectful or decent interment the broken condition of these relics, the violence with which they had been treated, or the apparent contumely with which they had been cast into the common receptacle for refuse matter. The great depth at which many of these remains were found, seemed a convincing proof that they had not been deposited after the completion of the shell heap, but during its accumulation. An old Indian with whom I discussed the matter expressed the opinion of his people very plainly: ‘That,’ said he, ‘is the way in which the nations who used to eat men always broke open the bones to get out the marrow; so our fathers have told us.’” The Caribs anxiously stated that they knew nothing whatever about the mound, and that their fathers had never lived in its neighbourhood. Two other mounds were afterwards discovered; one 250 feet in length and 90 feet in width, and about the same height as the former, and similarly situated. Among the remains were the bones of a man who must have been of large stature and of immense strength. His skull, which was very thick and hard, was found to have been broken in twenty-seven pieces, which all fitted exactly; but when built up, a hole still remained in the right side near the crown, where it would seem the fatal blow—by a pointed stone tomahawk—had been given. Some of the mounds appeared to be of later formation, and in them fragments of pottery were found, though in the older ones none were discovered. While searching over these fragments, the first personal ornaments yet found were discovered,—two small plates of silver with holes bored in them, by which they must have been suspended from the ears. One had lost a corner; but they had originally been cut or broken to the same size and form, and were evidently a pair. Between them lay a skull, which had been placed by itself, and was the first found unbroken. The ornaments, from their position, seemed to have been detached from the head when deposited there. A few feet from that relic lay the limbs of a female, of slight and delicate form. They were unbroken, and much slighter than any others found there. Between the plates was the fragment of a piece of cotton cord which had attached one of the plates to the ear.

While everything about the relics from the previous mounds indicated the savage condition of the people who formed them, these little silver trinkets, though rude, proved feelings approaching women in a state of civilisation. They, with the unbroken condition and comparative soundness of the bones found near them, bring us nearer our own times. As the state of the remains differed from those of the others, so probably did the period and circumstances of the poor girl’s fate; but there is a mystery about it which cannot now be explained. After the mound had been opened, the Indian congregation, neatly dressed, went in procession, with their pastor and teacher, from the chapel to the mound, and collecting round and over it, the various tribes joined in singing the glorious hymn—

“Jesus shall reign where’er the sun

Doth his successive journey run!”

while the lamb, the dove, and other Christian emblems on the banners borne by the school children, waved over the yawning cavity which had disclosed such relics of barbarous days, indicated a blessed change in the life of that long neglected race. May it be extended over the whole continent!

Vegetable Productions.

The trees and animals of Guiana afford a more satisfactory subject for contemplation than the degraded inhabitants. Among them, sin has not entered. They remain in all their perfection and beauty, as they first appeared fresh from the hands of the Creator. A large number are so similar to those found in the Valley of the Amazon, that they need no separate description. In the upper waters of its streams the magnificent Victoria Regia, so long unknown to the eyes of civilised man, was discovered by Schombergh not forty years ago.

Here, too, grows the spotted coryanthes, of the order of the Orchideae—Coryanthes maculata—hanging from the branches of trees, and suspending in the air the singular lips of its flowers, like fairy buckets, as if for the use of the birds and insects that inhabit the surrounding foliage. In the whole vegetable kingdom a more singular genus than this does not exist, nor one whose flowers are less like flowers to the eye of the ordinary observer. The sepals are of the most delicate texture. When young they spread evenly round the centre, but after a few hours they collapse and assume the appearance of a bat’s wing half closed. The lip is furnished near its base with a yellow cup, over which hang two horns constantly distilling water into it, and in such abundance as to fill it several times. This cup communicates by a narrow channel, formed of the inflated margin of the lip, with the upper end of the latter; and this also has a capacious vessel, very much like an old helmet, into which the liquid that the cup cannot contain runs over.

The cockarito-palm—as it is familiarly called here—grows to the height of fifty feet, and produces the most delicate cabbage of the palm species. It is enclosed in a husk in the very heart of the tree, at its summit. This husk is peeled off in strata until the white cabbage appears in long thin flakes—in taste like the kernel of a nut. The inner part is often used as a salad, while the outer is boiled, and considered superior to the European cabbage. Within such cabbages as are in a state of decay, a maggot is found—the larva of a black beetle (urculio), which, growing to the length of four inches, and as thick as a man’s thumb, is called “grogro.” This creature, disgusting as it is in appearance, when dressed is considered a great delicacy—partaking of the flavour of all the spices of the East.

A curious shrub—if it can be so called—known as the troolies, consists of large leaves twenty feet long and two broad, of a strong texture, and straight fibres growing from a small fibrous root; the leaves rising from the ends of the eight or ten stems which it puts forth. These leaves are employed chiefly for covering the roofs of buildings.

From the silk-cotton-tree, which grows to the height of one hundred feet, and is twelve or fourteen in diameter, the Indians form their largest canoes. The locust-tree grows to the height of seventy feet, and is often nine feet in diameter. The branches, which only begin to spread in the higher part of the tree, are covered with leaves about three inches in length, and of an oval shape and dark green colour. The blossoms, of the papilionaceous or butterfly form, produce a flat pod, shaped like the husk of a broad bean, about four inches long, and of a dark brown colour. When ripe, each pod contains three beans of the same colour, of a farinaceous consistency, and with a pleasant sweetness.

The silk-grass shrub produces a leaf, the inner substance of which consists of a number of small strong white fibres running longitudinally. These the Indians extract by means of a small loop of cord, through which the leaf is drawn with a jerking motion. They are then ready for drying and twisting into cord. They make bow-strings of great elasticity and strength.

Part 4—Chapter III.

Central Brazil.

The centre of Brazil is occupied by a high tableland, crossed by a series of serras, mostly running north and south. The most eastern,—the Serra de Espinhaco,—rises about one hundred miles from the coast, and the table-land extends from it westward for upwards of six hundred miles. Numerous peaks besides the serras rise amidst it, few of them reaching a greater elevation than one thousand feet above its surface. It is mostly clothed with coarse grass and bushes, and single-standing trees, which in summer shed their leaves, when, the grass being burned up by the sun, the region has a desert and barren appearance. Here and there the plain as well as the hills are covered with sand, and at others with bare rocks.

Still more desert regions exist, which may vie with those of Africa in barrenness. Almost in the very centre of the continent is a sandy desert, called the Campos dos Paricis. Here the surface is formed by long-backed ridges of sandy hills parallel to one another. So loose is the soil, that even the patient mule with a burden on his back can hardly make his way across it.

Between the western end of this table-land and the Andes of Bolivia is a wide plain from one thousand to fifteen hundred feet in height, with here and there a few hills rising above it. It is mostly covered by dense forests; but occasionally there are barren districts, in which only a stunted vegetation appears. This plain is traversed by several tributaries of the great River Madeira, which falls into the Amazon. In this wide-extending table-land, and among the serras amidst it, rise innumerable streams, which flow into the Amazon on the north and the La Plata on the south—many of them, as they plunge into the plain, forming foaming torrents and magnificent cataracts. The vegetation of these highlands offers a great contrast to the dense forest of the great valley and the seaboard.

The cerrados, as they are called, or scrub—consisting chiefly of acacias and leguminosae—reach to the height of ten or twenty feet. Numerous other shrubs and smaller plants, many of which are medicinal, cover the ground, and send forth a delicious perfume into the pure air. The tussock, in thick clumps, is also seen growing in various directions; indeed, altogether, the Campo is far more completely clothed than either the Llanos or Pampas.

Among these mountains are the celebrated diamond-mines of Brazil. Some of the mines are reached by shafts of great depth, sunk into the earth, whence galleries are run along the veins, somewhat in the mode of gold-mines. Gold is also obtained, by washing in the streams. The diamonds are procured in the same manner. The strictest watch is kept over the slaves employed in searching for diamonds, to prevent them from secreting the precious stones, and for this purpose numerous overseers are required.

The operations are simple. The loose stones at the bottom of the stream are first raked up into baskets, and then carefully washed, under the inspection of the overseers.

In one district it is calculated that, from 1730 to 1830, diamonds worth upwards of three millions sterling were collected; and in that of Abaete, in 1791, a diamond weighing 1382 carats—the largest in the world—was discovered.

Possibly, however, if the labour which is bestowed on mining were employed in cultivating the ground, it would be productive of greater profit to the country.

Part 5—Chapter I.

Southern Regions of South America.

Geography and Native Tribes.

The vast territory south of the Brazils is watered by a wide-extending branch-work of mighty streams, having as their main trunk the Rio de la Plata at their southern end. To the east is the River Uruguay, running almost parallel with the Atlantic coast. Close to its mouth the far more important Parana, rising in the mountains of the Brazils, near the sources of the Tocantins, falls into the La Plata. While the Tocantins flows north till it reaches the Amazon, the Parana takes a more or less southerly course for many hundreds of miles, till it turns due west for nearly two hundred, and then once more runs south and east till it enters the main trunk. At its extreme western point it is joined by the River Paraguay, which, from its source in the diamond district of the Brazils, has an almost southerly course, receiving on its way numerous large tributaries. One of the most important of these is the Vermejo, which, rising in the Andes, near the source of the Amazon, affords a water communication between Bolivia across the whole continent to the Atlantic. These rivers form the boundaries of several states.

Directly south of the Brazils, between Parana on the east and Paraguay on the west, is the republic of Paraguay, lately ruled over by the two savage dictators, Francia and Lopez. It is a thickly-wooded region, with numerous streams running through it, and a lofty range—the Cordillera de Caáguazu—at the northern end. The inhabitants are mostly a mixed race of Spaniards and Indians. To the west of the Paraguay river is a wide-extended level region, bounded on the north by Bolivia, and interspersed with lakes and marshes known as the Gran Chaco, and inhabited by tribes of still savage Indians.

The southern boundary of Paraguay is the River Parana, where it runs east and west. To the south of it is the state of Corrientes, a woody but level region between the two rivers, Uruguay and Parana. Further south is the state of Entre Rios; while, to the west, are a collection of confederated towns and villages scattered widely over the Pampas, known as part of the Argentine Confederation; to which the two last-mentioned, as well as Buenos Ayres, to the south of the La Plata, belong.

East of the Uruguay, between it and the Atlantic, is the republic of Uruguay. Through the southern portion of the Argentine Republic flow the rivers Colorado, Negro, and Chupat. On the banks of the latter a Welsh colony has been established; while in various parts of the republic numerous other settlements have been formed by Europeans. The level Pampas—inhabited by those bold and daring riders, the Gauchos, and still wilder tribes of Indians—extending to the base of the Andes, from its peculiar and interesting character demands a separate description.

The Pampero.

The pampero, dreaded on shore as well as at sea, blows with tremendous force across this region.

There is not a cloud in the sky. The night may be perfectly calm. Mosquitoes in vast numbers are busy with their sharp stings. Suddenly a rustling in the woods may be heard afar off. The noise increases into a dull roar. Clouds appear above the horizon. Still all is calm. The mosquitoes vanish. The dogs are howling in anticipation of danger. As if by magic, dark masses of clouds cover the heavens like a curtain. They are rent asunder, thunder roars, lightning flashes, and the wind, like an army of wild beasts, rushes on. Down comes the rain in torrents, beating furiously against the hapless traveller exposed to its fury, or on the deck of the ship. Flash succeeds flash; the lightning in forked streaks darting through the air. In an hour, perhaps, the heaviest part of the storm may be over, but still the wind blows furiously; till at length it ceases, the clouds disappear, and the air becomes delightfully fresh and cool.

The craft on the rivers are, however, often caught in these pamperos, and driven into the bush, or upset, when the swift current carries down the best of swimmers to a watery grave.

Houses, also, are frequently unroofed, orange groves stripped of their golden fruit, and trees uprooted and hurled to the ground.

Natives of La Plata and its Tributaries—The Pampas and Patagonia.

When the Spaniards first arrived in that sea-like river, with shallow shores—the mighty Parana, to which Sebastian Cabot afterwards gave the name of La Plata—they encountered a fierce tribe (the Charranas) inhabiting its shores. The natives endeavoured to repel the invaders by a system of warfare which the latter, though they describe it as of the most treacherous character, were not slow to imitate. Step by step, however, the Spaniards fought their way; though sometimes defeated and compelled to retreat, they again returned, establishing forts and towns on the banks of the river, till they finally obtained a firm footing in the land. They hesitated at no act, however atrocious, to secure their conquests by the destruction of their foes.

On one occasion being warned that a tribe—the Guaycaruses—with whom they had formed a treaty of peace, had laid a plot to cut them off, they formed a counterplot, far surpassing in treachery that of the savages. The Spanish Lieutenant-Governor, pretending that he had been smitten with the charms of the daughter of their principal cacique, offered her his hand in marriage. The proposal was accepted by the delighted Indians, who, with their chiefs and a large number of people, were invited into the town to attend the ceremony. Meantime soldiers were concealed in the houses to which the chiefs were conducted, and orders were given to supply them amply with intoxicating liquors. While they were thus deprived of their senses, soldiers were sent across the river to destroy the remainder of the tribe who had not come to the wedding. At a given signal the native village was attacked, and every inhabitant slaughtered; while the hosts of those in the town killed more than three hundred of their helpless guests.

The invaders were creating a fearful heritage for their descendants by intermarrying with the native women. From these marriages have sprung the race which now occupies, in vast numbers, a large portion of that magnificent territory, and who, by their low moral condition, their ignorance, and instability of character, have been the chief cause of the melancholy wars which have so long saturated its plains with blood. The Jesuits, by the missions they formed in various parts of the country, introduced a superficial civilisation among some of the tribes; but their system failing, as it ever has done, to raise the moral character of the people, and fit them for independent thought and self-government, has left them as ignorant and superstitious, and scarcely less savage, than before. Thus they have become the facile tools of every leader who, by greater audacity, craft, or determination, has risen to authority among them.

The Guaranis and their Descendants.

The Guaranis were the principal nation dwelling on the eastern portion of South America. They were probably the same race as the Quichuas, who inhabited the western shores, and a large portion of the Andes, under the rule of the Incas. The two languages are still spoken in various parts of the country. The Guaranis were superior in civilisation to numerous other intervening and more isolated tribes, who had sunk by degrees into greater barbarism. Like the Quichuas, they were agriculturalists—cultivating mandioca, maize, calabashes, and potatoes. They fed on honey and wild fruit; and hunted birds, monkeys, and other animals, and caught fish with their bows and arrows. They had also canoes; and had a better established system of government than their neighbours. Yet they were among the first to bow their necks to the yoke of their invaders; while other tribes, who, though less numerous, fiercely opposed the Spaniards, were swept away from the face of the earth.

The descendants of the Guaranis exist—some in a semi-civilised condition, others as barbarous as of yore—in several parts of the continent; but a large portion became amalgamated with the invaders, and their language is still spoken throughout Paraguay and the neighbouring provinces by the mixed race who have descended from them. The Charruas—the first tribe with whom the Spaniards came in contact—were barbarous in the extreme. Their arms were lances and arrows, and they were noted for their expertness in tracking their enemies. They could bear an almost incredible amount of fatigue, and could subsist for several days without food or water. They wore their hair long,—the women allowing theirs to flow down the back, while the young men gathered up their locks in bunches, and ornamented them with white feathers. They ate every description of food, even to snakes and insects, and were especially fond of the parasites of the human body. They tattooed their faces and limbs; and soon after a boy was born a hole was made in his lower lip, when a piece of wood was introduced like a nail, the head being in his mouth, while another stick was fastened to it outside.

They lived in tree-formed huts, which they entered on all-fours; and wore no clothes, except in cold weather, when they covered the chest with a piece of skin. They never washed, huddling together in their dirty toldas or huts. They subsisted entirely on the produce of the chase; polygamy was general; their children were not taught to obey their parents, while they appear to have been destitute of all family affection. Their beverage, called chicha—a name common throughout South America—was prepared from honey and water. Although, during lifetime, relations exhibited no affection towards each other, at the death of one of them the survivors underwent many cruel funeral ceremonies. They ultimately assisted the Spaniards in the extermination of several of the neighbouring tribes, but were eventually either destroyed, or brought completely under subjection.

The Querandis or Pehuelches.

The Querandis or Pehuelches—the principal tribe of the Pampas Indians—were, from the first, the chief opponents of the Spaniards in Buenos Ayres. They stole their cattle, made captives of their wives and children, and cut off the soldiers and estancieros, or cattle-farmers, on numerous occasions. They were vain, haughty, and daring. Unlike the Charruas, they paid great attention to their dress and appearance, neither painting nor cutting their hair. The men wore their locks turned up and secured at the top of the head; while the women divided theirs in the centre, wearing them on each side in a large clump, fastened by a ribbon, the ends falling down over each ear nearly to the waist. They wore combs, and were in every respect cleanly. The women also wore necklaces, with hanging ornaments. Their costume was a poncho on festive occasions, highly ornamented; while they wore leather boots. Although, when galloping across the Pampas, they went totally naked, they carried their clothes with them—either to put on during cold weather, or to appear in state when meeting Europeans. Their weapons of war were lances and the formidable bolas,—by means of which, used as slings, they could send stones to a great distance,—and combustible materials, with which they set fire to the Spanish houses. Their huts were composed of upright poles, four or five feet in height, and as many apart, on which skins of large animals—such as the huanacus or ostrich—were fastened, on the side from whence the cold winds blew. These huts formed long streets; but were used only during cold or rainy weather, as in fine weather they slept on the uncovered ground.

No sooner did the horses introduced by the Spaniards, escaping into the wilds, increase and multiply, than the Indians learned to bestride them, and soon exhibited an uncommon aptitude in their management. Armed with their long lances, they would charge the Spanish troops,—each man lying down at his horse’s side, though going at full gallop, and jumping up, turning round, or dropping down again, with wonderful rapidity. Though even the Gauchos give their horses some preliminary training, the Pampas Indian catches the animal with the lasso, throws it down, forces a wooden bit, covered with a piece of hide, into its mouth, from which bit there is a leathern cord to bind round its lower lip, and gallops off.

They are divided into many tribes, who, even a few years ago, made frequent incursions into the provinces of Buenos Ayres, Cordova, and others, and carried off large flocks of cattle—and many Argentines, as captives. They were pursued to the River Colorado, however, when part of the stolen cattle was recovered, and several captives liberated. They are under the belief that when death does not occur, in consequence of violence, it is owing to sorcery.

The Payaguas.

Another tribe or nation must be mentioned—the Payaguas, who inhabited the territory of Paraguay, and from whom the district has taken its name. They used canoes, and many of their warlike expeditions were carried on down the river by water. The women had to perform all the hard work, and were never allowed to eat meat. The boys and girls wore no clothes, but the young men painted their bodies in a variety of patterns.

The Tupis, another large tribe, appear either to have extended to the Amazon, or to have been driven there from the south, as their language is now spoken by the tribes on its banks.

The Toromonos were the chief tribe inhabiting the territory of Bolivia to the north of the Gran Chaco. They lived in houses, each man building one for himself. The men wore no clothes, but ornamented their heads with a crown formed of feathers; whilst the women wore a small cotton garment, only partially covering the person. They painted their faces, and wore rings in their noses and lips. Many of their customs were cruel and barbarous in the extreme, though they appear to have cultivated the ground, and used ploughs and wooden implements of agriculture. They employed bows and arrows in battle, as also for fishing and killing game. They also showed skill in building canoes.

Indians of Bolivia—Native Apothecaries.

Even at the present day, as was the case in the time of the Incas, the people of one of the tribes were distinguished for their medical knowledge, and sent out travelling apothecaries, who collected herbs,—traversing the whole of the continent. Markham describes meeting with a party of them emerging from the forest,—cadaverous, miserable-looking men, almost worn to death by fatigue and hardship. They wore their long hair plaited and secured behind in the form of a queue. They came from the district of Yungas, and are called Yunguenos, or Cherrihuanos. Formerly they went on foot, but they now ride asses, on which they carry the herbs and nuts, reputed efficacious for the cure of sickness; as well as bundles of chinchona, coca leaf, incense, and other articles.

The Bolivian Indians were subdued only in 1843. Each village or toldera of these tribes is governed by a cacique, generally possessing hereditary rank; though, as in other cases, much depends upon his physical powers and wealth. A number of wild tribes still roam over the country between the western Argentine states and the Andes. There they live free and independent, though barbarous. When they venture into the neighbourhood of large towns, they soon degenerate into thieves and drunkards. Here they come to carry on a trade in furs and panther skins, or to collect meat at the saladeros, which they dry and carry off with them. They make money by selling Indian ornaments, and foraging for the settlers’ cattle; or by thieving, which they look upon as an orthodox mode of gaining a livelihood.

Tribes of the Gran Chaco.

Several tribes inhabited the Gran Chaco. The principal one—the least sunk in barbarism—were the Guanas. They lived in towns arranged in some symmetrical order, composed of palm-trees. Each house formed an enclosed square composed of posts and arches. To these were fixed horizontal beams, the whole covered with mud and straw. There was but one door, and the structure was sufficiently large to contain a dozen families. They had bed-places on square frames, covered over with boards and straw and skins, while their houses were kept scrupulously clean.

They were noted for their hospitality, and subsisted chiefly by agriculture. They cut off the hair in the middle of the forehead; some shaved sometimes the front half of the head, and others half-moons over the ears. Though the marriage ceremony was simple in the extreme, a contract as to various points was invariably entered into. The men greatly exceeded the women in number, in consequence of the unnatural custom prevailing among them of putting to death the female children. Old women acted the part of doctors.

Their dead were buried outside the doors of their houses, and a considerable time was spent in bewailing their loss. Though they fought bravely with bows and arrows, as well as with spears or clubs, they were of a peaceable disposition, and never made war except in self-defence.

The great ambition of a Chaco Indian is to possess a horse, saddle, and gun. Once mounted, he soon becomes a bold rider.

Their mode of crossing a river is curious. As their canoes cannot carry their animals over, they first drive the horse into the river up to his shoulders in the water, then launch the canoe—after tying the animal’s head to the top of the gunwale—with the children and luggage on board. As the horse’s feet are off the ground, he cannot injure the canoe. When travelling, however, without canoes, they form small rafts, into which they put their children; and lance in hand, and with bow and quiver at their backs, they bestride their steeds and tow them across, a curious spectacle to witness.

The children go perfectly naked; indeed, so do the people generally, except those who come into the settled districts. The women wear their masses of black hair almost covering their heads and shoulders. They dress in a short skirt, with a scarf over the shoulders. “The old women,” observed Captain Kennedy, “are terrible to behold, they having all the hard work to do. They even paddle the canoes, while the men and young women sit looking on.”

Their villages consist of rows of wretched hovels. They appear to have no superstitious ideas, but they believe in an evil spirit, against whom they try to guard by charms and incantations. They are under a chief cacique; and after the other chiefs in conclave have determined on war, or rather, on a plundering expedition, and it is concluded, they separate into their original tribes, each taking opposite directions with their share of the plunder, to escape the risk of being captured. A considerable portion of the almost unexplored district—the Gran Chaco—which they inhabit is a dreary waste of lagoons and marshes, traversed by rapid, muddy, and tortuous rivers.

Jesuit Missions.

The missions established by the Jesuits show the impotence of their system for the civilisation of the wild man. The territory where they carried on their chief labours exists on the eastern bank of the Parana, to the north of Uruguay and Corrientes, bordering on the Brazilian territory. After three hundred years of labour, they left these savages utterly incapable of self-government.

“The Indian mind, indeed,” observes Captain Page—an American—“laying aside its atrocities, has never emerged from the intellectual development of childhood. These savages showed the imitative faculties of the animal. When taught, they delved and ploughed, planted cotton and sugar-cane, and executed work in carpentry and wove fabrics, and performed other manual operations; yet their reason and intelligence has not advanced, even pari passu in any degree with the progress of European civilisation; nor have the natures of their female population become modified with the slightest trait of the humanities and tendernesses which are the brightest attributes of the women of the present century.”

“Among the Jesuit missions in the Gran Chaco,” observes another writer, “are found no remaining evidence of better knowledge, than that the Indians now prefer horse-flesh to any other kind of meat.”

The same writer gives us the derivation of the names of several of the rivers:—Parana, resembling the sea; Paraguay, from the Payaguas, a tribe of Indians who were met with by the discoverers navigating the river; and Uruguay, from a bird—the uru—which is found on the banks of that stream.

Language.

With regard to the two prevailing Indian languages spoken in the southern part of the continent, it is remarkable that the Quichua, the language of the Peruvians, is still used by the natives found on the banks of the River Salado, in the province of Santiago del Estero, though far-distant from the Andes, in the centre of the Argentine territory; while it is not in use in the intermediate provinces. This proves, either the distance to which the Incas extended their conquests, or perhaps the fact that the natives of Santiago are descendants of a Peruvian colony. The Guarani language is still spoken in Entre Rios and Corrientes, while in the Republic of Paraguay it is more generally used than the Spanish; indeed, paragraphs printed in it appear in one of the papers published in that province. The Jesuits compiled a number of grammatical and other works in the Guarani, for the purpose of teaching the novitiates in their establishments at Paraguay.

The Guarani nation occupied the whole sea-coast, from Uruguay northwards through Brazil, Cayenne, and even into Venezuela.

Part 5—Chapter II.

Paraguay.

The Parana.

After entering the Parana, the voyager sails for hundreds of miles up the mighty stream between lofty clay-banks of a red colour; sometimes absolutely perpendicular, and at others consisting of broken masses covered with cacti and mimosa-trees. Here and there may be seen, projecting from the cliffs, huge skeletons of the toxodon, megatherium, mylodon, and other monsters which once in countless numbers inhabited the plains of South America. Now the river expands into lake-like proportions, its surface dotted with numerous low and wooded islands. At intervals, towns, villages, or forts may be seen on the summits of the cliffs, sixty feet above the water. Generally the country on the western side is a level, treeless plain; but as the river is ascended woods appear, which gradually become thicker, presenting, as further progress is made, more and more a tropical character.

As Paraguay is approached, low flat banks appear, which for many a long league are marshy and impassable. It is the district of the Esteros, as these flooded lands are called. Beyond them, in the wet season, immense shallow lakes are formed; but when they are dried-up in the hot weather, a grey dusty soil, full of cracks, and covered with wiry grass and low shrubs, is left. Nothing can be more dreary than the appearance of the country when the river is high; the water extending far and wide beyond its crumbling banks, with rows of melancholy palms standing as landmarks above the flood. These districts are, however, valuable for grazing purposes; and before the war were covered by vast herds of cattle, now swept away. Above the Tebiquari the country is higher and more diversified. Vast woods, increasing in breadth and density, appear, with ranges of distant hills beyond them.

Natives.

It is remarkable that the Guarani language, among the peasantry, has almost superseded that of their Spanish invaders.

The natives, with their Indian blood, have inherited small hands and feet, and coarse black hair. The women when young, with their long tresses of jetty blackness, are often pretty; and some, probably descended from Biscayans, are noted for their remarkable fairness. Rubias, they are termed, with blue eyes and auburn hair. The men wear dresses similar to that of the Gauchos. That of the women is picturesque: a long cotton chemise cut low at the neck, with a deep border of embroidery; loose lace sleeves; and a skirt of muslin, or silk, fastened round the waist by a broad sash. Very few wear shoes. Their hair is sometimes arranged in two long plaits, or formed in a wreath round the head, or rolled up at the back and fastened by a large comb. They also wear massive gold chains round the neck, large ear-rings, and numerous rings. Their great amusement, next to smoking, is sipping the yerba or native tea.

“Yerba,” says Masterman, “is the dried and powdered leaf Ilex Paraguayensis,—a tree in size and foliage resembling the orange, with small white, clustered flowers. It belongs to the holly family, but contains a bitter principle similar to, if not identical with, theine, or the alkaloid found in tea and coffee.”

It is taken in a somewhat singular way. The maté, a gourd stained black, holding three or four ounces of water, is nearly filled with the coarsely-powdered yerba. The bombilla, a silver tube with a bulbous end pierced full of fine holes, is then inserted. The gourd is filled with boiling water, and the infusion is immediately sucked through the tube, scalding hot.

The bombilla is for the purpose of straining the infusion—which is of a greenish-brown—as the powder would otherwise get into the mouth. Like tea, it is slightly stimulating and astringent.

The natives spin the indigenous cotton of the country, and weave it in a curious way, producing the most intricate lace and needlework. The thread they manufacture is remarkably fine and strong. Weavers travel about the country carrying their simple looms on their shoulders, and may be seen under an orange-tree by the roadside, the warp-roller suspended from a bough and balanced beneath by stones, the workman seated on a horse’s skull, and producing a fabric as beautiful as it is durable.

They also manufacture woollen ponchos and saddle-cloths, in patterns of black and white, or of a fine blue obtained from the native indigo. They manufacture cigars; and cultivate the sugar-cane in a rude manner, producing from its root a vile beverage called caña, most injurious to the health.

Mountain Scenery.

In the Cordillera, where Masterman describes the scenery as most beautiful, the cacti grow, bristling with spines, and loaded with delicate white flowers; as also the wild pineapple, which covers the ground,—its serrated leaves, of a bright scarlet in the centre, and barred, all straggling from the root. Its fibre is used by the natives for making fishing-nets and lines, and a coarse strong cloth. Paper also has been manufactured from it; and as it can be produced in great quantities, it may become of much commercial importance.

Game abounds throughout the territory. Herds of deer roam in the open glades; droves of pigs are found in the forest somewhat similar to those of England; and a bird, the yñambù guazù, as large as a pheasant; while quails are seen in flocks in the esteros,—with snipe, wild pigeons, and other birds.

High up the River Parana is found the magnificent waterfall, El Salto de Guira, rivalling in splendour Niagara itself. Other fine waterfalls are found on different rivers.

Here, too, the ant-eater reaches an enormous size. The capybara is also found. It is obliged to triturate its food—grass, and herbaceous plants—for a long time, in consequence of the contracted size of the oesophagus, which will hardly admit a goose-quill, although the animal is sometimes so large that it weighs more than two hundred pounds. Its destiny seems to be to feed jaguars, for they live principally on the creatures.

The chinchilla, another rodent, is very common in the fields and esteros. There is a large heron, called in Guarani the tuyùajù—that is, one which walks in the mud—nearly as tall as a man, with a bill more than a foot in length. The puma ranges throughout the country, as he does much further south; while the jaguar also appears amid the forests and plains.

Gregarious Spiders.

Among the insects, Masterman describes a gregarious spider which, when full-grown, has a black body half an inch in length—with a row of bright red spots on the side of the abdomen—four eyes, remarkably strong mandibles, and stout hairless legs an inch in length. They construct in concert huge webs, generally between two trees, ten or twelve feet from the ground. In a garden, among trees forty feet apart, these spiders had extended two long cables, as thick as pack-thread, to form the margin of each web, the lower being only four feet from the ground; and between them was a light, loose network perfectly divided into webs, each presenting about two square feet of surface. Each of these sub-webs was occupied by a spider from sunset to a little before sunrise. Six nets contained two thousand of the creatures. They often change their location; and a double stream was always passing along the cables, apparently strengthening them as they came and went.

Sometimes three or four would be lying in wait within a few inches of each other, the one crawling over or under the other’s body without hesitation. Soon after sunrise they left their webs, and, retreating to the shade, formed two or three large masses as big as a hat under the thick foliage of a jessamine-tree. There they remained motionless till sunset, when the black lump crumbled to pieces. The process was a curious sight to witness. Then, in a leisurely way, the spiders scattered themselves to their aerial fishing. The air swarmed with mosquitoes, which were caught in great numbers. Larger flies, and especially moths, were at once pounced upon and devoured; a dozen often feeding amicably on the body of the same insect, consuming not only the juices, but the abdomen. When a part of the web was broken, the nearest spider gathered up the loose threads, rolled them into a ball, and ate it. The great difficulty seemed to be how they could convey the first thread, often sixty or seventy feet long, from one tree to the other. This was done by a spider from a tree to windward forming a long line, which blew out and caught in the leaves of a neighbouring tree to leeward. This it tightened, and then crossed hastily backwards and forwards on the line, adding to its thickness on each journey, till it was strong enough to support a web. The spiders thus employed were apparently all young, for as they increased in age the ferocity of the race appeared. There was then a sanguinary battle,—the few survivors, probably females, devouring some of the slain to provide for a future brood, and then dying also.

The Chigo, or Sand-Flea.

Mr Masterman makes some interesting remarks on the chigo, or sand-flea (Pulex penetrans). It is very minute, not exceeding one twenty-fifth of an inch in length. It burrows between the cuticle and true skin, and there lays its eggs—producing a swelling containing a bluish white sac, about the tenth of an inch in diameter, filled with them. This sac is the developed abdomen of the flea. It preserves its vitality after the death of the rest of the parent; and when that event takes place, the eggs are mere germs, which would ordinarily perish at the same time.

Its cutting apparatus consists of two scimitar-shaped lancets, placed in a common sheath, with which it slices out a place beneath the skin, large enough to bury it entirely, anchors itself firmly with its hooked proboscis, and in a day or two dies. The abdominal section, however, still lives, absorbing nutritive material through its walls, and growing rapidly at the expense of the serum poured out by the irritated skin into which it is inserted. It increases in thickness as well as in diameter, and the eggs which now fill it grow also,—when mature, each being half as large as a perfect flea. Thus it is seen why the sand-flea cannot deposit its eggs as do the rest of the family. Probably it has no more food than it carries away within itself on quitting the egg, and therefore cannot provide the material for its greater development. Not only men and children, but dogs, suffer greatly from them—the latter almost tearing their feet to pieces in biting them out, and often getting them in their lips and outer nostrils, from which they cannot dislodge them.

Fish in the Parana.

Among the many fine fish in the river is the dorado,—something like a trout in colour, but deeper; in shape, more resembling the snapper. The natives catch it with unbaited hooks. The fisherman selects a point of rock jutting over the stream, and having secured three polished hooks, back to back, attached to a line, throws it as far from him as possible into the water, giving it several strong jerks to make it look like small fry darting about. The dorado makes a dash at them, and gets hooked—generally through the back.

Part 5—Chapter III.

The Pampas.

Westward of the Parana and the Province of Buenos Ayres stretches out the wide-extended and almost level plain of the Pampas, reaching to the base of the Andes. It is a wild, savage region, sprinkled over here and there with salt-lakes and marshes, in which a few streams, traversing it at considerable distances apart, lose themselves.

The tracks across it are marked by the whitened skeletons of the horses and bullocks which have succumbed to the fatigues of the journey, or the want of water, and have been picked clean by the carranchas, and others of the vulture tribe, or by the active teeth of the voracious little armadillos, which clear away the refuse of the feast left by their feathered companions. Here and there forts or post-houses are found, garrisoned by the wild Gauchos—their appearance in keeping with the scenery.

The huts are generally built of the stalks of huge thistles, and are sometimes mere enclosures, destitute of roofs. They are surrounded by stockades, in many instances formed of thick hedges of cacti, well calculated to resist an attack from the still savage Indians who roam throughout the region in search of plunder.

It is on these plains that the little bizcacha in vast numbers form their burrows; by the side of which, during the day, their small friends the owls of the Pampas take up their posts, and watch the passers-by. Vast herds of horses and cattle now roam in unrestrained freedom across them. Here the tall rhea, the American ostrich, with outstretched wings runs swiftly across the plain. Towards its southern boundaries the huanacu and the deer—Cervus campestris—in large herds range at large, while the pools and marshes are inhabited by enormous flocks of wild fowl of all descriptions. Here hundreds of beautiful flamingoes may be seen rising when alarmed, and forming a rosy cloud of plumage in the blue sky—the tints shading gradually from the delicate pink of their necks to the deep red of their long wings; while many others of the feathered tribes,—some with long legs, others with huge beaks,—fly across the placid pools, their strange cries and varied notes sounding through the air.

The eastern portion of this enormous district in winter presents a peculiarly rich aspect—herds of wild cattle grazing in full liberty on the luxuriant clover which then covers the ground. As spring advances, a totally different plant takes the place of the clover, and in three or four weeks an extraordinary change has occurred. The whole region then appears covered by a dense wood of enormous thistles, which have shot up to a height of nearly twelve feet, and are now in full bloom. So densely do they grow, that they present an impenetrable barrier to man and horse, or even to the strong-limbed cattle or wild beasts of the plain. The only passage through them is by those paths which have been kept open by the constant trampling of feet; while certain tracks, intricate as those of a labyrinth, which exist in some directions, are the abodes of bands of robbers, to whom alone they are known. From their recesses they sally forth to attack the solitary rancho, or to murder the traveller who may be passing through, knowing well that they can secure a safe retreat, without the risk of being pursued.

Beyond this region of thistles is a second wide district, which produces long grass, changing only, according to the season, from green to brown; while beyond it, again, is a third region, reaching to the base of the Cordilleras, and mostly covered with thick groves of low trees and evergreen shrubs, with here and there streams passing amid them.

Descending from the Andes, the first view of the Pampas resembles somewhat the wide-spreading ocean seen from afar; but as the sun rises, irregularities can be distinguished in the northern portion,—while the streams which run through it from the mountainsides glitter like silver threads, till lost in the immensity of the distance.

But to return to the previous region. For several months the tall thistles hold possession of the plain, but at length the heats of summer tell upon them. They lose their sap and verdure, their heads droop, the leaves shrink and fade, the stems become black and dead, though still they stand rattling one against the other with the breeze. Then dark clouds are seen in the west; the fierce pampero bursts forth with irresistible force; they bend before it, and in a few seconds the whole forest is levelled with the ground. Here, under the influence of the heat and moisture, they rapidly decompose and disappear, fertilising the soil. Once more the clover rushes up, and the plain again smiles with a verdant hue, and welcomes back the cattle, who have been driven to distant pastures.

Gauchos of the Pampas.

See the inhabitant of this region,—the bold Gaucho, whether owner of thousands of heads of cattle, or the humble peon or chasqui, servant or courier,—mounted on his fiery steed. What command he has over it! How admirably he and the animal seem adapted to each other! If a proprietor or chief manager, he will probably be habited in a white shirt, with wide trousers richly embroidered with deep lace; the chiripa—a piece of cloth covering the body and passing round his legs—being tied with a band; a poncho over his shoulders; boots of polished leather, or, it may be, of simple skin; his heels adorned with a pair of enormous spurs, of silver or less valuable metal, with rowels of prodigious circumference; with his rebenque, or horse-whip, in hand, made of cow-hide, and set off by a handle of massive silver. All classes residing on the Pampas, whether in Uruguay or the Far West, are called Gauchos.

Such in early life was General Urquiza, for some time governor of his native province of Entre Rios. The term is, however, applied generally to the lower orders.

Hardy, and sparely built, like the Arabs of the desert the Gaucho lives on horseback. For most nights the ground is his bed and his saddle his pillow, a piece of hide or a poncho his only covering. He will gallop thirty leagues a day without fatigue.

From his infancy he has been taught the use of the lasso and bolas; and in his boyhood learned to catch the fowls, goats, and sheep about his father’s rancho, or to capture partridges in a similar way. Yet he is but little fitted for the ordinary hard work of life. In consequence of his over-exertion and irregular life, his long abstinence from food, and neglect of a due proportion of vegetable aliment, his body appears to be dried-up, his vital energies fail, and his term of existence is shortened.

Impatient of rebuke, he will not brook a hasty word, and will conclude a connection with a master at a moment’s notice, by demanding to have his account made up. Horse-racing and gambling are his weaknesses. His knife is ready at hand, and though fatal results seldom follow being engaged in a quarrel, he attempts to inflict a cut on the face of his antagonist, and there to leave his mark. His food he cooks on a stick—the asadevo—fixed in the ground before the fire; and eats it without bread or any kind of vegetable, washing it down with copious draughts of yerba.

He will gamble on all occasions, either with cards, dominoes, or coin—a pitch-and-toss style of game. His horse-racing is more for the sake of obtaining the bets staked on the match. He also delights to bet on the strength of his horse. This is tried by fastening a pair of horses tail to tail, but at some distance, so that each end of a short lasso is tied to the saddle or girth of either animal. They are then mounted, and urged by whip and spur in opposite directions, until the stronger draws the weaker over the goal—a line marked on the ground. In spite of his gambling propensities, he is often intrusted with hundreds of doubloons for the purchase of cattle by his master.

His mode of catching partridges is curious. Armed with a loop attached to the end of a thin stick, he will ride on till he sees a covey of birds on the ground; and then commences circling round them,—the birds, curiously enough, not attempting to fly, but trying to run away instead. The horseman keeps on narrowing his circle, till he at last gets near enough to drop the loop over a bird’s head, when he whips it up, a captive, though in no way injured—so that birds can thus be caught alive.

Breaking-in Colts.

Witness the operation of breaking-in a wild colt from amidst a herd of a hundred or more. A Gaucho called the dormador makes his appearance, dressed in a thin cotton shirt secured by a scarf round the waist, and a coloured handkerchief bound to his head, while his legs are guarded by a huge pair of boots, armed with enormous spurs. There he stands, with his lasso coiled up and thrown carelessly over his arm. He advances towards the herd, followed by two mounted Gauchos dressed in full costume. As the colts gallop round the corral, into which they have been driven, with wild eyes and waving manes, he selects one of them; and whirling his lasso lightly round, casts it over the animal’s head, sinking down at the same time on his left knee, and holding it with both hands. No sooner does the colt feel the lasso than it bounds into the air, and dashes off, the dormador sliding and crouching along the ground, playing him, as a fisherman does a large salmon, till he has separated him from the rest of the herd. He then brings him into the centre of the corral, plunging and rearing, with his tether much shortened. Another Gaucho throws his lasso on the ground under the colt’s fore-feet, and by an upward jerk tightens it round his legs. At the same time the dormador lets his lasso out freely; the horse dashes out till it is brought to the ground by the other lasso, with a shock sufficient, it would seem, to break every bone in his body. There he lies motionless, while his fore and hind-feet are secured.

At length restored to consciousness, after some convulsive plunges he again gets on his feet, and is led by a further relay of Gauchos to a post, where he is saddled and bridled in spite of his struggles. Regaining his strength, he plunges, kicks, and bites in all directions, the Gauchos nimbly getting out of his way. The dormador, watching his opportunity, now leaps into the saddle, and signs to his companions to cast off the leg-lasso. Immediately the colt, finding his legs free, jumps straight off the ground, and then commences to back, plunge, and dash furiously out. The dormador, however, sticks on; and another Gaucho, coming behind, administers a lash with his long cutting whip, which makes the poor animal start off at full speed, with a snort like a scream. A mounted Gaucho rides on either side of him, to keep him straight. Off he goes over the level country for miles, occasionally stopping to back and kick; but each time his efforts grow fainter, till at length he is ridden back, with eyes bloodshot, covered with foam and blood, and perfectly bewildered, when he is unsaddled and tied to the post. “Poor beast!” observes Captain Kennedy, who describes such a scene, “he looks as much broken down as broken in.” Few of the Gauchos, however, can overcome a horse after the manner of the one whose feat he witnessed.

Patagonians.

The chief tribe of Patagonians who inhabit the region as far south as the Strait of Magellan, go under the name of Pehuenches—men of tall and muscular stature, with thick black hair, high foreheads, and broad faces, but in no way approaching to what would be called the gigantic. Their features express passive contentment, but are utterly destitute of vivacity and intelligence. Their feet are remarkably small. They have their eyebrows and moustaches plucked so as to contain only a single line of hairs. The women are of low size, and unattractive—using a sort of pigment on their bodies, composed of animal blood and soot.

The sole covering of both sexes is a mantle made of huanacu skins—worn with the hairy side in—which can be thrown off in a moment. Their habitations are huts of skin, supported on poles sloping to the ground, towards the direction from whence blows the strong wind or snow from Cape Horn. They sleep, however, in fine weather,—like other tribes further to the north,—on the uncovered ground.

Their great delight is smoking—from a pipe made of stone, fashioned into the shape of a small bowl, in which a long tube is fixed. Each man takes a pull at the pipe and sends it round, gulping in a huge quantity of vapour, all the muscles of the body seeming in a fierce convulsion of straining; and while his neighbour is apparently employed in an effort to gulp down the whole apparatus, there issues from the nose and mouth of the first smoker a cloud which quickly renders his face and all around him invisible.

Like other tribes of the Pampas, they have become expert horsemen, and with bolas capture huanacus and ostriches.

Deer of the Pampas.

Besides the huanacus, a deer of considerable size ranges in small herds throughout the Pampas and northern Patagonia, and is very abundant. It possesses an overpoweringly strong and offensive odour at some periods of the year, which is perceptible at a great distance. Should the Gauchos kill an animal when this is the case, they bury the flesh in the earth, by which means the taint is removed, and it becomes eatable. A person can easily approach a herd by crawling along the ground, when the deer, out of curiosity, apparently, approach to reconnoitre him. They, however, have learned to fear their enemy, man, when mounted on a horse and armed with bolas; and as soon as they see a horseman, they invariably take to flight.

Nata Cattle.

Darwin mentions a remarkable breed of cows called the nata or niata. The animal has a very short and broad forehead, with the nasal end turned up, and the upper lip much drawn back. Its lower jaw projects below the upper, and has a corresponding upward curve; hence its teeth are always exposed. Its nostrils are seated high up, and are very open; and the eyes are projecting. When walking, it carries its head low on a short neck; and its hind-legs are rather longer compared with the front ones than is usual.

The breed is supposed to have originated amongst the Indians southward of the La Plata. It is fiercer than common cattle; and the cow easily deserts her first calf if molested or visited too often. Now, it is a singular fact that an almost similar structure to the abnormal one of the niata breed characterises the great extinct ruminant of India—the sivatherium. The breed is very true, and the niata bull and cow invariably produce niata calves. “Can it be that this animal is an aboriginal of the continent, and existed ages before the European breeds were introduced?” asks Mr Darwin.

The Bizcacha.

The careless horseman on the Pampas soon becomes disagreeably acquainted with the existence of a little rodent—the bizcacha—into whose closely-set burrows should his horse step, he will to a certainty find himself pitched over his steed’s head. It closely resembles a rabbit, but with larger gnawing teeth and a longer tail. It has only three toes behind, like the agouti. The creatures are seen in great numbers during the evening seated on their haunches in front of their abodes,—from which they seldom wander far,—gravely contemplating the passer-by. When scampering out of danger, their elevated tails and short fore-legs give them the appearance of large rats.

They have a curious habit of dragging every hard object they find to the mouth of their burrows; round which bones of animals, stones, and hard lumps of earth, are found, collected in large irregular heaps. Although, no doubt, some good reason exists for this habit, it is difficult to account for it. A gentleman told Mr Darwin, that having dropped his watch one dark night, he was unable to find it; but returning the following morning, and searching the neighbourhood of every bizcacha burrow along the line of road, he at length discovered it among a heap of rubbish.

The Peruvian Bizcacha and Chinchilla.

Another little rodent, very similar to the bizcacha of the Pampas, lives high up on the mountain, often at an elevation of 12,000 feet. It resembles the rabbit, but its ears are shorter, and its tail is long and rough.

Nearly related to it, and inhabiting the same region, is the chinchilla—a pretty little creature, rather larger than a squirrel, with great brilliant eyes, an erect tail, strong bristles on the upper lip, and rounded, almost naked ears. Its beautifully soft fur is much valued by ladies in Europe. It covers in certain districts the slopes of the Andes with its burrows, which trip up many an unwary horseman—greatly to its surprise and alarm, as its only object in forming them is to have a quiet home of its own, where it can bring up its young, and enjoy the roots which it collects, and on which it feeds at its leisure.

The Tucutuco (Ctenomys Braziliensis).

The tucutuco—another small rodent, with burrowing habits something like those of a mole—gains its name from the short nasal groan which it repeats about four times in quick succession. It is very abundant, and may be heard at all times of the day uttering its strange sounds directly beneath the feet in its burrow. It throws up little hillocks of earth like those of a mole at the mouth of its abode. So completely are tracks of country undermined by these animals, that horses in passing over sink above their fetlocks.

They are gregarious and nocturnal in their habits. Their chief food consists of the roots of plants, to obtain which they make their extensive and superficial burrows. From the formation of their hind-legs, they are unable to jump even the smallest vertical height.

It is a curious circumstance connected with them, that large numbers become blind,—though apparently the animal suffers but little inconvenience in consequence, as it exists almost entirely beneath the surface of the ground.

The Rhea.

Across the wide Pampas, from the plains of La Plata to the south of Patagonia, the large rhea, vying almost in size with the African ostrich, stalks along, generally in pairs, but sometimes in large flocks of thirty or more. It differs from the real ostrich,—having three toes instead of two, is smaller, and of a uniform grey colour, except on the back, which has a brown tint. Like the ostrich, the back and rump are furnished with long feathers, but of a less rich description than the former species.

When running, it moves at great speed, alternately raising, outstretching, and then depressing its wings.

The cock bird emits a singularly deep-toned, hissing note; and he can be distinguished by being larger, darker coloured, and having a bigger head than the hen. The cry is so deep and loud, that it resembles that of a wild beast.

His hens lay their eggs at random round a hole which he digs for the nest. He then employs himself in rolling them along into it, by inserting his beak between the egg and the ground, as a boy would roll a hockey ball along with a stick. He then sits to hatch them, while the hens feed round at liberty. He lies so close on these occasions, that he is easily ridden over. He is at this time very fierce, and even dangerous, and has been known to attack a man on horseback, trying to kick and leap up at him. Frequently twenty-two eggs, and even more, are found in each nest.

The rhea, when pursued, readily takes to the water; and sometimes even of its own accord, when not frightened, will swim across a river. One has been seen crossing a stream four hundred yards in width.

When swimming, very little of their bodies appear above water, and their necks are extended a little forward,—their progress being slow.

The rhea is hunted by the Gauchos and Indians on horseback. The huntsmen form a semicircle, gradually closing in on the bird, which does not know in which way to escape. It generally runs off against the wind; at the same time, when it first starts, it expands its wings, and, like a vessel, makes sail. As the huntsman gets close to it he throws his lasso over its neck; or if he is using the bolas, he casts them so as to entangle the bird’s-legs, and thus bring it to the ground.

The rhea is easily tamed, and is constantly seen about the huts of the Patagonians.

In the southern part of Patagonia another species, much smaller, exists,—the Avestris petise, now called Struthio Darwinii, in compliment to the naturalist who has described it. He states that not more than fifteen eggs are found in the nest of the petise, deposited by two or more females. This bird does not expand its wings when first starting at full speed, after the manner of the northern kind. It is a smaller and more graceful bird: its white feathers are tipped with black at the extremities, and the black ones in like manner are tipped with white.

A third species, the large-billed rhea (Rhea macrorhyncha), has been discovered. These birds in vast numbers inhabit the wide-extended plains, and afford a welcome addition to the food of their roving inhabitants.

Caracara Polyborus.

The largest caracara—Polyborus Braziliensis—ranges the grassy savannahs of La Plata. Across the desert, between the rivers Negro and Colorado, numbers constantly attend the line of road, to devour the carcasses of the exhausted animals which chance to perish from fatigue and thirst. It also attends the estancias and slaughtering-houses, accompanied by its smaller relative, the chimango. “When an animal dies on the plain the gallinaso commences the feast, and then the two species of polyborus pick the bones clean,” says Darwin. These birds, although thus commonly feeding together, are far from being friends. When the caracara is quietly seated on the branch of a tree or on the ground, the chimango often continues for a long time flying backwards and forwards, up and down, in a semicircle, trying each time at the bottom of the curve to strike its larger relative. The caracara takes little notice, except by bobbing its head. The caracaras are crafty, and steal numbers of eggs; they also attempt, together with the chimango, to pick off the scabs from the sore backs of horses and mules. These false eagles rarely kill any living bird or animal; and their vulture-like, necrophagous habits are very evident to any one who has fallen asleep on the desolate plains; for, when he awakes, he will see on each surrounding hillock one of these birds patiently watching him with an evil eye. If a party of men go out hunting with dogs and horses, they will be accompanied during the day by several of these attendants.

The flight of the caracara is heavy and slow, and it is generally an inactive, tame, and cowardly bird. It destroys young lambs, by tearing the umbilical cord; and it pursues the gallinaso till that bird is compelled to vomit up the carrion it may have recently gorged. It is said, also, that several caracaras will unite in chase of large birds, even such as herons.

The chimango is tame and fearless; and when an animal is killed a number soon collect, and patiently wait, standing on the ground on all sides. Darwin describes seeing one pounce on a dog which was lying asleep close to one of a party of sportsmen. They had difficulty in preventing their canine companion from being seized before their eyes.

It will frequently wait, as does the caracara, at the mouth of a rabbit-hole, and seize on the animal when it comes out. It is also very mischievous and inquisitive. It will pick up almost anything from the ground: a large black glazed hat was carried nearly a mile, as were a pair of heavy bolas. On another occasion a small Kater’s compass in a red morocco case was carried off, and never recovered. These birds are, moreover, quarrelsome and very passionate, tearing up the grass with their bills in their rage. They are noisy, too, uttering several harsh cries—one of them like that of the English rook.

Owls of the Pampas (Athene Cuniculaeia).

The traveller across the Pampas will see a number of little owls—generally seated in pairs, during the evening, on the hillocks near the burrows of the bizcacha, occasionally uttering their strange wild hoots to each other. If disturbed, they either run into the holes of their friends, in which they have their abode; or, uttering a shrill, harsh cry, they move with a remarkably undulatory flight to a short distance, and then turning round, steadily gaze at their pursuer.

The Pampas Cuckoo (Molothrus Niger).

Among the birds of numerous kinds which abound on the plains, there are several worthy of notice. One is remarkable from its habits.

It deposits its eggs, like the cuckoo, in the nests of other birds. Several of them may be seen standing together on the back of a cow or horse. They also perch on low boughs: and while pluming themselves in the sun, attempt to sing; but their voice is rather like a hiss, resembling that of bubbles of air passing rapidly from a small orifice under water, so as to produce an acute sound.

The Calandria (Mina Orpheus).

The best songster on the Pampas is a species of mocking-bird, called by the inhabitants calandria. Its song is powerful—similar to that of the hedge-warbler. It only sings, however, during the spring; at other times its cry is harsh and inharmonious. They frequent the neighbourhood of houses; and will boldly peck at the meat which is hung up on the posts or walls to dry. When any of the other small birds join the feast, the calandria soon chases them away.

Flamingoes.

The flamingo, in large flocks, visits the New World as well as the Old. On the shores of the great rivers, as also on the banks of lagoons and marshes, it may be seen feeding with other water-fowl—its beautiful red and white plumage shining brightly in the sun, and contrasting with the dark green of the river vegetation.

Oven-Birds.

Of the genus Furnarius there are several species. The best-known is the oven-bird of La Plata—the casara, or house-maker, of the Spaniards. It builds its nest in an exposed situation, on the top of a vast bare rock or cactus. It is composed of mud and bits of straw, and has strong, thick walls—its shape being precisely that of an oven, or depressed bee-hive. The opening is large and arched, and directly in front. Within the nest there is a partition which reaches nearly to the roof, thus forming a passage or ante-chamber to the true nest.

The Little House-Builder.

There is another species of Furnarius, which the Spaniards call the casarita, or little house-builder. This species builds its nest at the bottom of a narrow cylindrical hole, which extends horizontally to nearly six feet under ground. It generally chooses the side of a low bank, but sometimes penetrates the mud walls round the houses, through which it works its way, frequently—very much to its disappointment—coming out unexpectedly on the opposite side.

The Scissor-Beak.

The scissor-beak (Rhynchops nigra) frequents the lakes and streams. It is about the size of a tern, with short legs, webbed feet, and extremely long, pointed wings. The beak is flattened laterally, and the lower mandible is an inch and a half longer than the upper. When flying along in small flocks, close to the surface of a lake, the birds keep their bills wide open, the lower mandible half buried in the water. In their flight they frequently twist about with extreme swiftness, managing, with their projecting lower mandible, to plough up small fish, which they retain in the lower half of their scissor-like bills. Each bird thus leaves its wake on the mirror-like surface. On quitting the water their flight is wild, irregular, and rapid. They then utter loud, harsh cries; their tails, as they fly, are much used in steering their irregular course.

During the day they may generally be seen resting in flocks on the grassy plains, at some distance from the water, as they usually take to fishing at night.

Parrots.

A small green parrot, with a grey breast, frequents the banks of the Parana. It builds on the higher branches of the taller trees.

These birds fly in large flocks, and commit great ravages on the corn-fields.

The Boat-Bill Heron.

In the same localities the curious boat-bill heron is found,—its short thick neck and enormous beak giving it a clumsy, ungainly look alongside the elegant flamingo. The beak may be likened to two boats, laid one upon the other, gunwale to gunwale, the upper part of the mandible representing the keel. It feeds on the Crustacea which it picks up on the shore, as well as on fish—on which it pounces, as they swim by, from some branch overhanging the water.

It is about the size of a duck, its legs being shorter, in proportion to its body, than those of waders in general. On the top of its head the male has a full, long plume of black feathers drooping over the back. The neck and breast are of a greyish-white. The back also is grey, with a wash of rusty-red; while there is a patch of a deeper tint of the same colour upon the middle of the under part of the body. The sides are black, and the tail white.

Although many other creatures besides those which have been described are to be found in the vast regions we have rambled over, none of the larger or more curious have been omitted. We have, however, been able to take only a very cursory glance at the human inhabitants or the wonders of the vegetable kingdom; but it is hoped that the reader will have gained a general and correct view of the various aspects which the wilder portions of the Western World present, as well as of the animals with which the Creator, in his infinite wisdom, has thought fit to people them.

Quitting America, we purpose,—in future volumes,—to wander over the Eastern portions of the globe, the islands of the Pacific, Australasia, and the Indian Archipelago, and to visit the Arctic and Antarctic regions,—where numberless objects are to be found, not less interesting and wonderful than those described in the preceding pages.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Will Weatherhelm"

Chapter One.

My father’s land—Born at sea—My school life—Aunt Bretta—Spoilt by over-indulgence—Enticed to sea—The Kite schooner—Contrast of a vessel in port with a vessel at sea—My shipmates—My name fixed in more ways than one—A gale—Repentance comes too late—Suspicious customers—A narrow escape—Naples and its Bay.

My father, Eric Wetherholm, was a Shetlander. He was born in the Isle of Unst, the most northern of those far-off islands, the Shetlands. He loved his native land, though it might be said to be somewhat backward in point of civilisation; though no trees are to be found in it much larger than gooseberry bushes, or cattle bigger than sheep; though its climate is moist and windy, and its winter days but of a few hours’ duration. But, in spite of these drawbacks, it possesses many points to love, many to remember. Wild and romantic, and, in some places, grand scenery, lofty and rocky precipices, sunny downs and steep hills, deep coves with clear water, in which the sea-trout can be seen swimming in shoals, and, better still, kind, honest, warm hearts, modest women with sweet smiles, and true, honest men.

Once only in my youth was I there. I remember well, on a bright summer’s day, standing on one of the highest of its lofty hills, sprinkled with thousands of beautiful wild-flowers, and as I looked over the hundreds of isles and islets of every variety of form, grouping round the mainland, as the largest island is called, I thought that in all my wanderings I had never seen a greener or more lovely spot floating on a surface of brighter blue; truly I felt proud of the region which my poor father claimed as the place of his birth. I knew very little of his early history. Like the larger proportion of Shetland men, he followed the sea from his boyhood, and made several voyages, on board a whaler, to Baffin’s Bay. Once his ship had been nipped by the ice, whirled helplessly against an iceberg, when he alone with two companions escaped the destruction which overwhelmed her. Finally he returned home, and, sickened of voyages in icy regions, became mate of a merchantman trading out of the port of Hull round the English coast. On one occasion, his brig having received severe damage in a heavy gale, put into Plymouth harbour to obtain repairs. He there met an old shipmate, John Trevelyn, who had given up the sea and settled with his family on shore.

John had a daughter, Jannet Trevelyn, and a sweet, good girl I am very certain she must have been. Before the brig sailed my father obtained her promise to marry him. He shortly returned, when she became his wife, and accompanied him to Shetland. But the damp, cold climate of that northern land was a sore trial to her constitution, accustomed, as she had been, to the soft air of her native Devonshire, and she entreated that he would rather take her with him to sea than leave her there. Fortunately, as he considered it, the owners of the brig he had served in offered him the command of another of their vessels, and he was able to fulfil the wishes of his wife, as well as to please his own inclination, though for her sake he would rather have left her in safety on shore, for he too well knew all the dangers and hardships of the sea to desire to expose her to them.

My father had very few surviving relatives. His mother and sister were the only two of whom I know. His father and two brothers had been lost in the Greenland fishery, and several of his uncles and cousins had been scattered about in different parts of the world, never to return to their native islands. When, therefore, he found that Shetland would not suit my mother’s health, he tried to persuade my grandmother and Aunt Bretta to accompany him to Devonshire. After many doubts and misgivings as to how they could possibly live in that warm country far away to the south among a strange people, who could not understand a word of Erse, they at length, for love of him and his young wife, agreed to do as he wished. As soon as he was able he fetched them from Shetland to Hull, whence he conveyed them to Plymouth in his own vessel, and left them very comfortably settled in a little house of their own in the outskirts of the town. Though small, it was neat and pleasant, and they soon got accustomed to the change, though they complained at first that the days in summer were very short compared to those in their own country. This was the year before I was born. My mother, though she had now a home where she could have remained, was so reconciled to a sea life, and so fond, I may say, of my father, that she preferred living on board his vessel to the enjoyment of all the comforts of the shore. On one memorable occasion, a new brig he commanded, called the Jannet Trevelyn, in compliment to my mother, was bound round from Hull to Cork harbour in Ireland, and was to have put into Plymouth to land her, seeing that she was not in a fit state to continue the voyage, when a heavy south-westerly gale came on, and the brig was driven up channel again off the Isle of Wight. During its continuance, while the brig was pitching, bows under, with close-reefed topsails only on her, with a heavy sea running, the sky as black as pitch, the ocean a mass of foam, and with the wind howling and whistling as if eager to carry the masts out of her, I was born. My poor mother had a heavy time of it, and it was a mercy she did not die. But oftentimes delicate, fragile-looking women go through far more than apparently strong and robust persons. She had a fine spirit and patient temper, and what is more, she put a firm trust in One who is all-powerful to save those who have faith in him, both for this life and for eternity.

The brig was hove-to, and though more than once she narrowly escaped being run down by ships coming up Channel, she finally reached Plymouth, and my mother and I were landed in safety. Thus I may say that I have been at sea from my earliest days. Old Mrs Wetherholm was delighted to receive my poor mother and me, and took the very fondest care of us, as did Aunt Bretta, while my father proceeded on his voyage.

Soon after this I was christened under a name which may sound somewhat fine to southern ears, Willand Wetherholm; but, as will be seen, I did not very long retain it.

My mother had another trial soon after this. My grandfather, John Trevelyn, who had for some time been ailing, died and left her without any relations that I ever heard of on his or her mother’s side of the house. Thus she became more than ever dependent on my father and his mother and sister. She had no cause to regret this, however, for kinder, gentler-hearted people never existed.

Two years more passed away, and I throve and grew strong and fat, and what between grandmother, and mother, and aunt, ran a great chance of being spoilt. My father had been so frightened about my mother before, that he would never take her to sea again; but he often said that he would endeavour, when he had laid by a little more money, to give it up himself and to come and live with her on shore. It is a dream of happiness in which many a poor sailor indulges, but how few are able to realise! He was expected round at Plymouth, on his way to the Mediterranean, but day after day passed and he did not arrive. My mother began to grow very anxious, so did my grandmother and aunt. A terrific gale had been blowing for some days, when the Eddystone was nearly washed away, and fearful damage was done to shipping in various parts.

At length the news reached them that the brig had put into Salcombe range. It is a wild-looking yet land-locked harbour on the Devonshire coast. Black rocks rise sheer up out of the water on either side of the entrance, and give it a particularly melancholy and unattractive appearance. One of the owners had come round in the brig, but he had landed and taken a post-chaise back towards London. In the morning the brig sailed, and by noon the gale was blowing with its fiercest violence. In vain my poor mother watched and waited for his return; from that time to the present neither my father nor any of his crew were again heard of. The brig with all hands must have foundered, or, as likely as not, been run down at no great distance from Plymouth itself. My mother, who had borne so bravely and uncomplainingly her own personal sufferings, sunk slowly but surely under this dispensation of Providence. She never found fault with the decrees of the Almighty, but the colour fled from her cheeks, her figure grew thinner and thinner. Scarce a smile lighted up her countenance, even when she fondly played with me. Her complaint was incurable, it was that of a broken heart, and I was left an orphan.

Most of my father’s property had gone to purchase a share in the brig, which had been most fatally uninsured, and thus an income remained barely sufficient for the support of my grandmother and aunt. They, poor things, took in work, and laboured hard, night and day, that they might supply me with the food and clothing they considered I required, and, when I grew older, to afford me such an education as they deemed suitable to the son of one holding the position my father had in life Aunt Bretta taught me to read pretty well, and to write a little, and I was then sent to a day-school to pick up some knowledge of arithmetic and geography. Small enough was the amount I gained of either, and whether it was owing to my teacher’s bad system or to my own stupidity, I don’t know, but I do know that I very quickly lost all I gained, and by the time I was twelve years old I was a strong, stout lad, with a large appetite and a very ill-stored head.

Though I had not picked up much information at school, I had some companions, and they were generally the wildest and least manageable of all the boys of my age and standing. The truth was, I am forced to confess, my grandmother and aunt had spoilt me. They could not find it in their hearts to deny me anything, and the consequence was that I generally got my own way whether it was a good or bad one. I should have been altogether ruined had they not set me a good example, and instilled into my mind the principles of religion. Often the lessons they taught me were forgotten, and years passed away, when some circumstance recalled them to my mind, and they brought forth a portion, if not all, of the fruits they desired. Still I grew up a wayward, headstrong boy. I heard some friends say that my heart was in its right place, and that I should never come to much harm, and that satisfied me; so I did pretty well what I liked without any qualms of conscience or fears for the consequences.

I am not going to describe any of my youthful pranks, because I suspect that no good will come from my so doing. If I did not reap all the evil consequences I deserved, others might fancy that they may do the same with like impunity and find themselves terribly mistaken. One of my chief associates was a boy of my own age, called Charles Iffley. His mother, like mine, was a Devonshire woman, and his father was mate of a merchantman belonging to the port of Hull, but trading sometimes to Plymouth, and frequently to ports up the Straits of Gibraltar. Charley and I had many tastes in common. He was a bold dashing fellow, with plenty of pluck, and what those who disliked him called impudence. One thing no one could deny, that he was just the fellow to stand by a friend at a pinch, and that, blow high or blow low, he was always the same, merry-hearted, open-handed, and kind. These qualities, however, valuable as they are, if not backed by right principle and true religion, too often in time of temptation have been known miserably to fail. On a half-holiday, or whenever we could get away from school, Charley and I used to steal down to the harbour, and we generally managed to borrow a boat for a sail, or we induced one of our many acquaintances among the watermen to take us along with him to help him pull, so that we soon learned to handle an oar as well as any lads of our age, as also pretty fairly to sail a boat. When we returned home late in an evening, and I went back to supper, my poor old grandmother would complain bitterly of the anxiety I had caused her; and when I saw her grief, I used to promise to amend, but I am sorry to say that when temptation came in my way I forgot my promise and repeated my fault.

At length the schooner to which Charley’s father belonged came into Plymouth harbour. I went on board with my friend, and he showed me all over her; I thought her a very fine vessel, and how much I should like to go to sea in her. The next day he appeared at our house in great glee, and told my grandmother and Aunt Bretta that he had come to wish them good-bye, that his father had bound him apprentice to the owners of the schooner, and that he was to go to sea in her that very voyage. I was sorry to part with him, and I could not help envying him for being able to start at once to see the world. When he was gone, I could talk of nothing else but of what Charley was going to see, and of what he was going to do; and I never ceased trying to persuade my grandmother and aunt to let me go and be a sailor also. Poor things, I little thought of the grief I was causing them.

“Willand, my dear laddie, ye ken that your father, and your grandfather, and two uncles were all sailors, and were lost at sea,—indeed, I may well say that such has been the hard lot of all the males of our line,—then why should ye wish without reason or necessity to go and do the same, and break your old grandmother’s heart, who loves ye far better than her own life’s blood,” said the kind old lady, taking me in her arms and pressing me to her bosom. “Be content to stay at home, laddie, and make her happy.”

“Oh, that ye will, Willand dear,” chimed in Aunt Bretta; “we’ll get a wee shoppie for ye, and may be ye’ll become a great merchant, or we’ll just rent a croft up the country here, and ye shall keep cows, and sheep, and fowls, and ye shall plough, and sow, and reap, and be happy as the day is long. Won’t that be the best life for Willand, grannie? It’s what he is just fitted for, and there isn’t another like it.”

I shook my head. All these pictures of rural felicity or of mercantile grandeur had no charms for me. I had set my heart on being a rover, and seeing all parts of the world, and I believe that had I been offered a lucrative post under Government with nothing to do, without a moment’s hesitation I should have rejected it, lest it might have prevented me from carrying my project into execution. Still for some time I did not like to say anything more on the subject, and the kind creatures began to hope that I had given up my wishes to their remonstrances. Had they from the first taught me the important lessons of self-denial and obedience, they might have found that I was willing to do so; but I had no idea of sacrificing my own wishes to those of others, and I still held firmly to my resolution of leaving home on the first opportunity.

I was one day walking down High Street, Plymouth, when I saw advancing towards me a fine sailor-like looking lad, with a well-bronzed jovial countenance.

“Why, Will, old boy, you don’t seem to know me,” he exclaimed, stretching out his hand, which seemed as hard as iron.

“Why, I scarcely did, Charley, till I heard your voice,” I answered, shaking him warmly by the hand. “You’ve grown from a boy almost into a man. There’s nothing like the life of a sailor for hardening a fellow, and making him fit for anything. I see that plainly.”

“Then come to sea with me at once,” he replied; “I can get you a berth aboard our schooner, and we’ll have a merry life of it altogether, that we will.”

I liked his confident and self-satisfied way of talking; but I said I was afraid I could not take advantage of his offer, though I would try and get leave from my grandmother.

“Leave from your grandmother!” he exclaimed with a taunting laugh; “take French leave from the old lady. You are far better able to judge what you like than she is, and she can’t expect to tie you to her apron-strings all your life, can she?”

“No, but she is very kind and good to me, and I’m young yet to leave her and Aunt Bretta. Perhaps, when I am older, she will not object to my going away,” I replied.

“Pooh, pooh! feeds you with bread and milk, and lollipops; and as to being too young—why, you are not much more than a year younger than I am, and fully as stout, and I should like to know who would venture to say that I am not fit to go to sea. I would soon show him which was the best man of the two.”

These remarks, for I will not call them reasons, had a great effect on me. I thought Charley the finest fellow I had ever known, and I promised to be guided by him entirely. I did not consider how ungrateful and foolish I was. How could he really care about me, or know what was for my best interests? He only thought of pleasing himself by getting a companion whom he knew from experience he could generally induce to do what he liked. I forgot all the love and affection, all the tender care I had received from my grandmother and aunt since my birth, and that I ought on every account to have consulted their feelings and opinions on the most important step I had hitherto taken in life. Instead of this, I made up my mind if they should say no, as Charley expressed it, to cut my stick and run. Many have done as I did, and bitterly repented their folly and ingratitude every day afterwards to the end of their lives. It stands to reason that those who have brought us up and watched over us in helpless infancy or in sickness, instructed us and fitted us to enter on the active duties of life, must feel far greater interest in our future welfare than can any other person. We, as boys, are deeply interested in a shrub or a tree we have planted, in a dog we have brought up from a puppy; and we may be certain that our parents or guardians are far more interested in our welfare, and therefore I repeat, do not go and follow my example, and run counter to their advice and wishes.

I spent the afternoon with Charley Iffley on board the Kite schooner, of which his father was mate. She was a fine craft, with a handsomely fitted up cabin. She had been a privateer in the last war, and still carried six brass guns on deck, which were bright and polished, and took my fancy amazingly. She also had a long mahogany tiller bound with brass, and with a handsomely carved head of a kite which I much admired. These things, trifles as they were, made me still more desire to belong to so dandy-looking a craft. The captain was on shore, but Mr Iffley, the mate, did the honours of the vessel, and talked largely of all her good qualities, and finally told me that for the sake of his son, who was my best friend, if I had a mind to go to sea, he would make interest to get me apprenticed to her owners. I did not exactly understand what that signified; but I thanked him very much, and said that I left the matter in his and his son’s hands.

“All right, Will, we’ll make a sailor of you before long!” exclaimed Charley, clapping me on the back.

Mr Iffley was not a person, from his appearance, very well calculated to win the confidence of a young lad. He was a stout, short man, with huge, red, carroty whiskers, and a pock-marked face, small ferretty eyes, a round knob for a nose, and thick lips, which he smacked loudly both when speaking and after eating and drinking. However, Charley seemed to hold him in a good deal of respect and awe, an honour my friend did not pay to many people. This I found was owing much to the liberal allowance of rope-end which the mate dealt out to his son whenever he neglected his duty, or did anything else to displease him; but of course Master Charley did not confide this fact to me, but allowed me to discover it for myself. In the evening I went back to my grandmother’s. I wanted Charley to accompany me, but he said that he thought he had better keep out of the way, or out of sight. This I have since found the Tempter—that great enemy of man—always does when he can. He does his best to hide the hook with which he angles for souls, as well as to conceal himself; and we may justly be suspicious of people who dare not come forward to explain their objects and intentions regarding us. Even in a worldly point of view, the caution I give is very necessary. It was not, however, till long, long after that I found all this out. I had not been seated at the tea-table many minutes before I opened the subject which lay nearest my heart. My kind grandmother and Aunt Bretta used all the arguments they could think of to induce me to stay at home, and so powerful and reasonable did they seem, that had I not been ashamed of facing Charley and confessing that I was defeated, I should, at all events for the time, have yielded to their wishes. They pictured to me all the horrors of being shipwrecked and being cast on a barren island, or tossed about at sea on a raft, or having to live among savages, or being half starved or parched with thirst,—indeed, they had little difficulty in finding subjects on which to enlarge. They also reminded me that, as I had no friends and no interest, if I went to sea they could do nothing for me, and that though Mr Iffley might be a very kind man, he could not be expected to care so much for me as he would for his own son, and perhaps I might have to remain before the mast all my life. All this I knew was very true, but I could not bear the idea of being laughed at by Charley and his father, and in my eagerness I swore vehemently that go to sea I would, in spite of everything they could say; and I declared that I didn’t mind though I might be cast away a dozen times, or go wandering about the ocean and never come back,—indeed, I scarcely know what wicked and foolish things I said on the occasion.

My poor grandmother and aunt were dreadfully shocked at the way I had expressed myself. They had too much respect for an oath themselves, even though it was as rash as mine, to endeavour to make me break it, and with tears streaming down her face my grandmother told me, that if such was my resolution, she had no longer the wish to oppose it. There was something very sad in her countenance, and the words trembled on her lips as she spoke, I remember. It was not so much, however, because of my wish to go to sea, as of my rank ingratitude and want of tenderness.

“Oh, Willand! ye dinna ken what harm ye have done, laddie,” said Aunt Bretta, as I parted from her to go to roost in my little attic room, which she had fitted up so neatly for my use.

At first I was inclined to exult at having made the first step towards the accomplishment of my wishes, and I was thinking how proud I should be when I met Charley the next morning, to be able to tell him that I had triumphed over all difficulties and was ready to accept his offer; but then the recollection of what Aunt Bretta had said, and a consciousness of the nature of my own conduct came over me, and I began to be sorry for what I had done. In the morning, however, before breakfast, Charley called for me, and when I told him that I had got leave to go, he said he would come in and comfort the poor women. This he did in a rough kind of way. He told them that we were going to make only a short summer voyage—out to the Mediterranean and back; that if I liked it I might then be apprenticed, and if not, that I might come on shore; that I should have seen a little of the world, and that no great harm would be done.

The matter once settled, no people could have exerted themselves more than did my two kind relatives to get me ready for sea. They knew exactly what was wanted, and in three or four days my entire kit was ready and stowed away in a small sea-chest, which had belonged to some member of my family who had escaped drowning. It received no little commendation when it was hoisted up the side of the Kite.

“That’s what I like,” said Mr Iffley; “traps enough, and no more. It speaks well for your womankind, and shows that you come of a sea-going race.”

I told him that I was born at sea, and that my father was drowned at sea.

“That’s better than being hung on shore,” he answered with a loud laugh; and I afterwards found that such had been the fate of his father, who was a noted pirate, and that he himself had enjoyed the doubtful benefit of his instruction for some time.

While we lay at Plymouth we received orders to call in at Falmouth, to carry a cargo of pilchards, which was ready for us, to Naples, in the south of Italy. The people in that country, being Roman Catholics and having to fast, eat a great quantity of salt-fish. They have plenty of fish in their own waters, but they are so lazy that they will not be at the trouble of catching them in sufficient quantities to supply their wants. Falmouth was a great fishing place in those days, and full of vessels going to all parts of the world. There had been some heavy rain in the night, and as they lay with their sails loosed and the flags of all the civilised nations in the world flying from their peaks, I thought that I had never seen a more beautiful sight.

Mr Tooke, our captain, was a very good sailor. He was a tall, fine man, with black hair and huge whiskers, like his mate’s, and a voice, when he liked, as loud as thunder—a quality on which he not a little prided himself. I thought when I went on board that I was to live in the cabin and be treated like a young gentleman. Charley had not said anything about the matter, but he had showed me the state rooms, as they were called, and I had sat down in the cabin and taken a glass of wine with him there, so I took it for granted that I was to be a sort of midshipman on board.

The first night, when the middle watch was set, and I began to grow very sleepy, I asked Charley in which of the cabins I should find my bed. He laughed, and told me to follow him. I did so, and he slipped down a little hatchway forward, just stopping a minute, with his head and shoulders above the deck, to tell me that I must not be too squeamish or particular, and that I should soon get accustomed to the place to which he was going to take me. He then disappeared, and I went after him. I found myself in a dark hole, lighted by a very dim lantern, with shelves which are called standing bed-places, one above the other, all round it, and sea-chests lashed below. In the fore part were two berths, rather darker and closer than the rest.

“That’s where you and I have to sleep, old boy,” said Charley. “I didn’t like it at first; but now I would just as soon sleep there as anywhere else. But, I say, don’t make any complaints; no one will pity you if you do, and you will only be laughed at for your pains.”

I found that he was right with regard to my getting accustomed to the place, though sheets were unknown, and cleanliness or decency were but little attended to. Not only were the habits of many of the crew dirty, but their manners and ideas were bad, and their language most foul and obscene; cursing and swearing went on all day long, just as a thing of course. It might seem strange to some who don’t know much about human nature, that I, a lad decently brought up by good, religious people, and fairly educated, should have willingly submitted to live along with such people. At first I was startled,—I won’t say shocked,—but then I thought it fine and manly, and soon got not only accustomed to hear such language, but to use it with perfect indifference myself.

We are all of us more apt to learn what is bad than what is good I have mentioned Captain Tooke and our first mate. We had a second mate, old Tom Cole by name. He was close upon sixty years of age. He had been at sea all his life, and had been master of more than one vessel, but lost them through drunkenness, till he got such a name that no owners would entrust him with the command of another. He was a good seaman and a fair navigator, and when he was sober there wasn’t a better man in the ship. He had been to sea as first mate, but lost the berth through his besetting sin. I believe Captain Tooke engaged him from having known him when he himself was a young man, and from believing that he could keep him sober. He succeeded pretty well, but not always; and more than once, in consequence of old Cole’s neglect of his duty, we very nearly lost our lives, as many lives have been lost before and since. The two mates messed with the captain, but the apprentices lived entirely with the men forward. Besides Charles Iffley, there was another, Jacob La Motte, a Guernsey lad. He was a far more quiet and steady fellow than either of us. In my wiser moments I learned to like him better than Iffley; and perhaps because I was better educated than most of the men, and, except when led away by bad example, more inclined to be rational, he associated more with me than with them. The best educated and the most steady among the hands forward was a young man, Edward Seton. He was very well-mannered and neat in his person, and I never heard him giving way to profane swearing or any other gross conduct, and he tried, but in vain to check those who indulged in it.

I had not been long at sea, though time enough to have any pride I might have possessed knocked out of me, when I was accosted by old Ned Toggles, one of the roughest of the rough hands on board, and generally considered the wit of the crew, with, “And what’s your name, youngster? Did any one ever think it worth while to give one to such a shrimp as you?”

“Yes,” said I, firing up a little; “I should have thought you knew it by this time.”

“Know it! How should I know whether your name is Jack, or Tom, or Bill? Any one on ’em is too good for you, I should think, to look at you,” remarked old Toggles, with a grin and a wink at his companions.

“Thank you for nothing,” said I, feeling very indignant at the gratuitous insult, as I considered it, thus offered to me. “If you want to know my name, I’ll tell it you. It is Willand Wetherholm.” The last words I uttered with no little emphasis, while I looked at my shipmates as much as to say, “There! I should like to know who has got as good a name as that!” I saw a grin on the countenance of old Toggles as I spoke.

“Will Weatherhelm!” he ejaculated. “A capital name, lad. Hurrah for Will Weatherhelm. Remember, Will Weatherhelm is to be your name to the end of your days. Come, no nonsense, we’ll mark it into you, my boy. Come, give us your arm.” What he meant by this I could not tell; but after a little resistance, I found that I must give in. “Come, it’s our watch below, and we have plenty of time to spare; we’ll set about it at once,” said he, taking my arm and baring it up to the elbow. One of the other men then held me while Toggles procured a sharp needle, stuck in a handle, and began puncturing the thick part of my arm between the elbow and wrist. The operation cost me some little pain; but there was no use crying out, so I bore it patiently. When he had done he brought some powdered charcoal or gunpowder, and rubbed it thoroughly over the arm. “There, my lad,” said he, “don’t go and wash it off, unless you want a good rope’s-ending, and you’ll see what will come of it.”

I waited patiently as I was bid, though my arm smarted not a little, and in three days Toggles told me I might wash as much as I liked. I did wash, and there I found on my arm, indelibly marked, my new name, “Will Weatherhelm!” and at sea, wherever I have been, it has ever since stuck to me.

Note. Weather helm is a sea term. A vessel, when not in perfect trim and too light aft, has a tendency, when on a wind, to luff of her own accord, or to fly up into the wind. To counteract this tendency it is necessary to keep the helm a-weather, and she is then said to carry a weather helm. It is not surprising, therefore, that Toggles should at once catch at my name, and turn it into one which is so familiar to a seaman’s ear. Indeed, to this day, I have often to stop and consider which is my proper name, and certainly could not avoid answering to that of Will Weatherhelm.

If one of my old shipmates were to be asked if he knew Willand Wetherholm, he would certainly say, “No; never heard of such a man.”

“But don’t you remember Will Weatherhelm?”

“I should think so, my boy,” would be his reply, and I hope he would say something in my favour.

We had a quick run to the southward till we were somewhere off the latitude of Lisbon, when a gale sprung up from the eastward which drove us off the land, and not only carried every stitch of canvas clear of the bolt-ropes, but very nearly took the masts out of the vessel. It was my watch below when the gale came on, and I was awoke by the terrific blows which the schooner received on her bows; and what with the darkness and the confusion caused by the noise of the sea and the rattling of the blocks aloft, the stamp of feet overhead, and the creaking of the bulk-heads, I fully believed the ship was going down, and that my last moment had come. I thought of my poor old grandmother’s warnings, and I would have given anything if I could have recalled my oath and found myself once more safe by her side. “All hands shorten sail!” soon sounded in my ears. I slipped into my clothes in a moment, and hastened on deck. The sky overhead was as black as pitch, and looked as if it was coming down to crush the vessel between it and the ocean, and every now and then vivid flashes of lightning darted forth from it, playing round the rigging and showing the huge black seas as they came rolling up like walls capped with white foaming tops, with a loud rushing roar, as if they were about to overwhelm us. A rope’s-end applied to my back made me start, and I heard the voice of old Cole, saying, “Hillo, youngster, what are you dreaming about? Up aloft there, and help furl the topsails.” Aloft I went, though I thought every moment that I should be blown away or shaken from the shrouds; and when I got on the yards, I had to hold with teeth and eyelids, as the saying is, and very little use I suspect I was of. Still the sails, or rather what remained of them, were furled, and I had been aloft in a gale. I very soon learned to think nothing of it.

We were many days regaining our lost ground, and it was three weeks after leaving Falmouth before we sighted the Rock of Gibraltar. We did not stop there, but the wind being then fair, ran on through the Gut towards our destination. Inside the straits, we had light and baffling winds, and found ourselves drifted over to the African shore, not far from the Riff Coast. We kept a sharp look-out and had our guns ready shotted, for the gentry thereabouts have a trick of coming off in their fast-pulling boats if they see an unarmed merchantman becalmed; and, as a spider does a fly caught in his web, carrying her off and destroying her. They are very expeditious in their proceedings. They either cut the throats of the crew or sell them into slavery, carry all the cargo, and rigging, and stores on shore, and burn the hull, that no trace of their prize may remain. Charley told me this; but we agreed, as we were well armed, if they came off to us, they might find that they had caught a Tartar.

The captain and mates had their glasses constantly turned towards the shore. The sun was already sinking towards the west, when I heard the captain exclaim, “Here they come! Now, my lads, let’s see what you are made of.” We all, on this, gave a loud cheer, and I could see six or eight dark specks just stealing out clear of the land. Charley and I were in high glee at the near prospect of a skirmish, for we both of us had a great fancy for smelling gunpowder.

Old Cole heard us boasting of what we would do. “Just wait, my boys, till you see some hundreds of those ugly blackamoors, with their long pikes, poking away at you, and climbing up the side of the schooner, and you will have reason to change your tone, I suspect,” said he, as he turned on his heel away from us.

“Here comes a breeze off the land!” exclaimed Mr Iffley; “we may wish the blackguards good-bye before they come up with us.” The breeze came and sent us a few fathoms through the water, and then died away and left the sails flapping as before idly against the masts, while at the same time the row-boats came nearer and nearer. The captain walked the deck with his glass under his arm, every now and then giving a glance at the approaching boats, and then holding up his hand to ascertain if the breeze was coming back again. Once more the sails filled, and his countenance brightened. Stronger and stronger came the breeze. The schooner felt its force, and now began to rush gaily through the water. “Hurrah! she walks along briskly!” he exclaimed, looking over the side. “We may wish the gentlemen in the boats good evening.”

I was surprised to find the captain so glad to get away from the pirates. I thought it was somewhat cowardly of him, and that he would rather have stopped and fought them. Charley laughed when I told him this. “He is as brave a man as ever stepped,” he answered. “He has his own business to attend to, and that is to carry his cargo to the port we are bound for. What good would he have got had he fought the pirates, even though he had knocked them to pieces?”

The breeze continuing, and darkness coming on, we very soon lost sight of the boats. It was nearly a fortnight after this that we made the coast of Sicily, and saw Mount Etna towering up with a flaming top into the clouds. We stood on towards the Bay of Naples. A bright mist hung over the land as we approached it soon after sunrise, like a veil of gauze, but still thick enough entirely to conceal all objects from our view. Suddenly, as if obeying the command of an enchanter’s wand, it lifted slowly before us and revealed a scene more beautiful that any I ever expected to behold. On the right was the bright green island of Capri, with Sorrento and its ruined columns beyond it. Before us was the gay white city of Naples, with its castles and moles below rising upwards out of the blue sparkling waters on the side of a hill, amid orange groves and vineyards, and crowned at its summit by a frowning fortress, while on the left was the wildly picturesque island of Procida and the promontory of Baiae, every spot of which was full of classic associations, which, however, the little knowledge I had picked up was scarcely sufficient to enable me to appreciate, and in which even now, I must own, I could not take the interest they deserve. Still the beauty of the scene fixed itself on my memory never to be eradicated.

Chapter Two.

Greek pirates—A suspicions stranger—My first fight—Desperate encounter—Our fate sealed—The sinking vessel—The mate’s death—We secure a boat—Down she goes—Our perilous voyage—Loss of another shipmate—Death of Edward Seton—My promise—A strong breeze—A gale springs up—A heavy sea.

Having discharged our cargo at Naples, the captain, finding that we could get no freight home from thence at the time, determined to go to Smyrna, where he knew that he could obtain one of dried fruit, figs, currants, and raisins. We spent ten days there, and on our homeward voyage, keeping somewhat to the northward of our course, got among the islands of the Greek Archipelago. At that time a great many of the petty Greek chiefs, driven by the Turks from their hereditary domains, had established themselves on any rocky island they could find, with as many followers as they could collect, and nothing loth, used to carry on the respectable avocation of pirates. Some possessed only lateen-rigged craft, or open boats, but others owned fine large vessels, ships and brigs, strongly armed and manned. Though they attacked any Turkish vessels wherever they could find them, they were in no respect particular, if compelled by necessity to look out for other prey, and the merchantmen of any civilised nation which came in their way had but a small chance of escape.

I observed some little anxiety on the countenances of the officers, and a more careful watch than usual was kept on board at night, while in the day-time the captain or first mate was constantly aloft, and more than once the course was changed to avoid a strange sail. The winds were light and baffling, so that we were detained among the islands for some time. At last we got a fair breeze from the northward, though it was light, and we were congratulating ourselves that we should have a quick run to the westward. We had been standing on for a couple of hours or so, when I saw the master and mates looking out anxiously ahead. I asked Charley Iffley what it was they saw.

“An ugly-looking big brig, which has a cut they don’t like about her,” was the answer. “When we were out here the last time, we sighted just such another chap. A hundred or more cut-throat-looking fellows were dancing on her decks, and we had every expectation that they would lay us aboard, when a man-of-war hove in sight, and she prudently cut her stick. The man-of-war made chase, but a Thames barge might as well have tried to catch a wherry. The pirate was out of sight in no time.”

“But if this stranger should prove to be a gentleman of the same profession, what shall we do, Charley?” I asked.

“Run away if we can, and fight him if he comes up with us,” he replied.

I thought he did not seem quite so anxious about fighting as he had been when we were off the Riff coast. Indeed, from what I could learn, should the vessel in sight prove to be a Greek pirate, we might find a struggle with her no joking matter. That she was so, I found the captain and officers entertained not the slightest doubt. The schooner was brought on a wind and stood away to the southward, but the brig immediately afterwards changed her course for the same direction. The captain on this called the crew aft, and told us that he intended to try and make his escape, but that if he did not succeed, we must fight for our lives, for if overcome we should all have our throats cut. Charley and I, and La Motte, gave a shrill cheer, in which we were joined by two or three of the other men, but the old hands merely growled out, “Never fear; no man wants to get his throat cut, so we’ll fight.” I was surprised at their want of enthusiasm; but when men have been much knocked about in the world, and have all their finer feelings blunted, that, among other sentiments, is completely battered out of them.

When Captain Tooke saw the brig change her course, he hauled the schooner close on a wind, but the brig instantly hauled her wind also, and we very soon saw that she was rapidly overhauling us. The truth is, that English merchantmen of those days were mere tubs compared to those of foreign nations; and even the Kite, though a fast vessel of her class, was very inferior to the craft of the present day of the same rig. Thus we saw that there was little chance of escaping a fight should the stranger prove to be a pirate, unless a man-of-war or large merchantman, able to help us, might heave in sight.

While we were trying the speed of our heels, every possible preparation was made for fighting; boarding nettings were triced up; our two guns were carefully loaded; the small arms were got up and distributed among the people, who fastened on the cutlasses round their waists and stuck the pistols in their belts. Charley and I had got hold of a pistol a-piece, and purposed committing great execution with them, but I was condemned to help La Motte to hand up powder and shot from below, greatly to Master Charley’s amusement, who looked down and asked how I liked being a powder-monkey. As I every now and then shoved my head through the hatchway, I saw that the brig was coming up rapidly after us. I had been down some little time, when just as I came up and was looking about me, my ears were saluted with a loud hissing whirl, and I saw our main gaff shot away at the jaws and come tumbling down on deck. This made the schooner fall off the wind somewhat.

“Fire, my lads! fire!” shouted Captain Tooke, “and see if we can’t repay them in kind.”

Our lee-gun had been run over to the weather side, and both guns were fired at once, discharged by some of our best hands, old men-of-war’s men. Still, as no cry of satisfaction followed, I suspected that they had not succeeded in damaging the enemy. A whole broadside from the Greek now came rattling down upon us. I could not resist giving a look up on deck. Several of our poor fellows had been knocked over, and lay writhing in agony. Some were binding up their wounds, and one lay half hanging over the hatchway shot through the body. Such another iron shower would speedily clear our decks of every living being. As to striking our flag, or crying out for mercy, that was out of the question; we were contending with people who had received none from their oppressors, and had not learned to show it to others. Those not required to work the two guns, began blazing away with the muskets, but in that arm also the pirate was infinitely our superior. Her shot from another broadside came rushing fiercely over us. This time no one on deck was hit, but the effects aloft were disastrous. Both our topsail-yards were wounded, and several braces and much of our standing rigging shot through. Our people fought as well as any men-of-war’s men, and our captain showed that though he was a rough diamond he was a brave fellow. A third broadside reduced our rigging to a perfect wreck, and masts, and spars, and blocks came tumbling down from aloft in melancholy confusion. All this time the wind had been increasing, and it now blew a pretty smart breeze. We might have still a chance if we could knock away some of the enemy’s spars, and keep him from boarding us. Our hull had received no material injury, and if a gale came on we might weather it out till perhaps some ship might come to our rescue. Having got up all the powder and shot required, I came on deck. I asked Charley what he thought of the state of things. He was looking very pale; his shirt-sleeve was tucked up at the elbow, and there was blood on his arm, which a musket-ball had just grazed.

“Don’t ask me, Will,” said he. “What can we do against that big fellow? We shall all be food for fishes before long, I suppose.”

I looked at the brig, which was twice our size and uninjured in rigging, and was closely approaching us, while I could make out that her decks were crowded with men in a variety of Eastern costumes, mostly such as I had seen on board the Greek vessels at Smyrna. By this time it was blowing fresh, and a good deal of sea had got up. The schooner, having no canvas aloft to steady her, was pitching and tumbling about in an awful way. Our fate was sealed. I remembered all the dreadful stories I had heard, and the atrocities committed by these Greek pirates; but I had little time for thought. On came the pirate; showers of musket-balls swept our decks, and round shot came crashing through our side. In another instant her grappling-irons were thrown aboard, and as a huge spider catches a miserable fly, so did our big antagonist hold us struggling and writhing in his grasp.

We had fought as long as we could; but what could we do against such overwhelming numbers? We did not strike to the villains at all events, for we had not a man by this time left on his legs to haul down the flag, even had we wished to do so. The pirates, with fierce shouts, waiting till the sides of the vessels rolled together, leaped, sword in hand, on our decks. The captain and mates continued fighting to the last, as if resolved to sell their lives dearly. Some were driven overboard, several were knocked down below, and so saved their lives for the moment, while the greater number were unable to lift hand or foot in their defence. I was among them. A shot grazed me, I could scarcely tell where, my whole body was in such agony; but overcome with it I lay without power of moving. This was fortunate, for had any of us shown signs of life, the pirates would have despatched as at once. As it was, they merely shoved us out of the way, while they set to work to get out the cargo. Though I could not move, my eye was able to follow them, and from the expeditious way in which they proceeded about their work, they were evidently well practised in it. Every moment I expected to find my existence finished by having the point of a sword or a pike run into me. I suppose after this that I went off into a swoon, for when I again looked up, the pirates had left the vessel, and I could see the topsails of their brig, just as they were sheering off. My first impulse was that of joy to think that I was saved. I tried to rise, and fancied that I might have strength sufficient to do so; but then I thought it better to be perfectly still, lest the pirates should see me moving about, and take it into their heads to fire and perhaps finish me. My feelings were very dreadful. I knew not how many of my companions might have escaped. Perhaps I might be soon the only survivor left alone on the shattered wreck, for the groans of my companions still alive showed that they were desperately wounded; or perhaps my doom was already fixed, and my hours were drawing to a close. I could scarcely bear to hear those sounds of pain, yet I dared not move to render assistance. I waited for some time, and then I slowly turned round my head, and ventured to look if the vessel could be seen from where I lay. She was not visible, so I crawled to a port through which I could see her about a mile off, standing away to the eastward. I now felt that, provided no one showed their heads above the bulwarks, we should be safe. A cask of water stood on the deck for daily use. I crawled to it, and swallowed some of the precious fluid, which much revived me. I never tasted a more delicious draught in my life. I took the tin cup, and crawled to the nearest person who appeared to be alive. It was the captain. He was groaning heavily, “Here’s a cup of water, sir,” I said; “it will do you good. The pirates are off, and I do not think they are coming back again.”

At first he did not seem to understand me; then he took the mug of water, and drained it to the bottom.

“What, gone, are they?” he at length exclaimed. “Ah, lad, is that you? Well, what has happened? Oh! I know. Help me up, and we’ll see about it.”

I did my best, hurt as I was, to raise him up. In a short time he very much recovered. Both he and I, it appeared, had been knocked over by the wind of a round shot, and had been rather stunned than seriously hurt.

The captain, as he lay on the deck, bound up my wound for me with a kindness I did not expect from him. As soon as he was somewhat recovered, he told me to come with him and examine into the state of affairs. Many of the crew lay stiff and stark on deck—their last fight over. We carried the water to the few who remained alive, and very grateful they were for it. Among the killed was the first mate; but poor Charley I did not see. I observed another man moving forward. I crawled up to him. He was Edward Seton. I gave him the mug of water. He thanked me gratefully.

“I’m afraid that I am in a bad way, Weatherhelm,” said he; “but see what you can do for me, and I’ll try and get about and help the captain: tell him.”

Under his directions I bound up his wounds as well as I could, and in a little time he began to crawl about, though it seemed to give him great pain to do so. On looking into the hold we found that several men were there. The captain hailed them, and gave the welcome news that the pirate was off, and that they might venture on deck. As soon as they heard his voice they sprang up, but looks of horror were on their countenance.

“It’s all over with us, sir,” said they. “The villains have bored holes in the ship’s bottom, and the water is rushing in by bucketsful.”

I accompanied the captain below. Unhappily he found that what they said was too true, and at the first appearance of things it looked as if the schooner could not swim another half hour. On further examination, however, it appeared that, whatever might have been the intention of the villains, they had not bored the holes very cleverly. Some of them were through the timbers, and others were even above the water line, and they had providentially been prevented from finishing their work by breaking their auger, the iron of which was sticking in one of the timbers. When this had occurred they made the attempt to knock a hole through the ship’s side; but they had found the ribs and planking too strong for their axes, and had been compelled to desist before accomplishing their purpose. They had, however, effectually destroyed the pumps,—a few strokes of their axes had done that,—so that we had little hope of freeing the vessel of water, as it would take long to repair them. Why they did not set her on fire I do not know. Perhaps because they were afraid that the blaze might attract the attention of any ship of war which might be in the neighbourhood, and bring her down upon them. At all events, they refrained from no tender feeling of love or mercy for us.

“Don’t give in, my lads,” cried the captain, after he had examined the state of affairs. “All who can manage to move, come with me; we may still have a chance of saving our lives. See if any of you can find an axe and wood to make plugs to drive into these holes.”

The pirates had of course intended to heave overboard everything of the sort; but fortunately, without loss of time, a hatchet was found under the windlass forward, where one of the men recollected he had left it, after chopping wood for firing, and another discovered an axe in the carpenter’s store-room, under a number of things which had been routed out of the chests by the pirates in their search for money. With these two tools we set to work, and as soon as a plug was cut, we drove it into such of the holes as let in the greatest quantity of water. There was no difficulty in finding them, for the water spouted up in jets in all directions in the hold.

It must be understood that what was already inside had not yet got to a level with the sea. Indeed, if it had, we should very soon have gone down. We succeeded in stopping the greater number, but unfortunately two or three had been bored low down, and some of the cargo having washed over them, we could not contrive to reach the places to plug them. I guessed, when the fact was discovered, that all hopes of ultimately saving the vessel must be greatly diminished, though what we had done would enable her to float for some time longer.

I have before been prevented mentioning anything respecting those of my shipmates who had escaped with their lives. The first person I saw below was old Cole. He was unhurt, and seemed to take matters as coolly and quietly as if they were of ordinary occurrence. He had, as I afterwards discovered, directly he saw the pirate brig running us aboard, gone below and stowed himself away. I ventured to ask him, on a subsequent occasion, how it was that he had not remained on deck and fought on like the rest. “Why, I will tell you, Will,” said he; “I have found out, by a pretty long experience, that if I don’t take care of Number one, no one else will; so, when I saw that nothing more could be done to beat off the pirates, I thought to myself, there’s no use getting killed for nothing, so I’ll just keep in hiding till I see how things go.” La Motte, the Guernsey lad, was unhurt, but we picked up poor Charley Iffley with an ugly knock on his head, which had stunned him. He didn’t know that his father was killed. We let him perfectly recover before we told him. I wished to have kept back the knowledge of this fact from him, but of course as soon as he came on deck he could not fail to discover it, so La Motte and I broke it to him gently. I was somewhat shocked to find how little effect it had on him.

“What, father dead, is he? Well, what am I to do then, I wonder?” was his unfeeling observation.

“And this is the person whom I thought so fine a fellow, and by whom I was guided rather than by those who loved me best in the world,” I thought to myself. Still, I could not help feeling compassion for my friend, and I believe he really did feel his father’s loss more than his words would have led me to suppose.

Having done what we could below, the captain called us all on deck to examine into the state of the boats, and to see if any of them were fit to carry us to the nearest shore. A glance showed us their condition. The spars which had fallen from aloft, and the shot of the enemy, had done them no little damage, and the villainous pirates, before leaving us, had stove in their sides and hove the oars overboard, to prevent any of us who might survive from making use of them. I felt my heart sink within me when I saw this, but none of us gave way to despair. It is not the habit of British seamen, while a spark of life remains in them, to do so. The long-boat was in the best condition, but with our yards gone we could not hoist her out, even had we had all the crew fit for the work, so that we were obliged to content ourselves with trying to patch up the jolly-boat, which we might launch over the side.

The carpenter was among the killed, so that had the pirates left us all his tools, we could not have repaired the boat properly, and the captain therefore ordered us to set to work to cover her over with tarred canvas, and to strengthen her with a framework inside. Thus prepared, there were some hopes that she might be able to float us, provided the weather did not grow worse.

While the captain and old Cole, with the more experienced hands, were patching up the boat, he sent La Motte and me to try and find a spy-glass in the cabin. After some search we discovered one and took it to him. He watched the pirate brig through it attentively. “Hurra, my lads, she’ll not come back!” he exclaimed. “She’s standing under all sail to the eastward, and soon will be hull down.” This announcement gave us all additional spirits to proceed with our work. La Motte and I were next sent to get up some mattresses from below on which to put the wounded men; we also bound up their hurts as well as we could, and kept handing them round water, for they seemed to suffer more from thirst than anything else.

My own wound hurt me a good deal, but while I was actively employed for the good of others, I scarcely thought about it. I found that much progress was being made with the boat. There was plenty of canvas, and a cask of Stockholm tar was found. After paying both the boat and a piece of canvas sufficiently large to cover her over with the tar, the canvas was passed under her keel and fastened inside the gunwale on either side. It went, of course, from stem to stern, and the thickly tarred folds nailed over the bows served somewhat to strengthen them. In our researches La Motte and I had found a hammer and a pair of pincers, which were very useful, as they enabled us to draw out the nails from the other boat with which to fasten on the canvas. As the boat would require much strengthening inside, a framework of some small spars we had on board was made to go right round her gunwale, from which other pieces were nailed down to the seats, and two athwart, inside the gunwale, to prevent her upper works from being pressed in. Besides this, some planks were torn from the long-boat, and with them a weather streak was made to go round the jolly-boat, and this made her better able to contend with a heavy sea.

When we had performed our first task, the captain sent us with the second mate to get up such provisions and stores as we might require, with some small beakers to fill with water. He then came himself to judge how fast the water was gaining on us, and seeing that the schooner would swim some time longer, he had another thick coat of tar put on, and an additional coat of canvas nailed over the boat. It was lucky this was done, for as the tar had not time to sink into the canvas, I do not think the first would for any length of time have kept the water out. We had still much to do, for we had neither oars, spars, nor sails fitted for the boat. In half an hour more, however, we had fashioned two pairs of oars, in a very rough way certainly, but such as would serve in smooth water well enough. We had stepped two masts and fitted two lugs and a jib. Fortunately the rudder had not been injured, so that we were saved the trouble of making one. I felt my heart somewhat lighter when the work was finished, and we were able to launch the boat over the side where the bulwarks had been knocked away when the enemy ran us aboard. She swam well, and we at once began putting what we required into her. The pirates had carried off all the compasses they could find, but the captain had a small spare one in a locker which had not been broken open, and this he now got out, with a chart and quadrant they had also overlooked. Thus we might contrast our condition very favourably with that of many poor fellows, who have been compelled to leave their sinking ships in the mid Atlantic or Pacific hundreds of miles from any known coast, without chart or compass, and with a scant supply of water and provisions.

We had no difficulty in stowing water and provisions for the remnant of the crew to last us till we could reach Zante or Cephalonia, or some part of the Grecian coast; for that, I heard the captain say, would be the best direction to steer. We first put the wounded who could not help themselves into the boat, and the rest were following, when the captain stopped us.

“Stay, my lads,” said he. “The schooner will float for some time longer, and we must not leave the bodies of our poor shipmates aboard her to be eaten by the fish with as little concern as if they were animals.”

“All right, sir,” answered the men, evidently pleased. “We wouldn’t wish to do so either, sir, but we thought you were in a hurry to be off.”

We set to work at once, for all hands knew what he meant, and we sewed each of the bodies up in canvas, with shot at their feet. “Can anybody say any prayers?” asked the captain. No one answered. Of all the crew, no one had a prayer-book, nor was a Bible to be found. I had one, I knew, which had been put into my chest by my grandmother, but I was ashamed to say it was there, and I had not once looked at it since I came to sea. Edward Seton, however, who had been put into the boat, heard the question. “I have a prayer-book, sir,” he said. “If I may be hoisted on deck, I will read the funeral service.” The captain accepted his offer. He was taken out of the boat and propped up on a mattress. He read the Church of England burial service with a faltering voice (he himself looking like death itself) over the bodies of those whom it appeared too probable that he would shortly follow.

It might, perhaps, have been more a superstitious than a religious feeling which induced my rough, uneducated shipmates to attend to the service, but it seemed to afford them satisfaction, and it may, perhaps, at all events, have done some of us good. Then the poor fellows were launched overboard, with a sigh for their loss, for they were brave fellows, and died fighting like British seamen. Charley stood by while his father’s body was committed to the deep, and he cried very heartily, as if he really felt his loss. Then, slowly, one after the other of us went into the boat. The captain was the last to quit the schooner. For some time we held on. The captain evidently could not bring himself to give the order to cast off—indeed, it was possible that the vessel might still float for some time longer; still it is difficult to say when a water-logged vessel may go down. Had we hung on during the dark, we might have been taken by surprise, and not have been able to get clear in time. I heard the captain propose to Mr Cole to set her on fire, in the hopes that the blaze might bring some vessel down to our relief; but I suspect that he had not the heart to do it. At last, as night was coming on, he gave the order, “Cast off.” I suspect he never gave a more unwilling one. Not another word did he say, but he gave a last lingering look at the craft he had so long commanded, and then turned away his head.

Our lugs were hoisted, for the wind had come round to the southward, and away we stood for Cephalonia. It was a beautiful night, the sea was smooth and the wind was light,—indeed, we would rather have had more of it,—the stars came brightly out of the clear sky, and there was every appearance of fine weather. There seemed no reason to doubt that all would go well, if the wind did not again get up; and, as we had just had a strong blow, there was a prospect of its continuing calm till we got to our destination. The night passed away pretty well—all hands slept by turns, and, for my own part, I could have slept right through it, had it not been that the groans of one of my companions, who lay close to me, sounded in my ears and awoke me. I sat up and recognised the voice of poor Edward Seton. La Motte and I, who were closest to him, did all we could to assuage his pain. We bathed his wounds and supplied him with drink, but his tortures increased till towards the morning, when on a sudden he said that he felt more easy. At first, I fancied that all was going right with him; but soon the little strength he had began to fail, and as the sun rose, and fell on his pale cheeks, I saw that the mark of death was already there. I spoke to him and asked him what I could do for him. He was perfectly conscious of his approaching death.

“You have done all you could for me, Will,” he answered, in a low faint voice, not audible to the rest. “It is all over with me in this world. I am glad that you are near me, for you think more as I do, and you know better what is right than the rest of our shipmates; but, Weatherhelm, let a dying man warn you, as you know better than others what is right, so are your responsibilities greater, and thus more will be demanded of you by the Great Judge before whom I am about to stand, and you will have to stand ere long. Oh! do not forget what I have said. And now I would ask a favour for myself. I have a mother living near Hull, and one I love still better, a sweet young girl I was to have married. Find out my mother—she will send for her—see them both—tell them how I died—how I was doing my duty faithfully as a seaman, and how I thought of them to the last.”

“Yes, yes,” I answered, “I’ll do my best to fulfil your wishes.” I took his hand and pressed it. A fearful change came over his countenance, and he was a corpse. I hoped to be able to keep my promise, for often the only satisfaction a dying seaman has, is to know that his shipmates will faithfully carry his last messages to those he loves best on earth. The body was dragged forward into the bow of the boat, for rough as were the survivors, all esteemed Edward Seton, and no one liked to propose without necessity to throw his remains overboard before they were cold.

At noon the captain took an observation, and found that since leaving the schooner the previous evening we had run about forty miles, which showed that we had been going little more than two and a half knots an hour—for the wind had been very light all the time. Still we were far better off than if it had been blowing a gale. As, however, the day drew on, clouds began to collect in the horizon, forming heavy banks which grew darker and darker every instant. I saw the captain and mate looking at them anxiously.

“We are going to have another blow before long,” observed Mr Cole. “If we could have got under the lee of some land before it came on, it would have been better for us.”

“No doubt about that, Mr Cole; but as we have no land near us, if the gale catches us we must weather it out as men best can,” answered the captain.

The mate was unfortunately right, and somewhere about the end of the afternoon watch a strong breeze sprung up from the southward, which soon caused a good deal of sea. The boat was hauled close to the wind on the larboard tack, but she scarcely looked up to her course, besides making much lee-way. She proved, however, more seaworthy than might have been expected, but we shipped a good deal of water at times, to the great inconvenience of the wounded men, and we had to keep constantly baling with our hats, or whatever we could lay hold of. As it became necessary to lighten the boat as much as possible, the captain ordered us to sew the body of poor Seton up in his blanket, and to heave it overboard. No one present was able to read the burial service over him, and he who had so lately performed that office for his shipmates was committed to the deep without a prayer being said over him. I thought it at the time very shocking; but I have since learned to believe that prayers at a funeral are uttered more for the sake of the living than the dead, and that to those who have departed it matters nothing how or where their body is laid to rest. Of course we had no shot to fasten to poor Seton’s body. For a short time it floated, and as I watched it with straining eyes, surrounded by masses of white foam blown from the summits of the rising waves, I thought of the awful warning he had lately uttered to me, and felt that I, too, might be summoned whither he was gone.

The wind and sea were now rapidly rising. In a short time it had increased very much, and as the waves came rolling up after us, they threatened every instant to engulf the boat. She had begun to leak also very considerably, and do all we could, we were unable to keep her free of water.

“We must lighten the boat, my lads,” said the captain. “Don’t be down-hearted, though; we shall soon make the land, and then we shall find plenty of provisions to supply the place of what we must now cast away.”

Some of the men grumbled at this, and said that they had no fancy to be put on short allowance, and that they would keep the provisions at all risks. I never saw a more sudden change take place in any man than came over the countenance of the captain at this answer. Putting the tiller into the mate’s hand, he sprung up from his seat. “What, you thought I was changed into a lamb, did you?” he exclaimed in a voice of thunder. “Wretched idiots! just for the sake of indulging for a few hours in gluttony, you would risk your own lives and the lives of all in the boat. The first man who dares to disobey me, shall follow poor Seton out there—only he will have no shroud to cover him. You, Storr, overboard with that keg; Johnston, do you help him.” The men addressed obeyed without uttering another word, and the captain went back to the stern-sheets, and issued his orders as calmly as if nothing had occurred.

“The captain was like himself, as I have been accustomed to see him,” I thought to myself. “Sorrow for the loss of his vessel and his people changed him for a time, and now he is himself again.”

I was not quite right, though. Rough as he looked, he was born with a tender heart; but habit, example, and independent command, and long unconstrained temper, made him appear the fierce savage man I often thought him. A large quantity of our water and provisions, and stores of all sorts, were thrown overboard, as was everything that was not absolutely necessary, to lighten the boat as much as possible. Yet, do all we could, there appeared to be a great probability that we should never manage to reach the shore. The water had also somehow or other worked its way between the canvas at the joints in the fore and after parts of the boat, in addition to the seas which came in over the gunwale. To assist in keeping it out we stuffed everything soft we could find, bits of blanket, our shirt-sleeves and handkerchiefs, into the holes in the planks, though of course but little good was thus effected. In vain we looked round on every side, in the hope that our eyes might rest on some object to give us cause for hope. Darker and more threatening grew the sky, louder roared the wind, and higher and higher rose the seas. Scarcely half an hour more remained before darkness would come down on us. With no slight difficulty the boat had been kept steadily before the seas with the advantage of daylight; at night, with the sea still higher, we could scarcely expect that she could be kept clear. It was indeed with little hope of ever again seeing it rise that we watched the sun sinking towards the western horizon.

Chapter Three.

Voyage in the boat continued—Gale blowing strong—A sail in sight—Will she pass us?—A French brig—Life on board—Reach Smyrna—Sailors’ friendship—Our pranks on shore—The plague—Charley’s fears—Sent on board the Fate—Once more afloat—Homeward-bound.

A look of blank, sullen despair was stealing over the countenances of most of the crew. Charley Iffley sat with his hands before him and his head bent down, without saying a word, and seemingly totally unconscious of what was taking place. When I spoke to him he did not answer or look up. I suppose that he was thinking of his father, and grieving for his loss, so, after two or three trials, I did not again attempt to rouse him up. La Motte and I occasionally exchanged remarks; but when the wind again got up and we expected every moment that the boat would founder, we felt too much afraid and too wretched to talk. The captain was the only person who kept up his spirits. Once more he rose from his seat, and stepped on to the after-thwart, holding on by the mainmast. I watched his eye as he cast it round the horizon. I saw it suddenly light up. “A sail! my lads, a sail!” he exclaimed, pointing to the westward. Not another word was spoken for some time. We kept on our course, and we were soon able to ascertain that the stranger was standing almost directly for us. The captain at once resolved to try and get on board her, whatever she might prove, rather than run the risk of passing the night in the boat. He on this put the boat about, for had we continued on the course we were then steering she might have gone ahead of us. Our great anxiety was now to make ourselves seen before the night closed down upon us. We had a lantern, but its pale light would not have been observed at any distance. Just before the sun sank into the ocean we were near enough the stranger to make out that she was a large brig, apparently a ship of war, and by the cut of her canvas, and her general appearance, she was pronounced to be French. Though all my younger days we were at loggerheads with them, there happened just then, for a wonder, to be a peace between our two nations, so there was no fear but what we should be treated as friends.

The sun sank ahead of us with a fiery and angry glow, while the clouds swept by rapidly overhead, and every now and then a flash of lightning and a loud roar of thunder made us anxious to find ourselves on board a more seaworthy craft than the frail boat in which we floated. We had no firearms with us, for the pirates had carried away or thrown overboard all they found on board the schooner, so we had no means of making a night signal. However, as there was still a little light remaining, we lashed two oars together, and made fast at one end an ensign, which had fortunately been thrown into the boat. The captain then stood up and waved it about to try and attract the attention of those on board the brig. I felt inclined to shout out, under the feeling that far off as she was my feeble voice would be heard. On we flew through the water at a rate which threatened every instant to tear the canvas off the boat’s bottom, while the seas at the same time constantly came on board and nearly swamped us. Time passed away; the gloom of evening thickened around us. Our hearts sank within our bosoms. It seemed too probable that the stranger would pass without observing us. We were again almost in despair, when the boom of a gun came rolling over the water towards us. To our ears it was the sweetest music, a sign that we were seen, and a promise, we believed, that we should not be deserted. On stood the man-of-war directly for us; but it had now grown so dark, that though we could see her from her greater bulk, we could scarcely hope that those on board her could see us. We had two serious dangers to avoid. If we stood directly in her course, so rapidly was she going through the water, she might run over us before we could possibly make ourselves heard; while, if we kept too much out of her way, she might pass us, and we might miss her altogether. Fortunately we succeeded in getting our lantern lighted, and the captain sent me to hold it up forward as soon as we drew near her. On she came; another minute would decide our fate; when we saw her courses hauled up, her topgallant sails furled, and coming up on the wind, she hove-to on the larboard tack, scarcely a cable’s length from us. We stood on a little, and then putting the boat about, we fetched up under her lee quarter and ran alongside. A rope was hove to us, and lights were shown to enable us to get on board.

Our captain spoke a little French, though it was of a very free-and-easy sort, I suspect. The brig proved to be, as he had thought, of that nation; and such a jabbering and noise as saluted our ears I never have in all my life heard on board of a man-of-war. However, they wished to deal kindly by us. They at once sent us down ropes with which the wounded men were hauled up, though there was great risk of getting them hurt in the operation. When this was done, the rest of us set to work to hand up all the more valuable things we had in the boat,—not that the pirates had left us much, by the by. While we were thus engaged, a squall struck the brig, and almost laid her on her beam-ends. We had just time to clamber up on board, when a sea swamped the boat, which was directly afterwards cut adrift; the helm being then put up, the brig righted, and off she flew before the wind. The squall was quickly over (we had reason to be grateful that we had not been compelled to encounter it in the boat), and the brig was once more brought up on her course. We found that she was the Euryale, of eighteen guns, and then bound for Smyrna. Though we would rather have been put on shore at Cephalonia, we were certain of their finding a vessel to carry us to Malta, if not home direct to England.

The French captain and officers treated us very kindly, and the surgeon paid the greatest attention to the wounded; but though I have been on board many a man-of-war since, I must say that I never have seen one in a worse state of discipline. One-half of the officers did not know their duty, and the other half did not do it; and the men did just what they liked. They smoked and sang and danced the best part of the day, while the officers played the fiddle or the guitar, or gambled with cards and dice, and very often danced and smoked with the men, which at all events was not the way to gain their respect. The captain was a very gentlemanly man, but had not been to sea since the war, and could not then have known much about a ship, so he did nothing to keep things right, and the great wonder to us was how he had managed not to cast her away long before we got on board her.

We had no reason to complain. Both the officers and men treated us very kindly, and were thoroughly good-natured. Since those days, too, a very great change has taken place in the French navy. Their officers are, as a rule, very gentlemanly men, and the crews are as well disciplined as in our own service—indeed, should we unhappily again come to blows, we shall find them the most formidable enemies we have ever encountered.

We arrived at Smyrna without any adventure worthy of note. Just as we entered the port, the Ellen brig, belonging to Messrs Dickson, Waddilove, and Burk, the owners of the Kite, came in also, and we at once went on board her. Captain Mathews was her master; he was one of the oldest and most trusted captains of the firm, and acted as a sort of agent for them at foreign ports. Whatever he ordered was to be done. He could send their vessels wherever he thought best, and had full control, especially over the apprentices. Thus Charley, La Motte, and I at once found ourselves under his command. He was a good-natured, kind sort of a man, therefore I had no reason to complain. We found lying there another brig belonging to the same owners. She was called the Fate. It was the intention of Captain Tooke to return home in the Ellen, and to take us three apprentices with him, while of course the rest of the men would be left to shift for themselves; but there is a true saying that man proposes, but God disposes.

We soon recovered from our fatigues and hardships, and got into fine health and spirits. The crews of the two brigs were allowed a considerable amount of liberty, and did not fail to take advantage of it. Altogether we had a good deal of fun on shore. Charley and I were generally together. We had not much money between us, but we contrived to muster enough to hire a horse now and then; and as we could not afford to have one a-piece, we used to choose a long-backed old nag, which carried us both, and off we set in high glee into the country. The grave old Turks looked on with astonishment, and called us mad Giaours, or some such name; and the little boys used to throw stones at us, or spit as we passed, but we did not care for that; we only laughed at them, and rode on. Once we rode into a village, and seeing an odd-looking building, we agreed that we should like to have a look inside. We accordingly tied up our long-backed horse to a tree, and as there was no one near of whom to ask leave, in we walked. It was a building with a high dome, and lamps burning, which hung down from the ceiling, and curtains, but there was not much to see, after all. Presently some old gentlemen in odd dresses appeared at the further end, and as soon as they saw us standing and looking as if we did not think much of the place, they made towards us with furious gestures, so we agreed that the sooner we took our departure the better. When we turned to run, they came on still faster, and as we bolted out of the mosque—for so we found the building was called—they almost caught us. We ran to our horse; while Charley leaped on his back, I cast off the tow-rope, and then he caught my hand and helped me up behind him, and away we galloped as hard as we could go through the village. The old gentlemen could not run fast enough to overtake us, but they sang out at the top of their voices to some men in the street, and they called out to others, and very soon we had the whole population after us with sticks in their hands, heaving stones at our heads, and shouting and shrieking at us. Luckily the hubbub frightened the old horse, and he went faster than he had done for many a day, and amid the barking of dogs, the shouts of boys, the crying of children, and the shrieking of women, we made our escape from the inhospitable community. I had a good thick stick with which I belaboured the poor beast to urge him onward. After some time the Turks, seeing that they could not overtake us, gave up the chase, and we agreed that we had better not enter into their village till they had forgotten all about the circumstance. When we got on board, we were told that we were very fortunate to have escaped with our lives, as many Englishmen had been killed by the Turks for a similar act of folly.

Two days after this, one of the Ellen’s men came on board, complaining of being very ill. In a short time another said he felt very queer, and both of them lay down on their chests and could eat no food or keep their heads up. Before long, Captain Mathews came below, and finding that they both had something seriously the matter with them, sent on shore for an English doctor who resided at the place. After some time the doctor came, and told the men to turn up their shirt-sleeves and to show him their arms.

“I thought so,” said he, turning to the captain; “it is my unpleasant duty to tell you that you have got the plague on board. We have it bad enough on shore.”

I thought the captain would have fallen when he heard the news. “The plague!” he gasped out. “What is to be done, doctor?”

“Send the men on shore; purify your ship, and get to sea as soon as you can,” was the answer.

But the plague is a conqueror not easily put down. Before night two more men were seized, and the two first were corpses. The captain of the Fate heard of what had happened, and sent his boats alongside to inquire how we were doing, but with strict orders that no one should come on board. No boat came the next day; the plague had paid her a visit, and three of the crew were corpses. The moans and shrieks of the poor fellows were very dreadful when the fever got to its height. One moment they might have been seen walking the deck in high health and spirits, and the next they were down with the malady and utterly unable to move. Sometimes three or four hours finished their sufferings, and the instant the breath was out of their bodies we were obliged to heave them overboard. One after the other, the greater part of the crews of the two brigs sickened and died. We three apprentices had escaped, and so had our captain and Mr Cole. The mate said he was not afraid of the plague or any other complaint, as he had got something which would always keep it away. Charley Iffley and I frequently asked him what it was. It was a stuff in a bottle which he used to take with his grog, and we suspected that he took it as an excuse for an extra glass of spirits. One cause why he escaped catching the plague was, that he never was afraid of it,—either he trusted to his specific, or felt sure that he should not catch it; also, he never went on shore among the dirty parts of the town the men had frequented, and also lived separate from them on board.

At length my companion Charley got ill. We lads had been removed to some temporary berths, put up in the hold, where we could have more air than forward. One day after I had gone on shore with the captain to bring off the doctor, not finding Charley on deck, I went down to look for him. I found him in the berth tumbling about in bed and his eyes staring wildly.

“Oh, Will! I am going to die, and there’s one thing weighs so heavy on my mind that I cannot die easy till I tell it to you!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. “Just for my own pleasure I persuaded you to come to sea, and ever since you have had nothing but danger and trouble. You’ll forgive me, won’t you? That’s what I want to know.”

I told him, of course, that I forgave him heartily; indeed, that I had never accused him of being the cause of the sufferings which I had endured, in common with him and others. Then I told him that he must not fancy that he was going to die just because he felt a little ill, and that as the doctor was on board I would go and fetch him at once.

The doctor came immediately, and, after examining him, applied some very strong remedies. I followed him on deck to inquire whether Charley really had the plague. “No doubt about it,” was his reply; “but if he drops into a sound sleep, I think he may throw it off without further evil consequences.”

Anxiously I watched at the side of poor Charley’s bed. He talked a little—then was silent—and I found that he slept. I did not dare to leave his side lest any one should come into the berth and awake him. Hour after hour I waited, till at last I sank back on the chest on which I was sitting and fell fast asleep. When I awoke the sun was shining down through the main hatchway into the berth. I heard Charley’s voice. It was low but quiet.

“I am quite well now, Will,” he said. “If the doctor, when he comes, will let me get up, I think I could go about my duty without difficulty.”

I was very glad to hear him speak in that way, but I told him that his strength had not returned, and that he must remain quiet for a day or two. From that moment, however, he got rapidly better, and in a week was almost as well as ever. He was the last person seized with the complaint on board the two brigs. On board the Fate, the master, and mates, and half the crew died; and had not we and the other survivors of the Kite’s crew arrived at Smyrna, it would have been difficult to find hands to take her to sea. Captain Mathews, however, directed Captain Tooke to take command of her, and sent Mr Cole as mate, with Charley Iffley and me, while most of our men shipped on board her. I thought that we were to go home, but I found that my summer cruise was to be a very much longer affair than I had expected. Had I gone home then, I think that I should have followed my kind grandmother’s wishes and given up the sea. Instead, however, of returning to England, the brig was employed running from place to place, wherever she could secure a freight. In that way I visited nearly every part of the coast of the Mediterranean. Sometimes we went up the Adriatic; then across to Alexandria; then to some port in Greece, or to one in Italy; then up to Constantinople, and away over to the ports on the northern coast of Africa. I saw a number of strange people and strange sights, but have not now time to describe them.

I wrote home several times to my grandmother and aunt, but, as I was always moving about, I got no answers. I thought very likely that my letters or their replies had been wrongly directed; still I began to grow very anxious to hear what had become of the only two relatives I had on earth, and whom alone I had really learned to love. After I had been out about a year I asked leave, if I could find the chance to go home. The captain on this laughed at me, and reminded me that apprentices were not their own masters, and that I must make up my mind to stay where I was till the owners wanted the brig home.

Three years passed away so rapidly that I was astonished to find how long I had been out in those seas. During all that time no accident had happened, and I began to hope that I was not going to suffer any further misfortunes in consequence of my rash oath. I expressed my feelings to Charley Iffley. He laughed at me, and said that had nothing to do with the matter, that there was no great harm in what I had said, and that, consequently, I could not expect to be punished for it. I thought differently. I knew that there was harm, and felt that I might justly be punished. At first, after Charley had recovered from the plague, he appeared to have become a thoughtful and serious character, but unhappily he very soon fell off again, and was now as reckless as ever. At length the order came for us to return home. Merrily we tramped round at the capstan bars to a jolly song, as we got in our anchor for the last time, and made sail from the port of Leghorn. We passed the Straits of Gibraltar, and with a smooth sea and southerly wind we had a quick run to the Land’s End, while our crew sang—

“To England we with favouring gale

Our gallant ship up Channel steer;

While running under easy sail,

The snow-white western cliffs appear.”

Chapter Four.

Come in sight of Old England—Many a slip between the cup and the lip—The thoughts of home—Effects of drunkenness—Breakers ahead—Ship on shore—Saved in a boat—The Scilly Isles—Advantage of losing my shoes—Boat lost—I am again preserved—A night in a cave—Go in search of assistance—Hospitable reception in the island—The old mate’s death—Sail for Plymouth—Spring a leak—Loss of the Ellen—The wave-tossed raft—Death of our companions.

We made the Land’s End one morning in the middle of March, when a strong north-easterly gale sprung up in our teeth, and threatened to drive us back again into the middle of the Atlantic. After the bright sunny skies and blue waters of the South, how cold and bleak and uninviting looked our native land! But yet most of us had friends and relations whom we hoped to see, and whom we believed would welcome us with warm hearts and kindly greetings; and we pictured to ourselves the green fields, and the shady woods, and the neat cottages, and picturesque lanes to be found inside those rocky barriers, and we longed to be on shore. The captain was as eager as any of us to reach home; so, the brig being close-hauled, with two reefs in her topsails, we endeavoured to beat up so as to get close under the land in Mount’s Bay. It was a long business, though—tack and tack—no rest and wet jackets for all of us; but what cared we for that? We had an important object to gain. Old England, our native land, was to windward. There we hoped to find rest from our toils for a season; there each man hoped to find what in his imagination he had pictured would bring him pleasure, or happiness, or satisfaction of some sort. I’ve often thought how strange it is, that though men will toil, and labour, and undergo all sorts of hardships, to obtain some worldly advantage, some fancied fleeting good, and to avoid some slight ill or inconvenience, how little trouble do they take to obtain perfect happiness—eternal rest—and to avoid the most terrific, the most lamentable of evils, the being cast out for ever from the presence of the great, the glorious Creator of the universe, to dwell with the spirits of the lost.

I gave a short account of Captain Tooke and Mr Cole, as they appeared to me when I first joined the unfortunate Kite. They had in no way altered. The captain was the same bold, daring seaman as ever, without any religious principle to guide him; and though his heart was not altogether hard or unkind, his manners were rough and overbearing, and he was often harsh and unjust to those below him. I have met numbers of merchant masters just like him from the same cause. They are sent early to sea, without any proper training, and without any right principles to guide them. If they are sharp, clever lads, they soon are made mates, and before they have learned to command themselves they are placed in command over others. In most instances, their fathers, or relatives, or friends are masters or owners of vessels, and are in a hurry to get them employed. The vessels are insured, so that if, through their carelessness or ignorance, the vessels are cast away, that matters little, they consider. If the crew are lost, that is the fate of sailors. If the master escapes, they can easily get him a new vessel; and as he has learned a lesson of caution, he will be all the better master for some time to come till the vessel is worn out, and then there will be no great harm if she is lost also. I speak of things as they were in my day. I am glad to say that a very great improvement has taken place of late years.

Our old mate held the master in great awe and respect. This was fortunate, as it generally kept him sober; still the old man never lost an opportunity of getting hold of his favourite liquor, and he would seldom leave the bottle while a drop remained. However, he generally contrived to get tipsy in harbour just before he was going to bed, so that he could turn in and sleep off the effects; and when now and then he was overtaken at sea, the men knew how to manage him; and, as he was good-natured and indulgent, they generally contrived to conceal his state and save him from the anger of the captain. Something of this sort had occurred the very day we made the land. While the captain was on deck, he had gone into the cabin, where, in an open locker, he had discovered two bottle of rum. It was too tempting a prize not to be seized, and he carried off both the bottles to his own cabin, carefully closing the locker. The captain did not discover his loss. The old man went on deck, but soon making an excuse to go below, broached one of the bottles. He had made some progress through it before he wag recalled on deck, and the condition on which he was verging did not then appear. The brig was kept beating away across the seas, the wind shifting about and every now and then giving us a slant which enabled us to creep up closer to the land. We continued gaining inch by inch, showing the advantage of perseverance, till just about nightfall we got fairly into Mount’s Bay. We thought ourselves very fortunate in so doing, for just then a strong breeze which had before been blowing grew into a downright heavy gale, against which we could not possibly have contended. It seemed, however, to be veering round more to the northward, and the captain, hoping that it would come round sufficiently to the westward of north to enable us to stand up Channel, instead of running in and bringing the ship to an anchor, determined to keep her standing off and on the land during the night, that he might be enabled to take immediate advantage of any change which might occur.

As he had been on deck for many hours, he went at last below, leaving the brig in charge of the mate. Now the old man found the weather cold, and bethought him of his bottles of rum. He knew the importance of keeping sober on such an occasion especially, but he thought that a little more rum would do him no harm, and would make him comfortable, at all events. He did not like to send for a bottle, so he went below himself to fetch it. It was his business to keep a constant watch on the compass, so as to observe any change of wind. He was not long gone below, that I remember. When he came on deck, he brought a glass and a bottle, but he had brought the full bottle instead of the half-emptied one. He asked Charley to bring him a can of hot water. Of course the fire had long been out, and there was none at that hour of the night. He stowed his glass and bottle away in a pigeon-hole under the companion-hatch, but every time he took a turn on deck he went back to it and had a taste of the liquor. He very soon forgot that he had put no water to it. This went on for some time till he sat himself down and forgot another thing—that was, that he was in charge of a vessel on a dark night, with a heavy gale blowing, and close in on a dangerous coast. We had gone about several miles without any difficulty, when, as we were once more standing in for the shore, a squall heavier than any we had yet experienced struck the vessel and laid her over almost on her beam-ends. At that moment the captain rushed on deck with the look of a half-frantic man. He cast one hurried glance forward. “About ship! about ship! down with the helm!” he shrieked out in a voice of terrific loudness.

“All right—no fear, cap’en,” cried the old mate, staggering up to him. “I’ve taken very good care of the barkie.”

At that instant a loud, grating, crushing sound was heard, and the brig seemed to be about to spring over some obstacle in her way. Then she stopped. Loud cries of horror arose from all hands, and the watch below rushed on deck. All knew full well what had occurred. The brig was on the rocks, and the sea, in dark masses with snowy crests, came roaring up around us, threatening us with instant destruction. What reply the captain made to the old man I dare not repeat. Before I thought of anything else, I remembered my own rash oath. “Am I doomed to cause the destruction of every vessel I sail aboard?” I said to myself, with a groan of anguish, and a voice within me seemed to reply, “Yes—that is to be your fate; but leap overboard and end it, and you will disappoint the malignity of the monarch of the tempest.” Happily the prayers my good grandmother had taught me had not all been forgotten. At that moment I uttered a prayer for mercy and forgiveness, and I knew then for certainty that the instigation had come from the evil one for the purpose of destroying me body and soul. “O God, have mercy on me; do what is best,” I cried. Just then I was aroused by hearing the loud voice of the captain ordering the crew to get out the long-boat. I hurried to lend a hand at the work. It seemed, however, almost a hopeless undertaking, so high ran the sea around us. Fortunately the masts still stood. We got the tackles hooked on to the yards, and, casting in oars and boat-hook and sails, hoisted away with a will. The boat swung clear of the side, and the moment she touched the water, the old mate, with Charley and I, and the greater number of the men, leaped into her. We were expecting the captain and the rest of the crew to follow, when a heavy sea, with a terrific roar, came rolling up towards us. We heard shrieks and cries for help from our shipmates. Both the masts went by the board, the boat narrowly escaping being crushed by the mainmast, and the brig instantly began to break up. We got out our oars, and pulled back the distance we had drifted, shouting out to the captain, and to any who might have remained on board, but no reply reached us. Again and again we shouted louder than ever, still there was no response. The old mate sat like one stupefied; but the catastrophe his neglect had caused had had the effect of sobering him. One of the men who was more intelligent than the rest, and often had charge of the deck at sea in the place of a second mate, said that he thought we had struck on the Rundle Stone, which is near the shore, between Mount’s Bay and the Land’s End, though we ought to have been a long way to the eastward of it.

We had hard work to keep our own near the wreck; but still we did not like to pull away while there was a chance of picking up any of those who might have remained on board. We did our best to keep our eyes on it through the darkness, with the wind and rain and spray dashing in our faces. Another huge sea came rolling on. The crashing and tearing of the timbers reached our ears, and the water which washed round us was covered with fragments of the wreck, among which we ran a great risk of having the boat stove in; but no voice was heard, nor could we see any one clinging to them. We had now to abandon all hope of saving any more of our unfortunate shipmates, and had to think of our own safety. Just as we had come to this resolve, another sea rolled towards the wreck, and when it passed over not a fragment of her remained hanging together. We were in a sad plight. None of us had saved more than the clothes we had on our backs, and some of the watch below had not had time even to put on all theirs. In getting into the boat I had lost my shoes, which I thought a great misfortune, as my feet felt very cold, and I fancied when I got on shore that I should not be able to walk. We bent manfully to our oars, and tried to pull in for the shore; but the gale came down stronger than ever on us, and we could not help being conscious that at all events we were making very little way. Still we persevered. We hoped there might be a lull—indeed, we had nothing else to do but to pull on. Bitter, however, was the disappointment which awaited us when the morning broke, and we looked out eagerly for the land. Instead of being nearer we were much further off (six or seven miles at least), and were still rapidly drifting away to sea. The further we got off the land, the greater danger there would be of the boat being swamped; besides, we had saved no provisions, and we had the prospect of a fearful death staring us in the face from hunger and thirst. The old mate had by this time been sufficiently aroused to comprehend clearly the state of affairs. As I have said, he was, when sober, a good seaman, and thoroughly acquainted with the coast. As day drew on, it cleared a little, and looking round, he made out the Scilly Islands directly to leeward of us. He watched them earnestly for some time, and throwing off his hat and putting back his grey hairs with his hand, he sat upright, and exclaimed, “Never fear, my lads, we’ve got a good port under our lee! I know the passage through the channel leading to it. Trust to me, and I’ll carry you safely there.”

Though after what had occurred we had no great confidence in him, yet as none of us knew anything about the islands, we had his judgment and experience alone to trust to. So we watched our opportunity, and bringing the boat’s head carefully round, pulled in the direction he pointed out. A break in the clouds, through which the gun gleamed forth glancing over the white foam-topped seas, showed us the land in bold relief against the black sky.

“Ah! there’s Saint Martin’s and Saint Mary’s Islands,” observed the old man. “Ah! I know them well. Many’s the time I’ve run between them up Crow Sound. Let’s see—what’s the time of day? There will be plenty of water over the bar. We shall soon have a glimpse of the Crow rock, when we get in with the land; and if only the Big Crow shows his head above water, we may cross the bar without fear of breakers. Once through it, we shall soon be on shore at Grimsby, and there are several people I know there who will give us all we can want to make us comfortable.”

The Crow, to which old Cole alluded, is a somewhat curious rock at the entrance of the Sound. It has three heads, called the Great Crow, the Little Crow, and the Crow Foot. When the Great Crow is even with the water’s edge there will be twenty-one feet of water on the bar, when the second point appears there will be sixteen, and when the Crow’s Foot is visible there will be ten feet only. These are the sort of particulars which a good coast pilot has to keep in his memory, with the appearance of the numberless landmarks on the shore, and their distances one from the other.

As we drew near the entrance of the Sound, through which if we passed we hoped all our misfortunes would end, the weather came on to be very thick again, so that we could scarcely see a dozen yards ahead. Still the mate seemed so sure of the passage that we steered on without fear.

“Are you certain, sir, that we are heading in for the right channel?” asked Wilson, the man I before spoke of, looking round over his shoulder at the mass of foam which he saw leaping up just ahead of us. “Round with her! round with her, lads!” he shouted, “this isn’t the channel.”

“All right, all right,” persisted the old mate. But it was all wrong. A sea came roiling up, and hove us in among a mass of rocks over which the breakers dashed with terrific fury. In vain we endeavoured to pull round. Over went the boat, and we were all thrown here and there, shrieking in vain for aid, among the foaming mass of broken waters. I struck out to keep my head above water if I could, and in another instant found myself hove against a steep rock to which I clung with all the strength of despair. I had thought the loss of my shoes a great misfortune. I now found it the cause of my preservation. Had not my feet been naked, I never could have clung to the slippery rock, or freed my legs from the tangled seaweed which clung round them. I struggled on—now a sea almost tore me off, and then I made a spring, and scrambled and worked my way up, not daring to look back to watch the following wave, or to observe what had become of my companions. At length I reached the top of the rock. It seemed an age to me, but I believe it was not a minute from the time I first grasped hold of the rock till I was in comparative safety. Then I looked round for my companions in misfortune. Dreadful was the sight which met my eyes. There they were, still struggling in the waves—now touching some slippery rock, and hoping to work their way on to where I was, and then borne back again by the hungry sea. In vain they struggled. I could afford them no help. One by one, their heavy boots impeding all their efforts, they sank down, and were hid to view beneath the waters. Two or three still remained alive, though at some little distance. One I recognised as our old mate, the cause of our disaster. He had contrived to kick off his shoes, and was swimming towards the rock. Poor old man, he struggled hard for life. In a moment I forgot all the mischief he had caused, and considered how I might help to save him. Undoing my neck-handkerchief, I fastened it to another I had in my pocket, and secured the two to the sleeve of my jacket. I watched him anxiously as he drew near, crying out to encourage him. Then I lowered the handkerchiefs, and as a sea washed him up towards the rock he caught hold of them, and with great care, lest we should both fall in, I helped him up the side of the rock. I had not time to say anything, for I saw another person struggling in the water. I was afraid that he would never reach the rock, for his strength seemed almost exhausted. I shouted to him. He looked up. It was Charley Iffley. I own that I was now doubly anxious for his safety. Just then an oar washed by him. He was just able to grasp it. It enabled him to recover his strength, and in a short time another sea drove him close up to the rock. I hove the end of my handkerchief to him, he caught it; and the old mate and I leaning over, hauled him, almost exhausted, out of the reach of the sea. We looked round. We were the only survivors out of all the crew. The strong men had lost their lives. The oldest and weakest, and the two youngest, had alone been saved. Whether we should ultimately escape with our lives seemed, however, very doubtful. There was barely space enough for us to sit clear out of the wash of the sea; and should the tide be rising we might be washed off. We found, however, that the tide was falling, and this restored our hopes of being saved. As the tide ebbed, the water got a good deal smoother, and the weather once more clearing, we were able to consider our position and what was best to be done. We judged that we were, three-quarters of a mile from the island of Saint Mary’s, but we could make out no habitations, and we thought it very probable night might come on before anybody would see us, while we felt if we remained on the rock that we could scarcely hope to survive.

We were already benumbed with the cold, and almost perishing with hunger. “We must try and reach the island,” said Mr Cole; “are you inclined to try it, lads?” We of course said we were. He looked at his watch, which being an old silver hunting one, was, in spite of the wet, still going, and found that it was two o’clock. “In another half hour we must make the attempt,” said he; “so, lads, prepare as best you can. It won’t be an easy job.” The time to wait seemed very long. We watched the tide ebbing, and rock after rock appearing. At last he said, “We cannot hope for a better opportunity than now. I’ll lead the way. Lend me a hand, lads, if I want it.”

We promised him that we would, and slipping down the rock on the land side a much greater distance than we had come up, we found our feet touching the bottom. There was no sea to speak of, so on we went pretty confidently. The old man advanced very cautiously, but Charley Iffley, thinking that we might move faster, said he would go ahead. He did, and went head under also immediately afterwards. He came up again directly, and struck out towards the next rock. We took to swimming at once, to save the loss of breath, and all reached the next rock without difficulty. After resting a little, we started again. We had no wish to remain longer than we could help with a north-easterly gale blowing on us in the month of March. The cold, too, was very bitter. Yet at the time I fancy I scarcely thought about it. Thus on we went, sometimes wading, sometimes swimming, and sometimes scrambling along the ledge which the receding water had left bare. Often we had to assist each other, and I believe none of us alone could have performed the task. Once Mr Cole was very nearly giving in, and twice Charley declared he could not go on, and must stay on the rock where we were resting till we could send him aid. We soon showed him that the rock would be covered long before assistance could reach him, and in another instant he was as ready as either of us to proceed. Once I almost gave in, but my companions roused me up, and again I set forward with renewed strength.

It was not, however, till six o’clock in the evening that we reached the shore, and as we found ourselves on dry land we staggered up the beach, and the old mate fell down on his knees, and in a way I did not expect of him, thanked the Almighty for the mercy He had shown us. It was a wild, desolate place, with only high rocks about on every side, without trees, and no roads that we could discover to guide us to any habitation. We went on a little way, and then the mate and Charley said they could go no further. I also felt my strength almost exhausted, but I knew that it would not do for all of us to give in, so I roused myself to exertion. That I might try and learn our position before night completely overtook us, I climbed up to the top of the highest rock I could find and looked around me. Not a habitation or a sign of one could I discover, or a road or path of any sort,—while wild heath, or sand, or rock stretched away on every side, looking cold and bleak as well could be, in that dark, dreary March evening. With this uncheering information I found my way back to my companions. We could not attempt to move on in the dark, so we looked about for some place where we might find shelter during the night.

“Oh, Will, I wish we had some food, though,” said Charley; “I am dying of hunger.”

So was I, and before moving further I returned to the beach, and with my knife cut off a number of shell-fish from the rocks, and filled my pockets with them. With this provision I returned to my companions, and sat down by their side. We ate a few, which much refreshed us, and Charley said he could go on, but the old mate declared his inability to move further.

Accordingly, Charley and I hunted about in every direction, and at last came on a shallow cave on the lee side of a rock. The sand inside was dry, and after being exposed so long to the cold wind we thought the air warm, so we helped the old man into it, and placed him in the warmest and driest spot we could find out. He did not seem to care about eating, but complained bitterly of thirst. Charley could no longer move, so I went out to try and find some water. As I was groping about, almost giving up the search in despair, I felt my foot splash into a puddle. I knelt down. It was clear, pure water, and I drank as much as I required. How grateful I felt! I thought that I had never tasted a more delicious draught. I had saved my hat, and filling it from the pool, I carried the water to my two companions. We longed to be able to light a fire, but we had in the first place no flint and steel to produce a flame, so of course it was not worth while to search about for fuel. At last, finding I could do nothing else for the comfort of my companions, I sat down beside them and opened some more of the shell-fish, which we ate raw. They served to stay our hunger, but I cannot say that eaten raw, without vinegar, or pepper, or bread, they were particularly palatable.

We had promise of a dreary night, and this was only the commencement. The poor old mate was very ill. Deprived of his usual stimulants, he could badly support the cold and wet to which he had been so long exposed. He began to shiver all over, and complained of pains in every part of his body. Then he was silent, and would do little more than groan terribly. At last his mind began to wander; he did not know where he was nor what had happened, and he talked of strange scenes which had occurred long ago, and of people he had known in his youth. I could not help listening with much interest to what he said. By it I made out that he was by birth a gentleman; that he had gone to sea in the navy with every prospect of rising in it, and that he had been in one or two actions in which he had distinguished himself. But a change came over him. He had begun by small degrees, just taking a nip now and then, till he had become—and that very rapidly—a hard drinker. From that time all his prospects in life were blighted. From some misconduct he was dismissed the ship to which he belonged, and soon afterwards, for similar behaviour, the navy itself. Then he squandered away in vice and sensual indulgence the whole of his patrimony, and at last went to sea in the merchant service as the only means of obtaining support.

His career has been that of many young men who have begun life with as fair prospects, and ruined them all from their own folly and imprudence. Poor old man, when I heard all this, and feared that he was dying, I could not help pitying him, and feeling still more sad when I thought that the last act of his life was a strong evidence that he had in no way reformed as he advanced in years.

At length he slept more quietly, and, overcome by weariness, I too fell fast asleep. I did not awake till the sun was up and glancing on the tops of the rocks before our cave. Charley awoke at the same time, and began to rub his eyes and to wonder where he was. The old mate was awake. There was a dull, cold look in his eye, and his brow was wrinkled with pain. He groaned when I spoke to him, but after a little time he aroused himself and spoke. He said that he could not move a limb, much less walk; but he begged that Charley and I would try and find our way to the nearest village and bring him assistance.

“Make haste, that’s good lads,” said he, in a trembling voice; “my days are numbered, I fear; but I am not fit to die. I don’t want to die, and I would give all I own to save my life.”

I did not want any pressing. I got up, and though my limbs were stiff, after moving them about a little I found that I could walk. Charley at first thought that he could not move, but on making one or two trials he discovered that he was able to accompany me. So we set off together to try and find our way to Grimsby, which the mate told as was the nearest village he knew of.

After wandering about and missing our way, and having to sit down frequently from weakness, we reached Grimsby. Our appearance excited a good deal of compassion among the people, who came out of their houses to inquire about the wreck. The chief man of the place was a Mr Adams; he took us into his house and sent for shoes and clothing for us, and had us washed, and dressed in fresh dry clothes, and put food before us. When I told him about the old mate, he said that he knew the place, and that he could not let us go back, but that he would send some men with a litter who would bring him in much sooner than if we were to go for him. He was as good as his word, for not long after we had done breakfast Mr Cole appeared; he seemed very ill, but he was able to take a little food, and drink some spirits and water. He was put at once to bed, and Mr Adams sent over to Saint Mary’s, the chief town in the island, for a doctor to see him. The doctor came, and shook his head and said that he saw very little prospect of his recovery. All the time we remained at Grimsby, we were treated with the greatest kindness. We had the best of everything, comfortable beds, and nothing to do. Charley and I sat up by turns by the side of the old man’s bed. He grew worse and worse; we soon saw that his days were drawing to a close.

A week passed away, and still he lingered on. I asked the doctor if he did not think that he might recover.

“No; it is impossible,” he answered.

“Does he know, sir, that he is going to die?” I asked.

“Every man knows that such will be his lot, one day or other,” he replied, “though many try very hard to forget it.”

“Shall I tell him, sir, what you think?” said I; for I could not bear the idea of allowing the old man to go out of the world without any preparation.

“It will do him no harm,” said the doctor. “If it would. I could not allow it. My duty is to keep body and soul together as long at I can.”

I thought even at the time that something more was to be done. It was not, however, till many years afterwards that I discovered it was far more important to prepare the soul for quitting the body, than to detain it a few hours or days longer in its mortal frame, with the risk of its losing all the future happiness it is so capable of enjoying. When I went back to the old mate I told him that the doctor thought he was in a very bad way, and that he would never be on his feet again.

“Well, Will,” said he, “it’s a hard case; but I’ve known men as ill as I am get well again, and I don’t know why I shouldn’t recover.”

“But if you don’t recover,—and the doctor, who ought to know, thinks you won’t,—wouldn’t it be well to prepare for death, sir?” said I boldly; for, having made up my mind to speak, I was not going to be put off it by any fear of consequences. He was silent for a long time.

“I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

He little thought how short a time he had to think about it. So it is with a great number of people. They’ll tell you that they will not think about dying, but think whether they will make preparation for death; and they go on thinking, till death itself cuts the matter short, and the right preparations are never made. So it was with the poor old mate. He said that he had no friends,—no relations who would care to hear of him,—and that he had no message to send to any one. He intended, however, to get well and to look after his own affairs. In the evening he got worse. I suspected that he thought he was dying, because he gave his watch to Mr Adams, who had been so kind to us, and divided a few shillings he had in his pockets between Charley and me. The next day he died. Though I had no respect for him, I felt a blank as if I had lost an old friend. Charley and I saw the poor old man buried, and then we agreed that it was time for us to be looking out for a vessel to get back to our masters.

The next day a brig called the Mary Jane put into the harbour, bound round from Bridgewater to London. Though I wanted to get to Plymouth to see my grandmother and aunt, and Charley wished to go to Hull, to stay with his widowed mother, as another chance might not occur for some time, we shipped aboard her. Before going we told Mr Adams the name of the firm to which we were apprenticed, that he might recover from them the sums he had expended on us; but he replied, that he had taken care of us because it was right to succour the distressed, and that he required no reward or repayment. He was a good man, and I hope he enjoys his reward.

The desire to see my only relations grew stronger every day, and I thought how happy I should feel if I could but get landed at Plymouth, to run up and take them by surprise. This, however, could not be. When we reached London I found that the Mary Jane, as soon as she had discharged her cargo, was to sail again for the westward; and as she this time was to touch at Plymouth, so the captain said, I asked him to give me a passage. He replied, that as I had behaved very well while with him he would, so I remained on board. Here I parted from Charley, who got a berth on board a vessel bound for Hull, where he wanted to go. We sailed, and I hoped in a few days to have my long-wished-for desire gratified. When, however, we got abreast of the Isle of Wight, we met with a strong south-westerly gale, which compelled us to run for shelter to the Motherbank. While lying there the captain received orders from his owners not to touch at Plymouth, but to go on to Falmouth. This was a great disappointment to me. Still I thought that I could easily get back from Falmouth to Plymouth, so that it would be wiser to stick by the ship.

The old brig was not much of a sailer, but still, after running through the Needles, we had a quick passage till we got a little to the westward of the Eddystone. The captain, for some reason or other, expecting a south-westerly breeze, had been giving the land a wide berth, when the wind, instead of coming out of the south-west, blew suddenly with terrific violence from the north-east. The old tub of a brig did her best to beat up towards the land, but without avail. A squall took all her sails out of her, and away we went driving helplessly before it, as if we were in a hurry to get across the Atlantic. Our master, Captain Stunt, though a good seaman, was nothing of a navigator, and we could scarcely tell even where we were driving to. The vessel also was old, and had seen a good deal of hard service. Our condition, therefore, was very unsatisfactory. We had no quadrant on board, and if we had possessed one there was no one to use it—indeed, it was many days before the sun appeared, and all we knew was that, by the course we had drifted and the rate we had gone, we were a considerable distance from any land. Still the captain hoped, when the weather moderated, to be able to beat back and get hold of the Irish coast, as the phrase is. At length the wind lulled a little, and we once more made sail on the brig. We got on pretty well for a few hours, when down came the gale once more on us, and before we could shorten sail, a heavy sea struck the vessel, and she was turned over on her beam-ends, a sea at the same time knocking our boats to pieces and washing everything loose off the deck. There she lay like a log, the water rushed into her hold, and every moment we expected she would go down. Terror was depicted on every countenance. The only person who remained cool and collected was the old master.

“My lads, we must cut away the masts—there’s no help for it!” he sang out in a clear voice. He himself appeared directly afterwards with an axe in his hand, but it was some time before others could be found. The first thing was to cut away the lee rigging and then the weather, that the masts might fall clear of the hull. A few well-directed strokes cut nearly through them, and with a crash the remaining part broke off, and the vessel lay a dismasted hull amid the high-leaping and foaming waves. She righted, however, and we had now to hope that, if she weathered out the gale, some vessel might fall in with us and tow the brig into harbour, or at all events take us off the wreck. The next thing to be done was to rig the pumps to get the vessel clear of the water which had washed into her. We all pumped away with a will, for we knew that our lives depended on our exertions. Pump as hard as we could, however, we found that we made no progress in clearing the wreck of water. At last the mate went down to ascertain the cause of this. In a few minutes he rushed on deck with a look of dismay.

“What’s the matter, Ellis?” asked the captain.

“It’s all up with us, sir,” answered the mate. “A butt has started, and it is my belief that the brig will not swim another half hour.”

“Then let us get some grog aboard, and die like men,” cried some of the crew.

“Die like brutes, you mean, my lads!” exclaimed the old master. “No, no, we will have none of that. Let us see what we can do to save our lives. What, do you call yourselves British seamen, and talk of giving in like cowards! Don’t you know that there’s ‘a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft’ to take care of the life of poor Jack. That means that God Almighty watches over us, and will take care of those who trust in Him.”

These remarks from the old man had a good deal of effect with the sailors. “What is it you want us to do, sir?” they asked.

“Why, build a raft, my lads, and see if it won’t float us.” Encouraged by the spirited old man, we all set to work with a will. With our axes some of us cut up the deck and bulwarks, and collected all the remaining spars, while the rest lashed them together. The mate and a boy were employed meantime in collecting all the provisions and stores he could get at and in stowing them away in a couple of chests, which formed the centre of our raft. In a very short time nearly everything was ready. The raft was, however, so large that we could not attempt to launch it, but we hoped that it would float when the brig sank under us. We had all been so busy that we had not observed how rapidly the vessel was sinking. Suddenly the old master gave a loud shout, “Now, my lads, now, my lads! to the raft, to the raft!” Some of the men had gone forward to get hold of their clothes or some money, or anything they could find, against his advice. Some of them were seen at this moment leisurely coming up the fore-hatchway. Even when he shouted to them they did not hurry themselves, any more than sinners are apt to do when warned by their faithful pastors to flee from the wrath to come. Mr Ellis and I, with two other men, were near him at the time. We leaped on to the raft as he spoke, and seizing some oars which had been placed on it, we stood ready to shove it clear of the wreck as she sank. The vessel gave a plunge forward. The other men on deck rushed aft with frantic haste, but the waters were around them before they could catch hold of the raft. The look of horror on their countenances I cannot even now forget. One was a little before the others: he clutched at one of the oars. With our united strength we hauled him in. Then down went the brig. The cry of our companions was quickly stifled. The raft rocked to and fro as the wild seas tossed up fiercely round us. Now one came sweeping on. “Hold on! hold on!” shouted the old master. One of our number did not attend to him. The sea passed over the raft, almost blinding us When we looked up, the man was gone. Five of us only remained alive. How soon more of our number might be summoned from the world, who could tell? I dare not dwell on the dreadful thoughts which passed through my mind. Was I truly under the ban of Heaven? Was I to prove the destruction of every vessel I sailed aboard? This was the fourth time I had been shipwrecked. “Oh, my oath! my oath!” I ejaculated. “Could I but retract it! But how is that to be done?” Uttered once, there it must remain engraven in the book of heaven. As I lay on that sea-tossed raft, in the middle of the Atlantic, I pondered deeply of those things in my own wild untutored way. Did but men remember always that every word they utter, every thought to which they give expression, is entered on a page never to be erased till the day of judgment, how would it make them put a bridle on their tongues, how should it make them watch over every wandering emotion of their minds, and pray always for guidance and direction before they venture to speak!

For several days the gale continued. We scarcely ventured to move for fear of being washed away. Now the raft rose on the side of a sea—now rocked on its summit—now sunk down into the trough, but still was preserved from upsetting—had which event occurred, we must have been inevitably lost. We had food in the chests, but we had little inclination to taste it. Water was our great want. Our supply was very scanty. By the master’s urgent advice, we took only sufficient at a time to moisten our tongues. For a few days we bore this with patience. Then the wind went down, and the sea grew calm, and the hot sun came out and struck down on our unprotected heads. The weather grew hotter and hotter. The men declared they could stand it no longer. One seized the cask of water, and before the master could prevent him, took a huge draught: then the others followed his example. The mate for some time withstood the temptation, but at length he yielded to it.

“Are we to die without a prospect of prolonging existence, because these men consume all the water?” I said to myself, and taking the cask, drew enough to quench my thirst. I offered it to the master. “Come, sir,” said I, “take the water, it may revive you, and perhaps to-morrow help may come.”

He could not withstand the appeal. Perhaps some men might have done so, from a high sense of the necessity of adhering to a resolution once formed. In two days we had not a drop of water left. Then came horrors unspeakable. Madness seized the poor mate. Before he could be restrained, he leaped from the raft and sunk below the waves. The other two men sickened. First one, then the other died. The captain, though the oldest of all, kept his senses and his strength. He was a calm, even-tempered, abstemious man. Still, as he sat on the chest in the middle of the raft, of which he and I were the only occupants, he spoke encouragingly and hopefully to me. I listened, but could scarcely reply. I felt a sickness overcoming me. I thought death was approaching. I sank down at his feet with a total unconsciousness of my miserable condition.

Chapter Five.

Again preserved—Charley’s account of himself—A night at sea—The West Indies—A hurricane—Ship on fire—Again on a raft—Look out for help—The happy relief—The breaking out of war—Pursued—Endeavour to escape—Captured by friends—The man-of-war—Our mate pressed—Duty on board—Mr Merton’s gallantry—Old England at last—A bitter disappointment—Friends gone—Miss Rundle—She tells me what has become of Aunt Bretta—Visit my grandmother’s grave.

My last thoughts had been, before I lost all consciousness, that death was about to put an end to my sufferings. I remember then hearing a rush of waters—a confused sound—rattling of blocks—human voices—cries and shrieks. I looked up—it was night. A dark object was lowering above my head. I fancied it was a huge black rock, and that it was going to fall down and crush me. “To what strange shore have we drifted?” I thought. I cried out with terror. “Never fear, my lad,” said a voice. “It’s all right.” I found myself gently lifted up in the arms of a person, and when I next opened my eyes, I discovered that I was on the deck of a large ship and several people standing round me. The light of a lantern fell on the face of one of them. I looked hard at the person. Was it only fancy? I was certain that it was the countenance of Charley Iffley. I pronounced his name. He had not before recognised me.

“Why, Will Weatherhelm, how did you come out here?” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise. But a gentleman, whom I found to be doctor, told him that he must not now talk to me, and that he would find out all about it by and by.

I was then carried below, and placed in a berth, and very kindly treated. In a few days I was sufficiently recovered to go on deck. I was glad to see old Captain Stunt there also, looking well and fresh. I found that we were on board a large West India trader, the Montezuma, belonging to the firm to which I was apprenticed, Messrs Dickson, Waddilove, and Buck. I little knew what additional cause for gratitude we had for our escape, for the ship coming on the raft at night while Mr Stunt was asleep, we were not observed till she actually grazed by it. The noise awoke him, when he shouted out, and the ship being close-hauled, and having little way, was immediately luffed up, and without difficulty we were taken on board.

“Well, Charley, how did you come to be on board the Montezuma?” I asked.

“That question is very simply answered,” said he. “When I got home I found that my uncles and aunts and all my first cousins looked upon me as a very troublesome visitor, and hinted that the sooner I took myself off to sea again the better. It is not comfortable to feel that everybody is giving one the cold shoulder, so I begged to have a new kit, and offered to look out for a ship. It was wonderful how willingly everybody worked, and how soon my outfit was ready. My eldest uncle hurried off to Mr Dickson, and as they were just sending the Montezuma to sea, and had room for an apprentice, I was immediately sent on board, and here I am. Now you know all about me. I thought I was going to change and become a better character. I was sorry for many things I had done, and if my relations had treated me kindly at first, I think they would have found me very different to what I was. How ever, give a dog a bad name and it sticks to him like pitch.”

“But I am afraid, Charley, from what you have told me, that you gave yourself the bad name,” said I. “You should not blame others.”

“I do not,” he answered. “All I blame them for is, that they did not soften their hearts toward me, and try to reform me. They might have done it, and I could have loved some of them tenderly; but others are harsh, stiff, cold, very good people, who have no sympathy for any who do not think like themselves, and make no allowances for the follies and weaknesses of those who have not had the advantages they have enjoyed.” And Charley put his head between his hands and burst into tears.

I was very glad to see this. It made me like him more than I had ever before done. I have since often thought how very different many young people would turn out if they were spoken to by their elders with gentleness and kindness—if sympathy was shown them, and if their faults were clearly pointed out.

Our owners were very respectable people, and understood their business, so they were generally well served. Captain Horner, of the Montezuma, was a good sailor. The crew consequently looked up to him, though he kept himself aloof from them. He was what the world calls a very good sort of man, but as to his religion and morals I was not able to form an opinion. It may seem strange that I, a young apprentice, should have thought at all on the subject. Perhaps, if those in command knew how completely their conduct and behaviour are canvassed by those under them, they would behave very differently to what they do. Our second mate, Josias Merton by name, was a man worthy of remark. He was a very steady, serious-minded person, and yet full of life and fun. He prided himself on his knowledge of his profession in all its details. His heart was kind and gentle, and he was at the same time brave and determined, active and prompt in action. He never undertook what he did not believe, after due consideration, he could accomplish, and therefore seldom failed in what he undertook. Both Charley and I owed him much, for he spared no pains to improve us and to instruct us in our profession.

As soon as I was well, I was placed in a watch and had begun to know and to do my duty. The Atlantic afforded me the sight of many objects to which I had been unaccustomed in the Mediterranean. I remember one night coming on deck, and after I had looked to set what sail was set, and how the ship was steering, I cast my eyes over the calm ocean. It was very dark. There was no moon, and clouds obscured the stars. I gazed with amazement. The whole surface of the deep, far as the eye could reach, was lighted with brilliant flashes. I bent over the side. The sea was alive with fish of every size and shape. Some were leaping up, ever and anon, out of the water; others were chasing their smaller brethren through it; others, again, rolled over in it, or lay floating idly near, as if looking up with their bright eyes to watch the ship, the invader of their liquid home. People talk of the lack-lustre of a fish’s eye. They are acquainted only with a dead fish. Did they ever remark the keen, bright, diabolical eye of a shark watching for his expected victim? I know nothing in nature more piercing, more dread-inspiring. Here were collected sharks, and pilot-fish, and albicores, bonettas, dolphins, flying-fish, and numberless others, for which old Mr Stunt, to whom I applied, could give me no name. The very depths of the ocean seemed to have sent forth all their inhabitants to watch our proceedings.

“I suppose that it is the shining copper on the ship’s bottom attracts them,” said the old man. “They take it to be some big light, I conclude.” Whether he was right or not I have never since heard any one give an opinion.

The first place at which we touched was Bridgetown, in the island of Barbadoes. I thought the Bay of Carlisle, with the capital Bridgetown built round its shores, and the fertile valleys, and rich fields of sugar-cane, altogether a very lovely spot. The West India Islands are divided into what are called the Windward and Leeward Islands. The wind, it must be understood, blows for nine months of the year from the east. The most eastern islands are therefore called the Windward Islands, and those in the western group the Leeward Islands. Of all the Caribbean Islands, Barbadoes is the most windward, and the Havannah the most leeward. We had to land cargo and passengers, and to take in cargo at several islands. We commenced, therefore, at the windward ones. In that way I became acquainted with a considerable portion of the West India Islands, and very beautiful places I saw on them. The Montezuma was not long in getting a full cargo, and then she prepared to return home. The last place at which we touched was Kingston in Jamaica. At length, I thought to myself, I shall once more see Old England, and satisfy my kind grandmother and Aunt Bretta that I am still alive. I hope that I may leave this vessel without her being shipwrecked, as has been the fate of every one I have yet been on board. Just as this idea had crossed my mind the captain sent for me, and said that he was going to leave Mr Merton in charge of a small schooner, which was to be employed in running between the different islands to collect cargo to be ready for the return of the ship, and that he wished me to remain.

“You will be soon out of your indentures, and if you behave well, as I have no doubt you will, I will promise you a mate’s berth,” he added.

This was indeed more than I could have expected; and though I was disappointed in not going home, I thanked the captain very much for his good opinion of me and kind intentions, and accepted his offer. The Montezuma sailed for England, and I found myself forming one of the crew of the Grogo schooner. We had a very pleasant life of it, because the black slaves did all the hard work, taking in and discharging cargo, and bringing water and wood off to us.

I might fill pages with descriptions of the curious trees and plants and animals I saw in the West Indies. There is one, however, which I must describe. I was asking Mr Merton one day the meaning of the name of our schooner. He laughed, and said that grogo is the name of a big maggot which is found in the Cockarito palm or cabbage tree. This maggot is the grub of a large black beetle. It grows to the length of four inches, and is as thick as a man’s thumb. Though its appearance is not very attractive, it is considered a delicious treat by people in the West Indies, when well dressed, and they declare that it has the flavour of all the spices of the East. These maggots are only found in such cabbages as are in a state of decay. The Cockarito palm often reaches fifty feet in height. In the very top is found the most delicate cabbage enclosed in a green husk, composed of several skins. These are peeled off, until the white cabbage appears in long thin flakes, which taste very like the kernel of a nut. The heart is the most delicate, and, being sweet and crisp, is often used as a salad. The outside when boiled is considered far superior to any European cabbage. One of the most important trees in the West Indies is the plantain tree. It grows to the height of about twenty feet, and throws out its leaves from the top of the stem so as to look something like an umbrella. The leaves when fresh are of a shining sea-green colour, and have the appearance of rich satin. When the young shoots come out, they split and hang down in tatters. From the top grows a strong stalk about three feet long, which bends down with the weight of its purple fruit, each of which is in shape like a calf’s heart—a considerable number form one bunch. Each tree produces but one bunch at a time. The plantain, when ripe, forms a delicious fruit, and when boiled or roasted, it is used instead of potatoes. It forms a principal portion of the food of the negroes. The cassava forms another important article of the food of the blacks. The plant grows about four feet high; the stem is of a grey colour, and divides near its top into several green branches, from which spring red stalks with large leaves. There are two species, the sweet and bitter cassava. The bitter is excessively poisonous till exposed to the heat of fire. The root is like a coarse potato. It is dried and then grated on a grater formed by sharp pebbles stuck on a board, and the juice which remains is then pressed out by means of an elastic basket, into which the grated root is stuffed. The farina thus produced is made into thin cakes and baked. Tapioca is the finer portion of the farina.

I might, as I was saying, fill my pages with an account of the wonderful productions of those fertile islands, of the value of which I do not think even now my countrymen are fully aware. One curious circumstance I must mention in connection with them and my paternal country, Shetland, though I did not hear it till very many years afterwards. It shows how intimately the interests of distant parts of the world are united. The slaves in the West Indies were supplied by their masters with salt-fish, which fish were caught by the Shetlanders off their coasts. When the slaves were emancipated, they refused any longer to eat the description of food which they had been compelled to consume during their servitude, and the Shetland fish-dealers had not thought in the meantime of looking out for fresh markets. The consequence was, they were ruined; the herring boats were laid up, and the fishermen had to go south in search of employment.

However, that has nothing to do with my story. The Grogo was very successful, and we were looking forward every day for the return of the Montezuma. I could not help telling Mr Merton one day of my rash oath which I had made in the presence of my grandmother, and how I had been wrecked in every vessel I had sailed in from the time I came to sea. He tried to reason me out of the belief that I was the cause of the loss of the vessels. He said the oath was wicked, there was no doubt of that, but that others had lost their lives and some their property, while I each time had suffered less than anybody else. I saw the strength of his reasoning, but still I was not convinced. I felt that I had deserved all the hardships I had endured, and I fully expected to be wrecked again. What followed may seem very strange. All I can do is to give events as they occurred. Two days after this we lay becalmed about ten miles from the land off Port Morant, to the eastward of Kingston in Jamaica. We had an old man of colour, who acted as pilot and mate on board. He had been below asleep. At last he turned out of his hot, stifling berth, and came on deck. He looked round the horizon on every side.

“Captain,” said he, “I wish we were safe in port. There’s something bad coming.”

“What is it, Billy?” asked Mr Merton.

“A hurricane!” was the answer.

The hurricane came. The spirit of the whirlwind rode triumphantly through the air. Earth and ocean felt his power; trees were torn up by the roots; houses were overthrown; the water rose in huge waves—hissing, and foaming, and leaping madly around us. Our topmasts had been struck; every stitch of canvas closely furled, and everything on deck securely lashed. The fierce blast of the tempest struck the little vessel; round and round she was helplessly whirled. Away we drove out to sea, and we thought we were safe; but our hopes were to prove vain. Once more we approached the shore with redoubled speed; the frowning rocks threatened our instant destruction; we could do nothing for our preservation. To anchor was utterly useless. We shook hands all round; on, on we drove. A yellow sandy bay appeared between two dark rocks; a huge sea carried us on; safely between the two rocks it bore us; up the beach it rolled. The schooner drew but little water. High up the sea carried us stem on. We rushed forward, and springing along the bowsprit, leaped on to the sand, and before another sea could overtake us we were safe out of its reach. We fell down on our knees and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving for our preservation. In ten minutes not a fragment of the schooner held together. We had truly reason to be grateful.

“Another time wrecked,” said I to Mr Merton.

“Yes, Will; but another time saved,” was his answer.

We got safe to the village of Morant Bay, where we were very kindly received, and the next day were forwarded over land to Kingston, there to await the arrival of the Montezuma. She came into Port Royal Harbour in about a week, not having felt the hurricane. As the agent had a full cargo for her, she only remained a short time, and at length I found myself on the way to the shores of old England.

“There is no fear now but what I shall get to Plymouth at last,” I thought to myself as I walked the deck in my watch the first wight after we had got well clear of the land, and were standing out into the broad Atlantic. Then I remembered my rash oath, and in spite of all Mr Merton’s reasonings, I could not help believing that its consequences would still follow me. “Home! home! with all its endearments, is not for you. The time of your probation is yet unfulfilled!—your punishment is not accomplished!”—a voice whispered in my ear. I could not silence it. Still I thought that it was only fancy. Just then Charley Iffley joined me in my walk; we were in the same watch. Hitherto I had never told him of my belief that a curse was pursuing me. I should have been wiser not to have mentioned the subject to him; still I thought that he was so much changed that he would sympathise with me. I told him all that had occurred from the moment when I first expressed my wish to go to sea to my grandmother and aunt, and reminded him of all the sufferings I had endured, and the number of times I had been shipwrecked. Instead, however, of treating the subject in the gentle, serious way Mr Merton had done, he burst into a loud fit of laughter.

“Nonsense, Will,” he exclaimed, “you’ll next accuse me of being your evil spirit, and of tempting you to sin. Many a man has been shipwrecked as often as you have who has been sent to sea against his own will; and if he swore at all, it was that he might speedily get on shore. Get that idea out of your head as soon as possible.”

I was anxious enough to follow Charley’s advice, but do all I could, the idea came back and back again whenever I found myself during my watch at night taking a turn by myself on deck.

Charley was already out of his indentures, and as he had become a steady fellow and a good seaman, he hoped to be made mate on his next voyage. At last the day arrived when the term of my apprenticeship expired, and I was to be a free man, able to take any berth offered to me. My only wish, however, after I had paid my family a visit, was to be employed in the service of my present owners. To commemorate the event, Charley proposed having a feast in our mess, and he managed to purchase from the third mate, who acted as a sort of purser, various articles of luxury and an additional bottle of rum. We were very jolly, and very happy we thought ourselves, and blew all care to the winds. The passengers and the captain were making merry in the same way in the cabin, drinking toasts, and singing songs, and making speeches, and telling funny stories, so the cabin-boy told us as he came forward convulsed with laughter. The wind was fair and light, the sea was smooth, and no ship floating on the ocean could have appeared more free from danger. Suddenly there was a cry—a cry which, next to “Breakers ahead,” is the most terror-inspiring which can strike on a seaman’s ear. It was, “Fire! fire! fire!” Who uttered it? A man with frantic haste—horror in his countenance—rushed up from the after hold. “Fire! fire! fire!” he repeated. In an instant fore and aft the revellers in dismay sprang from their seats and hurried on deck. The captain was calm and collected, had he lost his presence of mind, who could have hoped to escape? With rapid strides he reached the after-hatchway, out of which streams of smoke were gushing forth. He summoned the passengers and some of the crew to provide themselves with buckets, and to heave water down upon the spot whence the smoke seemed to come, while the rest of the crew were employed in pumping water into the hold. Wet sails and blankets were brought, and, led by Mr Merton, some of the more daring of the men leaped down with them, in the hopes of stifling the flames before they burst forth. I followed the second mate; I knew the risk, but I resolved to share it with him. “More blankets! more sails!” we shouted. They were hove down to us; but in vain we threw them over the lower hatchway. Thicker and thicker masses of smoke came gushing forth, and we were obliged to cry out to be drawn up, and were almost overpowered before we reached the deck. Two of our number had been left behind. Mr Merton and I were about to return, when a loud explosion was heard. Part of the deck was torn up, and flames burst fiercely forth through the hatchway. It was very evident that some of the rum casks had ignited, as was afterwards ascertained, by a candle having been carelessly left burning in the hold.

All hopes of saving the ship were now abandoned. The boats could not carry the entire crew and passengers. They were, however, instantly lowered into the water with a boat-keeper in each, while the rest of the people were told off, some to get up provisions and water, and others to construct a raft. I was engaged on the raft, but remembering what I had suffered on former occasions, I urged the people to take an ample supply of water in each of the boats. Scarcely was the long-boat in the water than the flames burst forth through the main hatchway, and had not the captain been prompt in his orders, the boat itself would have been lost. Provisions for the raft were put into the long-boat, while we were working away at its construction. Every moment we expected to see the flames burst forth from under our feet. We worked with might and main; with our axes we cut away the after-bulwarks, so as to launch it overboard. We had crowbars in our hands. It was barely finished.

“Heave away, my lads, heave away!” shouted the captain. “Now, gentlemen; now, my men; those told off for the boats, be smart! Get into them! No crowding, though.”

The orders were obeyed, for everybody had learned to confide in the captain’s judgment. We meantime were urging the raft over the side. “Quick! quick!” was the cry. With reason, too. The flames burst forth close to our heels. With mighty efforts, by means of our crowbars, we prized on the raft, it being balanced over the sea, yet the flames almost caught it. One effort more. It plunged into the water. A rope brought it up. Almost before it again rose to the surface we were compelled by the devouring element behind us to leap on to it. The deck gave way with a crash as we left it, and two more poor fellows sank back into the flames. The painter was cut, and as the ship drove slowly away from us, another loud explosion was heard, and fore and aft she was wrapped in flames, which rose writhing and twisting up to her topgallant masts.

“And there’s an end of the fine old Montezuma. Well, she was a happy ship!” exclaimed a seaman near me, passing his hand across his brow. “You know, Weatherhelm, I’ve sailed in her since I was a boy, and I have learned to look upon her pretty much as if she was my mother.” I never heard warmer praise bestowed on a merchantman.

Thus was I once more floating on a raft in the middle of the Atlantic. “I thought it would be so,” I muttered to myself. “My oath, my oath?”

While watching the conflagration of the ship, we had had no time to think of our own condition. The boats had pulled off to some distance from the burning ship, and we were left without oars, or sails, or provisions. Night, too, was coming on. The dreadful idea occurred to some of us, that those in the boats with their eyes dazzled by the glare of the burning ship might not see the raft. The captain, by the urgent request of the people, had gone in the long-boat. Mr Merton had remained with us. We shouted—but in vain—the boats were too far off to allow our voices to be heard. The night came on, but still we could see the burning wreck, and we felt sure that while that beacon was in sight, the boats would not give up their search for us. We forgot how fast the wreck had been drifting away. Ours seemed a hard fate. Without food or water, unless picked up we must evidently soon perish. Mr Merton addressed us in a spirited, manly way. He told us not to despair—that many poor fellows had been much worse off than we were, and that certainly by daylight we should be seen by our shipmates in the boats, and be supplied with what we wanted. If not, we were exactly in the track of homeward-bound vessels coming from America, and that we should be certainly fallen in with.

It was a very dreary night, though. All we could do was to sit quiet and watch the burning wreck. Gradually the flames burnt lower and lower. Then a huge glowing ember appeared, and that suddenly sank from sight. In spite of our position, I had fallen asleep, when I was aroused by a loud shout from my companions. It was in answer to a cry which came floating over the water from a distance. We waited eagerly listening. Again the far-off cry was repeated. Loudly we cheered in return, for we were very hungry, and had not yet had time to grow weak from hunger. In less than twenty minutes the boats came dashing up round us, and we found ourselves amply supplied with provisions, which we discussed with no small appetites. The captain then addressed us all; he told us that we must husband our provisions and water, as we could not tell when any vessel might fall in with us. He then urged the people in the other boats to remain by the raft, and suggested that in the day-time they should extend themselves about ten miles on either side so as to have a wider field of observation, but in the night that they should come back and hang on to the raft.

I ought to have said there were four boats, and thus we were able to command a range of vision of at least fifty miles. That is to say—the raft being in the centre—the boats were twenty miles apart, and from each boat a sail of fifteen miles off could at all events be seen. The plan was agreed on. We had secured a long spar, which we set up as a mast in the centre of the raft, with a flag at its head, so that the boats could always have us in view; besides which, several compasses had been saved which would enable them to find us even in thick weather. All we had now, therefore, much to fear from was bad weather and a long detention, when we might run short of provisions. The day passed away, and no sign of a vessel was perceived. The mate kept up our spirits by every means in his power. He encouraged us to sing songs and tell stories to each other, and to give an account of our adventures, and then he told us some stories, and some of them were very funny, and made us laugh, and I must say that I have passed many duller days than were those which I spent on that raft. “And now, my lads,” said he, “as we cannot steer our course across the ocean without a compass, no more can we our course through life without principles to guide us. Now the only book which can give us right principles—can show us how to live—the port we are bound for, and how to gain it, is one I have in my pocket.” We all wondered what he was aiming at, and he was silent for some little time to allow our thoughts to settle down after the joking we had had. Then he pulled out of his pocket a Bible, and took his seat on a cask in the middle of the raft. “I am going to read to you from this Holy Book, my lads, and I hope that you will listen to what I read—try to understand it—think over it—and do what it tells you.” I’ve often since heard the word of God read to sailors, but never more impressively; never to better effect, I believe, than I did on that raft in the Atlantic.

Just at nightfall all the boats came back, and hung on to us during the night, and nearly all the people went soundly to sleep. The captain in the morning proposed that those in the boat should change places with those on the raft, but we said that we were contented to be where we were, and that we preferred remaining with Mr Merton. The next day passed away much as the first, so did a third and fourth. In the evening, however, of that last day, three boats only came back; the whale-boat, commanded by the fourth mate, did not make her appearance. Various were the surmises about her. Some thought that an accident had happened to her; many expressed their fears that the mate had deserted us, and abuse of no gentle nature was heaped on his and his companions’ heads. The only people who made no complaints, and only seemed anxious to find excuses for him, were those on the raft. Why was this? Because, as I fully believe, they were influenced by the principles of Christian charity which the mate had been explaining to us, that principle which thinketh no wrong, until evidence indubitable is brought that wrong has been committed. Although we on the raft did not abuse the first mate and those with him, we could not help feeling anxious for his return. An hour of darkness passed away, and then another and another, and still the whale-boat did not appear. She had gone, I ought to have said, on the lee side of the raft; but the wind was light, so that she could have had no difficulty in pulling up to it. No one this night felt inclined to go to sleep. We were all too anxious about our companions. I saw Mr Merton turning his eyes with a steady gaze away to the south-east. I looked in the same direction. Gradually I saw emerging out of the darkness an opaque, towering mass. At first I thought it was a mere mark in the clouds, and then it resolved itself into the form of a tall ship close-hauled under all canvas. A shout from the boats showed that they had discovered the stranger. Again we shouted, and a cheer came up from her to show us that we were seen and heard. In a few minutes she hove-to, and our own whale-boat appeared from alongside her, accompanied by another boat. The mate explained, as he made a tow-rope fast to the raft to tow us alongside the ship, that he had seen her just before nightfall, and by pulling away to the southward had happily succeeded in cutting her off.

We soon found ourselves on board a large ship, the Happy Relief—and a happy relief she was to us—bound homeward from Honduras with logwood. They were a rough set on board, from the master to the apprentices, but they treated us kindly, as most sailors treat others in distress, and we had every reason to be grateful to them. We had still greater reason to be thankful that we got on board their ship that night, for before the morning a gale began to blow, and a heavy sea soon got up, which would have swept us all off the raft, and in all probability swamped the boats. It continued blowing for several days. The ship laboured very much, and soon all hands were called to the pumps. She had proved a fortunate ship to us, and it was a fortunate circumstance for her that she had fallen in with us; for all hands had to keep spell and spell at the pumps, and even so we were only just able to keep the leaks under. Had she not had us on board, she would very soon, I suspect, have been water-logged. At length the gale abated, but we notwithstanding, had to keep the pumps going night and day. By the time we reached the Chops of the Channel, having a fair breeze, we were looking out every instant to make the land, when a big ship hove in sight, standing directly across our course. The people on board the Honduras ship had told us that a few days before they fell in with us, they had spoken an outward-bound brig, from which they gained the news that war had broken out between England and France and Spain. We made out the stranger to be a heavy frigate, but as she showed no colours, to what nation she belonged we could not tell. Some on board thought we ought to haul our wind on the opposite tack to that she was on, so as to avoid her altogether. She was standing with her head to the north. Our captain soon after gave the order to brace up the yards on the larboard tack, hoping to run into Mount’s Bay or Falmouth harbour. We soon had proof that those on board the frigate had their eyes on us. The smoke of a gun was seen to issue from one of her bow ports, as a sign for us to heave-to, but the captain thought he should first like to try the fleetness of his heels before he gave in. So we continued our course to the northward. The frigate on this braced her yards sharp up, and showed that she was not going to allow us to escape her, and, by the way she walked along, we soon saw that we should without fail become her prize.

All the men who had got two suits of clothes went and put them on, and stowed away all their money and valuables in their pockets, and we all of us began to think how we should like to see the inside of a Spanish or French prison. For my part, I had heard such stories about the cruelty of the Spaniards and French that I began to wish I was back again on the raft in the middle of the Atlantic. One thing is certain,—there is nothing harder than to become a prisoner at the beginning of a war, to an enemy who hates you, with very little prospect of being exchanged. All the glasses in the ship were turned towards the frigate as she drew near, to try and make out what she was. Presently she fired another gun across our bows, and this time she was within shot of us, and at the same moment up went the British ensign. Seeing that there was no chance of escape, our captain hove-to. I thought that as she was an English ship, all was right, and could not make out the reason of the agitation some of the older hands were in. In a quarter of an hour or so, a boat with a lieutenant and a pretty strongly armed crew came alongside. As he stepped on board, he went up to the captain and told him about the war, and asked where he had come from, and whether he had fallen in with any strange ships. “And now, captain,” said he, quite calmly, “I should just like to see your crew. Muster them on deck, if you please. You’ve a large number,” he remarked, as soon as we all appeared. The captain told him how he had picked so many of us up at sea. “Ho, ho!” said the lieutenant; “come here, my lads; you’d be glad to serve his Majesty, I know.”

And he told all the crew of the Montezuma, except the captain and first mate, to get into his boat.

There was no little grumbling at this, but he did not appear like a man who would stand any nonsense of this sort, so it went no further. “But those two are apprentices,” said Captain Horner, pointing to Charley and me, and forgetting that we were both out of our indentures.

“Stout lads for apprentices,” remarked the lieutenant. “Let me see your papers.” Now it might have been said, as we had been wrecked, that we had lost them, but I would not tell a lie to gain any object.

“Please, sir,” said I, “the captain makes a mistake. I was out of my indentures a few days ago. I’ve no protection, and I don’t want any. I, for one, am ready to serve his Majesty and to fight for my country.”

Charley hearing me say this, declared himself of the same mind, and wishing Captain Horner and the captain of the Honduras ship good-bye, and thanking them, we went over to the side ready to step into the boat. The lieutenant said he liked our spirit, and that he should keep his eye on us, and if we behaved well he should recommend us for promotion. This was satisfactory, but still I felt that all my prospects of becoming a mate were blown to the wind. The person who felt it most was Mr Merton. From being an officer (and a gentleman he always was) he was reduced to the rank of a common seaman. What was far worse, too, he was engaged to be married, as soon as he returned home, to the daughter of a clergyman, who, Charley told me, was quite a lady. Now, poor fellow, for what he could tell, years might pass before he would be able to return on shore.

“Well, my man, are you ready to go?” said the lieutenant to him.

“I was second mate of the ship, and have private affairs which require my presence in England, sir,” he answered, quite calmly; and his voice showed that he was a man of education.

“That is no protection, I am afraid,” said the lieutenant. “Duty is not always pleasant, but it must be done.”

“Very true, sir,” said Mr Merton; “but let me write a line to send home, and speak a few words to my late captain. I will not detain you.”

“I can give you five minutes,” said the lieutenant, pulling out his watch.

Mr Merton thanked him and hurried below.

Poor fellow! What words of anguish and sorrow did he pour out in that letter; yet, I doubt not, he expressed his own resignation, and endeavoured to encourage her to whom it was addressed to hope that yet happy days were in store for them. He entrusted the letter to the captain, and begged him to go and see and comfort the lady to whom it was addressed. Then with a calm countenance he appeared on deck, and signified to the lieutenant that he was ready to accompany him, I doubt not he felt like a brave man going to execution.

The frigate we were on board was the Brilliant, of forty guns, and, as I looked round and saw what perfect order she was in, I thought her a very fine ship, and except that I regretted not being able to return home, I was perfectly content to belong to her. Men-of-war in those days were very different to what they are at present. Men of all classes were shipped on board, often out of the prisons and hulks, and the sweepings of the streets. Quantity was looked-for because quality could not be got. An able seaman was a great prize. The pressgangs were always at work on shore, and they thought themselves fortunate when such could be found. Now, with such a mixture of men, the bad often outnumbering the good, very strict and stern discipline was necessary.

The very first day I got on board I saw five men flogged for not being smart enough at reefing topsails. I thought it very cruel, and it set me against the service. I did not inquire who the men were. I found afterwards that they were idle rascals who deserved punishment, and always went about their duty in a lazy, sluggish way. However, there was no doubt that our captain was a very taut hand. The ship had just come out of harbour. He had found out that the greater part of his crew were a bad lot, and he was getting them into order. He treated us who had belonged to the Montezuma in a very different way. He saw that we were seamen, and he valued us accordingly. Still I think there was more punishment on board than was absolutely necessary. We had nine powerful fellows doing duty as boatswain’s mates on board, and there was starting and flogging going on every day and all day long. The first time I ever saw a man punished I felt sick at heart, and thought I should have fallen on deck, but I recovered myself and looked out afterwards with very little concern.

The frigate I found was bound on a six months’ cruise in the Bay of Biscay, not the quietest place in the world in the winter season. Mr Merton was very soon made captain of the fore-top, and Charley and I were stationed on the top with him. Owing to him, I believe, we avoided being flogged, for he was always alive and brisk and kept us up to our duty. After all, there’s nothing like doing things briskly. There’s no pleasure in being slow and sluggish about doing a thing, and a great waste of time. Mr Merton soon attracted the notice of the officers, and they used to address him very differently to the way they spoke to the other men. There was in the top with us a young midshipman: he was a fine little lad—full of life, and fun, and daring. He was the son or heir of some great lord or other, and a relation of the captain’s, who had promised especially to look after him. Well, one day the ship was running before the wind with studden sails set alow and aloft and every sail drawing, so that she was going not less than eight or ten knots, when this youngster, with two or three others, was skylarking aloft. He had gone out on the fore-topsail yard-arm, when somehow or other he lost his hold and down he fell. Fortunately, he struck the belly of the lower studden sail, which broke his fall and sent him clear of the ship into the sea. Just at that moment Mr Merton was coming up into the top. He saw the accident. Almost before the sentry at the gangway could cry out, “A man overboard!” he was in the water striking out to catch hold of the youngster, who couldn’t swim a stroke. At that moment the captain came on deck. He was in a great state of agitation when he heard who it was who had fallen overboard. Studden sail-sheets were let fly. No one minded the spars, though they were all cracking away; the helm was put down, the yards were braced sharp up, and the ship was brought close on a wind.

Meantime Mr Merton was striking out towards where young Mr Bouverie had gone down. All eyes were directed to the spot. “Now he sees him. He strikes out with all his might to catch him before the youngster sinks again. He has him—he has him, hurra!” Such were the cries uttered on every side, for the youngster was a favourite with all hands. A boat was instantly lowered, and Mr Merton was brought on board with the youngster he had rescued, both of them nearly exhausted. The midshipman was carried into the captain’s cabin. Mr Merton, when he had shifted his wet things, returned on deck to his duty. The captain, however, immediately sent for him, and told him that he could not find words to express his gratitude. Mr Merton thanked him, and said that he had merely done his duty, and did not consider which of the midshipmen it was he was going to try to save.

“Well, you have prevented a mother’s heart from being wrung with agony, and a noble house from going into mourning,” said the captain. “You deserve to be rewarded.” Mr Merton thanked him, and went about his duty, thinking little more of the matter.

Now, although seamen know how to value a man who has leaped overboard, at the risk of his own life, to save a fellow-creature from drowning, they do not make much fuss about it, because most of them would be ready to do the same thing themselves. Still, it was easy to see that Joe Merton, as he was called by the ship’s company, was raised yet higher in their estimation.

After we had been at sea some time we stood away to the westward. One forenoon, a shout from the masthead announced a sail in sight.

“Where away?” asked the officer of the watch.

“On the weather bow,” was the answer. “There are two—three—four—the whole horizon is studded with them,” cried the look-out.

The officers were pretty quickly aloft to see what the strangers could be, for some thought perhaps it was an enemy’s fleet. As they drew near, however, they were pronounced to be merchantmen, and before long we ascertained by their signals that they were part of a homeward-bound West India convoy, which had been separated in a gale of wind, off the banks of Newfoundland, from the ships of war in charge of them. Finding that they were totally unprotected, our captain made up his mind that it was his duty to see them safe into port, and signalling to them to keep together and put themselves under his orders, he invited some of the masters of the vessels near him to come on board to give him the news. Among other things, he learned that a fast-sailing French privateer had been hovering about them for some time, and had already picked off two, if not more, of their number, both heavily laden and valuable ships belonging to London; and the masters were of opinion that she had carried them into Santa Cruz, a harbour in the island of Teneriffe, one of the Canaries, because they had spoken an American vessel, the master of which told them that he had passed two such ships, accompanied by a craft answering to the description of the privateer, steering for that place. This information made the captain in a greater hurry than ever to get back to England, as he had made up his mind, as it afterwards appeared, to go and try to cut the ships out.

A strong westerly wind sprang up soon after this, and carried us in five days, with all our convoy, safe into Plymouth Sound. Now, for the first time after so many years, I found myself back at the place where I had passed my childhood, and where the only relations I had ever known, the only beings whose love I had any right to claim, resided. How eagerly I gazed on the shore, and I thought even that I could make out the little neat white row of cottages outside the town, in one of which my grandmother and aunt lived! But now came the question, how could I hope to get on shore? It was not likely that any leave would be granted, as we guessed that the frigate would not remain more than a day or two in harbour. The captain had gone on shore to we the admiral, and the first lieutenant was also called away, so that the ship was left in charge of the second lieutenant, who had pressed me. I knew that I was not likely to get what I wanted by holding back, so I made bold and went up to him and told him how I had left my grandmother when I was a boy, and had been kept knocking about ever since, and had only once, for a few hours, set my foot on English ground in the London docks, and how I would give anything if I might just run up and see how the old lady and my aunt were, and show them that I was alive.

“I think I may trust you, my lad,” said the lieutenant, looking hard at me. “But who will be answerable for you?”

“Mr Merton, sir. I know he will. He has known me for some time,” I answered earnestly. The lieutenant smiled; he was not accustomed to hear a topman have a mister put to his name. “I mean Joe Merton—beg pardon, sir,” said I, “he was my officer for some years.”

“No offence, my man; I like to hear a person speak respectfully of those above him,” answered the lieutenant. “He is your officer still, I fancy. Well, if you can get him to be answerable for you, you may go on shore for ten hours. I cannot give you longer leave than that.”

“Thank you, sir; thank you,” said I, and I hurried below to look for Mr Merton. I found him hard at work writing a letter to send on shore; but he instantly jumped up, and accompanied me on deck to assure the lieutenant that I would return. So on shore I went with great joy; but my knees almost trembled as I walked up the steep streets towards the part of the town where my grandmother and aunt lived. I had seen a good many strange places since last I walked down those streets on my way to join the Kite, and though, after thinking a moment, I easily found the road without asking, the houses seemed changed somehow or other. They were lower and narrower and less fine-looking than I expected. At last I reached the quiet little house I knew so well. By climbing up an iron railing before it I could, when a boy, look into the parlour over the blind. There wag no necessity to climb now. By holding on by the rail, and stretching myself upon my toes, I could easily look in; I could not help doing so before knocking. There I saw an old lady with a neat white cap and dressed in black, bending over her knitting. Her back was towards me; but somehow or other I did not think that it could be Granny. Her figure was too small and slight for that of Aunt Bretta. Who could it be then? My heart sank within me. It was some minutes before I could muster courage to knock. At last I went up to the door. A little girl opened it. She was deaf and dumb, so she did not understand what I said, and I could not understand her signs.

“Come in,” said a voice from the parlour. “Who is that? what does he want?”

On this I pushed open the parlour door, and then I saw the old lady whom I had observed through the window, seated in an arm-chair, with her knitting in her hand. I looked at her very hard. “I am Willand, your grandchild, Granny!” I exclaimed, springing across the room.

“Young man, you have made a strange mistake,” said the old lady, in a voice which sent a chill through my heart. “I never had a grandchild. You take me for some one else.”

“Beg pardon, marm,” said I, trying to recover myself. “I took you for my grandmother, Mrs Wetherholm, who once lived here. I have been at sea for many years, and have never heard from her or my aunt. Can you tell me where they are gone?”

“Sit down, young man, and let me think. I cannot answer all in a hurry,” said she, and I thought her tone was much pleasanter than at first. “Your name is Wetherholm, is it? and what ship did you go to sea in?” I told her. “The Kite! That is strange,” said she. “I should know something about that vessel. If Margaret were here, she would tell me, but my memory is not as good as it was. You want to know where your relatives are. Now I come to think of it, the old lady who lived in this house before me had a daughter. They came, I have heard, like my poor niece’s family, from Shetland. Wetherholm was her name. Then I am sorry to say, young man, that she is dead.”

“Dead!” I exclaimed. “Dear Granny dead!” And my heart came all of a sudden into my throat, and I fairly burst out crying as I should have done when a boy. For some time I could not stop myself; but I put my face between my hands, and bent down as I sat, trying to prevent the tears finding their way through my fingers. I hadn’t had such a cry since I was a little boy, and then I felt very differently, I know. The old lady did not say a word, but let me have it out.

“That will do you good, young man,” said she at length. “I don’t think the worse of you for those tears, remember that.”

I thanked her very much for her sympathy, and then asked her if she could tell me anything about Aunt Bretta.

“I can’t tell you myself,” she answered; “but Miss Rundle, who lives next door, knew her well; and I’ll just send and ask her to step in, and she will give you all the information you want.”

The old lady summoned her little deaf and dumb girl, and signing to her, in two minutes Miss Rundle made her appearance. I remembered Miss Rundle, and used to think her a very old woman then, but she did not look a day older, but rather younger than when I went away. I had no little difficulty in persuading her who I was, and at first I thought she seemed rather shocked at seeing a common sailor sitting down in her friend’s parlour. However, at last I convinced her that I was no other than the long-lost Willand Wetherholm. She told me how my grandmother had long mourned at my absence, still believing that I was alive and would return, and always praying for my safety. At length she sickened—to the last expecting to see me. She had died about two years before; “and then,” added my old acquaintance, “the good old lady sleeps quietly in the churchyard hard by. I often take a look at her tombstone. Her name is on it; you may see it there.”

“That I will,” said I. “It will do my heart good to go and see dear Granny’s tombstone, as I cannot ever set eyes on her kind face again.” When I asked about Aunt Bretta, Miss Rundle bridled up a little, I thought.

“Well, she was my friend,” said she; “and she was a very good woman, and I used to have a great respect for her. Nobody made orange marmalade better than she did, or raspberry jam; and as for knitting, there was no one equalled her in all the country round. I have several of the bits of work she gave me, and I value them; but still I don’t see what right one’s friends have to go and demean themselves.”

Rather astonished at these remarks, I asked what had happened.

“Why, young man, she went and got married,” said Miss Rundle, drawing herself up.

“I don’t see any great harm in her doing that,” remarked the old lady.

“No, marm, not in marrying,” answered Miss Rundle, somewhat sharply. “It’s a very lawful state to get into, I dare say; but I find fault with her in respect to the person to whom she got married. I don’t want to offend the feelings of this young man, her nephew; but what was he but a common sailor, and more than that, he had a wooden leg.”

“Aunt Bretta married to a common sailor with a wooden leg!” said I, scarcely knowing what I was saying, yet not thinking that there was anything very shocking in the matter. “What sort of a man was he, marm? and can you tell me where they are gone, and where I shall find them? I long to see Aunt Bretta again.”

“I won’t deny that he was a pretty good-looking man enough, and as we do now and then exchange letters, I can tell you where she is to be found,” answered Miss Rundle, softening down a little. “They live at Southsea, near Portsmouth. Her husband was an old shipmate of one of her brothers—your father, perhaps—and that is the way they became acquainted. His name is Kelson; you’ll find them without difficulty.”

“Aunt Bretta hasn’t any family?” said I. “I should like to have a dozen little cousins to play with when I go to see her.”

Miss Rundle looked very much shocked at the question, and said that as she had not been married much more than a year, that wasn’t very likely.

Well, though all Miss Rundle’s talk had for the moment driven away my sad thought, as soon as we were silent I felt very low-spirited and melancholy. I said that I would go up and have a walk through the churchyard, and the old lady begged that I would come back and take tea with her, when her niece would be there, who would be glad to hear me talk about the sea. Miss Rundle said that she had an engagement, and was very sorry she could not stop; but the old lady signed to the little girl to accompany me to point out my grandmother’s tomb, remarking that I might otherwise have some difficulty in finding it.

The child tripped away before me, and we soon reached the churchyard. She pointed out an unpretending white little slab of stone in a quiet corner, with a number of wild-flowers growing round it, and then, looking up into my face with an earnest, commiserating look, she nodded and ran off. I walked up to the stone and read a short inscription—

“Ella Wetherholm lies beneath.

Hope, if on Me your Hope is placed.”

I felt very sad and grave, but I had no longer an inclination to cry. “She wrote that for herself,” I thought. “I’ll try and hope as she hoped, and perhaps her prayers may lighten, if they do not remove, the heavy curse I brought down on my head.”

With regard to the curse I fancied was following me, I now know that I was entirely mistaken. Our loving Father in Heaven does not curse His creatures, though He permits for their benefit the consequences of sin to fall on their heads.

I will not repeat all the ideas which passed across my mind. I was not nearly so sad as I might have expected. I had met with sympathy and kindness, though from a stranger, and that lightened the burden; and then, though Miss Rundle was an odd creature, I could not help feeling pleased at seeing her again, and hearing from her about my aunt. I had little fear about her marriage, and I had every expectation of finding the sailor she had married, some fine old fellow well worthy of her, even though he had been all his life before the mast. While I was sitting down beside my grandmother’s grave, and thinking of the years that were past, the days of my childhood, and the many strange things which had since occurred to me, every now and then reading over the words on the tombstone: “Hope!—if on me your hope is placed,” and trying to understand their full meaning, and very full I found it, I happened to look up, and then I saw at a little distance a young woman who seemed to have been passing along a path across the churchyard, regarding me attentively. She was dressed in black, which made her look very fair and pale, and certainly I had never seen anybody else in all my life who came up in appearance to what I should fancy an angel in heaven would look like. This is what I thought at the moment. When she saw that she was observed, she drew her shawl instinctively closer around her, and moved on.

Chapter Six.

First introduction to Miss Troall—Happy evening—Return on board—An expedition planned—Attack on privateers—The boat sinks under me—Meet an old friend—Follow his advice—Join an American vessel—Chased again—The action between the British and French ships—Land our passengers—Loss of our vessel—Get on shore at Guernsey—La Motte and his family—Sail for Portsmouth.

And so at length the dream in which I had so long indulged was realised. Once more I trod my native shores. Once more I had visited the home of my childhood. What a blank I had found! My lot has been that of thousands of seamen—of thousands of poor wanderers over the face of the globe, of every rank and in every clime. It is the tale which many and many a shipmate has told me in our midnight watch:—“I got back to the place where I was born. I thought to find it a home, but most of those I left were dead! the rest removed. All were gone. The spot which once I knew so well, knew me no more; so I fell in with an old messmate. We had a jovial spree on shore, and then, when all our cash was gone, we went to sea again.” Such was not my lot, though. Had I been inclined for a spree, which I was not, I had not time to indulge in it. I took a walk through some of the beautiful green lanes about Plymouth, and filled my hat full of wild-flowers, and then came back to the old lady’s house to take my tea, as I had promised. I opened the door without ceremony, for I forgot entirely that it was not my own home, and walked into the parlour, expecting to find the old lady. Instead of her, what was my surprise to see seated at the tea-table the very young woman who had been watching me in the churchyard. I was regularly taken aback, and stammered out—

“Beg pardon, Miss, I didn’t know that there was anybody here but the old lady who asked me to tea.”

“You need not offer any excuse; my aunt told me you were coming,” she answered, in just such a voice as I should have expected to hear when looking at her.

In a very few minutes she made me quite at home, and her aunt came in, and we soon were talking away just as if we were old friends. I will not say that I forgot my grandmother and aunt, but I should be wrong if I did not confess that my sorrow was very much soothed, and what is more, that in some respects I felt happier than I had done for a very long time. Tea was made, and I began to talk to them about my adventures and my shipwrecks.

“The most dreadful,” said I, “was the first, when I and all my companions nearly lost our lives aboard the Kite.”

“The Kite!” exclaimed the young lady, “the Kite! What do you know about her? Oh, in mercy tell me, young man!”

I saw she was very much agitated, but as I could not tell what part of the narrative to pass over or to touch on slightly, I told her all about the vessel from the time we left Plymouth till we got aboard the French brig; especially I could not help speaking of Seton and his bravery, and how he was wounded, and how he entreated me to bear his dying messages to his family, and to the girl to whom he was to be married. She seemed almost breathless as I proceeded with my story, but every now and then she would say, “Go on—in mercy go on.” So I continued with my story to the end; “and,” said I, “the first time I have freedom on shore, I will, please heaven, go and fulfil my promise to poor Seton. I remember the young lady’s name—Margaret Troall.”

“You have fulfilled it already,” said the young lady, with a faltering voice, and bursting into tears; “I am Margaret Troall. And oh, believe me, I am most grateful to you.”

I was astonished, I found that the rest of her family in England were dead, and that she and her aunt had come to live at Plymouth just as my aunt and her husband had left the place, and they had taken my grandmother’s house, which was then vacant. At first, after all this, the young lady was very sad, but by degrees she recovered her spirits, and we talked on very pleasantly till Miss Rundle came in.

She wasn’t half as stiff as at first, when she saw how well I was received by Mrs Sandon (that was the name of the old lady) and her niece, and she promised to write to my aunt to tell her that I was alive and well, and that she might expect to see me some day.

“When you see her, as I hope you will soon,” said she, “remember to tell her that I am looking well, and that you knew me at once.”

“That I will, Miss Rundle,” said I; “I’ll tell her that you look as young and handsome as you ever did, and for that matter younger to my eyes,—and that’s the truth.”

So it was, for a boy always thinks an oldish woman older than she really is. Miss Rundle drew herself up, and looked quite pleased, and smiled and smirked, and I saw that my joking had gained me a place in her good graces which I never enjoyed in my boyish days. Well, I was very sorry when the time came for me to get up and return on board the frigate. I put my chair back against the wall, and shook hands with all the ladies round, and they charged me to come and see them without fail when I returned to Plymouth. Somehow or other I found myself shaking hands twice with Miss Troall, and she again thanked me for bringing her the message from him who was gone; and I heard Miss Rundle remark as I went out, that I was a very well-mannered young man, though I was a common sailor.

It was rather later than I intended. I hurried down to the harbour, jumped into a wherry, and promised the waterman half-a-guinea if I got on board before dark.

“Why, lad, there’s no great hurry, I should think,” said he; “the frigate won’t sail without you.”

“No; but a shipmate pledged his word for me that I would be back, and I must not let him break it, you know.”

“Well, we wasn’t so particular in my time,” said the old man. “But as your gold is as good as that of any other man, I’ll do my best to put you on board.”

The wind was against us, so his mate and I took the oars while he steered, and by dint of hard pulling we got on board just about ten minutes before my time was up. I told Mr Merton how it was I had run the time so short, and gave him an account of all that had happened to me. He was very much pleased with me at finding that I had been so anxious to come off in good time, and urged me on all occasions to make every sacrifice, rather than break a pledge of any description. Charley and I were in the same watch, and he was very anxious to hear how I had fared on shore. Of course, he could not care about my grandmother’s death, but he was very much amused with my account of Miss Rundle, whom he remembered well.

“I must go and pay her a visit the next time I can get on shore, and if I can take her some wonderful present from the other side of the world, I expect to cut you out in her good graces,” he said, laughing. I asked him what he proposed taking. “An alligator, or a shark, or a mermaid, or an orang-outang, or something of that sort—stuffed, I mean,” he answered.

I remembered Charley’s love of a practical joke in our younger days, and I did not wish to interpose between him and the venerable spinster. I thought that he would not do anything really to annoy her.

Our captain came on board the next morning in high spirits. He had got leave to go to Teneriffe, in company with his Majesty’s sloop-of-war Talbot, to cut out the two West Indiamen taken by the French privateer. No sooner, however, did we get out of the Channel than we met with strong westerly winds, which nearly blew us back into its chops again. However, not to be daunted, we kept hammering away at it, and though we in the frigate made tolerably fine weather, those on board the sloop had wet jackets for many a day. We had been out about ten days when two sails hove in sight, running with canvas set before the wind. One we made out to be a large brigantine, the other was a ship, evidently an English merchantman. The ship stood on, and when we fired a gun to make her heave-to, let all fly, while the brigantine hauled her wind and tried to make off. We sent a boat aboard the ship, and found that she was an English merchantman belonging to Bristol, which had been captured by the brigantine. The privateer herself belonged to Saint Malo, and was the very vessel which had taken the two West Indiamen we were going to cut out. The Frenchmen taken in the prize gave us some useful information as to where the two West Indiamen were lying.

The Talbot meantime was proceeding in chase of the privateer, and very soon coming within shot, knocked away the head of her mainmast and brought her to. She was an important capture, for she had committed a great deal of mischief, and, to our no small satisfaction, she had a considerable sum of money on board her, which she had taken from various captured vessels. Prize crews being put on board the two vessels, we proceeded on our course, thrashing away in the teeth of the south-westerly gale. However, at last, in about three weeks, we sighted the island of Teneriffe, and hove-to that we might make arrangements for the attack. This was on the 8th of December. At about four o’clock in the afternoon, all the boats assembled round the frigate under the command of our first lieutenant. We had four boats, and there were three belonging to the corvette. I was in the boat with the first lieutenant. She was a very fine, fast boat, pulling six oars. Merton, who had volunteered, was in one of the other boats, under the command of one of the master’s mates of the frigate, and Charley Iffley was with him. When all was ready, the signal was given, and with three hearty cheers we shoved off from the frigate’s side. We acted as a sort of whipper-in to the other boats, and we kept pulling about among them to keep them together, our lieutenant dropping a word to one and then to another, just to make the people laugh and to keep them in good spirits. It was some hours after dark, and nearly ten o’clock, as we approached the harbour of Santa Cruz. We then had all our oars muffled, and in perfect silence we entered the harbour, all keeping close together. As we got well in we lay on our oars for a minute, to make sure which were the two ships to be attacked. We made them out through the darkness. Four boats were to attack one ship, under the command of our lieutenant, while the three others pulled away to the second ship. The signal was given, and dashing off at full speed, we were alongside in a moment.

The Frenchmen little expected us, but they flew to their arms and made a stout resistance. Some were cut down—others were hove overboard—the cables were cut—our men flew aloft to loosen sails, and as quickly almost as I take to tell the story the ship was under weigh and standing out of the harbour. The other three boats were not so fortunate. The noise we made in attacking the first ship, our shouts, and the cries and curses of the enemy, aroused the people of the second ship, so that they had time to man their guns, of which she carried ten, before the boats got alongside. Our commanding officer, seeing this, ordered one of the midshipmen to take charge of his boat, in which I was, and of another in which was Mr Merton, to go to the assistance of our shipmates. With hearty cheers, to show that aid was coming, we pulled away towards them, but as we advanced we were received with a hot fire of musketry and round shot. The officer in the other boat, which was close to us, was killed, but Merton sprang to the helm, and cheering on the men, they pulled up towards the ship. Just then a round shot struck our boat, cutting her right in two, killing one man, and wounding two. Instantly she began to fill, and very soon we could not move her through the water. She was sinking under us. The shot came round us thick as hail. I could not see where the other boats were, or what had become of my shipmates, but I caught a glimpse of the ship standing out of the harbour. I thought I heard Mr Merton’s voice shouting out to the people, and I was pretty certain he was doing something; but what with the darkness, and the firing, and the confusion and noise, it was some little time before I could decide in which way to strike out. What became of my companions in the boat I could not tell. Looking up, I saw a vessel not far off from me, and so I swam away with all my strength towards her. I got hold of her cable and rested myself, hoping to see some of the boats, or perhaps the second ship; but when I looked found I saw that there was little chance of our people taking her, for she mounted, as we knew beforehand, ten guns, and that a strong crew had been put on board her was evident from the hot fire she kept up.

The Spaniards had aroused at last, and the forts were blazing away at the boats which were pulling with all their might down the harbour. All hope of regaining the frigate must therefore, I saw, be abandoned. The vessel I was hanging on to was a large schooner. Her people were all on deck, and, to my great satisfaction, I heard them talking English. By this I knew that she was an American, and I determined to trust to their kindness. I therefore hailed, “Schooner, ahoy! Just heave me a rope, will you, to save me from drowning.”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” said a man, looking over the bows; and he heaving me a rope’s-end, I quickly hauled myself up on board.

I found myself among three or four of the schooner’s crew. “You must come along aft to the mate,” said one of them.

I accordingly accompanied them aft, where we found the mate, who asked all about me, and I told him how we had come into the harbour to cut out the two West Indiamen.

“Well, small blame to you, my man,” said the mate. “We don’t wish you ill, but we must see what the captain has to say to you.”

The captain was on shore, but as soon as the firing was over he came on board. Meantime I watched as far as I could what was taking place, and I had the satisfaction of seeing one of the ships get out of the harbour, and I hoped the boats had reached her also. The American crew seemed inclined to treat me very civilly; and when the captain came off, and I told him all that I had told the mate, “Well, my man,” said he, “I am sorry for it, but I am afraid that I must take you before the Spanish governor to-morrow morning; because if I do not, I may get myself into trouble. However, go below, and get your wet clothes shifted. You shall have some food and a glass of grog, and we’ll see about it in the morning.”

I went below. I was soon rigged out in warm, dry things, had a jolly hot supper, and I must say was never more kindly treated in my life. When I turned in, I felt that I ought to be thankful that I had not been killed like some of my shipmates. But still I could not help thinking, “The curse is still following me—the boat I was aboard was the only one destroyed.”

The next morning, when I went on deck, I saw one of the officers doing duty. I looked at him hard. I was certain I knew his face. I put out my hand. “La Motte,” said I, “do you know me?”

“I should think I did indeed, Weatherhelm,” he answered, laughing, and shaking my fist warmly; “it is a good many years since we saw each other.” I told him that the captain said he would have to take me to a Spanish prison. “Oh, that is all nonsense,” he answered; “I’ll soon manage that. All you have to do is to join this craft, and we can protect you. I’ll just say that you are an old shipmate of mine, and I’ll soon make it all right.”

Accordingly he took me to the captain, who was too glad to get an able seaman on board his vessel, and he promised me if I would sign the articles that I should have thirty dollars a month. I had not much difficulty in balancing this offer against the prospect of a Spanish prison. Now I honestly believe, that had she been a privateer, and I should have had to fight against my own countrymen, nothing would have tempted me to accept the offer. However, I decided at once. “I’ll join you,” said I, “and am ready to sign the articles whenever you like.”

That evening I found myself, like many other British seamen, converted suddenly into an American. La Motte told me that he had been wrecked on the American coast, and having been kindly treated, he had joined one of their merchantmen, when shortly afterwards he was made a mate. The schooner was called the Skylark, and was a remarkably fine and fast vessel. At that time, while all the rest of the world were at war, the Americans remained neutral, and their merchantmen made a great deal of money by becoming the carriers for all the belligerent parties. This was a wise policy in all respects, but still wiser would they have proved themselves had they adhered to it. While it brought wealth and prosperity to their newly established republic, it laid the foundation of that naval power which enabled them to contend for a time even with England herself, and has since enabled them to take an important part in the transactions of the world. The schooner had been employed to bring out a new governor for the islands from Cadiz, and she was waiting to convey the former one back to Spain. He, however, was not ready, and the schooner was detained a long time. Still I had no reason to complain. Teneriffe was a very pleasant place; the captain and first mate of the schooner were very kind sort of men, and La Motte, for old friendship’s sake, did his best to make my life agreeable. Perhaps, had we been less idle, it would have been better for us all. The great difficulty the officers had, was to find work for the men. We painted and polished, and scrubbed and used up every particle of rope-yarn, and turned in all the rigging afresh before Señor Don Longwhiskerandos announced that he was ready to take his departure.

The voyage was not to be without danger, for there were English cruisers watching all the Spanish and French ports; and though they could not have touched us on the high seas, they would have made prize of us, had they caught us trying to enter an enemy’s port. I never heard the real name of the governor. We called him Don Longwhiskerandos just for shortness’ sake, for it was fully three times as long as that. He looked a very important personage, and awfully fierce, and did little else than smoke cigars, and let a black man attend on him as if he was a mere baby. We had fine weather, and the Don sat on the deck in great state, when a sail was made out on our weather quarter. As she drew near there could be little doubt from her appearance that she was an English frigate. I borrowed a glass from La Motte. I took a long, steady look at her, and I felt certain that she was my old ship the Brilliant. Meantime our helm was put up, and off we went before the wind to endeavour to increase our distance. She made sail of course in chase, and I began to consider whether it would not have been better to have gone to a Spanish prison than be taken as a deserter, and cruelly flogged, if not hung. I pictured all sorts of dreadful things to myself, and earnestly prayed that the schooner might escape the frigate. If I was in a fright, Don Longwhiskerandos was in a still greater. He tore his hair and wrung his hands, and walked about the deck uttering all sorts of extraordinary expressions, calling on I don’t know how many saints to come and help him—while blackie followed him with his snuff-box and a handkerchief, and seemed trying to console him. La Motte, however, laughed at my apprehensions. He said that of course it was known that I had not willingly left the ship, and that I had a right to save my life in the best way I could. Still I was not satisfied. On came the frigate. We pressed the schooner with all the canvas she could carry. She walked along at a great rate, and so did the frigate. A stern chase is a long chase, but I had very little expectation that we should escape. If we could keep ahead till night, then we might have a better chance.

It was well on in the afternoon when we saw two sail ahead. From the whiteness of their canvas and the squareness of their yards, they were evidently men-of-war. If they should prove English cruisers, we were fairly caught in a net, and Don Whiskerandos would have very little chance of seeing his wife and family for a long time to come. Still our captain was a resolute man, and one who would never give in while a prospect of escape remained. The helm was put down, and we kept up five or six points towards the French coast, thinking that we might keep clear of them all till night set in, and might then escape in the darkness. The officers kept their glasses on the strangers. One was a frigate, the other a corvette. They made sail when they saw us. Evening was closing in. “Hurra, my lads,” shouted our captain, “up go the French colours. I thought by the cut of their canvas they were Frenchmen, and our friends!” How strangely those words sounded in my ears! To be glad to fall in with Frenchmen, and to call them our friends!

Once more we altered our course. In a short time the ships of war made out the English frigate, and allowing us to go ahead, then clewed up their topsails and waited for her. She saw them, and nothing daunted, under all sail stood on to close them before nightfall. Now, for the first time, I felt a little regret that I was not on board my own ship, she looked so proud and bold going into action against so superior a force. Oh, how I wished that I could find myself on her deck alongside my former shipmates, whom I pictured to myself standing at their guns, bared to the waist, with handkerchiefs round their heads, looking stern and grim as became men about to fight with heavy odds, yet every now and then cutting a joke with each other in the exuberance of their spirits. I thought if I could now but jump overboard with something to float me till she came up, and then I would climb up her side, and say that I had come to join them. Still, when I thought again, I knew that she was not likely, even if I was seen, to heave-to to pick me up, and I abandoned the idea as too hazardous. As the frigate got up to them, the two French ships let fall their canvas, and began to manoeuvre to gain the weather-gage; but she was too quick for them, and getting up to the corvette first, gave her such a dose from her broadside as must have made the Frenchmen dance to a double-quick tune. Our captain’s object was to land his passengers, so of course he could not stop to see the result of the action. As we ran out of sight, all three ships were hotly engaged. “Well, if there’s one man on board who will do his duty, and show what real Englishmen are made of, its Joe Merton,” I said to myself.

For some time after nightfall I could hear the sound of their guns borne over the calm waters, and then all was silent, and we continued our course to the French coast. Two days after this we were again chased by an English sloop of war; but the Skylark showed a faster pair of heels than she did, and we ran her out of sight. At length, after being chased away from various ports, we entered the mouth of the Gironde river in France, which runs down from Bordeaux. We were some days getting up to Bordeaux, where we landed Don Longwhiskerandos and his black slave and all his property, and hoped to get a return cargo. But there were no freights to be had; so, as the Don described the schooner as being a very fast craft, the French Government offered a large sum for her, which our captain was too glad to accept. The mates and crew accordingly received their wages, and we were all turned adrift. Now I found that there was a great chance of my being in a much worse condition than ever. Of course I hailed as an American, and if the police had found me on shore without a ship, I should have been seized and sent to serve on board a French man-of-war. On every account I must avoid that, I felt. In the first place, I did not wish to serve with Frenchmen; and in the second, had any ship I might have been in been captured, I should have been looked upon as a deserter and a traitor, and very likely shot.

La Motte, as an English subject, was in the same condition, except that he had never served on board a man-of-war. Accordingly he and I talked the matter over before we left the schooner, and agreed that it would never do to trust ourselves on shore. We saw ahead of us a ship under Hamburguese colours, taking in a cargo of wine for Hamburg, which was a free port. When, therefore, we left the schooner, we pulled alongside, and asked if she wanted hands. The captain said yes; he would ship us at once. He spoke very good English, and the mate we had reason to suspect was an Englishman, as were several of the crew. So much the better, we thought. I at all events was very glad to get to sea. Four or five days afterwards, just as we got into the English Channel, the captain called us aft, and told us that, instead of going to Hamburg, he expected to proceed to London; but that he had received directions to put into the Island of Guernsey first to wait for orders. I was very glad to hear this news, for I thought there was a chance of my seeing old England again sooner than I had expected.

“Yes, that may be very true,” observed La Motte. “But how will you see it? The first night you put your foot on shore you will be pressed to a certainty, and quickly find yourself on board a man-of-war, and a slave as before.”

“No, not a slave,” said I indignantly. “I’d rather go and serve willingly than be pressed, that’s the truth; but no one has a right to call British men-of-war’s men slaves. They may be pretty hardly tasked sometimes; but they get pay and prize-money and liberty, and if they did but know how to take care of their money, and would but conduct themselves like rational beings, the good men would have no reason to complain.” The truth was, that La Motte had got the notion entertained by most merchant seamen, and encouraged by shipowners as well as masters and mates, that men-of-war were all alike, little better than hells afloat; that all naval officers were tyrants, and all men-of-war’s men miserable, spiritless slaves. Why, even in those times they were generally better treated than merchant seamen, and now the lot of the two cannot be compared. There’s no class of men better cared for, better fed, better clothed, and more justly treated, than the British man-of-war’s man. I don’t want to cry down the merchant service, or owners or officers of merchant ships, but this I will say, that the most comfortable, happy merchantmen I have seen have been those commanded by naval officers.

We were within half-a-day’s sail of Guernsey, and were expecting to get in there next morning, when a heavy gale sprang up from the north-west, and before we could take the canvas off the ship—for we were very short-handed—every yard of it was blown out of the bolt-ropes. We were in a bad way, for we were already too much to the southward. Still our captain hoped, if we could bend fresh sails, to weather the islands; but all that nook of the coast is full of rocks and dangers, and tides setting here and there, so that it is difficult to tell where a ship will be drifted to. Twice we tried to bend fresh sails; but each time they were blown away, before we could hoist them to the yards. Darkness came on. Two of our shipmates were hove off from the lee yard-arm, and their despairing shrieks reached our ears as they drifted away, a warning to us of what might be our fate.

“We have some Jonah on board,” I heard the first mate observe to the second. He was a rough sailor, such as are not often met with now-a-days, though then they were common. “If we could find him, we would heave him overboard.”

I remembered too well what I had often thought about myself, and felt thankful that I had kept my own counsel since I was on board, and had not told my story. The night came on very dark. I do not believe anybody in the ship knew exactly where we were. Several hours of deep anxiety passed away. The ship began to labour dreadfully. All we could hope was that, when daylight returned, we might find ourselves clear to the northward of all dangers, and then with tolerable sea-room we might expect to make sail so as to carry the ship into an English port. Vain were our hopes. Suddenly there was a cry, “Breakers ahead! breakers on the lee beam!” The ship struck, again and again, with terrific violence. The masts went by the board; then she seemed to be lifted over the ledge, and we found her floating in smoother water. We hoped that we were in some bay where we could bring up and ride out the gale; but it was too dark for us to distinguish our position. The captain had just given the order to let go an anchor, when the fearful cry was uttered, “The ship is sinking! the ship is sinking!”

“Get the boats out, my men; no hurry, now!” cried the captain; but it was not quite so easy to obey the order or to follow the advice. The long-boat was stove in; but we had a gig and a whale-boat hanging to the ship’s quarters. We ran to the falls. La Motte and I, with some others, leaped into the whale-boat just as the ship sank beneath our feet. We shouted out to the rest of our shipmates that we would try to pick them up, but we could see no one. Though I said the sea was calmer than on the other side of the reef, still we had no little difficulty in keeping the boat from swamping. We could not tell either in which direction to pull. All we could do, therefore, was to keep the boat’s head to the sea, and wait till daylight, which we knew was not far off. At length it came, as it always comes at last to the weary and the watchful, if they will but patiently wait for it. As the dawn gradually broke we found that we had been drifted into a bay, and that the shore was not four hundred fathoms from us. There was a good deal of surf breaking on it, so that it was necessary to use caution in landing. Waiting out opportunity, we gave way and drove the boat high up on the beach. A sad sight met our view; the sand on each side was covered with portions of the wreck and casks of wine, many of them stove in; but sadder far it was to see the bodies of our late shipmates hove up dead on the beach, while one or two were still washing to and fro in the surf, as if the sea were yet loth to give up its dead. Perhaps there is no more melancholy sight than that for a seaman to behold. We examined the bodies; they were all dead; but as we looked about we came upon some marks of feet in the sand, leading up the beach, and this gave us hopes that some of our companions had escaped. I saw La Motte looking inquiringly about him. I asked him if he knew where we were.

“Yes, that I do,” he answered. “At no great distance from my home. Come along with me, Weatherhelm. My family will be glad to welcome an old shipmate.”

Just as the sun got up we saw several people approaching, and were truly glad to find among them our captain and three of the crew. They took charge of the men who had been saved with us, while I set off with La Motte to his home. It was a large farm-house standing by itself. He looked round the building, and in at one or two of the windows, but could not make up his mind how to announce himself. “I am afraid of giving some of them a fright if I were to appear too suddenly,” he said. At last he told me that I must go in and tell them that I was a shipmate of his, and that he would be there soon. So I opened the door, and an old lady came out and spoke to me, but I could not understand a word she said, and then an old gentleman made his appearance, with white hair, with a long red waistcoat and greatcoat, but he could not help on the conversation. At last they went to the back of the house, and called “Janette! Janette!” and a young girl, with her petticoats tucked up, came tripping in, as if she had just been milking the cows, and she asked me, in broken English, what I wanted; and when I replied that I knew Jacob La Motte, and was a shipmate of his, they seemed very much interested, and not a little agitated. When I saw this, I thought the sooner I told them that he was all right and well the better, and then, to their astonishment, I ran out of the house and called him, and he soon had both them and several other young boys and girls all hanging round his neck, and kissing him and asking him all sorts of questions. I envied him—I could not help it. I had no father or mother, or brothers or sisters, to care for me, so even at that moment I felt very desolate and forlorn. However, they soon recollected me, and then they all did their best to make me happy and comfortable.

The days passed very quickly away. I never had been so happy and merry in my life. Though the old people could not speak English, they understood it a little, and I soon picked up French enough to make out what I wanted to say; and then all the younger people could talk English, though among themselves they always spoke French. As we lived on so quietly and peaceably in that pretty farm-house, no one would have supposed that all the horrors of war were being enacted in the surrounding seas. It might have been supposed that neither of us would ever have wished to leave those quiet scenes, but after a time La Motte began to grow fidgety, and said he must think of getting employment. At last away he went to Peter-le-port, the only town in the island. He was away three or four days, and when he came back he told me that he had taken service on board a privateer, one of the fastest craft out of the island. “She is called the Hirondelle,” he said. “You never set eyes on a more beautiful craft. She is lugger-rigged, mounts sixteen guns, and will carry a hundred and twenty hands, all told, fore and aft. There is nothing will look up to her. I could not resist the temptation of joining her. Her crew will have six months’ protection from the pressgang. That alone is worth something. Now is your opportunity, Will, for making your fortune. Don’t throw it away. By the time you are paid off you’ll have your pockets full of money, and then come and settle down here. That is what I intend to do.”

His reasonings and arguments seemed irresistible. Still I held off. I was balancing between my wish to go and see Aunt Bretta at Southsea and the old lady and her niece at Plymouth, and trying to find my way back to my ship. I had an idea that the latter was the right thing to do. Still, unhappily, I had not always been accustomed to do what was right, and now found it easy to do what was wrong. I told him, in reply, what I wished to do, and what I thought I ought to do; but he laughed at all my reasonings, and before the day was over I had consented to go and enter on board the lugger. In those days not many people thought there was any harm in privateering. Many do not think so now. Still there were some who looked upon it as little better than a sort of lawful piracy, and made but little scruple in running down an enemy’s privateer.

I found the Hirondelle everything La Motte had described her. We had not been out a week before we had taken a couple of prizes, and we recaptured a number of English vessels which had been taken by the enemy and were on their way into French ports. As we were low in the water and had short stumps for masts, by lowering our sails we could lie concealed till we could make out what sort of craft were heaving in sight. We therefore ran but little risk of catching a Tartar, as privateers very often do.

I remained in the privateer upwards of a year and a half, and at last peace came, and the crew were paid off, and she was laid up. Though I had spent my money pretty freely when I was on shore, still I found that, what with wages and prize-money, I had fully four hundred pounds in my pocket. This I might well look on as a handsome fortune to begin life with on shore, and carefully managed it was enough to set a young man up in business. I have known numbers of seamen go on shore with far larger sums, and spend the whole in the course of a few days, but then they have never—poor ignorant fellows!—read the book of Solomon, or, if they have, profited by the wise advice contained in it. I spent a few days with the La Motte family, but the thoughts of Aunt Bretta, and still more, perhaps, that quiet evening spent at Plymouth, were constantly coming into my mind; and wishing him and them good-bye, I shipped myself and my fortune aboard a cutter bound for Portsmouth.

Chapter Seven.

Encounter my new uncle—Aunt Bretta’s home—Happy meeting—Settle at home—A description of my uncle—Old Jerry Vincent—His stories—The smoke-worms, and his cruise round the Isle of Wight.

On reaching Portsmouth, I buttoned my money tight up in my pockets, for, thought I, “I’ll have no land-sharks taking it from me in the way many poor fellows have lost all the profits of their toils.” I had no difficulty in finding my way through the gate under the ramparts to Southsea Common, and then I turned to the left till I reached a number of small, neat little houses. The fine big mansions and great hotels which stand there now were not built in those days. I walked up and down for some time trying to discover the house my aunt lived in from what Miss Rundle had told me, but I could not make up my mind to knock at any door by chance to inquire. At last I saw a stout, fine sailor-like looking man come stumbling along the road on a wooden leg. I looked at his face. He had a round, good-natured countenance, somewhat weather-beaten, with kind-looking eyes, and a firm mouth, full of fine white teeth.

“You’re the man who will give me a civil answer at all events, and maybe help me to find my aunt, so I’ll just speak to you,” I thought to myself. “Please, sir,” said I, stepping up to him, “can you tell me if a young woman called Bretta Wetherholm lives any way handy here?” He looked at me very hard as I spoke, with some surprise in his countenance. Then I recollected myself; “that was her name, I mean, sir,” said I; “it’s now Mrs Kelson, I am told. Her husband is Tom Kelson. Yes, that’s his name.”

“I think I can show you the house, young man,” said the stranger, casting his eye all over me. “You are a stranger here.”

“Yes, sir,” said I, “this is the first time I have been at Portsmouth. I’ve been knocking about at sea all my life. There are very few days in which I have set foot in England since I was a little boy.”

“Just paid off from a ship, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir,” said I, “a few days ago.”

“Ah, I see, come round from Plymouth,” he remarked, stumping on at a pace which kept me at a quick walk.

I always addressed him as sir, for I thought very likely he was a post-captain, or perhaps an admiral. I did not like, therefore, to say that I had just come from Guernsey, as he would at once have guessed that I had been serving on board a privateer, and I knew that many officers did not at all like the calling. I therefore said, “I beg pardon, sir, but I fear that I am taking you out of your way.”

“Not in the least, young man,” he answered in a good-natured tone. “Your way is my way.”

“Well, you are indeed a very civil, kind gentleman,” I thought. Then all of a sudden I remembered the land-sharks I had been warned against, but when I looked in his face I felt certain that he was not one of them.

“And so you have heard speak of Tom Kelson,” said he, looking at me.

“Not much, sir,” I answered. “There’s a lady down at Plymouth whom I know, Miss Rundle, who just spoke about him, and told me about my aunt’s marriage, and how she didn’t quite think—”

“Oh, never mind what Miss Molly Rundle thought,” said he, laughing, as he pushed open the door of a house and walked in. “You’ll find Mrs Kelson in there,” and he pointed to a parlour on one side of the passage. “Here, Bretta, come down; here’s a young man come to see you. Who he is I don’t know. He’s a friend of Molly Rundle’s, that is all I can make out,” I heard my new friend hail at the foot of the stairs.

I found myself in a very pretty, neat little sitting-room, with the picture of a ship over the mantelpiece, and lumps of coral and large shells, and shell flowers, on it, and bows and arrows, and spears and models of eastern craft, and canoes from the Pacific, and some stuffed birds and snakes, and, indeed, all sorts of curious things arranged in brackets on the walls, or nailed up against them, or filling the shelves of cabinets. Indeed, the room was a perfect museum, only much better arranged than museums generally are. I had some little time to look about me. “Well, Aunt Bretta is comfortably housed at all events,” I thought to myself.

At last the door opened, and a portly fair dame, with fair hair and a pleasant smile on her countenance, entered the room. “Who are you inquiring for, young man?” said she, dropping a sort of curtsey.

I looked at her very hard without answering. “Yes, it must be Aunt Bretta,” I thought. “But if it is her, she is a good deal changed. And yet I don’t know. Those kind eyes and that smile are just the same. Oh, yes, it is her.”

“Aunt Bretta,” I exclaimed, running towards her; “don’t you know me? I’m Willand Wetherholm, your nephew!”

“You my nephew! I heard that without doubt he was dead. Yet let me look at you, boy!” she exclaimed, taking both my hands and fixing her eyes on my countenance. “Yes, you are Willand—you are my own dear boy—welcome, welcome back to life, and to one who loved you as her own son!” And she flung her arms round my neck and burst into tears. “Oh, Willand, had but dear mother been alive, how it would have done her heart good to see you! She never ceased talking of you, and always felt sure that you would come back when you could.”

I will not describe the scene any farther. I pretty nearly cried too—indeed I am not certain that I did not, but they were tears of happiness, and not yet entirely of happiness. There was sorrow for one I had lost—regret for my own obstinacy and thoughtlessness, and many other emotions mingled with the satisfaction of finding myself under the roof of one in whom I had the most perfect confidence, who I knew loved me sincerely. I think I have said it before, but if not, I now urge those who are blessed with real friends, to prize the lore their hearts bestow as a jewel above price, which wealth cannot purchase, and which, let them wander the world round, they may never find again.

After my aunt and I had sat a little time, in came the fine old gentleman I had met. I now guessed who he must be. He very quickly understood who I was. “You are not the first seaman I have known who has been lost for years, and has at last turned up again when he was least expected,” said he; “but welcome, Willand, I’m very glad to see you, and to own you for my nephew.” He very soon gave evidence of the sincerity of his words, for a kinder, better-hearted man I never met, and I felt thankful that Aunt Bretta had married a man so well worthy of her.

My uncle accompanied me back to the inn where I had left my chest and bag, and we got a porter to carry them to his house; and now, for the first time since I went to sea, I found myself settled with my relations quietly on shore. I had been very happy with the La Mottes, but still they were strangers. My kind aunt never seemed tired of trying to find out what would please me. She had done something to spoil me as a boy—it appeared as if there was a great probability of her spoiling me as a man. We had much to talk about. I told her of my falling in with the old lady at Plymouth, and of my visit to my grandmother’s tomb. I found that Miss Rundle had never written to her, or if she had written, the letter had not reached her.

“I suspect that she was afraid I might answer her letter, and she did not like the idea of having to pay the return postage. It shows that she does not consider my friendship worth ninepence.”

Still I was surprised that Miss Rundle had not written, as she had so positively promised to do. I could not exactly make it out. I found that my aunt knew nothing of old Mrs Sandon and her niece. She was very much interested with my description of the young lady. “So, Willand,” said she, “I hope you will go back to Plymouth and find her out again. There are very many good girls in the world, but, like sweet violets, they often bloom unseen, and it is not so easy to find them. From what you tell me of her, and I can bring her clearly before my mind’s eye, she is just the sort of person to make a man a good wife, and I hope that you may be able to win her.” Now, when my aunt spoke thus, I laughed, and said that I had not thought of settling, and that it was not likely I should win a young lady like her, who was a great deal too good to be the wife of a foremast man like me, and anything else I never expected to be.

“You need not say that, Willand,” replied Aunt Bretta. “I have something to say to you on that subject. You must know, Willand, that your father left some money to your grandmother for her life, and afterwards it was to go to you; but when you were supposed to be dead I took possession of it. Now, my dear boy, that you have come back, your uncle and I have been preparing to give it up to you. It is yours by every law of right, so do not say a word about it. We can manage very well without it.”

“Indeed, I will not deprive you of a farthing of it, dear aunt!” I exclaimed. “I would rather go to sea for a dozen years longer and never come back again, than take the bread out of your mouths. I won’t take it, so don’t be pressing it on me. I have got plenty without it. There, take care of that.” And I gave her the cash I had been carrying in my pocket. “You can make me your heir, if you like, and I hope it will be a very long time before I come into my fortune.”

My uncle soon after came in, and we had a long talk over the matter. I succeeded at last in making them keep the money. The fact was, I knew myself better than they knew me, and I felt pretty certain that some day or other I might spend it all, and nobody would be the better for it. This affair settled, we lived together still more pleasantly than ever, for they had it off their minds, and I felt that I had done what was right. I found that my uncle had once been what Miss Rundle called a common sailor—that is to say, he had been mate of a merchantman, and had been pressed on board a man-of-war, where he had obtained a warrant as boatswain. While acting as such, he had lost his leg. After he had recovered he got command of a large merchantman, for he was a good navigator as well as a first-rate seaman. He was not very refined, according to some people’s notions, I dare say, nor were some of his acquaintance. He valued them, as he did all things, for their sterling qualities, and cared very little for their outside. A good many of his old friends and shipmates used to look in on him, and I was much struck by the kind and hospitable way in which my aunt always received them. “They are my husband’s friends, and I inquire no further,” she used to say. “I know that he will never ask anybody I shall not be glad to receive.”

Scarcely an evening passed without our having one or more guests, and this made it very pleasant. Just as we were sitting down to tea one evening, a ring was heard, and on my uncle’s opening the door (I found that he always did that sort of work), I heard him exclaim, “Come in, Jerry! come in, old boy! There is only my nephew here, and he won’t be sorry to hear you talk, I’m sure.” There was a shuffling and cleaning of shoes, and then my uncle ushered in as odd a looking old man as I ever saw. He was of diminutive figure, very wizened and wiry, with long grizzly hair and small bright eyes, with a wonderfully roguish expression in them.

“This is Jerry Vincent, an old shipmate of mine, nephew,” observed my uncle, as he placed a chair for the old man. “He can tell you more curious things than most people when he has a mind. Can you not, Jerry?”

Our guest nodded, and his eyes twinkled curiously.

“Sarvant, missus; sarvant, all,” said he, pulling a lock of his hair and putting his tarpaulin hat under the seat which had been offered him. “Why, old ship, I’ve seen some rum things in the course of my life, and I don’t forget them, like some does,” he remarked, smoothing down his hair with his long, rough, bony hand.

I told him that I should much like to hear some of his adventures, but he did not become loquacious till my aunt had served him out three or four cups of tea, into which she poured, as if it was a usual thing, a few drops of cordial, a proceeding which always made the old man’s eyes twinkle cheerily. During the course of conversation, I found that Jerry Vincent was not only peculiar in his appearance but in his habits also. He never by any chance, from choice, slept in a bed. When at sea, a caulk on a locker was the only rest he took, and most of his nights, in summer, were passed under the thwarts of his boat. My uncle told a story of him, to the effect that one cold winter’s night he had gone to sleep under his boat, which had been hauled up and turned over on the beach, and that when he awoke in the morning his dog had been frozen to death, while he was only a little stiff in the neck. At all events, it was evident that he was a very hardy old man.

“There are many like to hear my yarns,” he observed. “Now, for example, there was a gentleman down here from Lunnon, and he used to go out in my boat off to Spithead, and sometimes across to the Wight. One day I thought I would try one of my yarns on him, so I spun it off the reel. He said, when I had finished, that it was a very good one, though it was very short, and when he stepped out of the boat he tipped me half-a-crown. The next day I took him out again, and spun him another yarn rather tougher than the first, and he gave me three shillings. Ho, ho, thought I to myself. If you pay according to the toughness of a yarn, I’ll give you something worth your money. Well, the third day down he came, and said he wanted to go across to Cowes, if the tide would suit, and I told him it would; and now, I thought, here’s a fine time for spinning a long yarn. I’ll give you a tough one, and no mistake. Well, I spun away, and my eye if it didn’t beat the two others hollow! We had a pretty quick run to the Wight and back, and just before I landed him, ‘I hope you liked the story, sir,’ says I. ‘Very much,’ says he. ‘And by the by, I should pay you for it. Here’s a couple of shillings.’ I looked at the coin with disdain. ‘Pardon, sir,’ says I; ‘that story’s worth five shillings if it’s worth a penny, and I can take nothing less.’

“‘Are you in earnest, my man?’ says he. ‘Yes, sir,’ says I; ‘the story, if written down, would be worth ten times the money.’

“‘Then you are an extortionate old scoundrel, without a scrap of a conscience,’ says he. ‘Hard words, sir,’ says I; ‘but it can’t be helped. We poor fellows must submit to great people.’ But all I could say wouldn’t do. He vowed that he would never give me anything again, and what is more, he never did, and never again would take my boat.”

“Served you right too, old ship,” said my uncle. “You learned by that, I hope, that moderation is the best policy. But heave ahead. You are not to charge us at the rate of a shilling a fathom for your yarns, remember that.”

Old Jerry cocked his eye with a knowing wink, and began. “Well then, one morning after I had been sleeping up at my uncle’s, for some reason or other—it might have been that I’d had a drop too much the night afore, but I can’t say, as it’s some time ago—I don’t score those things down in my log, d’ye see—I was going down the street with my boat-hook in my hand—I know that I had the boat-hook because I took it up with me. It was rather dusky, so to speak, because the sun wasn’t up, nor would be for some hours to come, when, as I was passing a house with a deep porch before the door, what should I see but a big pair of fiery eyes glaring out at me like hot coals from a grate in a dark room. Never in all my life did I see such fierce red sparklers, but I never was a man to be daunted at anything, not I, so I gripped my boat-hook firmly in both hands and walked towards it. I wasn’t given to fancy things, and I had never seen any imps of Satan, or Satan himself, and never wished to see them, so I thought this might be a dog or a cat, maybe, troubled with sore eyes, which made them look red. On I marched, therefore, as steady as a judge or a grenadier on parade, when, just as I got near the door, a dark shaggy form rose up right before me, the eyes glowing redder and hotter than ever. It grew, and it grew, and grew, every moment getting taller and bigger, till it reached right up to the top of the house. I kept looking at it, thinking when it would have done growing; but as for running away, even if I had had any fancy for running, I knew that it would have come after me and would overhaul and gobble me up, in a quarter less no time, so I stood where I was, considering what would happen next. At last, thinks I to myself, you are not going to look at me in that way whatever you are; so, shutting my eyes, for I couldn’t for the life of me bear its glare any longer, I made a desperate dash at it with my boat-hook. You should have heard the hullabaloo there was, and I found the boat-hook dragged right out of my hands. I opened my eyes just in time to see the monster, big as he was, bolt right through the door, carrying my boat-hook with him. I rushed after him to try and get it back, for it was a new ash one I had bought but a few days before, and I did not want to lose it, but I only knocked my head a hard rap against the door, and though I looked about everywhere I never could find it from that day to this; and that, mates, mind you, is the circumstantial and voracious way Jerry Vincent lost his boat-hook.” And the old man gave one of his comical and expressive winks, and a pull at the glass of swisell which my uncle had placed by his side.

“Don’t you all acknowledge that that story was well worth half-a-crown to a Lonnoner, seeing as how it was quite new, and he could never have heard it afore? Of course you’ll all agree with me, now, to my mind, those Lonnoners are generally such know-nothing sort of chaps, though they think themselves so wise that they never will believe what you tell ’em. They are just like the old lady whose nevy had just come from sea. When he told her that he’d seen flying-fish scores of times, she said he was trying to hoax her, and wouldn’t listen to him, but when he said he’d been up the Red Sea, and that the water there was the colour of a soldier’s coat, she said that she had no doubt about that, and that she was glad to listen to him when he spoke the truth. But,” continued Jerry, who had now got into his talkative vein, “what I have been telling you is as nothing to what happened to me soon after then. I had been ill for some time, and could not tell what was the matter with me, when I happened one day to go to Portsdown fair. I thought the walk would do me good, and I wanted to see some of the fun going on. Well, after I had been to see the beasts and the raree shows, and the tumblers, and theatres, and conjurers, and taken a turn in a roundabout, on a wooden horse, which I found more easy to ride than a real one, because, do ye see, the wooden one never kicks, while, to speak the truth, whenever I’ve got on a regular-built animal, he to a certainty has shied up his stern and sent me over his bows, sometimes right into a hedge, or a ditch, or a pond, or through a window, into a shop, or parlour, I happened to catch sight of a man standing at the end of an outlandish sort of a cart or a van, painted all over with red and yellow, and blue and gold, with a sort of a Chinaman’s temple at one end of it.

“‘Now, ladies and gentlemen,’ says he, for he was a very polite sort of a chap, ‘here’s the universal ’lixier of life; it cures all complaints, and takes a man, if he has a mind to it and has proper faith in what it will do for him, right clear away to the end of the world. It’s as infallible as the Pope of Rome and all his cardinals, and is patronised by all the first haristocracy and clergy in the country. Only one shilling a bottle, ladies and gentlemen; taken how you will and when you will—it’s all the same—in a glass of grog, a bowl of punch, or a basin of pap; for old or young, for boys or girls, it will cure them all, and they will never feel ill again as long as they continue to take it. Take enough of it, and take it long enough, and you will see the wonders it will work.’

“On hearing all this, I asked of those who were looking on, who the chap was, and they told me he was the celebrated Doctor Gulliman, who was going to send all the old regular practitioners to the right about, and it was wonderful what good he did, and how much more he would do if people would but trust him. I afterwards found out that the fellow who told me this was a friend of the doctor’s, and stood there on purpose to say a good word in his favour, though he pretended to have nothing at all to do with him.

“Well, thinks I to myself, maybe he’ll know how to cure me; so I made bold and went up to him.

“When he saw me he stooped down from his carriage, and says he, ‘Well, my good fellow, what’s the matter with you? But never mind; whatever it is I’ll cure you. Trust Doctor Gulliman for that.’

“I didn’t much fancy having to tell my complaint among so many hearers. You see my modesty stood in my way.

“‘Come, come, tell me all about it, my good man,’ says he in an encouraging tone.

“So I put my hand on my bread-basket, and told him that I was troubled with pains in them parts, and that for the life of me I couldn’t get well, though there was seldom a night I didn’t take half-a-dozen tumblers of grog to set me to rights.

“‘Put out your tongue, my man,’ says he.

“I stuck it out so that from where he stood he could look right down my throat.

“‘Oh, oh! my dear man, I guessed what it was that ails you. But never fear, I’ll cure you in a jiffy. You’re troubled with smoke-worms. That’s it. And they are very dangerous things if you don’t get rid of them, mind that. You see this invaluable stuff which I hold in my hand. If you want to get cured you must take six bottles of it. I don’t say but that it would be safer for you if you took twelve. But do as you like about that. Mix each of them in a stiff glass of grog. You may take three a day if you like, and then come back to me for more. At the end of three days—trust the word of an honest man and a true friend of the whole human race—you will be clear of them all, and every complaint you have at the same time.’

“Well,” thinks I to myself, “‘in for a penny, in for a pound,’ though there is a difference between the shilling my friend in the crowd said I should have to pay and the twelve shillings the doctor demands. But then, to be sure, the stuff can’t be unpleasant, and the grog, at all events, is no bad thing. ‘Well, doctor,’ says I, ‘I’ll take the twelve bottles, but I should like to know what the stuff you give me is made of?’

“‘What!’ he sings out, drawing himself up and looking as proud as a prince. ‘What! Do you just imagine for one quarter of a moment that I would tell you, or any man like you, alive on this terrestrial sphere, what my infallible Obfucastementi-scoposis is composed of? No; not to satisfy the gaping curiosity of twenty such wretched creatures as you are would I reveal that golden, all-important, mysterious secret. If you are not content, go! Give me back my invaluable ’lixier and cut.’

“‘Yes, doctor,’ says I, going to give him the twelve bottles, ‘and just do you in return hand me out my twelve shillings.’

“‘Your twelve shillings! you audacious rascal. Here’s a man asks me for twelve shillings in exchange for my ’lixier, which is worth twelve pounds at least. Ladies and gentlemen, he ain’t fit to be among such as you. Hoot him—hoot him—hiss him—kick him out from among you.’

“On this my friend in the crowd, who advised me to buy the stuff, began to hoot and to hiss and to shove me about, and others followed his example, till I saw that there was no use of attempting to hold my own, and I wasn’t sorry to be able to get clear of them, and to bolt with a whole skin on my body, though two of the bottles were broken in the row.

“I got home at last, not over well pleased with Doctor Gulliman and the way I had been treated. However, as I had paid for my whistle, I thought I might as well try if the stuff would do me any good. As soon as I got into Portsmouth I bought a bottle of old rum; for, thinks I to myself, if I am to take the stuff, the sooner I begin the better.

“When I reached my boat, I recollected that I was engaged to go out to Spithead to bring on shore an officer from one of the ships lying there, so I stowed away a glass and a can of water, not forgetting the rum and ’lixier, and shoved off. I just paddled down the harbour, for I was in no hurry, and the ebb was making strong. At last says I to myself, just as I got off the kickers, ‘I’ll just take a bottle of the ’lixier and see how I feel after it.’ So I got a bottle, and poured it out, and put in some old rum, just on the top of it, to take the taste away, and then I took the can of water, but I found that there was a hole at the bottom of it, and that most of the water had leaked out. So, do you see, I was obliged to be very careful of the water, and couldn’t put much of it at a time in the glass. If I had, you see, I shouldn’t have had any of the precious fluid, as they calls it, left for another glass. Well, I tossed off the liquid, and when I had smacked my lips, I began to think much better of the doctor. His stuff, you see, wasn’t so bad after all. Thinks I to myself, ‘If one glass is good, two must be better; so, before I take to the oars again, I’ll have another.’ Somehow the second was even better than the first. Then it struck me all of a heap like, that the doctor said I should take three bottles of his stuff in a day; so, as it was now getting towards sundown, thinks I, ‘The sooner I takes the third the better.’

“Howsomedever, when I came to look at the can, I found that every drop of water had leaked out, so I had no help for it but to fill the tumbler up with the rum. I can’t say it tasted bad, though it was, maybe, rather stiffish. Well, as the tide was sending me along nicely, I didn’t get out the oars again, but sat in the boat meditating like, when all of a sudden I felt myself very queer in the inside, and pains came on just for all the world as if I had swallowed a score or two of big mackerel, and they were all kicking and wriggling about in my bread-basket. ‘They are the smoke-worms the doctor told me about,’ thinks I. ‘They don’t like the taste of his stuff, that’s the truth of it.’ Well, I felt queerer and queerer, and Southsea Castle began to spin round and round, and the kickers went dancing up and down, and the ships in the harbour were all turning summersets, and every sort of circumvolution and devilment you could think of took place. Thinks I to myself, ‘There’s something in that doctor’s stuff, there’s no doubt about that, though whether its worth a shilling a bottle is another matter.’ Just then I felt more queer than ever. ‘Heugh! heugh!’ There was a rattling and a kicking, and such commotion in my inside, and up came what I soon knew was the smoke-worms right out of my mouth, and overboard they went as I put my head over the gunwale. There was a bushel of them if there was one.

“Never afore nor since have I seen such things, for every mother’s son had hairy backs and forked tails. Yes, gentlemen and ladies, forked tails and hairy backs. Believe Jerry Vincent for the truth of what he says. The moment they got into the water they began to frisk and frolic about as if it was natural to them, and to grow bigger and bigger and bigger, till the first which came up was as big as a frigate’s jolly-boat. I made short work of it, and threw them all up till I felt there wasn’t another morsel of any one of them in my locker. Then thinks I to myself, ‘It’s time to look out sharp, or some of these merry chaps with forked tails will be playing me a trick;’ for you see that they’d already begun to open their mouths very wide, and to splash the water right over me as they whisked about round the boat, just like sharks in the West Indies. So I got out my oars pretty sharp, and began to pull away towards Spithead, thinking to get clear of them, and to carry my freight ashore as I’d engaged to do. But I soon found that the smoke-worms weren’t quite so ready to part company with me, and as my boat began to gather way, they began to swim after her. The big fellow led, and all the others followed. There was hundreds of them, of all sizes, and one little chap, who brought up the rear, was no bigger than a sprat. After me they came with open months and big red eyes, all the hair on their backs standing up, and their tails whisking about like the flukes of a whale in a flurry. Didn’t I just pull for dear life, for I knew what they’d be after if they once grappled me. They would have swallowed me, every one of them. I soon gave up all thoughts of fetching up the ship I was bound for. It would never have done to have gone alongside one of his Majesty’s crack frigates with such a train after me. I should have lost my character, you know. On I pulled; I didn’t spare the oars, depend upon it; but, somehow or other, the way in which the tide set, and the manner in which the brutes dodged me, made me go right out to Spithead, and there I found myself pulling among a whole fleet of men-of-war and Indiamen. The officers and ships’ companies crowded into the hammock nettings and rigging to see me pass, and never have I heard such shouts of laughter as they raised as I pulled by. Neither to the one side nor to the other could I turn; for if I did, as surely one of the beasts would instantly swim up, with open mouth, and make a grab at my oar to keep me going straight ahead. I sung out to the people aboard the ships in mercy’s name to take a shot at some of the bigger brutes, for I thought that I could grapple with the little ones; but either they didn’t or wouldn’t hear me; so away I pulled right out towards the Nab. Thinks I to myself, ‘Perhaps the people in the lightship will lend a helping hand to an old seaman;’ but not a bit of it. When they saw me coming with my train of forked-tailed brutes after me, they sung out that I must sheer off, or they would let fly at me. So there I was fairly at sea, followed by as disagreeable a set of customers as a man ever had astern of him.

“I didn’t bless Doctor Gulliman exactly, for I could not help thinking that somehow or other he had had a hand in the mystification. I now pulled up my larboard oar a little, and found that I was going right round by the Culver cliffs. ‘Well, I’ll get on shore at the back of the Wight anyhow, and do them,’ I thought to myself. But what do ye think; the moment I tried the dodge, the cunning brutes kept edging me off the land, till I saw that there was no hope for me but to go on. All the time they made such a tremendous hissing and splashing and whisking, that you’d have thought a whole ship’s company was washing decks above your head, and heaving water about in bucketsful. It was now night, but there was light enough and to spare to enable me to see the beasts as they kept way with me. I passed Sandown and Ventnor and Steephill, and could see the lights in the houses all along the shore; but as to being able to land, the wriggling brutes in my wake, as I said, took good care that I shouldn’t do that. By the time I got off Saint Catherine’s my arms began to ache a bit, and I felt as if I couldn’t pull another stroke; but when I just lay on my oars to take breath and to knock the drops off my brow, which were falling down heavy enough to swamp the boat, the look of their wicked eyes and big mouths, as they came hissing up open-jawed alongside, set me off again pretty fast. I passed Blackgang Chine, and caught a sight of Brooke, and then I thought I would try to pull into Freshwater Gate, when I would beach the boat, and have a run for my life on shore, for I didn’t think they would come out of the water after me. The truth was that I couldn’t bear the look of them any longer; but the wriggling beasts were up to me, and before I had so much as turned the boat’s head towards the Gate, three or four of the biggest fellows ranged up on my starboard side, and cut me off. I sung out in my rage and disappointment, but this only made matters worse, and my eyes if they didn’t begin to laugh at me, and such a laugh I never did hear before, and hope I never may again. It was like ten thousand donkeys troubled with sore throats trying which would sing out the loudest, and twice as many jackals mocking them, all joined in chorus. At last I got to Scratchell’s Bay. ‘Now’s my time,’ thinks I, ‘if they once get me on a course down Channel, they may drive me right round the world, or over to the coast of America at shortest.’ I knew well the passage through the Needle rocks. The flood was about making. There might be just water for the boat, but none to spare. ‘No odds,’ thinks I. So, while I pretended to be steering for Portland, I shoved the boat round, and then gave way with a will. ‘If I knock the boat to pieces against the rocks, I shall not be worse off than I am now,’ I said to myself, as I pulled for the passage. I just hit it. The keel of the boat grazed over a rock below water; but the tide was running strong, and I shot through like an arrow, and there I was in Alum Bay. Now the passage was too narrow, you see, for the forked-tailed beasts to get through, and they had a good chance of hurting themselves on the rocks if they attempted it; so, if they had been as wise as I took them for, I knew that they would go all the way round the outer Needle rock, and that this would give me a great start. Instead of that, in their eagerness to follow me, what should they do but bolt right at the passage. The big fellow stuck fast, and the little ones couldn’t get by him, and there they were, to my great delight, all knocking their noses against the rocks, and wriggling and hissing and struggling and kicking up such a row, that I thought the people at Milford and Yarmouth, and all along the coast, would be awoke up out of their quiet sleep to wonder what it was all about. However, it would never have done for me to lay on my oars to watch the fun, because I thought it just as likely as not, when the tide rose, that the noisy brutes might shove through and be after me again, so I pulled away as hard as ever right up the Solent, till I got safe back again into Portsmouth harbour. Luckily, I had the whole of the flood with me, or I never could have done it. My arms ached as it was not a little. I moored my boat securely, and as it wasn’t yet daybreak, I lay down in the bottom of the boat, and fell asleep. I never slept so soundly in my life, and no wonder, after the pull I had had.

“When I awoke the sun was shining out brightly, and I heard some one on board a vessel coming up the harbour hail and call somebody or other a drunken old rascal. Who he meant of course I couldn’t tell; that was nothing to me. At last I sat up in my boat, and rubbed my eyes, and there was the doctor’s bottles and the empty rum bottle and the can, without any water in it, just as I left them when I was taken ill. I half expected to see the whole troop of wriggling, twisting, forked-tailed smoke-worms coming up the harbour with the last of the flood; but though I looked out till the tide had done, they didn’t come, and it’s my belief that they knocked themselves about so much against the Needle rocks, that they put about and went down Channel; and all I can say is that I hope that every one of ’em was drowned or came to some other bad end out at sea, and that I may never as long as I live have such a night as the one I spent after taking Doctor Gulliman’s physic. Sarvant, marm and gentlemen, you’ll agree that story is worth five shillings. Howsomedever, I never charges my friends, but gives them all free gratis and for nothing.” And old Jerry gave one of his most knowing winks as he finished off his glass and took up his hat to prepare for his departure.

I ought perhaps to apologise for giving such a story; but it is a fair specimen of the style of narrative in which old seamen of Jerry Vincent’s stamp are apt to indulge, and I have heard many such, though seldom told with so much spirit, during my career at sea.

Chapter Eight.

Visit to Plymouth—Bitter disappointment—Miss Rundle’s account of Charley—Voyage to Shetland—Wrecked again—Fall among friends—Near death’s door—Happy encounter—Description of Shetland—My residence there—Married—Summoned southward.

I did not think that I should ever have got tired of living at Southsea with my kind aunt and fine hearty old uncle, but I had been so accustomed to a roving life and active employment, that in a little time I began to consider that I ought to be looking out for something to do. What to do was the question. I had a fancy for staying on shore after having been knocked about at sea for so many years, and setting up in some business.

“What, have you forgotten Margaret Troall?” said my aunt to me one day.

The chord was struck. “No, indeed, I have not,” said I; “I’ll go and find her, and bring her back to you as my wife if she will have me.”

I had given all my money to my uncle to have put safe in a bank for me. The next day I drew thirty pounds of it, and shipped myself aboard a smack bound for Plymouth.

Strange as it may seem, all the time I had been on shore I had never once thought of my oath and its consequence, but scarcely had I got to sea than the recollection of it came back, and I fully expected that some accident would happen to me before I reached my destination. It did not, however. I landed in safety, and walked immediately up to the house where I hoped to find the old lady and her niece. How strange it seemed! I never felt in such a way before in my life. A child might have knocked me down. I got to the house. How well I knew it! I looked in, as I had done before, at the parlour window. I fully expected to see the old lady sitting in her arm-chair and knitting, as I had when I was last there. My heart jumped up right into my throat, and then down it went I don’t know where. There was no old lady there; but there were three little children, fat, chubby, merry things, tumbling about head over heels on the floor, and shouting and shrieking with laughter, while a young woman sat on a low chair knitting and encouraging them in their gambols, while she rocked a cradle with her foot. “All sorts of strange thoughts came into my head. Who can she be, I wonder? Can it be?” I said. I looked at her very hard, but the glass was thick and dirty, and I could not make out her features. With a trembling hand I knocked at the door. A servant girl, after a little delay, opened it.

“Does Mrs Sandon live here?” I asked.

“No, she doesn’t,” was the short answer.

“Can you tell me where she lives?” I said.

“No; she does not live anywhere, she’s dead,” said the girl, who seemed determined not to throw a word away.

“Dead!” said I. “Dead! just like Granny,” I muttered, scarcely knowing what I was saying. The girl was going to slam the door in my face. “Can you tell me, my good girl, who that lady is in the parlour?” said I, stopping her.

“Yes, that’s Mrs Jones,” was the answer.

I was no wiser than before. “Can you tell me what her maiden name was?” said I, in a low, trembling voice.

“Missus never was a maid-servant; she was always a lady, as she is now,” answered the girl, with a toss of her head, again attempting to slam to the door.

“Stop, stop!” I exclaimed, in an agitated manner. “Can you tell me whether she was Mrs Sandon’s niece?”

“She’d nothing to do with Mrs Sandon that I knows on,” said the girl; “you’re asking a lot of questions. You wouldn’t, if master was at home.”

I was fairly beaten. Just then I heard a footstep behind me, and on looking round, who should I see but Miss Rundle, tripping along the pavement up to her own door, looking as brisk and young as ever.

“Oh, Miss Rundle, I’m so glad to see you!” I exclaimed, forgetting all the proprieties, and running after her. “Can you tell me anything about my kind friends who lived in our old house, and where I met you last at tea?” I thought she would have shrieked out when she saw me—she looked so astonished.

“Why, who are you? where did you come from? What do you want? Why, I thought you were dead. You are not alive, are you?”

“I hope so, Miss Rundle. I fancy I am. I’ve done nothing to kill me lately, and I know that I was alive a short time ago,” I answered, laughing in spite of my agitation.

“Well, if you are sure that you are alive, come in here and sit down and tell me all about it,” said the little old lady, opening the door of her house with a latch-key which she drew from her pocket, and pointing to the parlour, which she signed to me to enter.

I took off my hat and sat down, wondering what strange news I was to hear. She presently made her appearance, having laid aside her walking dress. I felt myself completely at home in a moment, she looked so exactly as she had done when I last saw her on that delightful evening I spent at Plymouth, and I so well remembered her in the days of my boyhood.

“Well, Willand, I am glad to see you,” said she in a kinder tone than usual. “A young man whom you know, and whose name I would rather not repeat,—indeed I do not like thinking about him,—told us that you were dead—drowned or killed somehow or other at sea. Perhaps he had his own selfish ends to serve, or perhaps he believed it; we will hope for the best.”

“Who do you mean! What do you speak of, Miss Rundle?” I exclaimed, in a voice full of agitation.

“I speak of that false deceiver, that bad, heartless fellow, Charles Iffley,” she answered, in a tone which showed her strong dislike to my former friend. “Do you know, some time after you were here he returned from sea, and came up here to visit me, and talked of old times and old friendships, and how I had known his poor mother and his friends, till I was quite taken with him; and then he presented me with a stuffed parrot and two little pets of Java sparrows he called them (which certainly were very merry and hopped about gaily in their cage), and a dried snake, which he told me was a great curiosity; and he used to drop in to tea nearly every evening, and certainly he used to talk very pleasantly. However, it is not always the talkers that are the best doers or the best people. Then he began to inquire about the ladies next door, and I invited them in to meet him, and he made himself still more agreeable than ever. This went on for some time, till I saw that he admired Miss Margaret, old Mrs Sandon’s niece; however, as he had plenty of money, that was no business of mine. I must say that by this time I did not think so well of him as at first. Many things he said were very incorrect, and the snake he gave me began to be so disagreeable that I was obliged to throw it away, and my maid told me that she was certain the sparrows were no great things, so we examined them carefully, and there could be no doubt about it, they were merely common English sparrows painted. When he came in and was waiting for me sometimes (for he used to watch when I was out on purpose), he used to give them a touch up, and tell me that he had been washing them and restoring their plumage, and in that way he kept up the deception so long. An old gentleman, a friend of mine, who used to be fond of poking about and looking into old curiosity shops, happened to call, and I showed him the parrot which Charles Iffley told me had come from some part of Africa or South America round Cape Horn, only that it had died before he could give it to me. When my friend saw the stuffed parrot, he turned it about and examined it, and then showing me a ticket fastened to its claw, told me that he knew the old Jew’s shop where that bad fellow had bought it, and to a certainty that he had not given more than a shilling for it. All this was very provoking, and made me begin to think very differently of him to what I had done at first. I did fancy that he might have had some regard for an old friend.” And the old lady drew herself up and uttered a gentle sigh. “Such a dream was soon blown to the winds,” she continued. “I found that he was constantly going and calling at Mrs Sandon’s, and very often he did not look in on me at all. It did not seem to me, however, that Margaret liked him, though I think her aunt thought well of him, and encouraged him to come to the house. He had never spoken of you, I found, till one day I mentioned your name, when he said, ‘Ah, poor fellow! he was a great friend of mine. I first got him a ship, and helped to make a sailor of him. I was very sorry to lose him.’

“‘How lose him?’ asked Miss Margaret gently. Then he told them how you had been sent away in a boat expedition in Teneriffe, to cut out some prizes, and that the boat you were in had been knocked to pieces, and that you had been either killed by the shot of the enemy or drowned, and that nothing since had been heard of you.”

“I cannot blame Charley, then,” said I to Miss Rundle. “I have no doubt that he fully believed the statement he made. Had I not succeeded in getting on board another vessel, I should have been drowned, and we have never met since. But what occurred after this?—go on.”

“You shall hear. When he saw that Miss Margaret took some interest in you, he began to talk of you in a disparaging way, as a poor sort of a fellow, easily led, and that you had all sorts of strange fancies, which he said he supposed had come to you with the northern blood which flowed in your veins, and then he spoke in no complimentary way of Scotland and the Orkney and Shetland people. He said he forgot to which you belonged. I saw the colour come into Miss Margaret’s cheeks. ‘I belong to Shetland myself,’ said she. ‘It is a country I love dearly.’ On this, the young man began to apologise, and said that he was speaking without consideration; that he had known one bad Orkney man, and that was all, whereas he had known hundreds of bad Englishmen, and he hoped Miss Margaret would pardon him. She bowed, but said nothing. He did his best to make amends for what he had said, and certainly if attention would have won a woman, he would have won her. I could not help seeing that was his aim. However, his behaviour to me had not made me wish to give him any help. And, do you know, I found that he had been speaking in a very disrespectful way of me. I cannot repeat the names he called me. It showed me clearly what he was, and, though I did not like to interfere, still I only hoped he would not succeed in winning that sweet girl.”

“Did he succeed, though?” I exclaimed, in a voice choking with agitation. “Oh! tell me, Miss Rundle.”

“You shall hear,” answered the old lady, who was not to be hurried with her narrative. “Of course, having won the good opinion of the aunt was a great point in his favour. So he used to continue to go to the house as often as ever. He took the aunt all sorts of pretty presents, though he did not venture to offer them to Margaret. At last, however, he seemed to think that the time was come when he must try his chance. So he walked in and found Margaret in the room alone, and he told her, in an off-hand sort of way, that he loved her, and that, if she would marry him, he would give up the sea and live on shore, and make her comfortable and happy for the rest of her days.”

“Did she accept him? did she marry him?” I exclaimed, interrupting the old lady.

“You shall hear, Mr Wetherholm,” she answered quietly. “What woman does not feel flattered by receiving a proposal of marriage from a fine-looking, free-spoken young man. I’m sure I should.” And she put her hand mechanically before her face to hide the gentle blush which the thought conjured up on her cheek. “She thanked him, but entreated him not to persist in his offers. Then she frankly told him that one she had loved had died at sea; that her heart was buried with him in his ocean grave; and that she could not marry a man she did not love. She was very firm, and Charles Iffley could not help seeing that he had very little chance of success. She told me this shortly afterwards. He, it seems, did not give up his attempt to win her. Somehow or other, he had taken it into his head that she was speaking of you, though he was puzzled to know how you had won her heart. He returned several times to the house, but his chief occupation seems to have been in abusing you. This made poor Miss Margaret fancy that you all the time were alive, and that he knew it; and this, of course, made her still less inclined towards him. The less way he made in her affections, the more bitter he became against you, till at last she had to tell him that his conversation was disagreeable, and that he must never come to the house again. He still did come to the door several times, but the maid told him that he must not come in, and that she would scream out murder if he attempted it. Soon after this, poor old Mrs Sandon fell ill and died, and poor Miss Margaret was left alone without any one to assist her or protect her. I asked her to come and live with me till she could make arrangements what to do. She had friends in Shetland, though that is a long way off, and I could not think what help they could afford her. They wrote back begging that she would come to them, and that she should be like their daughter, and they would be parents to her. Well, against my advice, she resolved to set off, and away she went. She kindly wrote to me once, to tell me of her safe arrival, and she thoughtfully paid the postage, which was just like her, and very right. You shall see her letter, for I do not think she would object to my showing it to you.”

I thanked Miss Rundle very much for the account she had given me, but I could with difficulty reply to her for thinking what I would do. All sorts of ideas crowded into my mind. I scarcely, however, recollected Charley Iffley and his behaviour. My thoughts flew off to Shetland, and to Margaret Troall. Miss Rundle gave me her letter. I read it over and over again. I made a note of the place from which she dated it. Miss Rundle saw me, and asked me if I was going to write to her.

“No; I intend to go to Shetland,” I answered promptly. “I have made up my mind to that. After all you have told me, I shall not rest happy till I have seen her. Perhaps I shall take up my abode there altogether. My father’s family come from Shetland, and if I could get Aunt Bretta to come up there also, we might all be very happy.”

I was much pleased by the kind way in which Miss Rundle seemed to sympathise with me, and entered into all my views and plans, though she herself had no personal interest in them. She told me, in course of conversation, that she had not since seen Charles Iffley, but that she believed he belonged to some man-of-war or other, at the time of which she had been speaking, and that she understood he was still in the service.

My plan once formed, I lost no time in putting it into execution. That very evening I found a smack sailing for Portsmouth, and took my passage by her. On reaching Southsea, and telling my aunt all that had occurred, she very much approved of my plans, and encouraged me to set off at once for Shetland. She sent all sorts of messages to old friends, and to the children of old friends; for, as she remarked with a sigh, it was too probable that many of the parents would have been called away from the world.

Drawing a further supply of money from the bank, I went up to London by the coach next morning. I won’t stop to describe how I was bothered and confused in London, and how heartily I wished myself out of it. I found my way to London Bridge, and, after making many inquiries, I reached a place where there were several Leith smacks moored together. One was going to sail the next tide. I joyfully stepped aboard of her, and still more happy was I to find myself clear of the Thames and out at sea. We were just a week making the passage, which was very well, considering that we had a foul wind for some hours and had to bring up in Yarmouth Roads. From Leith I got on by another vessel to Aberdeen. In that port I found a regular trader which sailed once a month to Lerwick, in Shetland. She was a smack, but not equal in size to the craft in which I had come down from London to Leith.

We had been out about three days when very heavy thick weather came on, and a south-westerly gale sprung up, which came sweeping through the passage between Orkney and Shetland, kicking up a terrific sea. The smack behaved very well, but at last all that could be done was to set a try-sail and to heave her to, and away we drifted we knew not where. I had never before been in the North Seas, so I was not accustomed to such dark gloomy weather—not but what it is bad enough in the English Channel now and then—still it does not often last so long as it does up in the north.

Day after day the clouds hung down over our heads, and the wind howled, and the dark green seas kept leaping up around, as if eager to draw us down under their angry foaming bosoms. We had a hard matter to cook our provisions, and no very easy one to eat them raw or cooked. Suddenly the wind shifted and blew as strongly as ever from the eastward, and then from the northward, and then got back again into the old quarter, and the master confessed that, for the life of him he could not tell where he had drifted to.

“On which side of Shetland are we, do you think?” said I.

“I only hope that we are still to the eastward, but at all events I believe we are well away to the northward of the islands.”

“I hope so,” I answered. “But look, captain, what huge and unbroken seas come rolling in from the west; if we are not to the northward, it is my opinion that we have got the islands under our lee, and if this gale is to continue, I would rather have them anywhere else than there.”

“So would I, young man; but I have made this trip pretty often, and I don’t think that I can be so far out in my calculation,” was the answer.

All I could say was that I hoped that I was wrong and he was right, as, whichever was the case, there was nothing we could do till the weather moderated. On we drove. I did not like the look of things. When night came on I did not turn in, but sat down below out of the cold, ready to spring on deck in a moment. I had fastened my money in a belt round my waist, and kept my shoes ready to kick off, and my jacket loose to throw easily aside. I was certain that the vessel would be wrecked. I felt no fear for my own life, though I remembered my rash oath and what had occurred so often before, and the gloomy weather had indeed increased the conviction that I was under a sort of curse, and that I should have no rest till it was fulfilled. I am just saying what I then thought. I cannot even now be surprised at the idea gaining such powerful possession of my mind, while everything that had happened to me had tended to strengthen it.

Night came on. Pitchy darkness surrounded the storm-driven little smack. The cry of “Breakers! breakers!” and piercing shrieks made me spring on deck. At that moment the vessel struck. The foaming seas came hissing and roaring up after her. We were among a dark mass of rocks; no fabric formed by human hands could have withstood the violence of those terrific waves. I held on to the last moment, while the huge foaming seas washed over my head, almost drowning me, as I clung to the wreck. Then I felt the deck quiver and shake, and the stout beams and timbers were wrenched and torn asunder under my feet, and I was hurled onward among the broken fragments by a roaring sea, which must have well-nigh completed the destruction of the craft. I lost all consciousness.

My last thought had been that at length the angry sea was about to claim me as a victim. There was a hissing, roaring sound in my ears; I felt myself tossed to and fro, knocked and battered, but I made no attempt, that I am aware of, to save myself. At length I opened my eyes. It was daylight. Some men were bending over me.

I heard a voice say, “Here is one who seems to have still some life in him.” And another person came and took my hand, and after waiting a minute, said, “Yes, carry him up to the house.” And I was put on a litter and borne up a steep path among some cliffs; and then across a high, wild down till I reached a substantial, strongly-built stone house. The movement of the litter had a very good effect on me, so that by the time I reached the house, my chest was relieved from the salt water I had swallowed, and my senses had completely returned. I was therefore saved the ceremony, very common in those days, by which a good many people were killed, of hanging nearly drowned men up by the heels, under the idea that the water would more quickly run out of their mouths. I was carried into a large boarded room, out of which several others opened. In one of those there was a bed. After my wet clothes had been taken off me I was placed in bed, carefully wrapped up in blankets, and directly after some warm drink was brought me.

I remember struggling somewhat when I found my money-belt being removed, and trying to possess myself of it.

“Never fear, young man; it will be all safe,” said a voice. “We are not wreckers, and we no longer fancy that you will work us harm because we help to save your life.”

This satisfied me. I knew that there were honest people as well as rogues in the world, but I had often met with honest ones, so I hoped that I had now fallen among such. One thing, at all events, was very evident, they seemed anxious to save my life. After this I fell into a sound sleep.

It was nine o’clock in the evening when I awoke; but the summer days are very long in those regions, and even then the evening sun was shining into the window. A stout, white-haired, kindly-looking old gentleman came in to see me with a younger man, whom I took to be his son, and a servant girl brought in a tray with some tea, and some barley scones, hot and buttered. I thought that I had never tasted anything nicer in my life.

“I hope you are better now after your sleep, young man,” said the old gentleman. “If fever can be kept off, I think you will do well; but we have sent for the doctor to look at your hurts. There are two or three other people who want his aid.”

“What, only two or three escaped out of all those on board the smack?” said I.

“It is a mercy that any one came on shore alive; and you will say so when you see the place in day-time,” said the younger man.

“We won’t speak about it at present,” said the old gentleman. “The less he talks or hears others talk, the better just now. We bid you good-night. Sleep again, if you can; some one will look in on you to see how you are going on, now and then.”

With these words my hospitable friends left me once more to myself.

I suspected, indeed, that I should be better for a doctor’s care, for I felt that I had been bruised and battered dreadfully; my head had been bandaged, and when I tried to stir I found all my limbs sore and stiff,—indeed, it was not without great pain that I could move either an arm or a leg. I slept through most of the night. When I did awake, I began to wonder where I had got to, for the old gentleman had remained in the room so short a time, that I had not been able to ask any questions.

I had little doubt that I had been cast away on the coast of Shetland, but whether on the northern or southern end I could not tell, any more than I could who was my kind host.

The next day the doctor arrived. He had ridden over from Lerwick, with only the rest of half-an-hour for his steed, he said; so I knew that I must be at some distance from that town, and yet on the big island called the mainland. He dressed my wounds and bruises, and told me that one or two of my ribs were broken, but that I might consider myself fortunate that matters were no worse; and remarked that he had no doubt I had lived a prudent, careful life, as I was perfectly free from all signs of fever, which would not otherwise have been the case; and then giving me some bottles of medicine to take, he left me to look after his other patients. He spent two or three days in the house, for the islands are generally so healthy that there was not much demand for his services elsewhere.

One of my poor shipmates died, I was told, from his hurts. I rapidly got better. Besides the old gentleman and his son and the doctor, an old lady looked in now and then to see me. She was a very neat, pretty old woman, so cheerful and cheery, always having something pleasant to say, so that she contributed much to raise my spirits. I will say that I was most thankful for all the mercies which had been shown me, and for my preservation from so great a danger.

At last I was pronounced well enough and strong enough to get up and appear in public. A barber, who was going his rounds, came in, and shaved me and cut my hair, and my head and face were all to rights, so that I looked as well as ever, only my ribs hurt me a little, and my limbs felt somewhat stiff.

The old gentleman came to my room when I was ready. “Take my arm,” said he kindly; “you will find it rather strange walking at first, and your knees will shake a little.”

I could not refuse his kind offer, though I thought that I could have walked very well by myself. He led me into the large hall, and there, seated by a window at the further end, looking out on the sea, I observed two young women. One was dressed in black, the other in some sober colour or other. They were both at the moment bending down over their knitting, and talking in a low voice to each other, so that they did not observe our entrance.

We had got three-quarters of the way across the room, and the old gentleman was giving me a chair to sit down on, when the noise it made over the floor caused them to look up. There sat one I had so long thought of, whom I had come to search for, Margaret Troall.

She looked at me in a strange, bewildered way, still she knew me, and yet she could not believe her senses. She tried to rise from her chair to come towards me, but something seemed to keep her back. She drew her breath quickly, as if she would have wished to have spoken, but could not. I felt that I ought to speak first.

“They told you I was dead, Miss Margaret,” said I, and I know my voice trembled very much, and I know that had I not leant on the chair I should have fallen. “They were mistaken; I went to Plymouth only lately, and found you were no longer there; and when I discovered that you had gone north, I came here to seek you.”

She recovered herself while I was speaking, and rising from her seat, came up and gave me her hand. I do not say that there was anything very extraordinary in the action, but I know that it made me very happy. Her friends at first looked very much astonished; but a few words served to explain matters, and then they were doubly glad that they had had the opportunity of being of so much service to an old friend of their young relative.

I found that the name of my host, the uncle of Miss Troall, was David Angus, and that the place where the smack had been wrecked was in Saint Magnus Bay, in the parish of North Morven. My friends were the holders of one of the largest farms in the district, and lived in a very comfortable, though what people in the south would call a rough way. I am not going to talk of all that passed between Margaret and me. I should not have believed that she had thought so much of me as she had done, it seemed; but our first meeting had been under peculiar circumstances. She had seen me mourning deeply for a lost relative, and she had discovered thus that I had a tender heart, so I may venture to say, and now my coming all the way north to look for her showed her that she had made no little impression on it.

Well, all that has passed and gone. I got every day better and better, and was soon able to walk out with her along the tops of the high cliffs, and to visit the wild scenes to be found especially in that part of the island. I especially remember one place we visited, called the Navis Grind. It is a gap in the cliffs formed by the whole force of the western ocean rolling against them during a succession of heavy gales, age after age, till vast fragments of the rock have been forced in for hundreds of yards over the downs, and now lie like the fragments of some ruined city scattered over the plain. We delighted in returning to those scenes of wild grandeur, because they contrasted so strongly with our own quiet happiness.

This was only the second time in my life that I had enjoyed what might be properly called idleness. The first was during my short stay with Aunt Bretta, and then I confess that I often did at times feel weary from not knowing what to do with myself. Now I never felt anything like weariness, I was too happy to spend the greater part of the day in the society of Margaret. Sometimes I used to walk by myself over the downs by the edge of the cliffs, and at others visit the different parts of his farm with my host, and assist him to look after his cattle and horses and sheep, which were scattered far and wide over the peninsula.

I have scarcely mentioned his daughter Minna. She was a fair-haired, smiling, good-natured lassie, who was contented with her lot, because she had sense enough to discover that it was a very happy one.

There was one person, however, who would, I soon with some pain discovered, have been better pleased had I not come to the islands. That was John Angus, my host’s son. He did not treat me uncivilly or unkindly, but I saw that it cost him an effort to be as cordial as the rest of his family. He was a good-natured, frank, kind-hearted man, whom under other circumstances I should have hoped to have made my friend. I cannot but think, too, that in time he would have won Margaret’s regard, and he was certainly a man to have made any woman happy.

In two weeks or so I was Margaret’s acknowledged suitor, or rather, I may say, her affianced husband. I was so happy that I thought sorrow could never again come near me. Now Margaret herself reminded me that I was a Shetlander,—indeed, as I was born at sea, no other people would claim me,—and that I ought to try and find out some of my family. I talked the subject over with Mr Angus. He remembered many of them, but when he came to consider, every one of my near relations were gone. Some cousins of my father’s were the nearest remaining, and then there were several of Aunt Bretta’s old friends, the companions of her youth whom she wished me to see. John Angus volunteered to accompany me, and he provided two strong, shaggy little ponies for our journey.

We started away one morning soon after daybreak over the wild tracks, the only substitute for roads through the islands in those days, and crossed into the chief part of the mainland by a causeway so narrow that I could have thrown a biscuit across it. On one side of us was Rowe Sound, and on the other Hagraseter Voe, a long, narrow voe running out of Yell Sound. It would be difficult to describe the wild, and often beautiful scenery through which we passed. Long, deep voes, full of inlets and indentations, with high heathery hills on either side, was the most characteristic feature, and quiet, little inland lochs, with wildfowl resting on their bosoms, was another, and then high rocky cliffs, the habitation of innumerable sea-birds, and hundreds of green islands and rocks scattered about on every side on the surface of the blue ocean.

John Angus did his best to point out to me the various points of interest we passed. Among the most curious were the Pictie towers, little round edifices built with rough stone, beautifully put together, with passages inside winding up to the top without steps. They were built by a race who inhabited those islands long before the time of which history gives any account. Whence they came, or how they departed, no one knows. Every hamlet throughout Shetland is called a toun. The cottages composing them are very far from attractive-looking edifices, generally built of mud, of one storey, and thatched; with a midden on one side of the door, and a pool of a very doubtful colour and contents on the other. The insides were often large and clean, and tidy enough, and in such I found many of my aunt’s friends residing.

Wherever I went, I was hospitably received, and I delivered my messages, and rode on. I cannot say that my cousins appeared very highly delighted at seeing me, which was natural enough, considering that till I made my appearance, and announced myself, they had never heard there was such a person in existence. However, Aunt Bretta was remembered by all her contemporaries with affection. I should have enjoyed my visits more had I not been anxious to return to Hillswick.

We were altogether five days away, and in that period, sometimes by means of boats, and sometimes on the backs of ponies, and at others on our own feet, we visited the greater portion of the islands. I often felt that had I been born among them, I should never have desired to leave their quiet shores, and more than once contemplated the probability of spending the remainder of my days there. I spoke my mind on the subject to John Angus.

“Do, Weatherhelm, do,” he answered; “we shall be glad to have you among us: but you’ve heard the old notion we islanders have, that he who is saved from drowning by any one of us is certain to work us ill?”

“I’ve heard of the idea not only as held by the people of Shetland, but by those of many other countries,” I answered. “Like many other ideas, to my mind, it is not only false, but wrong and wicked. Depend upon it, the idea was invented by those who wanted an excuse for killing the unfortunate people wrecked on their coast in order to obtain their property.”

“That may be,” said Angus; “still, for my part, I cannot help believing that it is in some respects true. However, sometimes a man may work another harm without intending it. But come along, put your nag into a trot, we have a good many miles of this heavy peat land to get over before we reach home.”

It was not till some time afterwards that I knew what John Angus meant by his remarks. He volunteered to take the ponies round to the stable, while I went into the house. It was worth going away for a few days for the pleasure of being received as I was by Margaret. I thought her looking more sweet and lovely than ever. As I said before, I am not going to repeat all that occurred between us. The day was fixed for our marriage, and friends from far and near were invited to it. They came, some by water and others on ponies; the women on pack-saddles, with their head-gear in baskets hung over their arms. Mr Angus had told me that he hoped, since I was to become his nephew, that I would live on with him and help him in his croft, as there was work enough both for me and his son. John, indeed, had a mind to go and see something of the world, and was proposing a trip to Aberdeen, if not to Edinburgh, before the winter. He would be away, at all events, during the winter, so that my services would be of great value.

This proposal exactly suited my wishes. I was certain that Margaret would be happy with her friends, and I should find plenty of the sort of employment which suited me. I should be out of doors during all the hours of daylight, and I knew that I should be handy in the various occupations in which the family passed their time during the long evenings of winter. Well, then, Margaret and I were married, and the guests who had welcomed me back as a countryman to Shetland, took their departure, and we all settled down into a very regular, happy state of existence. John Angus went away to Scotland, and I took his place as his father’s assistant. The winter came round pretty quickly, and though we had fogs and damp sometimes, I did not find the weather nearly so cold as I expected. Even in mid-winter, with a south-westerly wind, it was always quite warm; but when the wind shifted round and came out of the north-east or east, it was cold enough. Still there was very little ice, and not often much snow. As I have often remarked when wandering over the globe, every country has its advantages, and those far northern islands have theirs. They have their long days in summer, and bright skies, and fragrant wild-flowers, and fine wild scenery, and, thanks to the hot waters of the Gulf Stream which wash their shores, a tolerably temperate climate all the year round. The winter passed rapidly away. I could often scarcely believe in my happiness, after all the hardships and dangers I had undergone, and I am afraid that I was not sufficiently grateful for it. One thing I felt, that Margaret did not repent the choice she had made. Though I had had rather more education than generally falls to the lot of those of my class, I knew that I was but a rough, untutored seaman, and so I did my utmost to be tender and gentle to my wife, and to study how I best could please her in everything. I did not forget my old friend Miss Rundle,—my wife and I wrote her a long letter between us, fall of all sorts of fun; we also took good care to pay the postage. Of course, also, we wrote to Aunt Bretta. She sent back a letter in return, hoping that we would soon come south to see her. We expected John Angus in the spring, but he did not return. He wrote instead, to say that he had got some employment in the south, which suited him for the present, and that he was very happy.

A whole year passed away. During the second winter, I thought that my wife, who had been so long accustomed to the soft air of Devonshire, was suffering from the long continuance of damp fogs. While I was balancing in my mind whether I ought not to take her south, I received another letter from Aunt Bretta. She told me that she was quite sickening to see me and my wife, and that my uncle hoped to be able to find some employment on shore which would suit my taste. When I laid the proposal before my wife, she at once acceded to it. “I am afraid,” said she, “that as long as we remain here, we keep poor John away from his family. If we go south, he will return home.” David Angus, and the old lady, and our kind-hearted cousin, were most unwilling to part with us, but we had written to Aunt Bretta to say that we were coming, and we could not again change our plans. About the middle of June we sailed in a smack bound direct for Leith, and once more I found myself on salt water.

Chapter Nine.

Voyage in the smack—Gale springs up—Washed overboard—Saved on a spar—Dreadful fears for my wife’s safety—The kind-hearted fisherman—Find the smack—Account of her escape—Journey on land—Coach upset—Again preserved—Reach home—Old Jerry again—His adventure with the bears.

I was walking the deck one night, while my wife was below, and thinking of the events of my past life, when the recollection of my rash oath came across me like a thunder-clap in summer, when just before the whole sky overhead has appeared of the purest blue. “Is my dreadful fate still to pursue me?” I thought. “Rather than she should be torn from me, let me perish with her.” The weather was fine, the wind was light and fair, and there was not the slightest cause for any apprehension of danger. Had I been by myself, such an idea would not, I believe, have crossed my mind; but now that I had so precious a being under my charge, I was timid as a mother with her first-born child. At last I went below, and the night passed away in quietness. The next morning was bright and lovely as ever an early summer has had to exhibit, and I felt ashamed of my thoughts of the previous evening, as if I had been ungrateful for the blessings I had received, and mistrustful of God’s merciful providence. Still the ideas I had entertained came back again during the forenoon, and haunted me at times throughout the day. Had I been able to speak to my wife on the subject, I doubt not I should have relieved my mind; but I was afraid of frightening her and making her nervous, so I kept them to myself. As the evening drew on, dark clouds were seen banking up on the horizon. I watched them with an anxiety I had never before experienced at sea, for I had never before been on the ocean with a freight I prized so much. They continued rapidly to increase, and before night closed in had formed a thick canopy overhead, while dark heaving seas came rolling in towards us across the full width of the German Ocean, and the increasing breeze moaned and whistled in our rigging. The smack heeled over to the force of the wind till her lee-bulwarks were under water, but still the master was unwilling to shorten sail. We were on a lee shore, and he was anxious to haul off sufficiently to make his passage good for the Firth of Forth. We might even then have run back for the Moray Firth, where, as the wind was from the southward of east, we should have got under the lee of the land; but then we might have been detained there, very certainly for many days and perhaps for several weeks, so he resolved, at all hazards, to keep the sea. Under a close-reefed mainsail and storm-jib, the little vessel continued her course, looking bravely up to the increasing gale. Still, at times she plunged heavily into the seas, and it often seemed, as I stood on her deck, as if she would never rise again above them. I sat, while I could, by my wife in the cabin, to try and comfort and protect her; but I could not help rushing on deck every now and then to ascertain how matters were proceeding. The report, however, I had to give when I returned below was anything but encouraging. I had no idea of deceiving people, as some persons do, when danger is threatening. I am certain that the more a person can contemplate the possibility of danger, the better able they will be to encounter it when it comes, if they have employed the meantime in reflection and in considering the best means to meet it.

We were off the Scotch coast, somewhere between Stonehaven and Montrose, I fancy, when the gale came down upon us with greater force than ever, and the old master thought if he could get the try-sail on the vessel, as we had by this time gained a considerable offing, that he should be able to heave her to and weather it out till it blew over. As he was about to shift the sails the wind lulled a little, and once more he hoped that he should be able to hold on his course. He forgot that all this time, though he was certainly getting more to the southward, the vessel was also drifting nearer and nearer inshore. At last the gale, as if it had rested merely to gain strength, breezed up again with greater fury than ever. I was below at the time. “We must get the try-sail on her, my lads,” I heard the old man sing out. Securing my wife to a sofa in the cabin, I sprang on deck to lend a hand, for I knew that all the strength that could be obtained would be required, and that every moment of delay added to our danger. Many as were the gales I had been in, I had never beheld a more terrific-looking scene than that by which I now found myself surrounded. Vivid flashes of lightning every now and then revealed the dark wall-like waves which rose up with their crests of foam on every side around us, and threatened to engulf the little craft struggling helplessly among them. Still no one stopped a moment to think of all this—the work to be done was to get the mainsail off her and to set the try-sail. I thought at the time that we were much nearer inshore than the old master fancied. The try-sail was almost set, and we were hauling out the sheet, when I heard the old man sing out, “Hold on, my lads! hold on! Here comes a sea which will give her a shake.” On it came. I was to leeward. I felt myself torn from the rope to which I held, and my feet lifted off the deck. The wild waves surrounded me. There was a tumult in my ears. With horror and agony I discovered that the sea had carried me overboard. I shrieked out instinctively for help, though I knew that none could be afforded. In vain I struggled to regain the vessel.

My real condition presented itself with terrific clearness to my mind. For my own life I cared not, but I thought of my wife—of her agony and despair when she discovered that I was lost. I would have given worlds to have got once more on board that little sea-tossed bark. I was always a good swimmer. Even amid those tossing waves I found that I could keep my head above water. Still the unequal struggle could not have lasted long, when at the moment I was losing the dim outline of the little vessel in the darkness, I found myself thrown against some floating object. A hope that I might possibly preserve my life sprung up in my bosom. I grasped the object, and found that it was part of the mast and top of a large vessel. I clambered upon it and held fast while I recovered my breath. Though it was violently tossed about by the seas, which threatened every moment to sweep me off from it, still I held on. My first thought was to endeavour to discover how far off was the smack, on board which was all I prized in life. I could nowhere see her. I have heard of people’s hair turning white in a single night from grief—I felt that mine might have done so from the agony of mind I endured. Would the smack weather out the gale? or would my dear wife survive the shock when she discovered that I had been so suddenly torn from her? “I have often been punished, and justly, but this is the most severe punishment of all,” I thought to myself. A voice whispered in my ear, “Curse God, and die,”—the same voice which had whispered the same words into the ear of the Patriarch Job many ages ago, and has been whispering the like into the ears of thousands of human beings ever since. “Oh God, have mercy on me and support me!” I ejaculated, and the tempter fled from me.

Scarcely able to breathe from the dense masses of spray surrounding me, and from the waves which kept continually washing over me, I still clung on to the wreck. I fancied that the shattered mast was being floated onward. I do not remember now what reason I had for supposing so. It contributed, at all events, to keep up my hope of being ultimately rescued. How slowly and painfully the hours passed by! Often I thought that, from very exhaustion and cold, I must be swept from my hold. At length, as I was looking upwards at the sky to try and discover any break in the clouds which might afford me an indication that the gale was abating, I beheld the first faint streaks of dawn appearing in the eastward. The clouds seemed to lift like a thick curtain to let in the light of day. I looked round towards the land; I could distinguish its dim outline through the darkness which still hung over it. This convinced me that the mast must have drifted much nearer than when I first got hold of it. This fact, however, tended to increase my anxiety for the fate of the smack. What if she has been driven on the rocks, and, as would probably be the case, all on board have perished! “Oh, why, why was not I allowed to remain with my dear wife, to perish with her, or to be the means of saving her!” I exclaimed, in the agony of my spirit. The intensity of my feelings almost overcame me. As daylight increased, I saw that the summer gale had considerably lessened, and every minute the wind seemed to be going down. I could now clearly make out the shore, the yellow sands, with their fringe of dark rocks, over which the surf was breaking with almost unabated fury. “What chance of escaping with my life will there be, if I am drifted in among those wild rocks?” I thought to myself. Now there could be no doubt that I was drifting, and rapidly too, towards the shore. With an anxious, piercing gaze, I looked round to the southward to see if I could discover any signs of the smack, half dreading to find her driven in among the rocks, yet still praying and hoping that she might be riding safely at anchor behind some sheltering reef, or within some little harbour on the coast. Not a sign of her could I discover. I looked seaward. Two or three sails were seen, rising and falling in the offing, but too far off to allow me to hope that she could be one of them. On drove the mast; its course was altered, and it was evidently drifting along shore to the southward. I judged that I was not more than three or four hundred fathoms from the breakers. I discovered that by climbing a little further on the mast, I could stand upright without its turning over with me. Finding this, I untied a silk handkerchief I had about my neck, and waved it around my head. I continued waving, hoping that some one would see my signal. I waited anxiously, looking along the shore. At so early an hour few people were out. At last the head of a man appeared above a sand-hill. I waved more vehemently, and shouted, forgetting that my voice could not be heard above the roar of the breakers. Soon I saw him standing on the top of the hill, and looking through a spy-glass at me, and then he waved his hand in return, and, pointing to the southward, ran on. Directly afterwards I saw two or three other people running in the same direction, carrying oars over their shoulders, and a boat-hook. I guessed that they were making for some little harbour or sandy cove, where their boats were drawn up. I prayed that they might come to my aid quickly, for every instant the wreck of the mast drove nearer and nearer to the rocks. Still I cannot say that I felt much doubt about being saved after having already been so mercifully preserved during the night from dangers so terrific. Yet it appeared an age before I saw a boat darting out from an opening in the rocks. Putting her head to the seas, she dashed up towards me. She had not come a minute too soon.

“Stand by, mon! stand by to leap aboard!” I heard a voice sing out, as the bow of the boat came up close to where I was hanging on.

I did not require a second order; at the same time, my limbs were so stiff and benumbed that I could scarcely have obeyed, had not two of the men in the bow of the boat caught me by the collar, and hauled me on board.

“Noo, round wi’ her, laddies! round wi’ her! we’ll hear a’ aboot it by and by,” cried the man at the helm.

The boat was at the time scarcely half-a-dozen fathoms from the surf, and any sea rolling in, and breaking sooner than usual, might have rolled her over and over and drowned all hands. With hearty tugs the men who had so bravely rescued me pulled the boat round and out to sea, while the mast was directly afterwards carried among the surf, and hurled round and round, till it was cast in fragments on the rocks. I shuddered when I saw what my fate might have been. There was little time to exchange many words with the fishermen before the boat was pulled into a little sandy cove, and they all, springing out, ran her up high and dry on the beach.

“You maun be weet, laddie,” said the old master of the boat, helping me out of her with the aid of two of the other men. “Come up to my hoose, and we’ll put dry duds on ye, and then you’ll tell us how ye came to be floating on that bit of wreck there. She maun hae been a large ship ye belonged to, I’m thinking, and ye were the only one saved? it’s sad to think of it.”

Under some circumstances I should have been amused by the eagerness of the old man to hear the account I had to give, at the same time that his kind heart prompted him not to fatigue me by asking questions. I was still more anxious to know if he could give me any account of the smack. As we were going up to the cottage I described her exactly, but he shook his head.

“We were up late last night, looking along the shore on account of the gale, and we were not out so early this morning as usual,” was the reply.

Having satisfied the curiosity of my host with an account of my own adventure, I entreated that, as soon as my clothes were dried, I might be allowed to proceed to the southward along the coast, to try and gain tidings of the smack. My hopes revived within me when the fisherman told me that we were not far from the mouth of the Firth of Tay, and that perhaps the smack might have been driven in there.

“Still ye should know that there is a danger there which has proved fatal to many a tall ship,” said the old man. “It is called the Inchcape Rock. There’s a bell made fast to it, which, whenever a gale is blowing, tolls by the tossing of the seas as they drive against it. You’ve heard tell, maybe, of the pirate, who, in the wantonness of his wickedness, carried the bell away, and who, although another was placed in its stead, was lost, with all his companions, on that very rock. Heaven finds out sinners of high and low degree, at some time or other, however they may endeavour to escape its vengeance.”

I thought to myself, “True, indeed, is that. How often have I been found out and punished for my one great sin!”

Ill and weak as I was, I insisted, as I had had some food on starting, to proceed along the coast to try and obtain tidings of the smack. If she had not foundered, she must have been cast on shore or taken shelter in some harbour at the mouth of the Tay.

“No, no,” said the old man; “young blood fancies that it can do anything, but I tell ye that ye have no strength to go on now without rest. I’ll send my laddies along the coast, both north and south, and they will make inquiries and bring back any tidings they can obtain; you will have news of the vessel more speedily in that way than any other.”

Still I insisted on putting on my own clothes and setting off; but when I attempted to get up, I found that I could scarcely walk across the room, much less could I hope to trudge over the links, and rough rocks and sand which lined the shore along which I wished to proceed. I was obliged, therefore, to consent to go to bed, and to try and sleep. At first I thought that would be impossible, but my old sailor habits triumphed over the anxiety I felt, and the rest I so much needed came to me.

In less than four hours I awoke. I found myself alone; so I sprang up and put on my clothes, resolved that nothing should stop me from proceeding on my journey. I felt far stronger than I could have expected.

“Stay till my laddies come in, and hear what account they have to give ye,” said the kind-hearted old fisherman, making me sit down once more in the porch in front of his cottage.

The roof was the bow of a small boat, which made a good shelter from the sun, and the supporting-posts the jawbones of a whale which had been stranded on the shore.

That I might have something to distract my mind he gave me a stick that I might fashion it to support my steps as I walked along. When I had cut it to the required length I sprang up, saying I would go on some little way, at all events, begging his son to follow me; when we saw the young man approaching the cottage from the north, I ran forward to meet him.

“Have you heard anything of the smack?” I inquired, in breathless haste.

“No; not a sign of her. There was a big ship lost with all hands—not a soul escaped—in the early part of the night; but often when the big ship goes down the small one swims; ye ken that, mon,” was the answer.

Although he had been out for some hours, he insisted on accompanying me when he found that I had resolved on proceeding, till we should fall in with his brothers. The old man gave me his blessing, and the old wife and the rest of the family parted most kindly with me—they were all so much interested in the account I had given them of myself. As to receiving any remuneration, they would not hear of it.

We toiled on over the links; sometimes I thought that my knees would have given way under me. At last the old weather-beaten tower of Broughty Castle appeared in sight, the ancient guardian to the entrance of the Tay. “We’ll just sit down here till the ferry-boat is ready to cross,” said my companion, throwing himself on the grass bank under the crumbling walls. “Maybe my brother will be coming over just now, and he will tell us what he has learned.”

I suggested that the smack might have run up to Dundee, but he said that was not in the least likely. If she had come in there she would have brought up off Broughty itself. We made inquiries, before sitting down, of some fishermen who had been on the shore all the morning, and certainly no vessel, they said, answering the description of the smack had come in. At any other time my eye would have dwelt with pleasure on the scenery which is presented by the beautiful estuary of the Tay, but now I could only think of the object of my search. I was leaning back on the grass, hoping to recover strength to proceed, when my companion jumped up and ran down toward the water’s edge.

“What news, Sandy! what news do ye bring?”

“The vessel is safe,” was the answer. “Thank Heaven for its mercy!” I ejaculated; and springing up and running towards the young fisherman, “Tell me, lad, tell me, how is my wife!”

“The puir young leddy was taken very bad—very bad indeed, when she found that you had gone overboard, and all on board thought that she could not live. No one could give her any comfort, for no one thought you could have escaped. The rest on board, indeed, had soon to think of themselves. The vessel drove past the Inchcape Rock, and all heard the tolling of the bell, and believed that they were going to strike on it.

“While others were bemoaning their fate, and crying out for mercy, and expecting to be drowned, she sat up and seemed to have forgotten the cause of her own grief.

“‘Ah,’ she said with a smile, ‘what makes you miserable, gives me joy. You fear death. I look forward to it as a happiness, because I shall soon be joined to him who has been torn from me.’

“Ay, sir, the bell tolled louder and louder, and each toll that it gave made her heart beat quicker with joy, while it drove the life-blood away from the hearts of those who feared death as the greatest of evils. On drifted the vessel—darkness was around them—still that solemn bell kept tolling and tolling, but yet the expected shock was not felt. The bell tolled on, but the sounds grew fainter and fainter, and the master told them that they had no longer cause to fear, and might thank Heaven for their preservation, for that he knew where they were, and could take them into a port in safety. Well, but of your wife, I know that you will want to hear.”

“Yes! yes!” I exclaimed, “tell me how is she—where is she!” We wore all the time the young fisherman was speaking hurrying down towards the ferry-boat.

“That is just what I was about to tell ye,” he answered, with the deliberate way in which the inhabitants of that part of Scotland of his rank generally speak. “The young leddy, they told me, no sooner heard that the vessel was in safety, than she gave way to a sorrow which it was pitiful to witness. They tried to comfort her, but she was not to be comforted. She had gone off into a sort of trance when the vessel brought up this morning under Saint Ann’s Head.

“The master was thinking about putting to sea when I got on board. He and all the people were very much surprised to hear that you had escaped; but the difficulty seemed to be to break the news to your wife. The master promised not to sail till you appeared, and I promised to come and hurry you on.”

“Thank ye, thank ye, my kind friend!” I exclaimed, shaking him by the hand. “But my wife—tell me about my wife. How did she bear the sudden reaction?”

“It did her all the good in the world,” he answered cheerfully. “The old master, who is a canny man, went down into the cabin and began to talk of the wonderful things which had occurred to his knowledge at sea—how people had been kept alive floating on a spar for a couple of days, and how others had swam a dozen miles or more, or been washed from the deck of one vessel right aboard another, and fallen overboard, and been picked up floating on a grating, or an oar, by a vessel coming up astern hours afterwards.

“Suddenly the young lady lifted herself up, showing, that though she had appeared to be asleep, she had been listening to every word that had been said.

“‘Captain,’ said she, ‘in mercy tell me whether you believe that my husband’s life has been preserved by any of the means you speak of. Do not deceive me. Do not keep me in doubt.’

“‘Not for all the world would I deceive you, young leddy,’ said the master; ‘I will tell you what I believe to be the truth, that your husband got floated on shore last night, and that he is not a great way off, to prove to you that what I say is true.’

“Oh, did not she cry out with joy and thankfulness, and then the old master told me what he had said, and charged me to come on here as fast as I could to bring you on board.”

My two young friends insisted on accompanying me all the way back to the vessel, about three miles along the southern shores of the Firth, and thankful indeed was I for their support. It showed me how an old man must feel when his strength is failing him, and he has a long journey to perform. It taught me always to have more compassion for advancing age than I had before been inclined to feel.

I cannot describe the unspeakable joy it was to my wife and me to meet each other again, after the dreadful anxiety we had both of us experienced, and the dangers we had gone through. I was unwilling to trust her again on the treacherous ocean, even for the short passage round to Leith; but she entreated me not to be so mistrustful of Providence, who had been so merciful to us, and urged me to continue the voyage. I felt at the time that she was right, and that, instead of considering myself as under a curse, I ought to acknowledge that each time I had been shipwrecked, I had received a special mark of God’s favour, for my life had been preserved, while so many others of my fellow-creatures had lost theirs. Instead, therefore, of taking her on shore, and going on to Saint Andrews, as I had at first proposed doing, I agreed to remain on board the smack. I could not sufficiently thank the two young fishermen for the labour and trouble they had taken for my sake. They laughed when I talked about it.

“Hoot! it’s just nothing. We ken by your looks that you would do the same for us, so say no more about it, mon,” was the answer they both gave. I hope they were right in the favourable opinion they had formed of me.

In the afternoon, the weather having completely moderated, we sailed. What a contrast did the next night afford to the previous one! The stars came out, and the moon shone forth, playing brightly on the tranquil waters, just rippled over with a light breeze, which sent us along smoothly on our course. Margaret sat on the deck with me, watching the scene with a delighted eye and thankful heart. Our conversation was far too solemn for repetition.

“Oh, Willand, never let us again doubt God’s mercy and kindness towards us. At this hour last night how stormy and dark was the ocean; how full of anguish and misery were our hearts; how utterly hopeless did everything appear; not a gleam burst forth to give us consolation! We were violently torn from each other, it seemed, never to be united again on earth, neither of us knowing what had become of the other; and now see how the face of nature smiles! Once more we are united, and all our prospects appear bright and happy.”

Thus we talked on, and, thankful for the present, did not dream that storms of adversity might yet be in store for us, yet not sent without a gracious and merciful object to try and improve our hearts.

We reached Leith in safety, and as neither of us had before been in Edinburgh, we spent some days there to view that beautiful and interesting city. Such it was even in those days; but though it has lost somewhat in picturesque effect, it has since then been greatly improved.

It may seem strange that a sailor should be afraid of trusting himself at sea; but reason as I might, I could not bring myself to take my wife to the south by water. I therefore prepared to convey her to London by coach, and from thence to Portsmouth. The expense was very great; but I promised her that I would toil hard in whatever occupation I undertook to make it up, and at last she acceded to my wishes. We calculated that we should be about a week or ten days getting to London, for those were times when even the coaches on the great northern road went very leisurely along, and it was not for some time after that they were superseded by the fast London and Edinburgh mail. Times have indeed changed with all of us.

We left Edinburgh one morning at daybreak, and proceeded south to Berwick, where we stopped. Our next stage was York. There we rested the greater part of the day, for my wife seemed very much fatigued, and when I saw how fine the weather continued, I began to repent that I had not gone, as she wished, by sea. I had placed her inside, while I went on the top of the coach. I observed that our fat old coachman, who, although it was summer weather, was muffled up in a greatcoat, with a red comforter up to his eyes, whenever we stopped to change horses went into the bar of the roadside inn and took a pretty stiff glass of brandy and water to keep out the damp, as he told his passengers. At last four rather frisky horses were brought out and harnessed to the coach.

“Steady now, Mr Currycomb; we have some ugly hills to go up and down,” remarked one of the passengers who had watched his drinking proceedings with some little anxiety.

“Oh, never fear me, sir,” answered the old man, in a thick, husky voice. “I’ve driven this road, man and boy, for the last fifty years, and I should think I know how to take a coach along it without anybody telling me how to do it, do you see. If I thinks it’s best to trot down a hill, why I’ll do it, and no one shall tell me not. That’s what I’ve got to say.”

I have frequently met the same sort of obstinate characters among seamen, the very men who manage to get their ships cast away; but I fancied that they were not to be found among those who live among the civilising influences of the shore.

For some time we went on pretty well, though now and then the overloaded coach going down a hill rocked to and fro pretty violently. When we stopped the next time, a gentleman who had gone in the inside, because there was no place on the outside, said that he had never been accustomed to travel inside, and that it made him very ill, and asked if any gentleman would be willing to change places with him, and that, as he had already paid his fare, it would not put anybody who would so oblige him to further cost.

I at once said, that as my wife was inside, I should be very happy to be the means of accommodating him, so he mounted on the top of the coach, and I joined Margaret inside. Away we went once more rattling along over the road. The gentleman, I found, whose seat I had got had no idea that the coachman was the worse for liquor, but fancied that the rocking of the coach, which I had observed so palpably from the outside, was only the usual motion, and that he would be free from it outside. Suddenly I felt that we were going on much faster than usual.

“What is the matter?” exclaimed Margaret, as clouds of dust arose on each hand, and we saw people starting aside and looking anxiously after us as we were whirled along. “Oh, the horses have run away!”

We heard the passengers hallooing and shouting to the coachman to stop his horses, to pull up; but he either did not heed them or could not obey them. On we dashed at a furious rate. We saw by the appearance of some small, red-brick houses, scattered here and there, that we were approaching a town. I placed myself by Margaret’s side, and held her tightly down.

On we whirled. Round went the huge vehicle with a swing. There was a terrific crash. We felt the coach dragged some little way; groans and shrieks and cries arose around us. The coach stopped. The traces had been cut, and the horses galloped off. I looked with intense anxiety at my wife’s countenance. She was pale, but she assured me that she was unhurt. I had held her firmly, so as to break the shock when the coach went over.

People came to help us out, and my wife was conducted into a house close at hand, to which the owner invited us. But dreadful indeed was the scene which met my eyes as I glanced round over the wreck of the coach. The gentleman who had just changed places with me was lying dead on the pavement, with three or four other passengers; the old coachman lay a corpse, mangled horribly by the heels of the horses, over which he had been thrown, and not one of the passengers had escaped some severe injury; while the poor guard had his arm broken, and his horn doubled up under him.

I went into the house, and sat down. “Wife,” said I, “you are right; God watches over us at sea as well as on land, and accidents may occur on shore as well as on the ocean. Why He has thought fit to preserve us, while others have been allowed to perish, I know not; I can only take the cup of blessing and be thankful. I will never again attempt to escape out of His hand by endeavouring to avoid a possible danger.”

The gentleman and his wife were very much interested in the account Margaret and I gave of ourselves, and invited us to remain a whole day with them, that she might recover from her fatigue. It is one of the pleasantest things in life to thus receive unexpected kindness from strangers, who can have no thought or hope of recompense. It is satisfactory at the time, and makes one think better of the common human nature which unites us to our fellow-beings. I told our new friend of all the shipwrecks I had suffered.

“Ah! there are as many on shore, depend upon it, as on the ocean,” he answered. “On shore they are the worst, because they occur generally through our own folly and ignorance and vice. How many a young man has started fairly in life, and yet before many years have passed he has made a complete shipwreck of all the bright promises on which his friends trusted, with himself alone to blame, because he refused to consult or to be guided by the only sure chart and compass which could guide him aright! For what purpose did the wise King of Israel—the wisest of the kings of the earth—write his proverbs, do you think? Not for his own satisfaction or amusement, but because he felt it a sacred duty he owed to posterity to give the result of his own meditations, of his observations, and of his own bitter experience. Yet how few men, comparatively, go to that book of books for counsel, for guidance, and direction? Where can be found more ample directions for getting on in life, as the phrase is, for making money, for becoming great in this world even, than the Book of Solomon affords?”

I agreed with my kind and thoughtful host, and promised to study that work more than I had ever before done. I ought to have said that I would begin and study it—for, alas! how completely had I before neglected it.

After this extraordinary incident, I believe that had I been near a port, I should have again embarked for London; but as it was, we agreed to continue our journey by land. We reached London in safety.

We did not stay there long. The bustle and noise, and seeming confusion, after the complete quiet of our Shetland life, was so wearying, that, having seen some of the chief lions of that great city, we were glad to set off by the coach for Portsmouth.

Aunt Bretta was delighted to receive us, and my jovial, kind-hearted uncle welcomed us most cordially. I thought Aunt Bretta would never have ceased asking questions about dear old Shetland. A stranger would have supposed from her expressions about it, that there did not exist a more delightful spot on earth.

Margaret, however, was never weary of replying to all the inquiries made. I never saw two people suit each other so well as my aunt and wife,—the one so hearty, full of life and spirits, and brimming over with the milk of human kindness,—the other so tranquil, so sensible, and sweet-tempered.

My uncle and I also got on capitally together. I admired his jovial, frank, hearty, and kind disposition, his thorough uprightness and hatred of deceit, while he found in me enough good qualities to like, and was pleased because I admired him and was able to talk with him frankly and openly on all subjects. That is, I believe, the great secret of friendship. Mutual esteem and perfect confidence is the only foundation on which it can be built up and made perfect. Both parties to the bond must feel that they appreciate each other’s motives and objects, and that every allowance will be made for what they say, and the best possible construction put on their words. When two people meet between whom such qualifications exist, their friendship is lasting.

My uncle told me, that as he knew I should not wish to be idle, he had obtained a situation for me, which he thought I should like, as suitable to my former habits.

“It is in a private dockyard, where, if you are steady and attentive you will, I am certain, obtain a still more lucrative employment,” he remarked; “had it been war time I should have tried to obtain an appointment in the Royal Dockyard, because you would then have had protection from the pressgang; but now you need have no fear of that.”

Two days after that, war again broke out with France! It was arranged to our mutual satisfaction that Margaret and I should permanently take up our abode with our relatives. They had a couple of spare rooms, which they had at times let to lodgers, so that we in no way incommoded them.

Never was there a more happy family party. We were not over-refined; we did not set up for people of that sort, it must be remembered, or call ourselves gentlemen and ladies. Nor did our guests. They were, however, always well-behaved, civil people, who would on no account have committed any real solecism in good manners.

Old Jerry Vincent used to look in, as before, very frequently, with a budget of his funny stories, to which other neighbours gladly came to listen. There was invariably much laughter, and no small amount of tea and tobacco consumed, not to speak occasionally of some more potent compound; but my uncle took good care that none of his guests should pass the limits of sobriety, though he had at times some little difficulty in keeping old Jerry in order. I should remark that old Jerry was an exception to the general character of our guests, who were as a rule of a much higher rank in the social scale. I remember especially one of the old man’s stories which is worth recording.

“You must know, mates,” said he, “once upon a time I belonged to a brig of war on the Newfoundland station. It isn’t just the place, in my opinion, that a man would wish to spend his life in. Too much frost and fog, and wind and rain, to be pleasant. But bad as it was, I thought there was a worse place to be in, and that was aboard my own ship. We never know when we are well off. I don’t think I was right, do ye see; but rather, I am very well convinced, that I was a fool. Young men sometimes don’t find that out till it’s too late. Howsomedever, I found another fool as big as myself, which is never very difficult when you look for him, and he and I agreed to run from the ship. Now, before I go on with my story, I’ll just ask one or two of you young men, have any of you ever seen the biggest fool in the world? Well, I thought not; you can’t say that you have, and, what’s more, you never will. If you think that you have got hold of him, you may be sure that you’ll fall in with a bigger before long somewhere else. That is my philosophy, and I am not far wrong, depend on it.

“Well, where was I? Oh, I know. My mate’s name—t’other fool, I mean—was Abraham Coxe. The ship had put into Saint John’s, Newfoundland. He and I belonged to the same boat’s crew. Soon after we got there we were sent on shore to water. After some time, as the rest of our party were rolling the casks down to the beach, we managed to slip away, and made a run of it for a mile or more, till we could stow ourselves snug inside the walls of an old cottage. As soon as it was dark we came out, and set off as hard as we could go right into the country. We thought some one was following us, but we were wrong. The officers knew better than we did what sort of a place we had got into, and calculated that we shouldn’t be long before wishing ourselves back again.

“At night we reached a cottage, where the good people treated us kindly, for, do ye see, we spun them a long yarn, which hadn’t a word of truth in it, about our being sent away up there to look after a shipmate who had lost his senses. So, after we had eaten and drunken and taken a good snooze, we set off again towards the mountains, for we had a notion that we should find our way somehow or other into America. We expected to fall in with another village, but we were mistaken, and by dinner-time we began to feel very peckish. There was no use standing still, so we walked on and on till we got further up among the mountains, and as the sun was hid by clouds, and there was no wind, we very soon lost our way.

“Now, do ye see, to lose your way with a full stomach is not altogether pleasant, but to lose it on an empty one, and not to know where a dinner is to be found, is worse any day than to get three dozen. That’s got quickly over, and you know the worst. We had no baccy neither, and the air up there sharpened our teeth till we were ready to bite our tongues out.

“‘Well, mate,’ says I to Abraham Coxe, ‘I wish that I were safe aboard again. I don’t by no manner of means like these short commons.’

“‘Wait a bit till we have been knocking about for two or three days more, and then cry out, my bo’,’ says he, for he was a regular Job’s comforter, that he was.

“Well, evening was coming on, and as we couldn’t find our way out of the mountains, nor get any food either, we thought that we might as well look out for a warm berth to sleep in at night. At last we saw a small hole in a rock, which looked like the mouth of a cave.

“‘There will be a comfortable bed-place inside that place, mate,’ says I, as I poked my head into the hole, while Abraham stood outside. It was almost dark inside, but still there was light enough to make out that, there was a good big place further in. I was going along on my hands and knees, when what should I see but several animals like biggish pigs crawling about. I was wondering what they were, when I heard Abraham Coxe sing out.

“‘Quick, Jerry, quick, get out of the cave, for there is a great big bear coming along the valley, and she’s close aboard of us!’

“It was all very well for Coxe to say, get out of the cave; but that was more than I could do in a hurry without turning round, when I might have had all the young bears attacking my rump, saving your presence, ladies. Coxe also didn’t stop to help me, but scampered off as hard as his legs could carry him. I was going to make the best of my way after him, when I saw a big white bear not three fathoms off, evidently steering for the very place itself.

“There was no use trying to get out, for to a certainty the brute would have grappled me in a moment; so I drew back, thinking to remain concealed. Just then I remembered the beasts I had seen inside, and I guessed that they were the bear’s cubs, and that I had taken possession of her abode. It was not a pleasant idea, certainly, but there was no help for it. In another minute the great big she-bear came snuffing up to the hole where I lay. I thought that it was all up with me, and expected every moment to be made into a supper for the bear and her cubs. The little beasts were all the time licking my heels just to have a taste, I thought, of what was to come. The bear began to growl, I fancied because she found me inside; but I believe it was just her way of talking to her cubs. Thinks I to myself, I’ll have a fight for it; so I doubled my fists, intending to give her a good lick on the eye before she ate me, when, just as I thought that she was going to make a grab at me, she slewed round and began to back into the cave stern foremost.

“‘Ho! ho!’ says I to myself, ‘if you goes to make a stern-board, old gal, I’ll rake you before you shows your broadside to me again;’ so on that I whips out my long knife, which I had tucked away in my belt, with a lanyard round my neck, and drove it with all my force right into her. The more she backed, and the louder she growled, the harder and faster I drove in the knife. Still she came backing and backing, and I didn’t like the prospect at all. I thought to myself, ‘If she drives me up against the end of the cave, she’ll squeeze all the breath out of my body, to a certainty.’

“At last, however, when she got to the narrowest part of the hole, she sank down from loss of blood. I thought she would perhaps begin to move on again, but she didn’t. After she had given a few growls, which grew fainter and fainter, I made sure she was dead.

“As I was pretty nigh famished, thinks I to myself, ‘I’ll have some steaks out of you, old gal, at all events;’ so I cut three or four fine steaks out of her rump (saving your pardon, Mrs Kelson, and ladies all), and precious juicy and nice to look at they were; but how to dress them was the job. At first I thought that I should have to eat them raw, as I had often done salt beef; but on hunting about on a higher part of the cave, I found a quantity of dry sticks and leaves which had served the bears for a bed, I suppose. Piling up some of them, I struck a light, and made a fire to dress the steaks, while the young cubs kept rubbing against me, and couldn’t make out whether I was their mother or their daddy I believe. I gave them each a bit of steak, which they seemed to think not bad sucking.

“You see I was inside the cave, though there was just room to look out over the body of the dead bear, but scarcely space enough for me to have squeezed myself out if I had wished it. I didn’t just then wish to go out, for I was very comfortable; I had a dry roof over my head, and company too, and plenty to eat; only I should have liked a glass of grog to wash down the food.

“Well, as I was eating the bear’s steak, I thought to myself, ‘It would have been better for Abraham Coxe if he had stuck to his old shipmate instead of running away at sight of danger.’

“I had just finished supper, and was thinking of turning in for the night, when I heard a loud growl at the mouth of the cave. I made sure that it was the she-bear come to life again, for I was getting drowsy, and I began to think what she would say to me for having stolen her steaks. However, at last I got up and looked out, and there I saw a great big he-bear walking about in front of the cave, and I have no doubt scolding his wife for not getting out of his way to let him in. At last he began to back astern, but he couldn’t make her move.

“‘Growl away, my bo’,’ says I. ‘If you keep on at that game, I’ll make steaks of you before long.’

“I sat as quiet as possible, picking my teeth with the point of my knife, for the steaks were rather tough, you may guess. The little bears, playful like, were running about round me, while the old bear was grumbling away outside, thinking maybe that his wife had taken a drop too much, and couldn’t get up. All of a sudden I heard a great hullabaloo, and several shots were fired, and down came the old bear as dead as a door nail in front of the cave.

“Among other voices, I recognised that of Abraham Coxe. ‘My poor mate is killed, and eaten by the bears,’ says he; ‘but I may as well have his knife, and his baccy-box and buttons, if they ain’t eaten too.’

“‘No, I ain’t eaten nor dead either, you cowardly rascal, and I hope a better man nor you may have my traps when I do go,’ I sings out, for I was in a towering rage at being deserted.

“At first the people were going to run away, thinking it was my ghost that was speaking; but when I sang out again, and told them that I was a living man, some of them took courage, and came and dragged the two old bears out of the way. At last I crawled out, followed by the young cubs, to the great astonishment of all who saw us. To make a long story short, this was the way how the people had come to my rescue. When Coxe ran away, not knowing where he went, he ran right into the village, which was all the time close to us. When the villagers heard what had happened, they all came out to have a shot at the bears, not expecting to find me alive. They seemed very glad I had escaped, and carried me back in triumph to the village. As it was through our means they got two bears and a number of cubs, they treated us very kindly, and pressed us to stay with them. When, however, we found that we should never reach America by going over the mountains, and as we had no fancy to spend a winter in this outlandish sort of a place, seeing that the summer wasn’t very pleasant, we judged it best to go back to our ship and give ourselves up. We got three dozen a-piece, which I can only say we richly deserved, and neither of us ever attempted to desert again. ‘Let well alone,’ I used to say. ‘If I do get away, I shall only find myself before long on board another ship, and worse off than before, probably.’”

Jerry’s advice was very sound. Many a man deserts to obtain an uncertain good, and finds, when too late, that he has secured a certain ill.

Those truly were pleasant evenings at our quiet little house. I wish that I could recollect all old Jerry’s stories I may perhaps call to mind a few more another day, for I think that they are well worthy of repetition.

Chapter Ten.

Happiness at home—War breaks out again—Pressgangs abroad—Mysterious appearance of Charley Iffley—His unaccountable conduct—Anecdotes about smugglers—The old couple and their lost son—Sea-yarns.

No happiness could be more complete than ours, and I saw no reason why it should not be permanent. Happy it undoubtedly is that we do not see the dark clouds of adversity gathering in the horizon, yet it would be wiser in men if they would still recollect that, however bright the sky and fine the weather, storms may arise, and thick mists may overshadow them—perhaps sent as punishments, perhaps in mercy to try and purify them. I was actively engaged all day in the duties of my office, and in the evening, when I returned home, I was welcomed by the smiles of my wife, and the cordial kindness of Aunt Bretta. I desired no change—I should have been content to live the same sort of life to the end of my days. I had a few little rubs and annoyances to contend with in my employment, but I did not allow them to vex me, and went on steadily doing my duty, neither turning to the right hand nor to the left.

War with France had again broken out, and England was making every effort to renew the struggle with the numerous foes which her prosperity and greatness had won for her. A difficulty existed then, as now, in manning the navy, and the pressgangs were always hard at work endeavouring to secure by force or stratagem the necessary crew for the ships.

I knew that I was not exempt from the risk of being taken, but as I dressed in shore-going clothes, and as I was not likely to meet any of my old shipmates or other people who knew me to have been a seaman, I had little fear on the subject. Had I been single and without the ties of home, I would gladly have once more gone afloat to serve my country; but how could I be expected to tear myself from all I loved on earth to do duty before the mast among rough and uneducated men, subject to all the rigours of the naval discipline of those days? I talked the subject over with my uncle.

“If the time comes when every man who can handle a rope is wanted, I shall be the first to say ‘Go,’” said he. “Till then, my boy, stay at home, do your duty, and look after your wife.”

I was too glad to follow his advice. There was no grass growing in the streets of Portsmouth in those days. The place swarmed with seamen and officers; troops were marching in and out; carriages-and-four were dashing down from London; bands were playing; the hotels swarmed with visitors come to see their friends off; ships were being commissioned and fitted out with unwonted rapidity; and all was life, activity, and energy. I now and then, on my way home, took a walk up High Street, for the amusement of observing the bustling, laughing, talking, busy throng.

One evening, as I turned to go back, my eye fell on the countenance of a man whose features I felt sure I knew. In an instant I recollected that they were those of Charles Iffley. Forgetting all I had heard to his disparagement, I was going to follow him, when he turned into a cross street among a crowd who were looking on at some itinerant tumblers, and I lost sight of him. I felt very sorry, for I should have been glad to have shaken him again by the hand and invited him to our house. My wife and aunt used constantly to walk out a little way on the common to meet me.

Two days after that, when they met me, they told me that, in the morning, as they were returning home, they had suddenly encountered Charles Iffley. He knew them at once, but did not speak. He stopped for an instant, stared hard at them, and then moved on. When, however, they reached our house door, they observed that he had followed them at a distance and remarked where they had gone in. Just as they had finished their account, the very person we were speaking of appeared at the further end of the road coming towards us. Directly, however, he saw us, he stopped short and looked at me with an astonished and inquiring gaze. He remained long enough, apparently, to ascertain positively who it was. At first he evidently was in doubt. He had heard of my death, and believed that I was dead, I concluded, and that when he saw me alive, and, as he might have suspected, married to the very woman who had refused to become his wife, he at first could not trust his senses.

My impulse was immediately to run forward to meet him, but my wife pressed my arm so tightly that I could not leave her.

“No, no, do not go,” she whispered. “I do not like his look. He means us mischief.” She must have felt very strongly, I knew, before she could have given way to such an expression. Of course, I yielded to her wish, though it went much against my feelings to turn away from my old associate, ill as I had too much reason to think of him. I could not help agreeing with my wife, as I watched him, that I did not like his look. There was something very evil in his expression as he watched us proceeding towards our home, and I could no longer have any doubt that he recognised me. I never before had seen his countenance wear so malignant an expression, and I feared, not without reason, that even at that moment he was plotting to do us some mischief. A picture I had once seen was forcibly recalled to my memory. It represented Satan watching our first parents in Paradise, and when he is envying them the happiness he can never enjoy, he is considering how he may the most effectually destroy it.

When we got home, we talked the matter over. I did not express my own suspicions to my wife, as they could not fail to agitate her, but I endeavoured rather to make light of it, and to appear as if I hoped, should Charles Iffley feel any desire of revenge, that he would be unable to effect it. I felt regret, also, that I had not hurried after Iffley. Whatever were his feelings, I thought that I might perhaps have turned his heart to better thoughts by talking of bygone days and of our early friendship. “Well, it may not yet be too late,” I thought to myself; “I will seek him out and try to persuade him to discard those feelings of jealousy and envy which are now influencing him.” When, however, I mentioned my intentions to Uncle Kelson, he rather laughed at my notion.

“An idle, conceited young puppy. What business has he to interfere with you or yours?” he exclaimed. “Because a girl, of whom he is utterly unworthy, does not choose to have anything to say to him, is he to set himself up and to look daggers at any man she may happen to marry? Let him alone. Let him go his own gait, as your Aunt Bretta would say. He’ll find a rope long enough to hang himself, depend on it.”

My uncle thought he was giving good advice, but even at the time I felt that better is given elsewhere. “Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.” I felt that if I could have met with Iffley, I might have heaped coals of fire on his head. I might have softened his heart, just as the contents of a pot are melted by piling up coals, not only around it, but on the very head or top of it. I did not do what I felt and knew was right, and the result of my neglect will be seen.

Aunt Bretta was more indignant than any of us with Iffley. “If he does come to the door, in my opinion, he ought to be turned away!” she exclaimed. “The idea of a person whom I knew as a little boy, glad to receive a slice of gingerbread, giving himself such airs! I have no notion of it.” This was very severe for Aunt Bretta, whose heart was kindness itself.

On making inquiries of the servant, she discovered that a man exactly answering his description had, while they were out, knocked at the door and asked all sorts of questions.

“She could not mind what exactly,” she said. “They were about Mr Wetherholm. Where he had come from! When he had got married? What he was doing? And all sorts of such like things.” After I had heard this account of the servant girl, I could not help feeling somewhat suspicious of Iffley’s object. The mere asking them was very natural, and had he come frankly forward to meet us, I should not have entertained any ill thoughts of him; but now, in spite of all my resolution, I could not help dreading that he contemplated doing me some mischief or other. Still I did my best to get rid of such thoughts of an old friend, for they were not pleasant.

When the evening came, I forgot all about the matter. Old Jerry Vincent looked in, and several other friends, among them two former shipmates of Uncle Kelson’s, and anecdotes and stories innumerable were told. We got on the subject of smuggling. In those days it was certainly not looked on in its proper light, and a smuggler, if he was bold and daring, was considered a very fine fellow. Most of our guests were Hampshire or Isle of Wight men, and had been personally acquainted with many of the smugglers in their day, and might, perhaps, not have refused to purchase any of the goods they had to offer.

“Some of you may have known Jim Dore?” began Jerry.

One or two nodded.

“I thought so,” said Jerry. “Well, then, when he began the work he was very young, and there wasn’t a bolder or more daring hand in the trade. We were boys together, and a braver fellow or better seaman never stepped. He was a Yarmouth man, born and bred, just inside the Needles there. There was a large family of them. He wasn’t always as prudent as he might be, and one day he and the cutter he was in was taken with three hundred tubs on board. Of course he was sent to serve his Majesty. When he found that there was no help for it, he vowed that he would do his duty like a man, and he kept his word.

“He was sent aboard a brig of war employed in looking after smugglers, and though before she had never taken one, now scarcely a month passed that through his means she did not make a prize.

“Once upon a time the brig attacked a large armed smuggler, the crew of which had vowed that they never would be taken alive. There was a desperate fight for more than three hours, and in the end the smugglers kept their word, for they went down with colours flying, under the guns of the brig which was just about to board them. On this occasion, as on every other, Dore behaved so bravely that the captain put him on the quarter-deck, and if he had chosen to follow it, there was the road open to him to become an admiral. But you know there are people who cannot give up habits, so to speak, born and bred with them, as one may say.

“Well, Dore’s time of servitude was up for the smuggling affair, and soon after that the brig put into Portsmouth harbour. The next day Dore got leave to go and see his friends, so he hired a wherry, and got ready for a start for Yarmouth. Just as he was shoving off, I saw him and asked him for a cast down there, as I had some friends in those days in the same place. Now, though he was an officer with a cocked hat on his head, and a sword by his side, I knew that he was in no way proud, at all events. He told me to jump into the boat, by all means. On our way down I asked him if he was going to be long away from his ship.

“‘Long away, do you say?’ he answered, in an indignant tone. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, Vincent, it will be long, I’m thinking, before I go back again. I’ve been made an officer of, it’s true, but I haven’t been treated as one or looked on as one, because I wasn’t born a gentleman, and slavery in a cocked hat I, for one, will not bear.’

“In that way he talked till we got pretty nearly down to Yarmouth. At last he worked himself up into a regular rage, for he was a passionate man, do you see.

“‘Give us a knife, some one of you,’ he sang out.

“I handed him mine. When he got it, he began cutting off the buttons from his coat. Then he unbuckled his sword, and took off his hat. He jumped up, and holding all the things together, as it were in a lump, he hove them away into the sea as far from him as he could, uttering at the same time a loud and deep curse. ‘There goes the last link of the chain that binds me to slavery!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now, my lads, I’m once more Jim Dore, the bold smuggler.’

“The men in the boat thought what he had done was very fine, and so did I in those days, and so we all cheered him over and over again. When he landed at Yarmouth, every one turned out to welcome him as if he had been an admiral just come home after a great victory; and certainly the people did make much of him. Those Yarmouth men are great smugglers, there’s no doubt about it. I don’t think, however, myself, as I did in those days. Dore was a brave man, and it’s a great pity he had not been taught better, and he might have been an ornament to the service he deserted.

“When his leave was up, and he did not return, an officer with a boat’s crew was sent to look for him. He got notice of their coming, and got stowed out of the way, for there were plenty of people to help him. He had to keep in hiding for a long time, and often, I dare say, he wished himself back aboard the brig. When the war was over he took to smuggling again, and he soon got command of a large cutter. At last he and some other Yarmouth men went away in her, and from that day to this have never been heard of. It is supposed that the cutter was run down or foundered in a tremendous gale of wind, which sprung up soon after she was last seen.”

One of our friends who came from Poole in Dorsetshire, told us a very good story, when Jerry Vincent and one or two others sang out in chorus, “Howe! howe! howe!”

I asked what they meant.

“That is what we always say to a Poole man,” answered Jerry. “Did you never hear tell of the Poole man and the owl?”

I told him that I never had, and asked him for the story.

“Well, you must know that once upon a time there was a homeward-bound Poole man just coming up Channel, and not far off the land, when, the night being somewhat dark, do ye see, an old owl flew by ‘Howe! howe! howe!’ cried the owl.

“The master, who had been dozing aft, thinking all the time, exactly as many another man does, that he was wide awake, just heard the sound as he roused up, and fancied that another skipper was hailing him.

“‘From Newfoundland!’ he sang out, rubbing his eyes, and dreaming that he saw the strange ship abeam.

“‘Howe! howe! howe!’ hooted the owl again.

“‘With fish,’ answered the Poole man.

“‘Howe! howe! howe!’ once more cried the old owl, as he was flying off.

“‘Over Poole bar with the next tide, please the pigs,’ sang out the skipper at the top of his voice, for fear those in the other craft wouldn’t otherwise hear him. Nothing would ever persuade him that he hadn’t been talking all the time with the skipper of some outward-bound craft.

“That’s all very well, and it is not a bad story, and may be true, or it may not; but you Hampshire men are not all of you so very clever,” answered Mr Bexley, our Poole friend, who had himself been skipper of a merchantman. “Have none of you ever heard speak of Botley assizes, eh?”

I asked him what he meant.

“Why,” he answered, “you know Botley isn’t very far from Southampton. Once upon a time a party of young chaps belonging to Botley were returning from a merry-making of some sort, and as it happened, all of them but one were more than three sheets in the wind. For some reason or other, nothing would make this one touch a drop of liquor. As they were walking along they began to jeer him, and at last they declared that he had been guilty of a capital offence, because he had let the glass pass by, and they agreed that they would try him. Well, they came to a place near a wood, where there were a number of trees cut down, and there they all sat round, and the accused was placed in the middle. The most drunk of the party was chosen as judge, and the others were the counsel, some to accuse and the others to defend him.

“The poor fellow tried to get away, but his friends would not let him. He, of course, had nothing to say for himself, except that he did not choose to drink, and the upshot of his trial was that he was condemned to be hung.

“Unfortunately one of them had a rope with him, and without more ado they ran up the culprit to the nearest tree. To be sure, they did intend to put the rope round his waist, but they were too drunk to know exactly what they were about, and by mistake slipped it, Jack Ketch fashion, round his neck. Having done this wise trick, they all ran away, shrieking with laughter at the cleverness of their joke.

“They were very much surprised to find, the next morning, that the poor fellow was missing. At last they went out to look for him, and found him hanging where they had left him, but as dead as a church door.

“So, gentlemen, you see that the people in those parts are very clever chaps, and if you take them at their own value, there are none to be found like them in all the world. I have another story for you to prove this.

“One day a poor Jew fell into the Itchen.

“‘Oh, shave me! shave me! vil no one shave me?’ he sang out; but of all the people standing round there wasn’t one who would touch him with his fingers, because they looked on him as a dirty old Jew.

“At last they thought that though he was a Jew it was a shame to let him drown, so half-a-dozen or more of them ran off to get a rake to haul him out. One couldn’t find a rake, and another couldn’t find a rake; so, long before they came back, the poor Jew was drowned. That is the reason why we say, when a chap is a long time doing a thing that he ought to have done in a hurry, ‘He’s gone for a rake to haul out the Jew.’”

“Ay, ay, Mr Bexley, but you know what the Poole man did when his pig got his head through the bars of the gate?” exclaimed Jerry Vincent, with a good-natured laugh. “Why, you see, mates, when he found that he couldn’t haul it out, to save trouble he cut off the beast’s head. Some people in our parts would have sawed through the bars, but we don’t pretend to be wise, you know.

“I don’t mind telling a story against ourselves. Did any of you ever hear why the Downton people are called ‘Moonrakers’? They themselves don’t mind hearing the story. Once upon a time, some Downton men had sunk some tubs in a big pond, and they were hard at work all night raking them up. While they were still engaged, who should come by but a party of custom-house people.

“‘What are you doing there, men?’ they asked. ‘Some mischief, no doubt.’

“‘Oh, no! please, kind gentlemen, we are only trying to rake the moon out of this pond,’ answered the Downton men, quite in a simple voice. You see that the moon was at the time shining brightly down into the pond.

“‘Oh! is that all?’ said the custom-house people, thinking that they were a few simpletons escaped out of a madhouse. On went the custom-house people. After a little time they came back. The smugglers had just got out their last tub. Some clouds meantime had come over the moon. ‘Well, my men, have you got the moon at last?’ said the custom-house officer.

“‘Oh, yes! there’s little doubt about it, for it’s no longer there. If we haven’t got it, perhaps you can tell us who has.’

“This made the custom-house people feel sure that they were right in their conjectures; so on they went, little dreaming of the prize they had lost.”

We all laughed heartily at Jerry Vincent’s and Mr Bexley’s stories.

“I’ll tell you a story, for the truth of which I can vouch,” said Uncle Kelson. “The circumstance only lately happened. So, strange as it may seem, there is no doubt about it. You all have heard speak of Sir Harry Burrard Neale, who commands just now the King’s yacht, the Royal Charlotte. The boatswain of her is a friend of mine, and last summer he got me a cast down to Weymouth, where I wanted to go to see the widow of an old shipmate I had promised to look after. We were just clear of the Needles. There was a light breeze and a smooth sea, when we made out a small boat standing towards us, seemingly as if she had come out of Poole harbour or Swanage.

“‘She seems to me to be a fishing-boat, and as if she wanted to speak us, Sir Harry,’ said the first lieutenant, who had been spying at her through his glass.

“‘So I see,’ answered the captain. ‘There seem to be two people in her making signals. It will not delay us much, so heave the ship to, and let us learn what they want.’

“This was just like Sir Harry. Many a captain would have stood on and taken no notice of a poor fisherman’s boat, even had there been a dozen people waving in her. In a little time the boat came alongside, with a man and a woman in her, and they were certainly the rummest old couple you ever saw in your life.

“A midshipman hailed them, and asked them what they wanted. As well as we could make out, for they spoke very broad Scotch, they said that they wanted their son.

“‘Let them come aboard,’ said Sir Harry kindly, ‘and we will hear what they have to say.’

“With no little difficulty, after a good deal of pulling and hauling, we got the old couple upon deck, and led them aft to Sir Harry.

“‘For whom are you inquiring, my good people?’ asked the captain.

“‘Our bairn, sir—our ain bairn,’ answered the old lady. ‘For many a weary week have we been looking for him, and never have our eyes rested on his bonnie face since the black day, near five long years ago, when he was carried away from us. Ah! it was a sair day, sirs.’

“‘What is your son’s name, my good people?’ asked Sir Harry.

“‘David, sir—Davie Campbell. He was so called after his grandfather, who died in ’45, with mony other brave men,’ answered the old dame.

“‘We have a man of that name on board, sir,’ remarked the first lieutenant to the captain. ‘He is in the watch below. It will be strange if he should prove to be the man these poor souls are searching for.’

“‘Let him be called on deck, and we will see if they acknowledge him as their son,’ said Sir Harry. ‘There must be many hundred David Campbells in the world, I suspect, so do not raise their hopes too high by letting them know that at all events we know the name on board.’

“‘David Campbell! David Campbell!’ was passed along the decks, and in a minute a fine active young fellow came tumbling up from below.

“A mother’s eye was not to be deceived. She knew him in an instant, and toddled off as fast as her legs would carry her, followed by her husband, to meet him. ‘He is, he is my ain bairn! There’s none like him!’ she cried; and not caring a fig for the officers and men standing around,—before even he knew who she was,—she had him clasped in her arms, and was covering his cheeks with kisses, while the old father had got hold of his hand and was tagging away at it just as a man in a hurry does at a bell-rope.

“Now comes the extraordinary part of the story. Campbell had been rather a wildish sort of a chap, and getting into some scrape, had gone on board a tender, at Leith I think it was, and entered the navy. He could not write, and was ashamed to get any one to write for him, so his old father and mother did not know where he was, or whether he was alive or dead.

“At last their hearts grew weary at not hearing tidings of him, and they resolved to set out together to look out for their lost sheep; for you see they were decent people and well to do in the world, so they had money to bear the expense, which was not slight. They had very little information to guide them. All they knew was, that their son had gone on board one of the King’s ships. A mother’s deep love and a father’s affection was the only compass by which they could steer their course. That did not fail them. They went from port to port, and visited every ship in harbour, and asked every seaman they met about their son, but nothing could they hear of him. At last, that very morning, a waggon had brought them to Poole, and seeing a ship in the offing, which was no other than the Royal Charlotte, they had got a boatman to take them out to us.

“That, now, is what I call a providential circumstance; indeed, from all I have seen and learned since I came into the world, I am convinced that there is nothing happens in it by chance. The God of heaven orders all for the best in kindness to us. Sometimes, it is true, things do not occur exactly as we could wish, but that does not alter the rule; for if we could but see the end, we should discover that the very thing of which we most complain was in reality most for our good. Remember that, nephew, whenever you get into danger or difficulty; be sure that you do your duty, and all will come right at last. But I have not told you the end of my story.

“The Poole boatman was sent on shore, and the traps of the old couple were handed up on board. Like canny Scotch people, they had not let their property remain out of their sight, but had brought it with them. It was delightful to see their pleasure when Sir Harry invited them to go on to Weymouth, and to live on board as long as the ship remained there; and he gave orders to have a screen put up for their accommodation. That, too, was just like him. There is not another man in the service more considerate or kind to all below him. All, too, who know him love him; and his Majesty, I believe, trusts him more, and loves him more, than he does all his courtiers put together.

“Never have I seen a pair of old folks look more happy, as their son went about showing them round the ship, and when all the officers and crew spoke kindly to them as they passed.

“The king, too, when he came on board and heard the story, was very much interested, and sent for them to have a talk with them. They did not know who he was, but when they came out of the cabin they said that he was one of the kindest old gentlemen they had ever seen; that he had had a long crack with them all about bonnie Scotland and Scotch people; and that he had asked them a heap of questions about their adventures.

“You should have seen their look of surprise when they heard that it was his gracious Majesty himself. (Note. Admiral Sir Harry Burrard Neale was a great-uncle of the author, and the account is given as it was narrated to him many years ago.) They wanted to go back to fall down on their knees, and to ask his pardon for talking so freely with him, and it was not till we assured them that the king talked just in the same way with any of the crew, that we could quiet them and make them believe that all was right.

“At last, having assured themselves that their son was well and happy, they returned with contented hearts to Scotland, and many has been the long yarn they have spun, I doubt not, about King George and all the wonders they have seen on their travels.”

Every one was very much interested in my uncle’s story. A young man who was present, a friend of mine, belonging to a revenue cutter, observed, “We were talking of smugglers just now. There is no end to the dodges they are up to.

“Not long ago, soon after I joined the Lively, it had come on to blow pretty fresh, and we had had a dirty night of it, when just as morning broke we made out a cutter standing in for the land to the eastward of Weymouth, and about two miles from us. The wind was from the north-west, and it had kicked up a nasty sea, running pretty high, as it well knows how to do in that part of the Channel.

“Our old mate, Mr Futlock, had the morning watch. It was never his brightest time, for though he did not actually get tipsy, the reaction following the four or five pretty stiff glasses of grog which he drank at night, generally at this time took place. I was in his watch.

“‘Youngster,’ said he to me, ‘hand me the glass, and let us see if we can make out what that fellow is.’

“I brought him the glass, which was kept hung up in beckets within the companion-hatch. I had got my sea-legs aboard pretty well, but I confess that I felt very queer that morning in certain regions, ranging from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, and I doubt not looked very yellow in the cheeks, with every instant an irresistible drawing down of the mouth, and that worst of signs, a most unyoungsterlike disinclination to eat.

“Mr Futlock took the glass, and with his lack-lustre eye had a long look at the cutter, which was bobbing away into the seas, while she kept her course on a wind as if in no manner of a hurry.

“‘She is honest, I believe,’ he observed, with a wise nod. ‘Probably a Poole or Exmouth trader; but we must overhaul her notwithstanding. Shake a reef out of the mainsail, my lads.’

“This was quickly done, and the sail hoisted up. ‘Now, keep her away a couple of points more, and we shall about fetch her.’

“Our mate’s orders being executed, away we went tearing through the foaming, hissing water, now looking, in the morning’s pale light, of a dark, melancholy hue. The stranger continued on as steady as before.

“‘Oh, there’s no use in the world giving ourselves the trouble of boarding her,’ muttered Mr Futlock; and he was just going to order the cutter to be kept on a wind, when we saw the stranger haul up his foresail, and let fly his jib sheets, evidently intending to wait our coming.

“‘What cutter is that?’ shouted old Futlock.

“‘The Polly of London, bound for Weymouth,’ answered a man, who stood at the taffrail, through a speaking-trumpet. ‘We hove-to, sir, that we might tell you we have just run over a large number of tubs away there to the southward.’

“‘Thank you, thank you,’ shouted Mr Futlock in return, as we ran by and were soon out of speaking distance. ‘I knew that fellow was honest,’ he observed to me, rubbing his hands at the thought of making some prize-money. ‘Come, rouse aft the main-sheet. We must haul up a little again. Can any one see the tubs?’

“There were plenty of busy eyes looking out for the prize, and it was not long before we discovered them on the weather bow. By keeping our luff we were quickly up to them.

“The commander was by this time called, and now came a difficulty. With the heavy sea there was running, it was a work not free from danger to lower a boat. We first shortened sail; the helm was put down, and the cutter hove-to, and then, after several attempts by waiting for a lull, we got the boat with a crew safe in water.

“Mr Futlock jumped into the boat, and pulled towards the tubs which were first seen, we meantime keeping a bright look-out for any more which might be floating near.

“Not being accustomed to this sort of work, I felt not a little alarmed for the safety of my shipmates, as I saw the boat tumbling about among the white-crested waves.

“Mr Futlock soon got hold of ten tubs, lashed together, and hauled them into the boat. A little further on he made a prize of ten more. This was no bad beginning. He was returning with them, having in vain searched for others, when we made out another collection just ahead of the cutter. We soon had them all aboard, though the boat was nearly swamped alongside. We hoisted her in at last, and seeing no more tubs, let draw the foresail, and again stood on. When at last we looked about for our communicative friend, he was not visible; but some of the men said they thought they had seen him standing in for the land.

“We cruised about all the morning in the neighbourhood, but not a tub more could we discover. Three days after that we dropped our anchor in Weymouth roads. The commander went on shore to communicate with the officer of the coast-guard on the station.

“‘We were looking out for a cutter with a large cargo the other day, but somehow or other we managed to miss her, and she managed to land every tub. We understand that there has not been such a run for years,’ observed the coast-guard officer.

“Something made our commander fancy that she might have been the very craft we spoke, and which had been so ready with information.

“‘A cutter of about fifty tons, with her bulwarks painted yellow inside?’ he asked.

“‘The very same,’ answered the lieutenant. ‘That cunning rascal, Dick Johnstone, was on board of her himself. Hearing that we were on the look-out for his craft, the Seagull, he shifted his cargo into her.’

“‘Then we were cleverly done!’ exclaimed our commander, stamping his foot with vexation. ‘The very fellow old Futlock thought looked so honest that he would not take the trouble to board him. It is the very last time in my life that I will trust to outside appearances.’

“All hands of us aboard the cutter felt very foolish when we found that we had lost so good a chance of taking one of the richest prizes we were ever likely to fall in with. However, revenue officers must have all their seven senses wide awake to compass the artful dodges of determined smugglers. After that, we took very good care to be smart about boarding every vessel we fell in with.”

After the conclusion of this yarn we had several other accounts of smugglers and their daring deeds. Some even, it was asserted, had ventured to defend themselves against king’s ships, and had fought severe actions, one or two having gone down with their colours flying rather than surrender. On one point all were agreed, that no smugglers had ever become permanently wealthy men. As my uncle observed, they take a great deal of trouble and undergo great risk to obtain a very uncertain advantage.

All the rest of the guests were gone; old Jerry remained behind. We told him what had occurred in the morning, and I asked him if he could find out anything about Charley Iffley; what was his rank, and to what ship he belonged. I begged him, if he could find him, to take a message to him from me, and to assure him that far from bearing him any ill-will, I would gladly welcome him as an old friend.

Chapter Eleven.

Old Jerry’s report of Iffley—Fears of the pressgang—Resolve to go inland—Commence our journey—Seized by men-of-war’s men—Iffley’s treachery—Find myself aboard a man-of-war bound for India—Iffley’s conduct—A gale—Fall overboard—Saved—Punishment aboard—Accused of stealing—Sentenced to be flogged—Iffley’s triumph.

Several days passed by, and I heard nothing of Iffley. The fears of my dear wife in consequence at length subsided, and she began to see that, after all, she had probably thought worse of my old shipmate than he deserved. We agreed that he must have been somewhat astonished at seeing me alive, and the husband of one whom he had hoped to marry himself, and that chiefly through bashfulness he had not been able to bring himself to come up and address us.

“Bashfulness!” said Aunt Bretta, when she heard this remark; “I cannot say that I should ever have given Charles Iffley the credit for a superabundance of that quality. However, strange things happen. He may have picked it up at sea, or among his associates on shore; but I doubt it.”

So did I, on reflection. Still, I was glad by any means to calm my wife’s apprehensions, which were the more painful because they were so very indefinite. In the evening there was a knock at the door, and old Jerry Vincent walked in.

“Sarvant, ladies; sarvant all,” said he, pulling off his hat to Aunt Bretta and my wife, who handed him a chair.

“Have you heard anything of that young man we told you of?” asked my wife. It was evidently the question she was most anxious to put.

“Yes, I have, marm, and not much good either,” was the answer. “I’ve found out that he is aboard the Royal William; she’s the flagship just now at Spithead. He doesn’t often come ashore, and that made me so long hearing of him.”

“What is he on board? Is he an officer?” asked Aunt Bretta.

“An officer, indeed, whew!” exclaimed Jerry. “Well, he is a sort of one, maybe. Not a very high rating, though. He’s neither more nor less than a boatswain’s mate. What do you think of that, marm?”

“Charles Iffley a boatswain’s mate!” said my wife in a tone of pity. “I thought he was an officer long ago.”

“Well, marm, I made inquiries on board, and among several people who knew him on shore, and from what I could learn, he would have been an officer long ago if he had conducted himself well. He was placed on the quarter-deck, for you see he has plenty of education, and knows how to act the gentleman as well as any man. But there are some men who never get up the tree but what they slip down again, and never can keep a straight course long together. Charles Iffley is of that sort. For something or other he did, he got disrated and dismissed the service; but he entered it again, and, from what I am told, I shouldn’t be surprised but what, if his early history isn’t known, he’ll work his way up again. The thing that is most against him is his extravagance. Every farthing he makes in prize-money or pay he spends on shore, in acting the fine gentleman. People can’t, indeed, tell how he gets all the money he spends. Of course, if it was known on board the pranks he plays on shore, his leave would be stopped; but he is so clever that he humbugs the officers, and they think him one of the most steady and best men. You see there’s another thing which brings him into favour with the captain and first lieutenant; he has a knack of finding men and getting them to join the ship, by making her out to be the most comfortable ship in the service, and there’s no man knows better how to ferret out seamen, and to lead a pressgang down upon a score of them together. I learned all these things from different people, do ye see, but putting this and that together, I made out my story as I tell it to you. To my mind, Charles Iffley is a man I would stand clear of. Depend on’t, he’s a deep one.”

Jerry Vincent stayed with us some time, and then he said he had an engagement and must go away. As he did so he beckoned me out of the room, and I accompanied him to the door.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr Weatherhelm,” said he, “you have been bred a seaman, and the pressgangs are very hot at work just now. They take everybody who has been at sea, no matter what his present calling—whether he has a wife and family depending on him or not. Now Iffley knows that you have no protection, and he has the power of getting hold of you. From what I hear, he’s just the man to use it. If you was his bosom friend, he’d do it; but if he owes you a grudge, depend on it he’ll not let you slip out of his gripe. He’d have been down on you before now, but he got a broken head the other night, in attacking the crew of a merchantman just come home from a three years’ cruise round the Horn, and had no fancy to be sent off to sea again when they had only just put their foot on shore. However, he is now on his legs again. If you stay here, you’ll hear something of him before long; but take my advice, just rig out as an old farmer, or a black-coated preacher, or something as unlike yourself as you can, and take your wife and go and live away somewhere up in the country. It’s your only chance. If you stay you’ll be nabbed, as sure as my name is Jerry Vincent.”

I thanked the old man very much for his advice, and replied that I had no doubt, on consideration, I should follow it.

“Oh, there’s a good lad! Don’t be waiting and considering. There’s no good comes of that. When a thing is to be done which must be done, go and do it at once.”

“Well, I will, Jerry, I will,” I answered, shaking him by the hand. I waited at the door, and while I watched him down the street I considered what course I would pursue. I was unwilling to tell my wife what he had said, because I knew it would agitate her very much, and I hoped that Jerry thought worse of Iffley than he deserved. Of course, however, I determined to consult Uncle Kelson, and to abide by his advice. It was a serious consideration whether I would, on the mere chance of Iffley’s being able to get hold of me, give up my occupation, in which I was succeeding so well, and go and live, for I knew not how long, in comparative poverty, without anything to do. I made an excuse for stepping out of the room to talk to Jerry, and my wife did not appear to suspect that he had had anything more to say about Iffley. As soon as she and my aunt had gone upstairs, I told Uncle Kelson all that I had learned. He looked graver than usual while he listened to the account.

“Well, he must be a scoundrel if he could do it!” he exclaimed at last, clenching his fist. “Still, such things have been done, but I did hope that no seaman would be guilty of them.” He was silent for some time, and lost in reflection. “I’ll tell you what, Will,” said he at last, “you must follow old Jerry’s advice. It’s sound, depend on it. That old man has more wisdom in his little finger than many a man has in the whole of his head. Go to your work to-morrow morning, and I’ll look down in the course of the day and see your employer, and explain matters to him frankly. He, I have no doubt, will give you leave of absence for a few weeks, and when you come back you can work double tides. If you stay, you see, you’ll be lost to him probably altogether.”

So the matter was arranged. I was rather ashamed, however, at the thought of having to go into hiding, as it were; but still I felt that my wife’s mind would be relieved from apprehension when once I was safe away out of Portsmouth. Uncle Kelson had a sister married to a farmer living in the north of Hampshire, and there we resolved to go.

The next day I went to my work as usual, and my uncle came down and had a talk with my employer, and the whole matter was arranged to the satisfaction of all parties.

“Come,” said Uncle Kelson, “you had better at once take your places by the coach, and start to-morrow. There is no time to be lost.”

We found on getting to the coach-office that all the coaches were full. At that time there was an immense traffic between Portsmouth and London. A post-chaise was somewhat beyond our means, but we found a light waggon starting, which took passengers, and Uncle Kelson and I agreed that this would prove a convenient and very pleasant conveyance, as we were in no hurry, and would not object to being some time on the road. It was to start pretty early in the morning. My dear wife was delighted at the thoughts of the journey, and speedily made the necessary preparations. We sent on our trunk by a wheelbarrow, while we followed, accompanied by Uncle Kelson. Even at that early hour the High Street was astir,—indeed, in those busy times, both during day and night, something or other was going forward. We passed several gangs of men-of-war’s men. Three or four men evidently just pressed, and who showed a strong disinclination to go and serve their country, were being dragged along by one of the gangs. I could not help pitying the poor fellows; so did my wife.

“Oh, Willand,” said she, “how thankful I am that you are not among them!”

Our waggon was a very nice one, covered over with a clean white tilt, and our waggoner, I saw at a glance, was an honest, good-hearted chaw-bacon. He was dressed in the long white frock, thickly plaited in front, which has been worn from time immemorial by people of his calling. Our trunk and bags were put in; we shook hands with Uncle Kelson, and having taken our seats just inside in the front part, with plenty of straw for our feet to rest on, the waggoner whipped up his four sturdy horses, and we began to move on. My dear wife pressed closer to my side, and we began to breathe more freely; she thought I was safe from the pressgang. We were just clear of the fortifications, and were getting into the open country, when I saw the waggoner turn round once or twice, and look over his shoulder behind him.

“What can they be after?” I heard him say. A minute more passed. “Hillo, men, what does ye want here?” he exclaimed suddenly, as half a dozen or more seamen sprang forward, and seized the horses’ heads, while others leaped up into the waggon.

“We are looking for a deserter,” cried two or three of them. “Turn out, my hearty; where are you stowed away?”

I felt, the instant the seamen appeared, that they had come to press me, but these words revived my hopes of escape.

“There is no one here, my men, besides my wife and me that I know of,” I observed. “You have made a mistake, I suspect.”

“Well, we must look,” said the men; “we are not quite so green as to take your word for it.”

“You may look as much as you like, measters,” said the waggoner; “you’ll find no one among my goods, unless he’s stowed hesself away unknowest to me.”

The seamen began to poke their cutlasses in between the packages, and would undoubtedly have run any one through who had been inside them. While they were thus employed, three or four other men came up.

“What are you about, mates?” exclaimed one of them, whose voice I felt sure I knew. “The man you want is sitting in the front of the waggon!”

On hearing these words my poor wife uttered a piercing shriek, and fell fainting into my arms. She, too, had recognised the voice, though the speaker had kept out of her sight; it was that of Charles Iffley. The seamen instantly sprang on me, and seized me by the arms.

“Hillo, mate, you were going to give us the go-by,” said one of them as they passed a rope round my elbows before I could lift an arm in my defence.

They literally dragged me from my poor wife. She would have fallen, but the waggoner humanely scrambled up into his waggon, and placed her securely at the bottom of it. She was still, I saw, completely insensible. I scarcely regretted that she was so, for I did not at the moment foresee the consequences. The honest carter was in vain expostulating with the seamen for seizing one whom he considered placed under his especial charge, to be delivered safe at the journey’s end.

“I don’t think as how you have any right to take that gentleman; he’s no more a sailor nor I bes,” I heard him say.

“Not a sailor! Why, the man has been at sea all his life till the last year or so,” said Iffley, now coming up, and throwing off all disguise; “he’s, moreover, to my certain knowledge, a deserter from his Majesty’s ship Brilliant, so attempt to detain him if you dare.”

These words had a great effect on the honest waggoner, who did not attempt to make any further efforts to detain me.

Generally speaking, the most ruffian-like and least scrupulous of the crew were employed in the pressgangs, for they often had very brutal work to perform. The men into whose hands I had fallen were as bad as any I had ever met. They seized me with the greatest ferocity, dragged me out of the waggon, and would not listen to my prayers and entreaties to be allowed to wait till my wife came to her senses; and before even I had time to speak to the waggoner, in spite of all the violent struggles I made to free myself, they hauled me off along the road as if I had been one of the worst of malefactors. In this they were encouraged by Iffley, who seemed to take a malignant pleasure in seeing me ill-treated, though he did not himself attempt to lay hands on me. When I tried to cry out, I found a gag thrust into my mouth, and thus I was rendered speechless as well as in every other way powerless.

My captors hurried me away, and with a feeling amounting to agony, I lost sight of the waggon. At first it occurred to me that Iffley had gone back for the purpose, as I dreaded, of speaking to my wife, and perhaps adding to her misery; but had he entertained such a thought, he had not dared to face her, for I saw him directly afterwards following close behind me, encouraging the other men to hasten along.

Though I made all the resistance of which I was capable, in the hopes that something or other might occur to enable me to free myself, we soon reached the entrance to Portsmouth.

Instead, however, of proceeding down the High Street, Iffley led the way down one of the by-streets to the right. Just as we were passing under the ramparts I looked up, and there I saw walking up and down, as if to enjoy the breeze, a person whom I recognised at a glance as Uncle Kelson. The moment I saw him, hope revived in my breast. I could at all events tell him to go in search of my wife. Perhaps he might even find means to liberate me; but when I tried to sing out, the horrible gag prevented me speaking. I could only utter inarticulate cries and groans.

In vain I shrieked. He did not even turn his head; the sounds were too common. He thought, probably, that it was only some drunken seaman, who had outstayed his leave, dragged back to his ship.

At length, for a moment, he looked round. I struggled more vehemently than before. I fancied that he must recognise me, but, urged by Iffley, my captors dragged me on faster than ever, and turning a corner we were hid from his sight. My strength was now almost exhausted. I could offer but a faint resistance. Hope, too, had abandoned me. Still I tried to make myself heard, on the possibility of some one knowing me and undertaking to carry a message to my uncle and aunt. People stopped and looked, but the same idea occurred to all—my frantic gestures made them believe that I was a miserable drunken sailor.

We reached the water’s edge. I was shoved into a boat with several other men who had been captured during the night. They all were sitting stunned, or drunken, or sulky (or some too probably broken-hearted and miserable), at the bottom of the boat, not exchanging a word with each other or with those who had pressed us. I also fell down stunned and unconscious. Who could have discovered the difference between me and my companions in misfortune? When I again opened my eyes, I found that the boat was almost at Spithead. I tried to sit up to look about me, but I could not, and, after a feeble attempt to rise, I again sank back, and once more oblivion of all that had passed stole over my senses. I had a sort of dreamy feeling that I was lifted up on the deck of a big ship, and then handed below and put into a hammock. Then I was aware that some one came and felt my pulse and gave me medicine, but I had no power to think, to recollect the past or to note the present.

At last, by degrees, I found that I was becoming more alive to what was taking place. I felt the movement of the ship. She was heeling over to a strong breeze. Then suddenly the recollection of my wife, of the way I had been torn from her, of the wretchedness I knew she must suffer, of the uncertainty she must feel for my fate, burst like a thunder-clap on me, and almost sent me back into the state from which I was recovering. I groaned in my agony. I wished that death might kindly be sent to relieve me of my misery. But the instant after I felt that such a wish was impious.

I lay quiet for some time, thinking and praying that strength might be given for my support. No, no, I’ll try to live, that I may get back to comfort her. What joy it would be once more to return to her! The very contemplation of such an idea revived me. “Whatever comes, I’ll do my duty like a man.”

“That’s right, my lad; that’s the proper spirit in which to take our misfortunes,” said a voice near me.

Unconsciously, I had spoken aloud. I turned round my head, and saw a gentleman I knew at once was the doctor of the ship.

“I know your story. You have told me a good deal about yourself while you have been lying there,” he remarked, in a kind voice. “I pity you from my heart, and will do what I can for you.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” I answered warmly, and almost melting into tears, for I was very weak. “Where are we? Where are we going? What ship is this? Is Iffley here?”

“One question at a time, my lad, and you will have a better chance of an answer, as a general rule,” he answered, smiling.

He was a Scotchman, and as warm-hearted, generous a man as the north ever produced, though somewhat peculiar in his manners. To a stranger he appeared slow; but, when time would allow it, he knew the advantage of deliberation.

“First, then, I will tell you that you are on board the Albion, and that we have under our convoy a large fleet of merchantmen. We are somewhere to the southward of Cape Finisterre. What you are thinking about is, how you can write home to let your wife know what has become of you. You’ll very likely soon have an opportunity. Let that comfort you.” He said all this that he might break more gradually all that was coming.

“But where are we going, sir?” I asked, in a trembling voice.

“You may perhaps have an opportunity of getting home,” he answered. “But you see, my lad, we are bound for the East Indies, and shall probably have a somewhat long cruise of it.”

“To the East Indies!” I cried, my voice sinking almost to a whisper. “When, when, Margaret, may I ever meet you again?”

“Cheer up, my lad, it’s a long road which has no turning, ye ken,” cried the kind doctor. “Remember your resolution to do your duty like a man. You’ll be well in a few days, I hope.”

He did not reply to my question about Iffley. Somehow or other, I could not bring myself again to repeat that man’s name. I did not forget the command to forgive our enemies, but I felt that flesh and blood—the depravity of human nature—must be struggled with and overcome, before the divine precept could be obeyed.

Once more I was on my feet again, and a man who attended on the sick helped me up on deck. It was a fine day—the sky was blue, the sea was calm, and some thirty ships, with all their canvas set, were grouped close around us. They were huge lumbering tea-chests, as we used to call Indiamen, but they were fine-looking craft for all that. The fresh sea-breeze revived me. Every hour I felt myself growing stronger and better. I looked round for Iffley. I had a nervous dread of meeting him, and yet I felt anxious to ascertain that he was on board.

A person may be on board a big ship like the Albion for several days without meeting another, provided they are not on duty together. Such was my case. I had been for two days on deck, an hour or so at a time, without seeing the man who had proved himself so bitterly my enemy. The doctor told me he thought that in a day or two more I might go to my duty, and that I should be the better for having work to do. I looked forward to work with satisfaction, and begged that I might as soon as possible be struck off the sick list. He told me that I should be so on the following day, and that he would speak to the first lieutenant about me, as he was a very kind man, and would see that I was not sent aloft till I had sufficiently recovered my strength. I thanked him with a hearty blessing for his kindness and consideration.

The very first man on whom my eyes rested when I went on deck returned fit for duty was Charles Iffley. He was going along the deck with his cat-o’-nine-tails in his hand. I knew by this that he still held only the rating of boatswain’s mate on board. My heart turned sick at the sight; in a moment my vivid imagination pictured all I might have to suffer at his hands.

He saw me, but pretended not to know me, and went on his way as if I was a stranger. I was immediately sent for aft, and found that I had been entered in the ship’s books as an able seaman and a deserter from his Majesty’s ship the Brilliant.

“What have you to say to this, my man?” said the captain, looking sternly at me.

“That I am not a deserter, sir,” I answered in a firm voice; and I then gave him a clear and succinct account of the cutting-out expedition in Santa Cruz harbour, in which I had been engaged, and the way in which my life had been preserved on that occasion.

The captain, after a moment’s consideration, sent a midshipman down into his cabin for a printed book. When it was brought to him he turned over the pages and asked me a few more questions. “I find that your account agrees exactly with the description I here have of the affair, and I believe you.”

I saw Dr McCall, who came up at the moment and heard the captain’s words, look evidently pleased. They exchanged glances, I thought. At all events, I fancied that I had just and kind-hearted superiors, and that my condition was far better than I might have expected to find it. Still this reflection could not mitigate the great source of my grief—my sudden separation from my wife and my ignorance of her fate. After this I was placed in a watch, and went regularly about my duty. I did my best to perform it, and quickly recovered my strength.

Ours had always been considered a smart ship, and though our captain was a kind man, he sacrificed a great deal to smartness. The most active and bustling men who could make the most show of doing things smartly, often gained more credit than they deserved.

It was one forenoon my watch below when I heard the cry of “All hands shorten sail!” I had been stationed in the fore-top. I sprang on deck as fast as my strength would allow, but I had not recovered my usual activity. “Fly aloft, there! fly aloft, you lazy scoundrel, or a rope’s-end will freshen your way a bit!” I heard a voice cry, close to my ear. It was Iffley’s. His countenance showed that he was capable of executing his threats. My blood boiled. I could do nothing. I could say nothing. In a moment I understood the bitter enmity which he had allowed to enter and to rankle in his bosom. I scarcely dared again to look at him. I hurried on. A sudden squall had struck the ship—unexpected after the long calms to which we had been subject. She was heeling over to her lower deck ports. The exertion of all hands was indeed required to shorten sail. I found Iffley following close after me. I sprang up the rigging and quickly reached the fore-top. I could not help seeing his face as he came up. It wore the expression of most malignant hatred. “Lay out; be smart about it, my lads!” cried the captain of the top, as the fore-topsail-yard came rattling down.

In an instant the yard was covered with active forms hurrying out to its extreme ends. I made a spring to get out to the weather-earing. I had got it in my hand and was hauling on it, when I saw the countenance of Iffley, wearing the same expression as before, close to me. There was now in it a triumphant expression, as if he hoped that his vindictive feelings were about to be gratified. Still not a word did he utter. No one on board would have guessed that we had ever before met. I still kept to my resolution.

The gale came down on us stronger than ever. The officers were urging the men to greater speed. Suddenly I felt the earing in my hand give way, and before I could grasp at the yard to save myself I lost my balance, and to my horror found myself falling into the seething ocean raging beneath me. A strange, hideous, mocking strain of laughter sounded in my ears as I fell, and after that I knew no more till I discovered that I was struggling in the foaming waters.

I had gone down once, but had quickly come up again. I threw myself on my back till I had somewhat recovered my senses, and then turned myself round and kept treading the water while I looked out to see how far I was from the ship.

Away she flew, close-hauled though, with the foam dancing round her, and already at some distance. “And is this to be my fate?” I thought; “to die thus a victim to the foul revenge of that man?”

I resolved to struggle for life. I looked round me on every side. The Indiamen were scattered far and wide, none of them were coming up on our track. Still I swam on, but I felt how hopeless was the struggle.

Just then my eye fell on a grating, floating not five fathoms from me, and which had evidently been thrown to me by some one on board, when I was seen to fall from aloft. I exerted all my strength, and at length reached it. The time appeared to be very long. It is impossible, on such occasions, to measure it. Moments appeared minutes—minutes hours. I threw myself on the grating in a position to avoid being washed off it or thrown under it; but it required no slight exertion to hold on. As the dark seas came rolling up, and breaking, with a loud, crashing sound, above my head, I felt as if they must inevitably overwhelm me. Still I did not give up hope.

Unhappy as I had thought myself, I desired life that I might return home once more and ascertain the fate of my wife. I prayed that for this object I might be preserved; that we might once more be united, and once again be happy on earth. Even at that moment, surrounded by the boiling seas, with my ship flying fast away from me, I pictured, with all the vividness of reality, the unspeakable joy of once again being restored to her. I remembered the numberless dangers to which I had been exposed, and the merciful way in which I had been preserved from them.

Not for an instant did I think of Iffley. I forgot that he had been the cause of my present position, and thus I was prevented from harbouring any feeling of revenge against him.

As I was saying, I could not judge how long I was clinging to the grating. Tossed about as I was—now lifted to the summit of a foaming sea—now sinking down into the trough—I kept my eye constantly turning towards my ship.

Suddenly I saw the fore-topsail thrown aback—a boat was lowered—my shipmates were coming to my rescue. I felt even then that I was to be saved. I forgot the distance they had to pull and the heavy sea which might both endanger them and hide me from their sight. Still more eagerly did I try to make out the boat, as she laboured among the foaming seas. I caught a glimpse of her as I rose to the top of a wave, but she was not pulling towards me. Those in her could not have seen me.

Then suddenly the horrid thought came across me, that Iffley might have pretended to have seen where I was and to have guided the boat wrongly. Then I blamed myself for thinking even Iffley capable of an act so atrocious. Still, I thought if he had purposely thrown me into the sea, he would be as likely to play the foul trick of which I now suspected him.

Again I sank down into a deep trough of the sea, and could only for a time distinguish the topsails of the ship above the masses of foam which flew around. When I next rose again, there was the boat pulling away from me.

I shrieked out, I raised my voice louder and louder, as if I could by possibility be heard. I might as well have tried to howl down the hurricane in its fiercest mood. This was more trying than all that had gone before.

At length, exhausted by my exertions, I threw myself back on the grating, scarcely attempting to hold on. I was then in the trough of a sea. In another moment I was raised again to the summit of a sea, and, though hopeless, my eyes mechanically turned towards the boat.

Some one on board had seen me—she was pulling towards me. I felt conscious in a moment how wrong I had been to despair. I again exerted all my strength to keep myself on the grating. I saw some one standing up in the bows looking out for me. He pointed to where I floated, that the helmsman might steer the boat aright.

“Hurra! hurra!” A shout reached my ears. I knew that my shipmates had given it to encourage me. A few minutes more, and I found myself hauled into the boat.

The first person on whom my eyes rested was Iffley. He looked, I fancied, conscience-struck and defeated.

“Charley said as how he thought he saw you away to the eastward there; but Tom Potts caught sight of you, and now we know he was right,” said one of the men who were hauling me in.

I was placed in the bottom of the boat, for there was little time in that heavy sea to attend to me, and she pulled back towards the ship. I felt that I was saved. I did not expect to be much the worse for my ducking, and I knew when I got back to the ship that the doctor would look after me. I had now no doubt that Iffley had endeavoured to prevent the boat from coming to my assistance. How bitter must be his hatred to allow me—his shipmate—to die thus horribly, struggling in the sea, when he had the power to save me!

As I was helped up the side, I caught his eye fixed on me, and again I observed that evident look of baffled vengeance which I had before remarked. I felt sure that he would take the first opportunity of giving further proof of his hatred of me. I did not see any means of escaping from it. Had he even spoken to me, I might have expostulated with him; but he kept aloof as if I were a total stranger to him. He carefully avoided even addressing me directly. I felt sure, indeed, that had I spoken to him, he would have stoutly denied all former knowledge of me, and who was to prove it? No one whom I knew on board. I felt as if I were pursued by some monster with supernatural powers, from whom I could not get free.

When I got on board, Dr McCall kindly ordered me to go to my hammock, and he came and gave me some medicine. He said that after the illness from which I had so long been suffering, the consequences might be serious if I caught cold from my ducking. However, I turned out the next morning not in the slightest degree the worse for what had occurred I resolved to be as attentive and exact in my duty as possible; I wished to behave thus, at all events; but I also knew that in that case I should give my enemy less opportunity of injuring me.

Two days after this a man was convicted of stealing on board. He was sentenced to receive fifty lashes. Iffley was one of the boatswain’s mates chosen to inflict the punishment. The crew were mustered on deck, and the man was led forward. He was one of those wretched men who are both rogues and cowards.

Iffley and the other boatswain’s mates stood with their cats, those dreadful instruments of power, in their hands ready for use. While preparations were being made, the miserable wretch looked round on every side, as if seeking for some one who could save him from the punishment he was about to receive. Not a glance of pity did he get from his messmates. They knew him too well. At last he looked towards Iffley. I saw them exchange glances. Iffley, of course, did not speak, but his looks said something which gave the other courage.

“Captain,” said the man, turning round to our captain, “you are going to make the innocent suffer for the guilty. I wanted to shield a shipmate; but he will be found out at last, I know, and I shall only suffer without doing any one any good, otherwise I could have borne the punishment willingly.”

I at the time thought that the man spoke in that whining tone which a person in spite of himself uses when he is uttering a falsehood, or saying what has been put into his mouth by another.

“Cast him loose,” said the captain; “I’ll inquire into this. Bring him aft here. Now tell me at once who is the man who has committed this theft, if you are not guilty of it.”

“I’d rather not say, sir,” replied the culprit. “I don’t like to peach on another. He’ll be found out before the day is over, and then I shan’t be accused of having told of him.”

“That excuse will not serve your turn, my man,” answered the captain sternly. “Unless you can point out the real culprit, you will have to suffer the punishment awarded you.”

“Oh no, sir, I’d rather not. Do not be hard on me. I don’t like to hurt another man, even to save myself,” again whined out the man. “Let me off, sir, let me off, and the real thief will be found—that he will; you have my word for it.”

“Trice him up again,” said the captain to the boatswain. “The true thief is about to be punished, I am very certain of that.”

“I’ll tell, sir, I’ll tell!” shrieked out the wretched man. “He’s one who has been skulking his duty ever since he came on board. I’d rather not speak his name.”

The captain shook his head, and made a sign to the boatswain to proceed.

“Well, if I must tell,” cried out the man, Saull Ley by name, “the thief is Will Weatherhelm.”

I almost fainted when I heard the accusation, and I am sure that I must have looked as guilty as if I had committed the theft.

A triumphant smile flitted across Iffley’s features, and he passed the knotted tails of his cat, as if mechanically, through his fingers, while he cast a glance at me which I too well understood. The captain turned towards me.

“What is this I hear?” he asked. “Do you acknowledge the theft, Weatherhelm?”

“No, sir; certainly not,” I answered, with as firm a voice as I could command, though I felt conscious that it was faltering as I spoke.

“What proof have you that Weatherhelm committed the theft?” asked the captain of the culprit.

“Because two men, if not more, watched him, and knew that it was him,” was the answer; and now the man spoke in a firmer voice than I had done, and I fancied looked more innocent.

“Produce your witnesses,” said the captain.

The man hesitated for a minute, and his eye ranged with an uneasy glance along the lines of men drawn up on deck, as if anxiously scanning their countenances, for he must have felt that they knew him, and that he was not generally believed. At last his eyes rested on two who were standing together.

“Bill Sykes and Dick Todd saw him, sir; they know all about it. They’ll tell you; they’ll prove I am innocent.”

The theft had been committed on the purser’s stores. Some tobacco and sugar and some other things had been stolen. Now Saull Ley, the accused, had been seen coming out of the store-room on one occasion when the purser’s clerk had left the keys in the door for a short time and gone away. The purser, on his return, had missed some tobacco and sugar, and that same evening a small quantity of both those articles had been found in Ley’s possession.

“Stand out, Bill Sykes and Dick Todd, and let me hear what you know about this matter.”

Bill Sykes was a landsman, and had soon shown that he was totally unfit for a sailor. Dick Todd had entered as a boy. He was not worth much, and had become a great chum of Sykes’. Still, from the little I had seen of them, I did not think that they would have been guilty of falsely accusing a shipmate. I had therefore little fear of what they could say against me.

I was, however, somewhat startled when they stepped forward, and Sykes, as the eldest, began in a clear way to state that he had seen a man, whom he took to be me, open the door of the purser’s room with a key, and, after being absent for a minute or more, return and lock it. He at once knew this was wrong, so he watched what the man he took to be the thief would next do. He said that he met with Todd, and told him as a friend what he had observed. The thief crept along the deck, and the two then saw him go to his bag and deposit something which he took out of his pockets. Both the men acknowledged that they might be mistaken, but that they thought that it was me.

“What have you got to say to this, Weatherhelm?” asked the captain. “You are accused by the mouths of two witnesses.”

“The accusation is false, sir,” I answered calmly. “I was not long ago at my bag, and I observed neither tobacco nor sugar in it. If you will send for it, you will find that I speak the truth.”

“Very well. Mr Marvel, take a couple of hands with you, and bring up Weatherhelm’s bag,” said the captain, addressing the mate of the lower deck.

I felt very little anxiety during the time the officer was absent, for I was sure that nothing would be found among my things. He soon returned, bringing the bag. It was placed before the captain.

“Open it,” said he. It was opened on deck in sight of all the officers and ship’s company. What was my horror and dismay, to see drawn forth, wrapped up in a shirt, a large lump of tobacco and a paper containing several pounds of sugar! “Now what have you got to say?” asked the captain, turning to me.

“That I have not the slightest notion how those things came into my bag,” was my prompt answer.

“That is the sort of reply people always give when they are found out,” said the captain. “It will not serve your turn, I fear.”

“I cannot help it, sir,” I replied, with a feeling of desperation. “Appearances are certainly against me, sir; I know not by whom those things were put into my bag. I did not put them in, and I did not know that they were there.”

“You said that another man was a witness of this affair,” said the captain, turning to Ley. “Who is he?”

Ley began to hum and haw and look uncomfortable. “I’d rather not say, sir,” whined out Ley, “if it is not necessary.”

“But it is necessary,” thundered out the captain, evidently annoyed at the man’s coolness and canting hypocrisy. “Who is he? or you get the four dozen awarded you.”

I had watched all along the countenance of Iffley. I felt sure that a plot had been formed against me, and that he was its framer and instigator. I saw that he began to grow uneasy at this stage of the proceedings.

“Who is this other man?” repeated the captain.

Ley saw that he must speak out, or that he would still get the punishment he was so anxious to escape. “There he is; Charles Iffley is the man, sir, who, besides those two, saw Weatherhelm go to his bag and put the stolen things into it.”

“How is this, Iffley? If you saw a man committing a robbery, it wag your duty to give notice of it, sir,” exclaimed the captain, in an angry voice, turning towards him.

“I am very sorry, sir,” replied Iffley. “I am aware of what I ought, strictly speaking, to have done, but I did not like to hurt the character of a shipmate. He always seemed a very respectable man, and I fully believed that I must have been mistaken. It is only now that the things are found in his bag that I can believe him guilty.”

“You are ready to swear to this?” asked the captain.

“Quite ready, sir, certainly,” replied Iffley calmly. “I add nothing and withhold nothing on the subject.”

Even I was startled by what Iffley said, and the way he said it. I could not help supposing that he believed what he said.

“Have you anything more to say in your defence, Weatherhelm?” said the captain.

“Nothing, sir, except that those men are mistaken. I can only hope that they believe what they say,” I answered, with a firmer voice than I had before been able to command.

“I am very sorry for it, and do not just now altogether believe it,” I heard Dr McCall observe as he walked off. “You will expect your punishment—six dozen,” said the captain. “Pipe down.”

Could a painter at that moment have observed Iffley’s countenance, it might have served him as a likeness of Satan when he is assured that Eve has fallen. The officers walked aft, the crew dispersed, and I was placed under charge of the master-at-arms.

Two days passed by. How full of agony and wretchedness they were! The pain I was to expect was as nothing compared to the disgrace and degradation. I who had always borne an unsullied name, whose character had always stood high both with my officers and messmates, to be now branded as a thief! How could I ever face those I loved, conscious of the marks of the foul lash on my back? There was no one on board to speak in my favour; no one who had known me before—and how incapable I was of the act imputed to me—except Iffley; and he, I felt too well assured, would do his utmost to destroy me.

The two days passed—no circumstance occurred, as I had hoped it might, to prove that I was innocent—when the boatswain’s call summoned all hands on deck to witness punishment. This time I was to be the victim.

The boatswain’s mates stood ready. One of them was Iffley. He played eagerly with his cat as I was led forward. “If come it must.” I ejaculated, “the Lord have mercy on me—I will bear my punishment as a man.”

Chapter Twelve.

Punishment interrupted—Preparations for action—Boat off the enemy—A confession—I am proved to be innocent—Capture two prizes—Ordered home in one of them—Deserted by our consort—Spring a leak—Mutiny of prisoners.

“Strip!” said the captain.

I prepared to lay my shoulders bare to receive the lash.

“The Indiamen to windward are signalling to us, sir,” shouted the signal midshipman, turning over the pages of the signal-book. “An enemy in sight on the weather-beam.”

“Master-at-arms, take charge of the prisoner; punishment is deferred,” cried the captain, springing on to the poop.

I was led below. I almost wished that the punishment was over. I had nerved myself up to bear it, dreadful as it was, without flinching. Now I knew not for how long it might be postponed, but I had no hopes of escaping it altogether.

In another minute, the stirring cry of “Prepare ship for action!” was passed along the decks. Every one in a moment was full of activity. The cabin bulk-heads were knocked away, fire-screens were put up, the doors of the magazine were thrown open, and powder and shot were being handed up on deck.

For some time I was left alone, with a sentry only stationed over me. I longed to be set free. I trusted that I was not to remain a prisoner during the action which it was expected was about to take place. I thought that if I could but send a message to the captain, and entreat that I might be allowed to do my duty at my gun, he would liberate me while the action lasted.

For a long time, not an officer came near me. At length, to my great satisfaction, I saw Dr McCall. He was on his way to see that all proper preparations had been made in the space devoted to his service on the orlop deck for the reception of the wounded.

“Dr McCall,” I cried out to him. “I would not have ventured to have spoken to you, situated as I now am, under any other circumstances, but I have a great favour to ask of you, sir.”

He stopped and listened.

“I need not say that I trust you do not believe me guilty, and I would entreat you to go to the captain and to ask him to allow me to return to my duty during the action. Tell him only what you think of me, and he will, I am sure, give me my freedom till the fight is over. I do not wish to avoid punishment, but it would be a double one to remain manacled here while my shipmates are fighting the enemy.”

“I’ll go,” said the doctor, who had quietly listened to all I said. “I do not believe you guilty. There is little time to lose, though.”

How anxiously I awaited the result of my petition! Every moment I expected to hear the first shot fired, and to find that the action had begun. About three minutes passed. I fancied six times the period had elapsed, when a master’s mate and two men came below.

“The captain gives you leave, Weatherhelm, to return to your duty,” said the officer. “He hopes that you will show you are worthy of the favour.”

“Indeed I will, sir,” I answered as the men knocked the handcuffs off my wrists.

“We’ve a tough job in hand, depend on that.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” I exclaimed, as I sprang to my feet and followed my liberators to the upper deck, where the sentry joined his comrades.

The moment I reached the deck I looked out for the enemy. Just out of gun-shot appeared a seventy-four gun ship and two frigates. They were firing away at the Indiamen, which were still within range of their guns. The greater number were, however, clustering together, and standing down to leeward of us, so that those nearer the Frenchmen were not idle, and were bravely returning shot for shot.

The three ships came on, the Frenchmen little doubting that we should continue on the same course we were then holding; but our captain was determined to get the weather-gage, and just as their shot came aboard us, he tacked and stood to the northward, which brought the two frigates nearer to us than the line-of-battle ship. One of them bravely stood on till she got close under our guns. The order was given to fire. Our shot took the most deadly effect on her, and she completely heeled over as our whole broadside went crashing in through her decks and sides. Of the three hundred men or more, who an instant before stood up full of life and strength, fall fifty must have been struck down, many never to rise again, while her spars and rigging went tumbling down in terrible confusion over her deck.

Again we tacked, and this brought our starboard broadside to bear on the second frigate. While we were especially engaged with the first, she had fired two or three broadsides at us, and as we tacked she managed to rake us, to our no little damage. The success attending our first effort inspirited us to give due effect to the second. Every shot we fired seemed to tell. Besides numbers of men killed and wounded, the foremast of the frigate came toppling down on her deck almost before the smoke which hung around us had cleared away.

Seldom had greater execution been effected in so short a time, but our ship was thoroughly well maimed, and every one of us had been well trained at our guns. We knew what we were about, and had strength to do it. Leaving the two frigates almost helpless, we stood on to meet our larger opponent. With her, to all appearance, we were thoroughly well matched. While we had been engaged with the frigates, she had severely handled some of the Indiamen. She had now, however, to look after herself.

Our captain, as soon as we got clear of the frigates, signalled to the Indiamen to go and attack them. This he did in the hope that they would be prevented from repairing damages and be enabled to escape. The Indiamen to leeward, in the most spirited way, instantly began to beat up towards the frigates.

We had not escaped altogether free of harm. Though no material damage had been done to the ship, we had already several men killed and wounded by the shot from our two first antagonists. As we closed with the line-of-battle ship she opened fire on us. We soon found that we had an opponent which would require all our strength and perseverance to overcome, but every man stood to his gun, as British seamen always will stand when well commanded, however great may be the odds against them.

We passed each other on opposite tacks as the line-of-battle ship stood on towards the frigates. As our respective guns were brought to bear, we discharged them into each other’s sides. We all cheered loudly and heartily as we saw the result of our fire, but the enemy were not idle. The shot from their broadside came crashing on board us with fearful effect, while the marines in the tops, poop, and forecastle, kept up a heavy fire of musketry. Blocks and spars came tumbling down from aloft; splinters were flying in every direction; round shot were whizzing through the ports and across the decks; the smoke from the guns hung over us in dense masses, obscuring the sky and scarcely enabling us to see from one side of the ship to the other.

Many a poor fellow sank to rise no more; numbers were sorely wounded; the heads of some, the arms and legs of others, were shot away; groans and shrieks arose from those who were struck, while the rest of the crew uttered shouts of defiance and anger. All of us were stripped to the waist, begrimed with smoke, and often sprinkled with our own blood or that of our comrades; our handkerchiefs bound round our heads, and our countenances, with the muscles strained to the utmost, exhibiting the fierce passions which animated our hearts.

Yet, though I have attempted to describe the scene, no words can do adequate justice to its savage wildness. I felt, I doubt not, like the rest. In a moment all recollection of the past vanished; I thought only of punishing the foe, of gaining the victory. I saw others killed and wounded near me, but it never occurred to me that at any moment their fate might be mine. As our foremost guns had been fired, they had been instantly run in and loaded, and directly the enemy had passed us, putting down our helm, we luffed up and passed under her stern, raking her fore and aft, to the very great surprise of the Frenchmen, who little expected that we should so quickly again be able to deliver our fire.

The rapidity with which we worked our guns was the chief cause of our success. Instead of tacking, as the enemy fancied we were going to do, we once more filled and ran after him. A loud shout burst from our crew. The Frenchman’s fore-topmast came tumbling down on deck. We quickly came up after him and gave him a full dose of our larboard broadside.

The two frigates, seeing how their consort had been handled, and that several of the Indiamen were crowding sail towards them, now set all the canvas they could spread in the hope of making their escape, very indifferent to the fate of their big consort, whom they seemed to think was powerful enough to take very good care of herself. She, meantime, was signalling to them to remain to render her assistance while she brought us up towards them.

We, by this time, had been pretty severely handled. We had fully twenty killed and twice as many wounded, while several of our spars had been shot away, and we were much cut up in sails and rigging. Night, too, was coming on, and it was important to keep our convoy together. We could not tell whether other French ships were near at hand, and if so, not only we, but many of the merchantmen under our charge might have been captured. All these things I thought of afterwards, but not then, depend on it. Flushed with our success, we fully expected that we were going to make all the three Frenchmen strike. The enemy’s line-of-battle ship sailed well, and she quickly led us up in chase, so that we were exposed to the fire of her consorts as well as to hers.

Under other circumstances, I believe that our captain was the last man to have left a victory half won; but just as we were once more getting within range of the enemy’s guns, we hove-to, and he signalled to the convoy to collect together and to continue their course to the southward.

All on board were eager to see what was to happen. We thought that we were going to make sail after the Indiamen, but we had not yet quite done with the enemy. We replied by a loud cheer as the ship’s head was once more kept towards them, and then running along their line we delivered another crashing broadside into them. We got something in return, though, and the shot from all the three ships came more thickly about us than ever.

Not far from the gun at which I was serving I saw Saull Ley. Once he had disappeared, and I thought he had been wounded, but when the firing ceased he had come back to his gun. He had evidently attempted the same trick a second time, when we were once more unexpectedly brought into action, for a couple of men with rope’s ends were driving him back to his station. He had no help for himself but to remain, though fear had rendered his services of very little avail.

At last the shot he so much dreaded reached him, and I saw him struck down bleeding on the deck. He shrieked out with terror and pain when he found himself wounded.

“Oh, help me! help me! I shall die! I shall die! What will become of me?” he cried out.

“Why, you’ll have to go where many a better man has gone before you,” answered the rest of the crew of his gun, who, on account of his arrant cowardice, had no feeling of compassion for him. He was, however, lifted from the deck and carried below, to be placed under the doctor’s care.

The enemy, who had laid to for us, seeming to consider that nothing was to be gained by them if they continued the fight, but that they were far more likely to have to haul down their flags or to be sunk, once more filled and stood away from us to the northward. It seemed a question whether we should follow or not, and I am very certain that no one felt more regret than did our captain at having to allow the enemy to escape when he had almost secured the victory.

The property, however, entrusted to his care on board the fleet of Indiamen was of such vast amount that he could not venture to run the risk of any disaster. We had gallantly done our duty by beating off so far superior a force. The enemy was in fall flight—we might have overtaken them—but if we had, and captured them all, we should have so completely weakened our crew that we could not have ventured to continue our voyage, and should certainly have had to put into port to refit. Our helm was accordingly put up, and once more we stood to the southward after our convoy.

Having to leave the enemy was, I believe, a far greater trial and exertion of moral courage in our captain, than having to follow and attack them once more would have been.

Some officers I have known would have gone after them, and perhaps have risked the loss of the richly-laden merchantmen under their charge. Our crew, to a man, felt this, and not a complaint or a growl was heard at our allowing the enemy to escape.

Darkness soon hid them from our sight. The battle was over, but our work was not. All night long we were busy in repairing damages, and daylight still found us engaged in the same occupation. The magazine was once more closed, the blood-stained decks were washed down, and in the course of the day the ship resumed much of her wonted appearance, though it was no easy work to get rid of the traces of the severe conflict in which we had lately been engaged.

At length the hands were piped below, the watch on deck was set, and the others allowed to turn in and get some of that rest we so much needed. Then it was that the recollection of my painful position returned to me. I was a prisoner released for a time, with a severe punishment hanging over me. Suppose even the captain were to remit my punishment, in consequence of the way in which I knew that I had behaved in the fight, I should still be loaded with disgrace. I should be looked upon as a convicted thief. Such were the feelings with which I went to my hammock. I was just about to turn in, when I heard my name called.

“The doctor has sent for you, Weatherhelm,” said the messenger, who was one of the hospital attendants. “There is a man dying, and he wants to see you.”

I slipped on my clothes and hurried down to the orlop deck. I found the purser, with the chaplain, standing near the hammock of a seaman. The surgeon came up at the same time. “I am glad to see you, Weatherhelm,” he said in his usual kind way. “That poor wretch exonerates you from the charge he made against you, and begged to set you that he might ask your forgiveness.”

I drew near the hammock, and in the features of the dying man I recognised those of Saull Ley.

“Weatherhelm, I’m a great villain, I know I am,” he cried out as soon as he saw me. “There’s a greater, though, and he put me up to it. I would have let you be punished to save my own worthless carcase, and, oh! now I’m suffering greater pain than ever the cat could give me. I stole all the things—I’ve been telling Mr Nips. Then we persuaded those two silly lads that it was you, and when they saw me go and put them into your bag, they had no doubt about it, and so Iffley made them believe that they had seen you coming out of the store-room. That’s all about it. I’ve been speaking the truth and nothing but the truth. But you’ll forgive me, won’t you, Weatherhelm, and let me die easy?”

“I forgive you with all my heart, and I believe that I should have forgiven you even had I suffered the punishment awarded me,” I answered. “I would ask you but one thing. Why do you fancy that Iffley is desirous to get me falsely accused?”

“Because he hates you, he told me so,” he said. “He has a long score to wipe off against you, and he vowed if you escaped him this time, he would find means, before long, to be revenged on you.”

“You hear what the man says,” observed Dr McCall to the other officers present. “This is what I suspected, but had not the means of proving. We must not allow that ruffian Iffley to obtain his ends; for ruffian he is, notwithstanding his plausible manners. It’s an old story—Weatherhelm would rather it were not told—but there is nothing in it to do him discredit.”

“All I desire, sir, is, that I may be freed from the imputation cast on me, and that, thanks to your consideration in calling witnesses to hear this poor man’s dying confession, will, I am sure, be done.”

“Rest assured of that,” remarked the chaplain. “And now I would say a few words to Saull Ley. You spoke of dying with a quiet conscience if you got forgiveness from the man you might have so cruelly injured, had you not been struck down by the hand of an avenging God; but you have not only forgiveness to seek from man, but from One who is mighty to save, who has the power and the will to wash away all your sins, if you put your entire faith and trust in Him, and repent you heartily of your former life.”

“I cannot, I dare not. He wouldn’t listen to such a wretch as me. Don’t tell me to go to Him. Find some other means of saving me—isn’t there? There must be. Do tell me of it!”

“There is none—none whatever,” answered the chaplain. “Do not refuse the only means—a sure means—by which even the greatest of sinners may be saved.”

“Oh, go on, sir, go on; tell me all about it,” moaned the unhappy man. “I’ve often before now thought of giving up my bad ways. I wish that I had done it long ago.”

The chaplain looked at Dr McCall, to learn whether he might continue talking to the wounded man. The doctor signified that he might, but that it would be better if there were fewer persons present.

“Yes; but he must first sign the evidence he has given,” observed the purser, who was of necessity a good man of business. “Not only must the innocent escape punishment, but the guilty must be punished.”

He accordingly wrote down the statement made by the wounded seaman, and, after reading it to him, put a pen into his hand to sign it. Ley took the pen and hurriedly wrote his name. He did not speak. Suddenly the pen fell from his hand—a shudder came over his frame—without a groan he fell back in his hammock.

“What has happened?” asked the chaplain.

“He has gone to his long account,” answered Dr McCall.

Alas! how many die like him, talking and thinking about repentance, and saying that they will put their trust in Christ, but never go to Him, never repent!

With a heart truly thankful for the dangers I had escaped and the mercies vouchsafed to me, I returned to my hammock, and slept more soundly than I had done for many a night. The next morning, after breakfast was over, all hands were piped on deck, and the captain sent for me. I found him and all the officers assembled on the quarter-deck.

“I have sent for you, Weatherhelm,” said the captain, “to tell you that I am very glad you have escaped what would have been a very cruel and unjust punishment. My lads, you know that this man was accused not long ago of a very great crime. I rejoice to say that I have proof, undoubted, that he is entirely innocent. The man who accused him is dead, but he left evidence not only that this man is innocent, but that a most vile attempt has been made to accuse him falsely. I know the man; let him beware that he is not caught in the trap he has laid for another.”

While the captain was speaking, I caught sight of Iffley’s countenance. Again I observed on it that expression of hatred and baffled vengeance, and when he himself was so palpably alluded to, there was mixed with it no small amount of craven apprehension. The stern eye of the captain ranged over the countenances of the crew, it rested a moment on him. He quailed before it.

“Pipe down!” cried the captain.

Those of the crew not on duty went below. Many of the more steady men came up to me, and congratulated me on my escape, and I found in a short time that I had numbers of friends on board. Had it not been for the thought of my wife, and of my wish to return home, I should have been happy.

Iffley never came near me. He seemed to dread me far more than I dreaded him. I could not conceive what harm he could possibly do me now that he was known, and must have been aware that he was watched. Still I felt that it would be wiser to be on my guard against him.

When the excitement of the occurrences I have described had passed away, a reaction took place, and I once more began to feel the misery of my position. It seemed like some horrid dream, and sometimes I almost hoped that I should awake and find that I was at home all the time, and that the scenes I was going through were but the effects of a dreadful nightmare.

I frequently found myself reasoning on the subject, but there was a vividness and reality about everything which made me too justly doubt the soundness of my hopes. I had, before I was pressed, more than once been afflicted with a dream so like the present reality, that, as I say, I nearly persuaded myself that I was dreaming now. I had been torn away from my wife without being able to tell her where I was going. I sailed over strange seas without a kit, and without any preparation for the voyage; cast upon strange lands among savages, and had barely escaped with my life; I had wandered about among a variety of extraordinary scenes, and I had found on awaking that scarcely an hour had passed since I fell asleep. But day after day went by, and at length I felt very well assured that I was not dreaming a dream, but living through the sad reality. My great desire was to write home, at least to say where I was, and that I was well; but no opportunity occurred, not a homeward-bound ship did we pass.

We had been several weeks at sea, when one morning two sail were reported in sight from the masthead. They were standing towards us. The idea was that they were two homeward-bound English merchantmen. I accordingly got ready a letter to send home by one of them to my wife.

As they drew near, however, they showed French colours. It was clear, we thought, that they had mistaken us for a French squadron. We accordingly hoisted French colours, and they ran on close under our guns. We then changed our colours for English, and fired a shot across their bows. They were evidently taken by surprise, and did not seem to know what to do. We fired another shot to quicken their imagination. On this they hove-to and hauled down their colours.

Directly afterwards a boat came alongside from each or the strangers. The masters of the ships apparently were in them. They came on deck, and inquired what we wanted, and why we fired at them? They spoke tolerably good English, though in the French fashion.

“Why, gentlemen, I am sorry for your sakes to say that war has again broken out between England and France, and that we purpose to make prizes of your ships.”

The poor Frenchmen looked very indignant, and then very unhappy, and stamped and swore and plucked the hair in handfuls from their heads. I thought they would have gone out of their minds, they seemed so miserable and furious; but they were allowed to rage on, and no one interfered with them.

At last our captain observed that it was the fortune of war, and a misfortune to which many brave men were subject; whereon they re-echoed the sentiment, shrugged their shoulders, and in ten minutes were laughing and singing as if everything had turned out exactly as they could have wished it.

The captain ordered two of the midshipmen to go on board the prizes to carry them home. How the sound of the order set my heart beating! I had my letter ready to send. Could I but form one of their crews. I could scarcely venture to ask the favour.

Several men were chosen for each vessel. I understood that their numbers were complete. Again my heart sank within me. My hopes had vanished. I was standing with my letter in my hand, when I saw Dr McCall go up to the captain. Directly afterwards I was called up.

“I understand, my man,” said our captain, “that you have strong reasons for wishing to return home. You shall go in one of the prizes; get your bag ready.”

How I blessed him for his kind words. In ten minutes I was on board the largest prize. She was ship-rigged, called the Mouche, and bound from the Isle of France to Bordeaux. Mr Randolph was the name of the midshipman sent in charge of her.

As I left the side of the Albion, I saw Charles Iffley looking out at one of the ports. His features bore more strongly than ever the marks of hatred and anger, and when he saw that I was for a time beyond his reach, he shook his fist at me with impotent rage.

The mates and some of the French crews were sent on board the Albion; but two or three blacks and several Frenchmen remained on board the ships to help to navigate them. Still we were all together but very short-handed.

The other prize was the Nautile. She was a very handsome ship, and soon gave evidence that her sailing qualities were superior to those of the Mouche.

I could scarcely believe my senses when I found myself actually on board a ship homeward-bound. I might in a few short weeks once more be united to my wife, instead of being kept away from her as I expected perhaps for years. The sudden turn of fortune almost overcame me.

As I had had some difficulty in believing in the reality of my misery, now I felt it scarcely possible to trust in the reality of my happiness. Too great for me seemed the joy. Yet I never anticipated for a moment that any evil could possibly be in store for me at the end of my voyage. I brought what I thought would be the reality clearly before my eyes. I pictured to myself my wife in our quiet little home, looking out on the ever-animated waters of the Solent, and the fleets of men-of-war and Indiamen and large merchantmen of all sorts brought up at Spithead. I thought of her, anxiously waiting to receive news of me; and then she rose up to my sight, as I thought she would be when she received notice that I had once more returned safe in limb and health to my native land. I had no doubt that I should be able to pay for a substitute, and thus be free from the risk of being again pressed and sent to sea. All before me appeared bright and encouraging.

Mr Randolph, the officer sent in charge of the Mouche, although still a midshipman, had seen a good deal of service, and was a brave young man. He had a difficult duty to perform. The Mouche turned out a very slow sailer, and was excessively leaky, so that we always had to keep three or four hands employed at a time at the pumps. Of course we made the Frenchmen do this work, at which they grumbled not a little; but we told them that had their ship not been leaky, they would not have had to pump, and that they had no reason to complain. They did not much like our arguments, for they said that if we had not made prize of their vessel, they should have been quietly continuing their voyage.

Including the blacks, there were eight Frenchmen on board, while, with Mr Randolph, we only mustered seven in all. We had therefore to keep a very constant look-out over them, lest they should attempt to take the vessel from us, a trick which more than once had before been played, and sometimes with success.

I had always thought Mr Randolph a good-natured, merry, skylarking youngster; but the moment he took charge of the prize, he became a most diligent, careful officer. He was always on deck, always on the look-out, at all hours of the day and night.

I cannot say so much in favour of the officer who had charge of the Nautile. He was a mate, and consequently superior in rank to Mr Randolph. Unfortunately they had had some dispute of long standing, and Mr Simon, the mate I speak of, never lost an opportunity of showing his enmity and dislike to his younger brother officer. Here we had a practical example of how detrimental to the interest of the service are any disputes between officers.

To return, however, to the time when we first got on board our respective prizes, as they lay hove-to close to the Albion. The signal to us to make sail to the northward was hoisted from her masthead, and while she stood away after the tea-chests, we shaped a course for England.

How different must our feelings have been to those of the unfortunate Frenchmen, who saw the ships sailing away from them, while they had to go back to be landed they could not tell where, many months elapsing before they would again return to their families!

The trade winds were at this time blowing across our course,—indeed almost ahead, so that we made but very slow progress. At first we kept close enough together, though there was no interchange of civilities between the two crews. When we were within hail, and the Nautile was going along with her main-topsail yard on the cap, while we had every sail set, and our yards braced sharp up, her people jeered and laughed at us, and called us slow coaches, and offered to give us a tow, and asked what messages they should take to our wives and families in England. This they only did when the officers were below. We replied that it was no fault of ours, that if they liked to exchange ships, we could say the same to them, but that we would not, for we could tell them that it was not pleasant to be taunted for nothing.

At last Mr Simon, standing one day on his taffrail, speaking-trumpet in hand, hailed and asked Mr Randolph if he could not manage to make his ship walk along somewhat faster, for at this rate they would never get to England.

“Greater haste, worst speed, Simon,” answered Mr Randolph. “I’ve been doing my best to make the Mouche move faster, but she’s a slow fly, and I cannot do it. Besides, she is very leaky, and we have had hard work to keep her afloat.”

“Let her sink, then,” answered Mr Simon; “I do not see why she should be delaying us, and giving us a double chance of being retaken by the enemy.”

“While I live and have a man who will stick by me, I’ll stick by the ship put under my charge,” replied Mr Randolph; “still I must beg you to remain by us. My own people and I will do our best to keep he afloat. When we find we can do so no longer, we will claim your assistance, and get you to take us on board.”

“Oh, is that what you calculate on? We’ll see about it,” was Mr Simon’s very unsatisfactory reply.

“We’ll trust to you not deserting us,” sung out Mr Randolph. “If a gale were to spring up, we should have hard work to keep her afloat; remember that.”

“What’s that you say? I can’t hear,” answered Mr Simon, as his ship shot ahead of ours.

“He heard well enough, but does not intend to heed, I fear,” said Mr Randolph, turning round and walking hurriedly up and down the deck. “We must trust to our own energies, and my lads will stick by me, I know that.”

Our cargo consisted of sugar, coffee, and rice, and other valuable but bulky articles produced in the East, so that we could not move them to get at the leaks. A very steady man, Thomas Andrews, a quarter-master, was acting as first mate, and he having spoken well of me to Mr Randolph, I was appointed to do duty as second mate, or, I might say more justly, to take charge of a watch. Mr Randolph seemed to put a good deal of confidence in me, and he now summoned Andrews and me, and consulted us what it might be best to do towards stopping the leaks.

“It is bad enough now,” he observed, “but it will be much worse should a gale spring up and cause the ship to labour heavily.”

Andrews and I offered to hunt about to try and find out where the worst leaks existed. We accordingly worked our way down into the bows of the ship in every direction, at no little risk of being suffocated, and at length we assured ourselves from the appearance of the planking, which looked as if the bows had been stove in, that she had run against the butt-end of a piece of timber. It seemed a miracle how the ship could have kept afloat with so large a fracture in her bottom. We reported our discovery to Mr Randolph, who descended with us to examine the danger.

“Well, if the worst comes to the worst, we can but get on board the Nautile,” he observed. “In the meantime, we’ll do our best to keep the old ship afloat.”

Mr Randolph directed me to take charge of the ship, and to keep an eye on the proceedings of the Frenchmen, while he and Andrews, with two men, descended below with all the planks and carpenter’s tools to be found, to try and repair, as far as they could, the damage. Night was coming on, so that it was important to get the work done as speedily as possible. I meantime turned my eye every now and then at our consort, for she was evidently getting further ahead than she was accustomed to do. I hoped, however, that she would soon shorten sail or lay to for us, as she had always done at nightfall. Still she stood on.

Darkness was coming down rapidly on us, and at length I could scarcely distinguish her. I did not like to tell Mr Randolph, for of course this would only interrupt the work in which he was engaged; but I marked well the point by the compass in which I had last seen the Nautile, that we might know where to look for her in the morning.

Three hours passed away before Mr Randolph and Andrews returned on deck. They said that they had been able to patch up the leak far better than they expected, and that, if the weather held moderate, we might hope to carry the ship into Plymouth.

The night passed by much as usual. The French prisoners had hitherto behaved very well, and seemed so inclined to be peaceable and orderly that insensibly our vigilance over them relaxed. It was my morning watch on deck, I looked out anxiously for the Nautile when daylight dawned. Brighter and brighter grew the day, but in vain I rubbed my eyes. Not a sign of her was to be seen.

Mr Simon had, then, cruelly and shamefully deserted us. Complaints, and more than complaints, both loud and deep, were uttered. He knew our condition,—he knew that we were any moment liable to founder,—and still he had made sail and left us merely to get home a few days sooner, or to run some little less risk himself of recapture. It is very seldom that I have heard of conduct so selfish in the navy, or, indeed, in the merchant service.

I do not want to make out that seamen are better than other men, but I maintain that they are certainly not worse, and that in many respects they are as honest and free from vice as any other class of men. One thing was very certain, we could not hope to overtake him. We must therefore take care of ourselves as best we could. The leak had been partially stopped, and if we continued to enjoy fine weather, we might get into port very well; and, as Andrews observed, “The prize is not always to the strong, nor the race to the swift.” Our consort might run his head into the very dangers he was so anxious to avoid.

We went on very well for two or three days longer, and then I could not help remarking that there was a considerable change in the manner of the Frenchmen. They were far less obedient and civil than they had been, and when ordered to perform any duty, they went about it in a sulky, disagreeable manner.

Mr Randolph, I thought, did not observe the change, but I mentioned the subject to Andrews.

“I’ll keep my eye on the fellows,” said he. “They’ll find it rather difficult to catch a weasel asleep.”

A few days after this we fell in with a westerly breeze, which increased rapidly into a strong gale, and away we ran before it much faster than the old Mouche had yet been made to fly.

Unfortunately the sea got up, and the ship began to labour very much. The consequence was, as we had expected, the leak we had patched up once more burst open, and it became necessary to keep all hands, watch and watch, at the pumps. Mr Randolph took his spell like the rest of us, and no one seemed to work with a more hearty goodwill.

I watched with some anxiety to see what the Frenchmen would do. First one of them fell down while working at the pumps, and when we picked him up he said that he was so ill he could not labour any more, but must go to his hammock. Then another followed his example, and then a third, and a fourth, till only one remained besides the three blacks, who went on working away as merrily as ever.

The fifth Frenchman seemed suddenly to get into very good humour, and to exert himself as much as any of us. Had the gale continued, I believe that we should all of us really have been knocked up, but happily we very quickly ran out of it, and once more we had smooth water and a fair breeze.

While the sea was still running high, the only Frenchman who remained on deck, as he was coming aft, slipped and fell. Two of the blacks only were near him. They picked him up, while he cried out with pain, asserting that he had either broken his arm or put it out of joint. He insisted on being carried to his hammock, and when Mr Randolph offered to try and doctor him, he shrieked out and declared that he could not bear the pain of being touched. At last we were obliged to let him alone, and then we had all our five prisoners laid up and apparently useless.

It thus became more important than ever to try once more to stop the leak. Mr Randolph and Andrews accordingly set about it as they had done the first time, taking with them two hands. This left only two others, besides me, on deck, and the three blacks. Negroes have, I have always fancied, very little command over their countenances, and if a person is accustomed to watch them, he will always be able to discover, almost as easily as he would among a party of children, whether there is anything in the wind. Now, as I saw the negroes moving about the decks, I felt very sure from the roll of their eyes and the way in which every now and then they exhibited their teeth, that they had a grand secret among them. I stepped aft, and telling the man at the helm to be on his guard, I called Sam Jones, the only other man left on deck, and sent him down into the cabin to collect all the arms he could find, to load the pistols and muskets, and to place them just inside the companion-hatch, so that I could get at them in a moment.

“Now,” said I to Jones, “just go forward as if you were thinking of nothing particular, and then slip quietly down below and tell Mr Randolph that I think there’s something wrong, that he had better be on his guard and return on deck as quickly as possible. Do you jump up again without a moment’s delay. Get a handspike or anything you can lay hold of, and keep guard over the fore-hatchway, and see that neither the blacks nor any of the Frenchmen go down there.”

“But the Frenchmen, they can’t do any harm; they are all sick in bed,” observed Jones.

“Don’t be too certain of their sickness,” I observed. “They may be sick, but it is just possible that they are shamming, and it is well to be on the safe side.”

Without further delay, Jones went forward to do as I directed him. I meanwhile stood by the companion-hatch, ready to hand a musket up to Thompson, the man at the helm, should occasion arise to require it. The Frenchmen, I ought to have said, all slept together in a part of the hold which was planked off for their accommodation. I kept watching the blacks narrowly. I saw their eyes turned every now and then towards the main hatchway. I was convinced that no time was to be lost if bloodshed was to be prevented.

“A heavy squall coming on,” I shouted out. “Hands aloft and furl topsails! Here, Sambo, Julius, Quasha, aloft with you quickly and furl the main-topsail.” They pretended not to hear me, but once more looked down the hatchway. “Do you hear? Up with you, you scoundrels!” I shouted out at the top of my voice, loud enough, I thought, at all events, for Jones to hear me. At that moment the heads of three Frenchmen appeared above the combing of the main hatchway.

Chapter Thirteen.

Overpower mutineers—A suspicious sail—Chased—Captured by French privateer—Carried into Saint Malo—Plan for escaping—Carouse of privateer’s crew—La Motte’s dangerous expedition—Escape from harbour.

The moment I saw the heads of the Frenchmen, I handed out a musket from the companion-hatch, and gave it to Thompson, while I took one myself and levelled it at them. “Ah, my friends, understand that I will fire at the first man of you who steps on deck!” I sang out. “Return to your beds, if you are sick, but on deck you must not venture.”

Thompson imitated my example, and we both stood with our muskets levelled and ready to put our threats into execution. At first the Frenchmen popped down again very quickly, but gaining courage, they all five put their heads up again at the same moment.

Looking round and seeing only Thompson and me on deck, they sprang up as if they were about to make a desperate rush towards us, thinking of course that they could easily overcome two men.

Telling Thompson to aim at the blacks in the rigging to keep them there, I covered the foremost Frenchman with my musket. I could have killed him on the spot, but I was most unwilling to shed blood except in the very last necessity. Once more I sang out. He continued advancing.

“I have given you ample warning!” I cried out. My finger was on the trigger.

At that moment Mr Randolph, followed by Andrews and the other men, sprang on deck, and seeing the state of affairs, each of them grasping a handspike, they ran towards the Frenchmen.

The latter soon saw that their opportunity was lost. The negroes, for the sake of being more out of the way, as they fancied, of Thompson’s musket, had climbed as high as they could up the rigging, so that he was able to hold another Frenchman in check. The Frenchman nearest to me, seeing my resolute bearing, and having no fancy for throwing his life away even for the sake of his companions, very wisely backed against them, and they seeing Mr Randolph and his party advancing from forward, to avoid getting their heads broken, leaped precipitately down the hatchway, whence they had but just before emerged.

Leaving Thompson to keep the blacks aloft with his musket, I sprang to the hatchway and sang out, “We do not want to do you any harm, but if you attempt any trick, for our own sakes we must shoot every one of you!” I said this because I saw one of them striking away over a tinder-box, with the intention, I had little doubt, of trying to set the ship on fire.

Mr Randolph highly applauded me for what I had done. On looking below and seeing what the Frenchmen were about, he and Andrews, with Jones and another man, leaped down among them, and seizing the first they could lay hands on, lifted him up crop and heels to me. The move so much astonished his companions, that they did not come to his assistance; and another being treated in the same way, we had their forces divided, and very speedily brought them to terms. We first lashed the hands of the two we had on deck behind them, and made them sit down with their backs against the bulwarks on the starboard side, and then we got up the other three one by one, and placed them, bound in the same way, on the opposite side. Next we called down the blacks, and arranged them round the mainmast.

“Now, my friends, by all the laws of war you ought to be shot!” said Mr Randolph. “We treated you very kindly; we gave you of the best of everything on board, and in return you have attempted to knock us on the head, and to take the ship from us. However, it was natural that you should wish to recover what was once your own, so that if you will promise, on the honour of Frenchmen, not to make another attempt of the sort, we will allow you your freedom during the day-time, on certain conditions. Three of you must remain forward, and never come abaft the foremast unless I call you; and two must never go before the mizzen-mast; at night we must shut you all up. I warn you, also, that as surely as any one of you attempts to infringe these regulations, I will shoot him. We are very good friends; I do not bear you the slightest enmity, but our own safety demands this.”

Our prisoners shrugged their shoulders. “C’est la fortune de la guerre,” was the only answer they at first made. They most of them understood pretty clearly what Mr Randolph had said; besides, one, who understood English the best, interpreted to the rest.

Mr Randolph waited a little time. “Do you agree to my terms?” he asked.

“Oui, monsieur; oui, oui,” was answered by all of them simultaneously.

“If I grant you your freedom at once, will you give me your honour to act as I desire?” asked Mr Randolph. “I do not wish you to do so while you sit there bound like slaves.”

The idea seemed to take their fancy amazingly, and as soon as we had unlashed their arms, by Mr Randolph’s orders, they got up, and all together, putting their hands on their breasts, swore solemnly not again to attempt to retake the ship. It is impossible to describe their manner, or the air with which they uttered the words.

They did not seem, however, much to like being kept separate from each other, but Mr Randolph very wisely would not abate in any way the regulations he had formed. He allowed one of them at a time to go into the caboose to cook, for they did not at all approve of our style of cooking, and one of them, who spoke English, remarked that it was only fit for bears and wolves. We laughed, and observed, in return, that people have different tastes, and that we had no fancy for the kickshaws and trifles which satisfied them. (Quelque chose and troufles, perhaps I ought to have written.)

When a Frenchman is asked what he will have for dinner, he begins by saying quelque chose au troufles, and then goes on to enumerate all sorts of things, just as an Englishman replies, a mutton-chop or beefsteak, and finally orders turtle-soup, salmon, and a venison pasty; not that I can own to having ever been guilty of such a proceeding.

After we had settled with the Frenchmen, we allowed the blacks to come down, and ordering them into the waist, told them to keep there on pain of being shot, and on no account to communicate with any one else. They, grinning, pointed to our muskets, and assured us that while we kept those in our hands they would most implicitly obey us.

These matters being arranged, we each of us stuck a brace of pistols in our belts, and hung cutlasses to our sides, while a musket was placed so that the man at the wheel could get hold of it in a moment. The rest of the arms and powder were locked up in the after-cabin.

These precautions were, I am convinced, not greater than were necessary. When the Frenchmen saw that we had taken them, and that we were wide awake, they did not dream of breaking their word; but had we exhibited any carelessness, or any undue confidence in them, the honour they had pledged would not, I suspect, have resisted the temptation which they would have felt again to try and take the ship from us.

As it was, all went on very quietly. We soon got once more into the way of joking and talking with the Frenchmen, and apparently were on as good terms as ever, but Mr Randolph every now and then gave us a hint to be on our guard.

“Don’t trust them, my men,” said he. “The more they laugh, and chatter, and smile, the more they are inclined for mischief, depend on that.”

He was right, and I think, considering his youth, that he deserved great credit for his discretion and judgment; for I believe that many an older man might have been deceived by the plausibility of their manners and their apparent cordiality.

Fortunately we had very fine weather, and a fair wind, and in about a week after the occurrence I have described we struck soundings in the chops of the Channel. Our difficulties and dangers, however, were not over; we had to keep a stricter watch than ever on our prisoners, for they could tell by the colour of the water that we were near home, and that if they did not at once regain their liberty they must give up all hopes of so doing. We had likewise to keep a constant look-out for strange sails. The enemy’s privateers abounded, we knew, in the mouth of the Channel, though their men-of-war were not so fond at the time of showing themselves in those latitudes where they were very likely to be picked up by British cruisers.

With the few hands we had on board, we could scarcely hope to make a successful resistance against any armed vessel; still, when Mr Randolph asked us if we would stick by him should we fall in with an enemy, we promised to do our best.

“Never fear, then,” said he; “though we might not be able to beat them off, we’ll try and frighten them away. As we cannot expect the Frenchmen to help us, we’ll make their clothes serve some purpose at all events.”

We had discovered some chests of clothes in the ship, and most of the prisoners had more than one suit; these we instantly set to work to fill with straw, and in a short time we had manufactured a crew of forty men at least. We rigged out some as officers, and put spy-glasses in their hands, and, knocking out the flints of some of the muskets, we put them into the hands of others, and stuck them about the ship. We then loaded all the guns and ran them out, and got ready also all the remainder of the firearms.

“Had the Nautile stuck by us we might have put a very good face on the matter, whatever craft we might have fallen in with, if she had done as we have,” Mr Randolph observed to me as I stood at the helm.

“It is a pity, sir; but I hope we may still run the gauntlet of our enemies and get safe into port,” I answered; and earnestly, indeed, did I pray that such might be our lot.

As I drew nearer home, still more intense had become my anxiety to ascertain the fate of my beloved wife. I will not here dwell on the subject. Sometimes the thought of all she must have suffered on my account and on her own became almost insupportable. I felt that it was wiser not to dwell on it, and yet I could not cast it from me. My only, my great resource was prayer—great and supporting it was. Let any one, placed as I was, try it, and they will find that I in no way overrate it. Whenever I felt the miserable depressing feeling coming on, I fled instantly to that great source of comfort, of all true happiness, and it never failed me.

However, as I say, I will not dwell on that subject now. I may be inclined thus to write, but all who read may not be in a proper frame of mind to reflect on the matter, and thus I may perchance do more harm than good.

As I was saying, we had been keeping a bright look-out, even before we struck soundings, both day and night. If the wind should hold fair, in two or three days we might hope to be in Plymouth Sound.

All hands were talking of home, of those they expected to meet, and of the delights of a run on shore. The night was very fine, but towards morning a thin mist settled down over the sea, and though it did not obscure the bright stars which glittered overhead, it prevented us from seeing to any great distance around. However, we every now and then hove the lead, and we were convinced that we were in the fairway up Channel.

At length, when daylight slowly broke, the mist assumed a white, silvery appearance, the smooth water close alongside could clearly be perceived, and the mist was seen as it were skirmishing round us, broken away, it seemed, by our coming against it, and then it grew thicker and thicker, till the eye could no longer penetrate through it. We might have been, for what we could tell, in the centre of an enemy’s fleet. I made the remark to Mr Randolph.

“Should such be the case, the mist will prove our best friend,” he answered. “I only wish that it may continue till we get abreast of Plymouth; it may help us to run the gauntlet of our enemies.”

We glided steadily and swiftly on for about an hour or more after this, with everything set alow and aloft, and studden sails rigged out on either side, there being a light air from the westward.

Suddenly, I felt a puff of wind from the northward just fan my left cheek as I stood at the helm. Again it came, and I had to keep the ship away to prevent her being taken aback. We, however, got a pull at the lee braces, and again kept her on her course without taking in the studden sails; again the wind came from the nor’ard of west, and most reluctantly we had to take in all our studden sails, one after the other, and to brace the yards up on the larboard tack. Scarcely had we done so when the breeze increased still more.

I was looking to leeward trying to pierce the mist, when, as if by magic, a wide rent was made in it. Upward it lifted, rolling away rapidly on either side, and revealing in the space thus made clear, a long, low craft floating in the water, without a stitch of canvas set on her short stumps of masts. I pointed her out to Mr Randolph.

“I am afraid that she is mischievous, sir,” said I. “There’s a wicked look about her which does not at all please me. She is more like a French privateer than any other craft I know of.”

“She is not a big one, at all events,” he answered. “We ought to be able to tackle her, and our dummies may do us good service by keeping her at a respectful distance. However, she may be a Jersey or a Guernsey-man, they have many lugger privateers. What do you think, Andrews?”

“She may be a Jersey-man, but, to my mind, that craft was built and fitted out in France, whoever now owns her,” answered Andrews. “Weatherhelm ought to know, he has served aboard some of them.”

“I am afraid she is French, sir,” said I, after I had taken a steady look at her. “And whatever she is, there is up sail and after us. If the fellow has a quickish pair of heels, he’ll very soon cut us off.”

While I was speaking, the square-headed sails of the lugger were run up on her short, stumpy masts. Above them quickly appeared their topsails, almost as big as the lower sails, and away she came bowling after us, at a rate which gave us not the slightest hope of escape, if she should prove an enemy, unless some bigger friend might appear to assist us.

Now we more than ever felt the desertion of the Nautile. Had she remained with us, we two together might have been able to give a very good account of so small an enemy,—indeed, we should probably not have been attacked. Our only resource was, however, to put as bold a face on the matter as we could. The Frenchmen had not yet come on deck, so Mr Randolph ordered them to be kept down below that they might not make any signs to the enemy. He took the helm, and ordered us to stand to our guns. Each of us had a musket by our sides, and he ordered us first to let fly a volley, and then, without a moment’s delay, to fire a broadside.

We hoped thus to prevent the enemy from discovering the smallness of our numbers, and we trusted that we might by chance knock away some of his spars and prevent him from following us. I could not help admiring the gallant way in which the little craft dashed on towards us. It looked as if we might have run over her, and sent her to the bottom without the slightest difficulty.

“Be ready, my men,” shouted Mr Randolph, as she got within musket-shot of us. Leaving the helm, he sprang on the taffrail, and, cap in hand, waved the lugger off, pointing to his guns as if he was about to fire.

We had meantime hoisted the English ensign to our peak. The lugger paid not the slightest heed to his signals, but stood on edging up to us. Again he waved. A musket-ball came whizzing by and very nearly knocked him over. Had it been sent from a rifle his moments would have been numbered. I never saw a cooler or braver young man.

“Give it them, then, my lads, and with a will,” he shouted. “They think, perhaps, we are not in earnest.”

We each of us took steady aim, and, as the men were exposed on the decks, we believed that we had knocked several of them over. Some of us had a couple of muskets, and as we fired one after the other as rapidly as we could, we hoped that we had given the enemy a respectful idea of our numbers. Mr Randolph had three muskets, and as soon as he had fired them he began to reload, tending the wheel at the same time.

“Now give them a taste of the big guns!” he shouted out. With a shout we let fly our whole broadside, but the way in which of necessity we ran the guns in again to reload might have betrayed us.

We had hoped that after the hot reception we had given the lugger she would have sheered off, but not a bit of it. On she came as boldly as at first, and before we had time to run one of our guns out again she had come alongside, and hove her grappling-irons aboard us.

To hope to defend ourselves was useless, so retreating aft we rallied round Mr Randolph, while we allowed the enemy, who swarmed in numbers up the side, to expend their rage on our dummies. They seemed highly amused at our trick, for loud shouts of laughter broke from them when they discovered the enemy to whom they had been opposed. As we made no further resistance, they did not attempt to injure us. Their officer came aft and put out his hand to Mr Randolph.

“You are a brave young man,” said he, in very fair English. “You have defended your ship nobly, and had I not before perfectly known the number of people you had on board, and your means of defence, you would have deceived me, and I should have sheered off.”

Mr Randolph took the hand offered to him, and thanking the captain of the French privateer (for such he was) for the good opinion he entertained of him, inquired how he came to know anything about us.

“I took your consort, the Nautile, three days ago, and have ever since been on the look-out for you,” was the answer. “They told me on board when to expect you, and how many you were in crew. When, therefore, I saw the figures you had dressed up, I watched them narrowly, and seeing that they did not move, suspected a trick. But what have you done with my countrymen? You have several as prisoners.”

Mr Randolph assured him that they were safe, and that we had shut them up that they might be out of harm’s way, and might not interfere with the defence of the ship.

Altogether, the French captain was so delighted with his success in capturing us and the rich prizes he had obtained (for we found that he had already taken several other vessels besides the Nautile), that he promised we might depend upon being treated with every courtesy. He then went below and released the other Frenchmen, who were so overjoyed at their escape from the English prison in which they expected in a few days to be lodged, that they rushed into the arms of their countrymen, and such a scene of hugging, and kissing, and shouting, and jabbering I never before beheld. We could not tell what they might say of us, and we were afraid that the tide which had been in our favour might turn, but they apparently gave a fair report of the way we had treated them, and our captors were as friendly as before.

No longer time than was necessary was lost. We Englishmen were transferred to the lugger, and a few more Frenchmen were sent on board the ship, and together we stood away before the wind for Saint Malo, on the French coast.

I need not say that, independently of having to go to a French prison, how wretched I was at finding in a moment all the hopes I had entertained of once more returning home completely blasted. I could have sat down and wept bitterly, but tears would not come to my eyes. I thought my heart would indeed break.

Mr Randolph had been invited into the captain’s cabin, and was treated with every courtesy. Some of the men had gone forward, but I felt no inclination to leave the deck. I sat down on a gun-carriage, turning my eyes in the direction of the shore on which I had hoped so soon to land, and which now I might not visit for many a day. I cannot picture my wretchedness. I only hope that none of my readers may feel the same. I rested my head upon my hands in a vain endeavour to drive away thought. It was truly a dark moment of my existence. I felt even as if I could not pray. I had sat thus for some time, when I felt a hand pressed on my shoulder.

“Willand, is it you—you indeed, lad?” said a voice, in a kindly tone which I felt I ought to know.

I looked up. Before me stood a fine, sailor-like looking fellow. I scanned his countenance narrowly, and then springing to my feet put out my hand. “La Motte, my dear fellow, it is you yourself, I am sure of it!” I exclaimed. “Where did you come from? How did you find yourself on board here?”

“I have been to, and come from, all parts of the world since we parted, and I’ll tell you all about that another time,” he answered. “And as to being on board here, I am a prisoner like yourself. The craft I belonged to, of which I was first mate, was captured two days ago and sent into Saint Malo. I have no greater reason to be happy than you have. However, the Frenchmen treat us very civilly on board, and that is a satisfaction; we might have been much worse off.”

We might indeed, for very often the French privateers treated their prisoners with great cruelty, robbing them of their money and clothes, and half starving them. They were then sent on shore, and thrust into some wretched, dirty prison, where they were allowed to linger out their days till the end of the war. Such we had expected to be our fate.

The Frenchmen believed that the English did not treat their prisoners any better. They had a story written by one of their countrymen, a French officer, who had broken his parole and got back to France, to the effect that French prisoners were fed in England on horse-flesh and beans. He declared that on one occasion the inspecting officer of prisons rode into a court-yard of a prison, where he left his horse, and that as soon as he had disappeared, the famished prisoners set upon it, and tearing the horse to pieces, devoured it and the saddle also; and that when the officer got back, he found only the stirrup-iron and the bit in the horse’s mouth.

Whatever we may think of the digestibility of the morsels carried off by the hungry prisoners, the tale seems to have been eagerly swallowed by the countrymen of the narrator.

La Motte endeavoured to cheer me up, by talking of old times and of our adventures in the Mediterranean and elsewhere,—indeed, I felt his presence a very great comfort. He was of a most cheerful, happy disposition, and allowed nothing to put him out.

“I was on my way home from the West Indies in a fine brig, the Ann, and I had a little venture on board of my own, with which I hoped to make a good addition to my fortune, and perhaps, before long, to settle down and marry. Well, it’s all gone; but what’s the use of sighing? What has happened to me has happened to a thousand other better men much less able to bear it. So I say to myself, ‘Better luck next time.’ I never can abide those people who sigh, and moan, and groan if any mishap overtakes them, as if they were the only unfortunate people in the world. To everybody they meet they tell their woes, as if nothing else was of so much consequence. You are not one of those, Weatherhelm, I know, nor am I. Everything comes right in the mill at last, if we will but wait patiently till the mill turns round.”

La Motte rattled on in this way till he talked me into better spirits again. At all events, he prevented me from dwelling on my misfortunes.

“Now, in reality, we ought to consider ourselves very fortunate,” he continued. “We might have been captured by a set of ruffianly fellows, who would have robbed us and ill-treated us in every way. Instead of that, the crew are the best sort of privateer’s-men I ever fell in with. The captain and first mate are very good, kind-hearted men. They have both of them been made prisoners themselves, and have spent a year or more in England. They tell me that they lore the English, for that they were treated with the greatest kindness all the time they were in England, and that they wish to repay that kindness, though I must say they take an odd way to show their lore by fitting out a vessel to go and rob them on the high seas; but I suppose that is their profession, and they cannot help it.”

While La Motte was speaking, a fine-looking man came up, and, taking him by the arm, addressed him as his bon ami, and told him that dinner was ready.

La Motte thanked him, and then told him that I was an old shipmate, and hoped that he would extend the same kindness to me that he had done to him.

My new friend was, I found, the mate of the privateer. He said certainly, and begged that I would at once come down and join them at dinner. At first I was inclined to refuse, as I thought Mr Randolph would consider me presuming if I was to go and sit down at table with him; but La Motte, finding that he was a sensible, good-natured young officer, undertook to explain matters to him.

We found Mr Randolph and the captain already seated at the table. La Motte, in a few words, explained that I was an old friend and shipmate of his, and that if I was not, I ought to be an officer, and hoped that he would not be offended.

Mr Randolph laughed, and said certainly not, and I soon felt at my ease.

The Frenchmen were in high glee at the number of prizes they had taken, and, as they had a fair wind, they folly expected in a couple of days, at furthest, to be safe within the harbour of Saint Malo. I knew from sad experience that there is many a slip between the cup and the lip, and I hoped that we might yet, before we reached the looked-for harbour, fall in with a man-of-war or a bigger privateer and be recaptured; of course I did not give expression to my wishes, but in such a chance my only hope rested of reaching home.

After dinner I went on deck again, and continued pacing up and down, anxiously scanning the horizon in the hope of discovering some sail coming in pursuit of us. Though I was aware that my presence on deck could not in any way bring about this result, still I could not tear myself away again till night closed down upon us.

La Motte then insisted on my coming below. “I told the Frenchmen something of your story,” said he; “if I had not done so, they would have thought you discourteous, and your conduct somewhat strange. However, they now enter into your feelings and pity you heartily.”

“I am indeed obliged to you, La Motte,” said I. “But somehow or other I do not like to have myself talked about. My feelings appear to me to be too sacred to be mentioned except to a friend.”

“That is very natural and right,” he answered. “But, believe me, Weatherhelm, I did what was for the best, and I am certain you will benefit by it.”

At last I turned in for the night, and, wearied out with anxiety, fell asleep. I was conscious that I was on board the privateer, but I dreamed that we were chased and overtaken by a ship of war, and that just as her boat was boarding us we blew up. Then I found myself, with many of my companions, floating about in the water, without any ship in sight or means of escape.

At length I awoke, and the recollection of all that had occurred came pressing down on my heart like a heavy weight. Feeling that the cool, fresh air might revive me, I dressed and went on deck. It was bitterly cold, with a sharp northerly breeze blowing, the sky was of one uniform grey, while the water, which rose and fell without breaking, was of a dull leaden hue.

No prospect could have been more cheerless and uninviting. The Mouche, under all sail, was bowling on ahead, (I suspected that the French crew would have no little difficulty in keeping her afloat) while the lugger was acting the part of a whipper-in. I cast my eyes round the horizon. Away to the eastward they encountered a sail just rising above the water. I watched her for some time, till I was convinced that she was a large ship, and standing towards us.

At length she attracted the attention of the second mate, who was the officer of the watch. He began to eye her somewhat anxiously, and in a short time he sent down and called up the first mate. They looked at their own sails, and then at the stranger, and then at the Mouche, as if consulting what was to be done, and then finally called up the captain. They evidently could not at all satisfy themselves as to the character of the approaching ship.

I anxiously scanned their countenances; as I observed them falling, so my own hopes rose, that the sail in sight might prove an English ship of war. I tried in vain to conceal my own anxiety by walking up and down the deck, as I had done the day before.

The French officers seemed at length to have decided on some plan which satisfied them. The Mouche had already made all the sail she could carry; she had royals set and studden sails out on either side, while the lugger followed, under her ordinary canvas, in her wake. While I was walking up and down, the first mate joined me.

“Ah, my friend!” said he, in very good English, “you hope the vessel in sight is a countryman. That is very natural. We hope that if she is, we shall escape her. We intend to do our best to get away, be assured of that. If, however, we are taken, you will remember that all Frenchmen are not savages, and that we were kind to you when you were our prisoners.”

“Indeed we all shall,” I replied. “I hope, indeed, whenever Frenchmen fall into the hands of the English, that my countrymen will always treat them with kindness and consideration.”

“That is good; that is the right thing,” said the mate. “If go to war we must, we need not make it more barbarous than it must be of necessity.”

I was surprised to find these expressions proceeding from the mouth of a privateer’s man. However, I believe that there were not many people of his class like him. I certainly hoped that I might have an opportunity of showing him that I meant what I said, and that we should very soon again change our relative positions.

Mr Randolph, and La Motte, and the rest of the English prisoners, soon afterwards came on deck, and eagerly watched with me the progress of the stranger. There seemed to us very little doubt that she would cut us off before we could possibly reach Saint Malo.

As the day drew on, however, the weather gave signs of changing. The wind, which had been blowing steadily from the northward, chopped round to the north-west, and then to the westward, growing stronger and stronger, and very quickly kicking up an ugly sea, while thick rain began to fall, increasing every instant in density.

We Englishmen looked at each other, and as the rain fell thicker, so did our countenances fall lower and lower. The change of wind placed the lugger and her prize to windward, and the stranger far away to leeward, the thick rain almost shutting her out from sight.

The Frenchmen rubbed their hands, and blessed the wind and the rain, and commiserated us on our prospects of being carried to France. All we could hope was, that it would clear up again before the evening, and that the wind would shift back into its old quarter.

We waited in vain for the change. Hour after hour passed by. The wind blew great guns and small arms, and the rain came down in dense masses, which completely shut out the stranger from our sight. I thought that probably the Frenchmen would alter their course, but we stood steadily on, only keeping up a little to be well to windward of our port, in case the wind should veer round more to the north-west. Evening at length came. It grew darker and darker; and with heavy hearts we prisoners had to abandon all hopes of rescue.

The night passed away, while it was blowing and raining all the time till near the morning. As soon as it was daylight I hurried on deck. The horizon was clear. With what eagerness I looked around; not a sail was in sight! The English ship, if such she was, finding herself so far to leeward, had probably abandoned all hope of overtaking us.

At length the coast of France hove in sight. We looked at it as likely to prove our home for many a weary day. It was past noon when we anchored in the harbour of Saint Malo, and I could not be surprised at the exultation of the Frenchmen, when they found themselves surrounded by no less than five prizes, which they had taken in the course of two or three weeks.

Their friends in numbers came off to welcome them, and brought all sorts of wines and spirits, and provisions from the shore, far more indeed than the crew could by possibility consume. The wine and spirits, however, seemed to be most welcome, and the crew, having an abundance of wherewithal to carouse, sat down to make themselves happy. Never have I heard a set of human beings jabber away at the rate they did; they laughed, and sang, and pledged each other without cessation.

La Motte, who was listening to them, told me that they were boasting of all the deeds they had done, or would do, or had heard of being done, till they were satisfied that their nation was not only the greatest, the richest, the wisest, the most happy in the world, but that none ever had or would come up to her.

Just before dark, the captain took Mr Randolph on shore; but he observed that he could not take us there, and that we must wait on board till the following morning.

The first mate came up to La Motte and me, and observed that he should have to go on shore likewise. “If you go, remember that you will have to be shut up in a prison, and that you will not find very pleasant,” he remarked significantly. He looked aft as he spoke, when we observed hanging on at the stern one of the boats belonging to the prize. “Wise men know how to take a hint. All I can say is, that I feel most kindly disposed towards you; and if you land in France, I will do my best to ameliorate your condition, but that will be but little, remember.”

We thanked him cordially for his kindness, and then he called the only two sober men of the crew, and ordered them to pull him on shore in another boat. Of course there was not the slightest doubt as to what he meant. The means of escape were offered us. The only question remaining was how to make use of them. The boat hanging on astern was about 25 feet long. I had often examined her on board the Mouche. She was in good condition, and not a bad sea-boat, I judged from her appearance. Her sails and oars were in her, and I had little doubt that our good friend the mate had had them put into her on purpose to aid us. Thus far, all was well, but we had many difficulties still to contend with. Our next care was to ascertain who would accompany us in our adventure.

There were altogether fifteen prisoners remaining on board besides ourselves. I knew that I could depend on Andrews, and so I could on Jones. They both eagerly jumped at our proposal, and expressed themselves ready to run all risks for the sake of reaching England. Their only regret was, that Mr Randolph was not on board to accompany us. We concluded that the captain had been compelled to take him on shore, as English officers were always looked on as great prizes by the French, and he might have got into trouble had he escaped.

We went quietly round among all the prisoners, and invited them one by one to join us, with the exception of three or four, who had accepted the invitations of the Frenchmen to drink with them, and had now as little sense remaining in their heads as their hosts.

When La Motte and I went up to them to see what could be done, they could only exclaim, holding up their glasses, “Come here, old fellows! The Frenchmen’s liquor is good, and they are jolly cocks, and we never wish for better companions. Come now, take a glass, you’ll not taste finer anywhere.”

When we declined joining them, they jeered and laughed at us, and called us milksops, so that we soon saw that they would in all probability betray us if we attempted to induce them to join us.

Two men, who were sober, declined, saying that they would rather go to a French prison than trust themselves in a small open boat in mid-winter in the Channel. As they were somewhat sickly, perhaps they were right in their decision. They promised, however, to help us as far as they were able, and vowed that they would rather die than betray us.

The carouse of the Frenchmen continued. First, they made long speeches about liberty, equality, and fraternity, and then they sang till they were hoarse, and then they began hugging each other and shrieking, and lastly, they got up and danced and skipped and frisked about, till tripping up their heels they toppled down on deck, and lay sprawling about unable to move. Now and then one tried to rise, but all he could do was to reach a bottle, and to pour a little more liquor down his throat, which soon finished him off completely, and he, like the rest, lay utterly senseless and inanimate.

It was now night, and time to make our preparations. The privateer’s-men’s friends had brought on board a large supply of provisions. These we set to work to collect, and we calculated that we should have enough to last us for several days. But without water we could not venture to sea. There was none on deck, so we had to grope about below to find it. Great indeed was our satisfaction, therefore, when we suddenly came upon two breakers, each holding nine or ten gallons, and full of water. We soon had them up on deck, and rolled them to the side, ready to be lowered into the boat. We now hauled her up alongside, and got everything we had collected stowed away in her.

“But we must not go without a compass,” said La Motte, “I remember seeing one in the captain’s cabin. I am sure that he would let us have it. Perhaps he has left it out on purpose.”

Such we had every reason to believe was the case, for in a minute La Motte returned bringing a well-fitted boat compass, which was just suited for our purpose. We also got hold of a lantern and a quantity of candles, and we threw as many greatcoats and blankets into the boat as we could collect, for it was bitterly cold, and we had reason to dread its effects more than anything else.

We should have started at once, but La Motte told us that he had overheard some of the Frenchmen talking of a guard-boat which came round the harbour once, at all events, during the night, somewhere about ten o’clock, and that it would be wiser in us to wait till she had gone by. Accordingly we veered our boat astern, and agreed to wait till then.

We all went below and lay down, hoping to get a little sleep and rest before it was time to start. La Motte volunteered to remain on deck till the guard-boat came round, and as he spoke French like a Frenchman, he said that he should lead the officers to suppose that all the prisoners had gone on shore, and that might prevent them from keeping any strict watch on the lugger. He told me also that he was very anxious on another account. He had observed a fort which we should have to pass close by on our starboard hand on going out. The sentry was certain to hail us, and unless we could give the password and countersign, he would, as in duty bound, fire at us, and then give notice of our escape. In all probability, boats would be sent in pursuit of us, and we should be recaptured. This suggestion came like a blow, sufficient to upset all our hopes of escaping.

“Well,” observed La Motte, “there is only one thing to be done. I must find out the watchword and countersign. There is some risk, but it must be run.”

There was a small boat, a dinghy, belonging to the lugger, which was sometimes carried aft, but she was now placed inside the long-boat on deck. She was so light that two men could easily lift her. La Motte said he must have her in the water, and that he would go on shore and steal up to where any sentinels were stationed, and that he would listen when the patrols came round to relieve them. He should thus be certain to obtain the information he required. Dangerous as I thought the adventure, of course I would not hinder him from going, as, could I have spoken French, I would have gone myself. Accordingly I helped him to get the dinghy into the water, which we did without any noise.

“Now, Weatherhelm, my dear fellow,” said he, “go and lie down and wait patiently till I come back; a little sleep will do you good—you want it.”

I thanked him cordially, and wrung his hand as he stepped into the punt, for my heart misgave me that I should never see him again. As to going to sleep, that was, I felt, out of the question; I could scarcely bring myself to lie down. I watched the little boat with intense anxiety as he pulled away towards the shore. I felt much for him, but I must confess that for my own sake I was still more anxious for his success. I was indeed enduring a bitter trial. May none of those who read my history have to go through the same! The thought of being a second time disappointed in my hopes of returning home, and of learning the fate of my beloved wife, was more than I could bear. My movements showed the agitation of my mind. Sometimes I sat down on a gun; then I rose and walked the deck; then I went below and threw myself on a locker in the cabin; but I was quickly on deck again looking out for La Motte. Then I recollected that he was not at all likely to return so soon, so I once more went below to try and warm my chilled limbs.

Another fear assailed me. I was afraid that if we delayed, some of the drunken Frenchmen might recover from their stupor and find out our project. All of a sudden another idea occurred to me,—if we got the watchword, could we not carry the lugger and all her senseless crew away together? We might handcuff them all without the slightest difficulty. I own that for the moment I forgot how ungrateful such an act would be to her captain and mate, who had treated us so kindly. While I was thinking on the subject, Andrews woke up and looked about him.

“Is it time yet for us to be off!” he asked, in a whisper.

“No, not yet. But I say, Andrews, are you ready to carry a bold project into execution?” I asked in a low voice. I then told him what I had thought of. He jumped at the idea.

“With all my heart!” he answered. “Nothing I should like better. I hate these Frenchmen, and as for the drunken rascals on board, we can soon settle them; if they are likely to be troublesome, as soon as we get clear of the harbour, we may heave them all overboard.”

“What are you thinking about?” I exclaimed, horrified at the cold-blooded way in which he spoke of murdering so many of our fellow-creatures. Suddenly, the proposal I had made burst on me in its true light. Of what black ingratitude should we have been guilty in depriving the men who had trusted us, of their property; and then, had we followed the suggestion offered by Andrews, of destroying in cold blood a number of our fellow-men, who at all events had committed no crime against us!

“No, Andrews, no!” I answered, after a little reflection; “I would rather remain a prisoner than run away with the lugger, even if we could accomplish the undertaking; much less would I injure any of the poor fellows remaining on board. Just consider, what should we say if a set of Frenchmen treated us in that way?”

“Anything is lawful in war,” he answered, not agreeing with my notion. “The Frenchmen should have kept a better look-out after us.”

“You forget that the captain and mate left us intentionally with the means of escape at our disposal, and which they clearly pointed out to us. I am sorry that I even thought of carrying off the lugger, and much more that I mentioned it to you.”

At length I brought Andrews round to see the proposal in the light I did, and he promised not to mention it to any one else. Thus conversing, the time passed by much more rapidly than it had done when I was left to my own thoughts. I felt sure it must be getting late. I looked at my watch; it was nearly ten o’clock, the hour at which La Motte had told me the guard-boat made her rounds. I became very anxious about him; I felt almost sure that he must have been seized, and if so he ran a great risk of being considered a spy, in which case he would have been immediately shot. We, however, could do nothing; we must sit still and wait. There is no greater trial for men than this. If we had had any work to do, we could have borne it much better. It wanted but ten minutes to ten.

“Some accident must have befallen your old shipmate,” said Andrews; “if he does not come back, we must make the attempt without him. I marked well the entrance of the harbour. If we muffle our oars, and keep close under the fort, we may slip out without being observed. Are you inclined to make the attempt?”

“Certainly,” I answered; “I would run any risk to be free. Ah! what is that? I saw something moving on the water. It is the guard-boat coming. What shall we reply?”

“We had better slip down below, and let them hail us till they are hoarse,” replied Andrews. “But no; that is not the guard-boat; it is the dinghy.”

In another instant La Motte was alongside. He sprang on board. “I have it!” he exclaimed; “but I have had a sharp run for it, and was very nearly taken. Even now I am not certain that I am not pursued, I have been thinking of an explanation to give for being on shore, if I am found out. I must pass for a Frenchman belonging to the lugger. Do you two go below, and pretend to be drunk, or asleep, like the rest. There will be no fear then. I will call you as soon as the guard-boat has gone away. We must all then be ready to start in a moment.”

Andrews and I immediately followed La Motte’s directions, and going below threw ourselves on the lockers. I heard La Motte’s measured tread overhead, as if he was walking the deck as officer of the watch. I listened for every sound. Presently I heard him reply in a clear, sharp voice, apparently to a hail given from a boat at a little distance. There could be no doubt that it was the guard-boat. The answer satisfied the officers. Another minute elapsed, and La Motte sprang down below. “It is all right, Weatherhelm,” he whispered; “the guard-boat is away, and now is our time to be off. Call up the other men.”

It was quickly done, and all those who had resolved to venture on the undertaking were speedily on deck. We hauled up the boat, and silently took our seats on the thwarts. I pulled the after oar; La Motte steered and acted as captain; indeed, had it not been for him, we could not have made the attempt. It was a hazardous affair, for we might have to encounter another guard-boat, and we had to pass among a number of vessels on our way to the mouth of the harbour.

“If we are seen, I hope that we may be mistaken for the guard-boat,” said La Motte, as we were preparing to shove off. “Now, my lads, shove off, and try and row as much like Frenchmen as you can.”

The advice was not unnecessary, for the steady, measured pull of English men-of-war’s men would have inevitably betrayed us. The night was dark, but not sufficiently so to prevent us from distinguishing the outline of the harbour. Away we pulled, rapidly but with irregular strokes. We had to pass close to several privateers, but their crews were either on shore or drunk, and no notice was taken of us.

More than once it occurred to me, that although we should not have wished to run off with the vessel of the people who had treated us so well, yet that we might be able successfully to cut out one of the other craft brought up nearer the mouth of the harbour; but I reflected that the experiment would be too hazardous. Should we fail, we should in all probability lose our lives; as it was, we might well be contented with the advantages we possessed. We had a good boat, though she was small, an ample supply of provisions, fine weather, and a fair wind from the southward.

We were about half-way down the harbour, when the sound of oars reached our ears. A large ship was near us; we paddled softly in, and lay close alongside under the shelter of her dark shadow. Not a sound was heard aboard her; every one was asleep. The noise of oars drew near; I trembled, lest some of her crew might be returning on board, and if they discovered us, all would be lost. We listened breathlessly; the sound of the oars passed by; it was the guard-boat going her rounds. Had we continued pulling a minute longer, we should have been discovered. I looked up as we lay on our oars; the sky was clear; the stars were twinkling brightly overhead; there seemed every probability of the fine weather continuing. In a couple of days at most we might hope once more to tread our native shores, and be free to go where we might wish.

I need scarcely repeat all the anxious thoughts which crowded on my mind; the joy, the happiness unspeakable I anticipated. I would not, I dared not, dwell on the reverse. The sound of the oars was lost in the distance. La Motte gave a sign to us to shove off, and letting our oars glide into the water, we again continued our course. Out hearts beat quick as we approached the fort. The sharp tones of the sentry’s challenge rung on our ears as he saw us passing. “Liberté!” answered La Motte promptly; another question was asked. “Victoire!” he replied. “We are ordered out by the captain of the port with a despatch to a vessel in the offing, I know no more.”

“C’est bien! you may pass,” said an officer, whom the sentry’s voice had summoned from the guard-room.

We pulled on as before; away we glided; now we hoisted our sail. Gradually the fort was concealed by the darkness from our sight. We were free!

Chapter Fourteen.

Happy prospect of reaching England—Weather changes—Heavy gale—Expect to be lost—Days and nights of suffering—Our greatest comfort—A ship in sight—Disappointed again—Another ship appears—Our hopes and fears—A snow-storm—Get on board an emigrant ship—Carried far away from home—Death of shipmates.

Once clear of the harbour, without any sail in sight, we all gladly loosened our tongues. In spite of the cold of a winter’s night, our spirits rose, and all hands laughed and chatted, and talked of what they would do when they got on shore. We had no necessity to look at our compass, for the stars enabled us to steer a course for the northward.

With the wind as it was, we thought that we should probably make the land somewhere about the Dorsetshire coast, should we not in the meantime fall in with any homeward-bound ship.

From the position of Saint Malo on the coast of France, far down in the deep bay or bight in which is found the islands of Jersey and Guernsey, it will be seen that we had a long voyage before us to perform in an open boat of so small a size and in the middle of winter. However, not one of us thought about that. By daylight we had made such progress that we were completely out of sight of land. A difference of opinion now arose among us. La Motte very naturally wished to put into Guernsey. It was his own country; he knew it well, and he undertook to pilot us in there. Most of the men were anxious, as the breeze was fair, to stand on at once for the coast of England.

“Now, mates,” said he, “just listen to what I have to say. If the wind continues fair, and we do not fall in with an enemy’s cruiser, all well and good, we may hit some harbour, or we may beach the boat with safety, and get on shore; but now just look at the other side of the question. We may be picked up by an enemy, and as we are in a French boat with the name of her port on her stern, we shall be sent back from whence we have come, and be much worse off than if we had remained aboard the lugger. That’s one thing which may occur; or the wind may change, and a gale spring up, and instead of making the English coast in a couple or three days, as you expect, we may be swamped, or be knocked about for a week or ten days, and perhaps after all be driven back on to the coast of France. Now, what I say is this? Here is Guernsey on our starboard bow. We may be there by to-morrow morning at farthest. I’ve friends who’ll treat you kindly. You’d have time to look about you, and you’ll have no fear of being pressed; whereas if you land in England, after all, before you get to your homes you may find yourselves in the hands of a pressgang, and once more aboard a man-of-war.”

I thought that there was so much reason in what La Motte urged, that, anxious as I was to be in England, I could not help siding with him. All the rest of the men were, however, dead against us. They had talked so much of the delights of being on shore, that, in spite of all risks, they were unwilling that any delay should occur.

“No, no; hurrah for Old England!” they cried. “As long as the breeze holds, let us stand on. We are not likely to fall in with an enemy. If we see a stranger which looks suspicious, we’ll douse sail, and let her pass by. The weather, too, promises to be fine. Why think of evils which may never occur?”

Perhaps La Motte and I did not resist as much as we might have done. At all events, we yielded to the wishes of the rest, and stood on. The day passed away pleasantly enough. The sun came out and shone brightly, and for the time of the year it was tolerably warm; so that we all kept our spirits up, and, congratulating ourselves on our good fortune, did not think of coming disaster.

As is usual on such occasions, we soon got to telling the various adventures we had met with in our past lives. I have not here time to describe them, but I remember one remarkable thing was, that nearly all had been wrecked just as often as I had. Instead of looking at such disasters as punishments, they all agreed that they ought to consider themselves very fortunate in escaping, instead of losing their lives, as had so many of their shipmates. I could not help thinking the same thing, and I now began to be more convinced than ever that I was mistaken in my youthful idea that a curse hung over me. When I came to consider the matter, I perceived that I had brought on myself nearly all the misfortunes which had happened to me, or they could be very clearly traced to ordinary causes, which had affected in most instances others as well as myself. I talked the subject over with La Motte, who was a right-thinking man, and not without some wit.

“I perfectly agree with you, Weatherhelm,” said he. “It is in my opinion, far better to be wrecked a dozen times than drowned once, especially if you escape the twelfth time, and live happy ever afterwards. I hope sincerely that your disasters have now come to an end. You seem to have suffered a good many since we parted.”

“I have enjoyed some very great blessings, too,” I answered. “I am sure I ought not to complain.”

“That is just the sentiment I like to hear,” he observed. “People think that they are to have all the plums and suet, and none of the hard dough, which makes up the pudding of life. We ought to be contented to take the two together—the sweets and the bitter, the rough and the smooth. That is what I have done, and I have saved myself a great deal of disappointment by not expecting more than I was likely to get.”

I have often thought since of La Motte’s practical philosophy.

We had every one of us soon need of all the courage and resignation we possessed. The wind, which had been steady all the day, began towards the afternoon to chop about. First it flew round to the north-east, and blew pretty hard, and we none of us liked the look of the weather. Still we hoped that it might not grow worse. We took a reef in the mainsail, and brought the boat close up to the wind.

Before long, however, it came on to blow still harder, and the sea got up very much, and the spray came flying over us, and now and then a sea broke on board, and we had to keep a couple of hands baling to prevent the boat from filling. Night was coming on: we close-reefed the mainsail, and took a reef in the foresail, and continued our course close-hauled. By degrees the wind shifted round to the north-north-east, and though close-hauled as we lay, we were fully four points off our course, and if it held on that way, it seemed a chance even if we should fetch the coast of Cornwall. Night was coming on, but there was no improvement in the weather.

Having taken a cheerless supper, for our spirits had sunk very low, we sat still in our places without speaking. The rain came down on us and wetted us through and chilled us to the bones, and the weather grew thicker and thicker. Sometimes we could scarcely see a yard ahead, and we ran a great risk of being run down by a vessel, or of running into one. Still we could do nothing further to help ourselves.

Away we flew into the pitchy darkness, the seas hissing and roaring around us, the boat tumbling and tossing about, now in the trough of a sea, now on the summit, surrounded by dense masses of foam, which seemed at times completely to wrap us up—the wind howling, and the rain coming down in torrents, sufficient of itself to swamp the boat.

Either La Motte or Andrews or I sat at the helm, and very nice steering it required to keep the boat from swamping. We lighted the binnacle lamp to enable us to keep as near as we could to our proper course. We had also our lantern ready to show as a signal in case we were able to make out any vessel approaching us.

I had been in many perils, as I have described, but none of them seemed greater than those I went through on that night. Often I thought that the boat could not possibly swim another minute. Often she was almost gunwale under before we could luff up in time to ease her. Now a huge black sea came roaring up, which I thought must come down and swamp us; but it broke just before it reached the boat and merely sent the foam flying over our heads. Thus hour after hour passed slowly away. Some of the men began to grumble, and to blame themselves for their folly in leaving the privateer.

Andrews declared that it would have been better if we had cut out a vessel, as at all events we should have been on board a craft fit to combat the gale. La Motte, with more justice, remarked, that it was a pity they had not consented to follow his suggestion, and to run for Guernsey while we could have done so.

“But why not run there now?” asked some one.

“Because the whole island is surrounded by rocks, and it would be next to a miracle if we escaped running on them,” he answered. “Our only course now is to stand on. Perhaps the wind will once more shift, and we may be able, after all, to keep our course for England.”

Never have I felt the hours draw on so slowly as they did during that dreadful night. Still no new hour brought any change for the better. I thought the morning never would come. As for sleep, that was out of the question, nor did any of us feel an inclination for food. I believe that not one of the party ever expected to see the sun rise again to cheer our hearts.

Yet, in spite of our apprehensions, the little boat behaved beautifully. Each sea, as it came roaring up, she surmounted like a wild fowl, and though down she plunged into the trough, it was but to rise again in triumph to the summit.

At length the rain ceased, but it blew as hard as ever. I was looking eastward, when a pale, thin line appeared in the sky, just above the horizon. It grew broader and broader, and brighter and brighter, and we know it was dawn. Those who had thought that they should never again see the sun rise, now felt that they ought not to have desponded. First, more cold, silvery lines appeared in the sky, and then yellow lines, which warmed into orange, and pink, and red; and a small portion of the sun himself broke forth between the clouds, and sent a bright beam of glittering gold across the dancing waves, but quickly again he was hidden above the leaden canopy which hung over us.

Few of us had ever passed a more trying night, and we all felt grateful for the mercy which had been shown us, and, as if by common agreement, we all with one accord offered up our thanks to Heaven, and prayed that we might yet further be preserved through the dangers which surrounded us. Wild and careless as sailors too often are, there are times when they exhibit a true and unaffected piety, and when they are not ashamed of exhibiting their feelings to their fellow-men. This was one of those occasions.

We were all aware that we had passed through a night of great peril, and we knew that we had, in all probability, many more dangers to go through, in which all our knowledge, and strength, and bravery could avail us nothing. Our weakness and helplessness was thus forcibly brought home to us—our own utter insufficiency to help ourselves. It is this feeling, which every seaman must at times have to experience, which has so beneficial an effect on him in turning his heart to God, in making him, in spite of himself, acknowledge the superintending care of the Creator.

As daylight came on, we looked round the horizon, more especially to the southward, but not a sail was in sight. We felt sure that, at all events, we were not pursued. Had the wind continued from the southward, we might have fallen in with some homeward-bound ship, but it was not likely that we should now meet with one. Having assured ourselves that no change was likely to take place immediately in our prospects, we served out our frugal breakfast.

La Motte and I agreed that it would be wiser at once to put ourselves on short allowance, for we could not tell how long we might be kept out. To this all the rest cheerfully assented. I had for some time been watching the sky to the eastward. When the sun rose, the wind went down, but I did not like a wide break in the clouds which suddenly appeared. The rent I had observed grew larger and larger, till the whole eastern sky was bright and clear. I felt too sure that it betokened an easterly gale. I pointed out what I had observed to La Motte. He was of my opinion.

We were not mistaken. Down it came before long, strong and bitterly cold, tearing up the surface of the sea, and sending the foam flying like vast snowdrifts before it. We were almost frozen with the cold and wet. We wrapped ourselves up as best we could in our blankets and greatcoats, but even with this aid we were well-nigh perished. We had no means of lighting a fire and warming up anything by which we might restore circulation. The gale increased. Away the boat flew before it, out to sea, away from land, away from all help.

Bitter was our disappointment. How could we hope to get back? how obtain relief? Our condition was bad indeed. Some of the men had been expressing a wish to endeavour to reach Guernsey. They now, with reproaches on themselves, acknowledged their folly in not having, when at the proper time, accepted La Motte’s offer to take them there. Fiercer and fiercer blew the easterly gale, every cloud disappeared, but yet the sky was not bright, nor did the rays of the sun give any warmth. A gauze-like veil overspread the sky, while we were surrounded by a thin mist of spray, which together completely prevented the sun’s beams from reaching us.

Our utmost exertions were required to keep the boat before the sea, and to bale out the water which continually washed into her. Those of us who were not thus actively employed sat with our greatcoats and blankets huddled up round us, the pictures of misery. Want of sleep and warm food made us feel the cold still more severely, and, in spite of our wraps, we were chilled to the very bones. Our teeth chattered and our limbs shook as if we had been afflicted with the ague. We could no longer keep up our spirits by conversation. What possible grounds had we for hope. All we could expect was to run on till the boat was swamped, or till one after the other of us dropped off and died from cold, starvation, and exhaustion.

La Motte struggled on bravely to prevent himself from giving in, while at the same time he exerted himself to keep up the spirits of the rest. His example inspired me to arouse myself, and I endeavoured to aid him in encouraging our companions.

“Hurrah, my lads!” he suddenly shouted. “As long as there’s life there’s hope—remember that. Death’s door is not open yet. Don’t be knocking to get in before you are invited. What are we afraid of? We have a tight boat under us, and provisions enough to last us for several days to come. We had got a long way to the nor’ard before this easterly gale sprung up, and we can’t be so very far off the Land’s End or the Scilly Islands. This sort of gale never lasts long. It will blow itself out in a day or two, and then we may haul up and stand in for the land. Many men have been in a far worse state than that we are in, and have got well out of it. Why should we fancy that we are going to be lost? Cheer up, I say. Can any of you sing? Andrews, you can. Come, out with a song, lad. You shake your head. Come, I’ll help you.” And, with a voice which sounded full and clear amid the hissing roar of the gale, La Motte struck up a cheering, merry song, well calculated to arouse even the most apathetic from the lethargy into which they were sinking.

Andrews, inspired by the strains, followed his example, as did several other of the men, and away we flew over the waves, singing cheerfully, with, as it were, the jaws of death gaping wide on either side to catch us.

Now La Motte sang a more solemn strain; it was a psalm. All of us joined heartily in it. We prayed that God would protect us amid the dangers which surrounded us, and then we expressed our full confidence in His mercy and goodness. That did us more good than the lighter songs. It was certainly more in accordance with our feelings; yet, perhaps, La Motte took the best means for arousing the people from the lethargy which was overpowering them.

It has often struck me that people, when they are singing psalms, are too apt to forget that they are praying, or praising God, or returning thanks for mercies received. They seem to forget the meaning of the words, and to think only of the music. They do not sing sufficiently with their hearts. That was not the case with us in that storm-driven boat. The music was, I daresay, very imperfect, but never did men enter more heartily into the spirit of the psalm than did we on that occasion.

Andrews and another man belonged to Cornwall, and had in their youth been accustomed to sing psalms in the congregations of their people, as had two or three of the other men, though for many a long year of their sea life the custom had been sadly neglected. Now, when they felt conscious that they might never have an opportunity of again singing while alive, they joined with their whole heart and soul in the work. Thus the day passed away.

The night was approaching. We had reason to dread it as much as we had the previous one, except that the sky being clear, there was more light to enable us to avoid any danger in our course. We took a frugal supper and a cup of cold water, all we dared consume of our scanty stores. Drowsiness now began to overcome most of us. I felt myself capable of keeping awake better than any of the rest, for I saw that even La Motte was giving way. I therefore urged him to let me take the helm while he lay down. To this he consented. Andrews and I wrapped him up in a blanket, and in an instant he was fast asleep showing how much self-command he must have exercised to keep awake at his post. In the meantime, while two men continued baling and one kept a look-out ahead, the rest stretched their limbs as well as they could along the thwarts of the boat and went to sleep. My fear was that they might not be able again to arouse themselves. Strange, indeed, were my feelings as I sat in the stern of the boat while she flew hissing along over the foaming waves and plunging into the dark unknown. I looked up into the clear sky, glittering with innumerable stars, and my mind wandered from the present world to the wonders of eternity, which the scene I gazed on seemed to picture forth. I forcibly felt the insufficiency of this world to satisfy to the full the aspirations of man’s soul; and the reality of the life to come, and all that that life will have to show, impressed itself more vividly on my mind than it had ever before done. The glories of the eternal future put to flight all fears for the present perishable body.

Still, I did not neglect my duty to my companions. I did my best to keep my mates of the watch awake. I watched the seas as they came rolling up on either side, so that I might keep the boat steadily before the wind. Thus the first watch passed by. I had not the heart to call La Motte. I told the other three men to arouse up their companions, and I resolved to keep awake for a couple of hours more. An hour after this it might have been, as I turned my head over my right shoulder, I caught sight of a huge towering mass close aboard, as it seemed.

It was a large ship. On she came. I felt sure that our last moments had arrived. There was no use shouting. The other men looked up. Terror kept them dumb. Had we indeed strained our voices till they cracked, no one would have heard us on board the ship. The dark pyramid of canvas seemed to reach up to the very clouds as she flew along, careering before the gale.

In another moment I thought we should have been run down, and struggling under her vast keel, but my eye had deceived me. She dashed on; but instead of her stem striking us, her broadside appeared on our starboard hand. She was a line-of-battle ship of the largest class. Then, indeed, we found our voices and shouted, and perhaps the sentries or look-outs might have heard us; but away she rushed, like some monstrous phantom of a dream, and, mighty as she was, she quickly disappeared in the darkness ahead. Our companions, who had been awoke by our shouting, lifted up their heads, but as the ship passed by, lay them down again, probably under the belief that what they had seen was merely the effect of their imagination.

La Motte remained awake. “What is the hour?” he asked. I told him. He therefore insisted on my taking his place, though I saw that he had some difficulty in unbending his limbs from the position they had assumed while he was sleeping. In an instant I was asleep. It was daylight when I was once more aroused to take the helm. I found that there was a sail in sight, just rising above the horizon in the north-east, but we could not tell in what direction she was standing.

The morning passed as had the former one. Our attention was kept awake by watching the progress of the strange sail. Her topsails rose above the horizon, then her courses appeared, and it became very clear that she was sailing on a parallel course with us. At the distance we were from her, we could not have been distinguished from the white crest of a rising wave, so that we knew it was useless to hope for any assistance from her. Trying, indeed, it was to watch her gliding by us. Sometimes, when she rose on the top of a sea, and rolled from side to side as she ran before the wind, we could see her copper glancing brightly in the sunbeams, and could almost count her ports; yet we ourselves, we knew, could scarcely have been seen, even had any on board been looking out for us. On she went, her crew rejoicing in the fair breeze which was carrying them on to their destined port, while we were grieving at being driven away from ours.

“‘It’s an ill wind that blows no one good,’ remember that, mates,” said La Motte. “We may get the fair breeze before long.”

Scarcely had the stranger disappeared in the western horizon when another sail rose in the east out of the water. We watched her even with greater eagerness than before. We fancied that we could not again be doomed to disappointment.

“She is more, I think, to the southward than the other ship,” said Andrews. “She’ll pass not far to the nor’ard of us, and can’t help seeing us.”

I watched the new-comer attentively, but could not agree with Andrews. She appeared to me to be following exactly in the track of the former vessel. I earnestly hoped that I might be wrong in my opinion. The ship came on, rapidly overtaking us. We ought to have found cause for satisfaction when we thus had evidence that we could not be driving fast to the eastward, and that when we came to haul up we should still find ourselves at no great distance from the Cornish coast.

We waited, anxiously watching the ship; but all differences of opinion were soon settled when she appeared abeam, fully as far off as the former one. As our hopes had risen to a high pitch, so they now fell proportionately low. I began to fear that despondency would seize on all hands. The ship came up on our quarter; then she got abeam of us. We could see her as clearly as we had seen the former one. Some of our people shouted and waved their hats and caps. No answering signal was made. Again they shouted and shrieked out till they were hoarse. Their cries and their signals were equally vain. Those on board could probably scarcely have seen the boat even had they been looking for her, and of course our shouts would not have reached one-tenth part of the distance. The ship glided quickly on. She passed us altogether, and, like her predecessor, disappeared in the western horizon. As she was leaving us, some of the men lost all command of their feelings and broke forth into imprecations loud and deep, and abused the ship and all on board her, as if they were to blame for not having seen us. I saw that in their present state of mind there would be no use finding fault with them, so I tried to cheer them up.

“Never mind, mates,” said I. “We should not have been much better off if we had got on board those ships. They are outward-bound, and must have carried us wherever they are going, and perhaps we might have had to go half-way round the world before we could get home again. Let us wait till we sight a ship bound up Channel, and then if we miss her we may have reason to complain.”

The remarks I made seemed to have some effect, for I heard no more complaints for some time. The day wore on and no other vessel passed us. A change in the weather began to take place as the evening drew on. The wind lessened considerably during the afternoon, and as night approached it dropped into a perfect calm. Still there was a good deal of sea, and we had more difficulty than ever in keeping the boat from being swamped. We got the oars out, but we found that we had lost so much strength that we could scarcely use them. However, we managed to pull the boat’s head round, and once more endeavoured to keep a course towards the north-east.

Yet exert ourselves as we might, we found that we could only just keep the boat’s head to the sea, and that we were utterly unable to move her through the water. Gradually the sea went down, and at last most of the men declared that they neither would nor could pull any longer, and that we should gain nothing by it, as very likely the wind would shift again to its old quarter, and drive us back once more all the distance we had thus made good.

La Motte and I endeavoured to cheer them up, but all our attempts were vain. We saw ourselves that they were too likely to be right, and indeed we could not help sharing in their despondency. I scarcely know how the night passed. It did pass, however, and so did another day. It was a perfect calm; we did not move. All our oars were laid in, and the men threw themselves along the thwarts, and declared that they should sleep there till some vessel should pass near enough to take us on board.

Our stock of food had diminished very much, and I feared, on examining it, that we should scarcely have enough to carry us to the English coast, even should a breeze spring up from the southward to help us along. No one now took much count of time. I fell asleep during the night, and so did La Motte, and I believe that no look-out was kept. We might have been run over without our making an attempt to save our lives.

Another day broke at last. There was a light wind, but it was from the south-east. We hoisted our sail, though we had scarcely sufficient strength to get it up. However, we made but little progress. I had fallen asleep, when I was aroused by the voices of my companions shouting as loudly as their strength would allow. The tones sounded strangely hollow and weak. I was scarcely aware that my own voice was much like theirs.

I looked up to see what had produced these shouts. A large ship was bearing down towards us from the eastward. We had our whole sail set, and as the sun shone on it, I hoped that we might now possibly be seen. I was not so sanguine as some of the men had suddenly become on seeing the ship. I knew that too often a very slack look-out is kept on board many ships, and even then only just ahead to see that no vessel is in the way or likely to get there. The topsails and more than half the courses of the stranger had already appeared above the horizon. We rose them rapidly. By the time that we could see her hull, I judged from the cut of her sails that she was certainly not an English ship.

“She is very like a French vessel,” observed La Motte after watching her earnestly for some time. “Still, she does not look like a ship of war, that is one comfort.” It was very certain, at all events, that she was standing directly for us, and that there was no chance of our missing her.

“Now, mates, just make up your minds what we shall do,” said La Motte; “shall we go on board her whatever she is, or wherever she is going, or shall we remain in the boat and still endeavour to make the English coast?”

“Let us get clear of the boat!” exclaimed all the men; “we may be knocking about here for some days to come, till we are all starved.”

“But we may obtain provisions from the ship sufficient to last us for a week, or more, perhaps,” observed La Motte; “she is evidently outward-bound, and many a long day may pass before we get back to England.”

“Better that than being swamped or dying by inches,” was the answer.

Finally, we discovered that all the men, including Andrews, had made up their minds to be quit of the boat at all events. La Motte told me that he knew how anxious I was to return home, and that he was ready, if I wished it, to remain with me in the boat, and to endeavour to make the shore.

Sincerely I thanked him for this mark of his friendship and kindness, I debated in my mind whether I ought to accept his offer. In my anxiety to reach home, I would have risked everything; still I thought that I ought not to expose the life of another person for my sake. How I might have decided, I scarcely know. I suspect that I should have accepted his offer, but the matter was pretty well settled for us.

Clouds had been gathering for some time in the sky, and while we were speaking, thin flakes of snow began to fall, and continued increasing in density, so that we could scarcely see the approaching ship. We could not ascertain whether we had been seen by those on board before the snow-storm came on, and, if not, there was too great a probability that she would pass us. At all events, she was now completely hidden from our view.

We calculated that if she kept on the exact course she was on when last seen, we should be rather to the southward of her. We therefore got out our oars, and endeavoured to pull up to her. Every one, however, was so weak, that it was with difficulty we could urge the boat through the water. Our last morsel of food had been consumed that morning; indeed, for the two previous days we had taken barely enough to support life.

We looked about—we could not see the ship—we shouted at the top of our voices—all was silent—we pulled on—again we shouted, or rather shrieked out. A hail came from the eastward. It sounded loud and clear compared to the hollow tones of our voices. Presently the dark hull and wide-spreading sails of a ship broke on our sight through the veil of falling snow, and directly afterwards we dropped alongside her.

She hailed us in German. I understood a little of the language, but La Motte spoke it perfectly. Great indeed was our satisfaction to find from this that she belonged to a friendly power. She appeared to have a great number of passengers on board, for they crowded the sides and gangway to look at us, and very miserable objects, I daresay, we appeared.

Thinking probably that we were afraid of them, they told us that the ship was the Nieuwland, belonging to Bremen, bound for Baltimore, in the United States, and that the people we saw were Hanoverian emigrants.

When we told them in return that we were Englishmen escaping from a French privateer which had captured us, they warmly pressed us to come on board. When, however, we tried to get up to climb up the sides, we found that we could scarcely stand on our legs, much less help ourselves on deck. Three or four of our companions were so weak and ill that they could not rise even from the bottom of the boat, and it was sad to see them, as they lay on their backs, stretching out their hands for help to those who were looking down on them over the ship’s side.

Certainly we all must have presented a perfect picture of woe and misery—half-frozen and famished—pale, haggard, shivering, with our beards unshaven, and our hair hanging lank and wet over our faces, our lips blue, our eyes bloodshot, our clothes dripping with moisture. Our condition was bad enough to excite the compassion of any one.

The master and seamen of the ship and the emigrants evidently felt for us, by the exclamations we heard them utter. They quickly fitted slings, which were lowered to hoist us up, and the seamen came into the boat to help us. One after the other we were conveyed on board, and at once carried below. Not one of us could have stood, had it been to save our lives.

I felt grateful for the looks of pity which were cast on us as we were lifted along the deck, while many of the emigrants volunteered to give up their berths. I remember how delightful I felt it to find myself stripped of my damp clothing, lying between dry blankets, with a bottle of hot water at my feet and another on my chest, while kind-hearted people were rubbing my limbs to restore circulation. It was some time, however, before anything like the proper amount of heat came back to my chilled frame. Then some warm drink was given me, and I fell into a deep slumber.

I believe that I slept nearly twenty-four hours on a stretch without once waking. At last, when I opened my eyes, daylight was streaming down on me through the open hatchway. The doctor came and felt my pulse. He spoke a little English, and told me to keep up my spirits, and that I should do very well. Then some broth was brought me by one of the emigrants, and after I had taken it I felt very much better. I inquired after my companions.

“They are not all in as good case as you are,” said the doctor. “Two poor fellows have died, and a third, I fear, will not be long with us.”

“Which of them have gone?” I asked. “I trust the officer, La Motte, is doing well.”

“He is weak, and suffers much, but still I have hopes that he may recover,” was the answer.

I was very sad on hearing this, yet I felt what cause I had to be thankful that I had escaped with my life, and was not likely to suffer in my health, as was the case with some of my companions.

With returning strength, however, came more forcibly on me the consciousness of the postponement once more of all my hopes of happiness. I had risked everything; I had gone through the most trying hardships to reach home, and now I found myself being carried away far from that home, without any immediate prospect of reaching it. I turned round in my berth and burst into tears.

The kind-hearted German who was attending on me inquired, in his broken English, what was the matter. I felt that it would be a relief to me, and would gratify him, if I were to tell him my history. He was much interested in it, and warmly sympathised with me. He did not consider my tears unmanly. I do not think they were, either. I was weak and ill, too. Perhaps otherwise, as is the English custom, I should have kept my feelings and my history to myself. Yet I think that English habit of hiding our thoughts and feelings, shows a want of confidence in the sympathy and kind feeling of our fellow-men which is altogether wrong. Nothing could surpass the kindness and sympathy of my German friends, especially of Karl Smitz, the young man who attended on me.

We had a fair breeze and fine weather, so that in three days I was able to get out of my berth. My first visit was to La Motte. He was unable to move. With fear and trembling I looked at him, for he seemed to me sadly changed from what he had been when we left the lugger: I had not seen myself, and I was not aware how haggard and ill I even then appeared.

He told me that he only felt weak and bruised, and that he had hopes he should soon be well. I found that three of our late companions had been committed to the deep, and that a fourth was in a dying state. This made me feel still more anxious about La Motte. From our old friendship, now cemented by the hardships we had gone through together, I could not help regarding him with the affection of a brother. I sat by the side of his berth till the doctor came and told me I must go on deck, as fresh air was now the only medicine I required.

The captain welcomed me on deck when I appeared in the kindest way, and said that he was glad to find even one of his guests on the fair road to recovery. He, it appeared, had heard my story, and he came up to me and told me that he had no doubt I was anxious to get to England, and that if we fell in with any homeward-bound ship, he would put me on board her. I told this to La Motte when I went below, and he said that if he had strength even to move he would accompany me.

Two days after this I was sitting on a gun-carriage enjoying the fresh breeze, when there was a movement on deck among the crew and passengers, and I saw four men coming up the main hatchway, bearing between them what I saw at once was a human form, wrapped up in a fold of canvas. It was placed on a plank near a port at the opposite side of the ship. A union-jack was thrown over it, and I guessed from that circumstance that the dead man was another of my companions. I called to Karl Smitz, who was passing.

“Ah! they did not know that you were on deck, or they would have told you before the poor fellow was brought up,” he observed. “Yes, he was another of those we saved out of the boat. We are now going to bury him as we would wish to be buried ourselves.”

Soon after this the captain came into the waist with a Lutheran prayer-book, from which, with an impressive voice, he read some prayers. Then both the seamen and emigrants—men, women, and children—stood round and burst forth into a hymn most sweet and melodious; first it was sad in the extreme, and then it rose by degrees to tones of joy, as it pictured the spirit of the departed borne by angels into Abraham’s bosom; while another prayer was being uttered, the body of my shipmate was launched into the deep. Thus four of us had been taken and six remained.

I was long very anxious for La Motte; he, however, slowly recovered, and in about a fortnight was able to come on deck. By that time Andrews and the other men had recovered, and were able to do duty. We are all of us anxious to be of use, for no honest seaman, or any other true man for that matter, likes to eat the bread of idleness. The ship was rather weak-handed, and the captain was very glad of our services.

La Motte and I consulted together, and we agreed that we ought to make him some recompense for the trouble and expense he had been at, and all the care he had taken of us. The other men agreed to what we proposed. We accordingly, when he was on deck one day, went up to him and told him how grateful we felt for his kindness, and begged him to accept our boat. He smiled at our warmth.

“No, indeed, my good men, I can accept nothing from you,” he answered; “I have only done what is the duty of every seaman to do when he finds his fellow-men tossed about on the ocean in distress. What was your lot may be mine another day; and I should expect others to do for me what I have done for you.”

“Well, sir,” said La Motte, “we feel the truth of what you say. Unhappily, some seamen do not act as you have done; and there are wretches who will pass a ship in distress, and never attempt to relieve her. However, what I am going to say is this; our clothes are in a very bad condition, and if you will supply us, we will consider them as payment for the boat.”

This proposal pleased our kind captain, and he forthwith gave us a suit of clothes, and a warm cap, a pair of shoes, and a couple of shirts, out of his slop-chest. We were thus all of us able to put on a decent and comfortable appearance. I am very certain no good action ever goes unrewarded in one way or another, though, perhaps, through our blindness, we do not always find it out.

A few days after this a terrific gale sprung up. All hands were roused up in the middle watch to reef topsails. We Englishmen, hearing the cry and roar of the tempest which had suddenly struck the ship, sprang on deck. The crew were aloft in vain struggling with the bulging topsails. At that moment the fore-topsail, with a report like thunder, blew out of the bolt-ropes, carrying with it two men off the lee yard-arm. The poor fellows were sent far away to leeward into the boiling sea.

Any attempt to help them was utterly hopeless; we heard their despairing shrieks, and for an instant saw their agonised countenances as the ship swept by them, and all trace of them was lost. We hurried on to the main-topsail-yard just in time to save the people there from sharing the fate of their messmates. The courses were furled, the main-topsail closely reefed, and the ship flew onward on her course.

Chapter Fifteen.

The emigrant ship and our kind captain—Get on board a homeward-bound ship—An unexpected encounter—My old captain—A converted man—A crippled ship—Land at Bermuda—Once more sail for England—Pressed again.

The good ship Nieuwland made rapid progress. Though I was flying away from home and all I longed to be with, yet anything was better than moving slowly. If we did not fall in with any ship in which I might return, I felt that the sooner I got to the end of the voyage, the sooner I might be starting back again. The gale continued for several days; the wind at length dropped and then came ahead, blowing stronger than ever. It was now necessary to heave the ship to.

In performing the operation, a heavy sea struck her bows, and two more of the crew were washed overboard. Happily the emigrants were below, or many would probably have shared the same fate.

I had now what I much required, abundance of work as a seaman. When it is well for a person to fly from his own thoughts, there is nothing like useful occupation to help him along; nothing is so bad as to allow oneself to dwell on one’s misfortunes. The best advice I can give to a man when he is unhappy, is to go and help others. He will find plenty of people requiring his aid, and numbers far more unhappy than himself.

The ship had suffered a good deal during the gale, and we began to be apprehensive for her safety should the weather continue bad; but it soon cleared up, and we had every hopes of reaching our port in a week or ten days at the farthest. The day after the fair weather set in, a sail was reported ahead. As we drew near each other, we saw that she was in a very shattered condition. She was a brig, we perceived, but only one mast was standing. Her bowsprit was carried away, and her foremast was gone by the board.

Our captain made a signal to ask what assistance was required. The answer was, “Some spars for our foremast and bowsprit, and some hands who may be willing to return to England to help navigate the ship. We have lost five overboard.”

Our kind captain called us all aft. “Here is an opportunity for those who may desire it to return home,” said he. “The brig is in no very good plight, as you see; but many a vessel in a worse condition has made a safe voyage. I will not advise you either way. I shall be very sorry to lose you, but you are at liberty to go.”

We thanked him very much for this additional proof of his love of justice and fair dealing, and La Motte and I consulted together what we would do. I at all events was ready to run every risk for the sake of returning home. I also felt that we might be the means of saving the brig and the people on board her.

La Motte agreed to accompany me; so we told the captain that we would go. Andrews and another man said that they would accompany us. Our captain therefore signalled that he would afford all the help asked for, and told the people in the brig in the meantime to send a boat on board us. As we passed under the counter of the brig, previous to heaving to, a man standing on her taffrail hailed us through his speaking-trumpet:

“We cannot do what you ask; we have not a boat that can swim, and we have only four hands remaining on board.”

It struck me as I looked at the man that I knew his figure, and even the tone of his voice; but where I had seen him I could not tell. While the ship was being hove-to, we went round to bid farewell to the numerous friends we had found on board. Had we been brothers, we could not have been treated more kindly, and to no one was our gratitude more due than to the honest Bremen captain.

The boat was ready; we stepped into her, with a couple of spars towing astern. The captain took his seat in the stern-sheets.

“I’ll go on board and see my brother skipper,” said he. “Now, my sons, farewell. I shall not forget you, and you will not forget me, I hope. We may never meet together again in this world, or we may; but I hope that we shall all be steering the same course to that world which will last for ever and ever. Don’t ever forget that world, my sons. Whatever you do, wherever you go, always keep it in view. It is of more value than gold or much fine gold. Get, I say, on that course, and do not let any one ever tempt you to alter it. In fair weather or foul, steadily steer for it, and you will be sure to make it at last.”

We all listened attentively to the good man’s words; he spoke with so much earnestness, and had given us so strong a proof of his practical Christianity, that we could not but feel that they merited our respect. The captain of the brig—the same man who had hailed us with the speaking-trumpet—stood at the gangway to receive us when we pulled alongside.

I rubbed my eyes as I looked at him. I rubbed and rubbed again.

There stood, scarcely altered, it appeared to me, a man I had believed long since swallowed up by the hungry waves, Captain Tooke, once the master of the Fate, the brig in which I had been wrecked off the Scilly Islands. If it was not him,—saved by some wonderful means,—I felt sure that it was a brother or near relative; for if he was not my old captain, no two people could be more alike. The sea had gone down completely, so that we without difficulty boarded the brig. Her master thanked the Bremen captain very warmly for the assistance he had brought him, and welcomed us.

“You are brave lad? for coming on board such a wreck of a craft as mine is,” said he, looking at us, and putting out his hand to La Motte. “However, if we are mercifully favoured by fine weather, we will get her all ataunto before long.”

We told him that if the ship was sound in hull, we had no fears about the matter; we should soon get her to rights.

“That’s the spirit I liked to see,” he answered, and then turning to the Bremen captain, he continued, “Tell me, my friend, how much am I to pay you for these spars? Ask your own price. They are invaluable to me.”

“Nothing,” was the answer. “I had several to spare, and none have been lost during the voyage. Well, if you press the point, you may pay the value over to these men when you reach your own country. They have lost their all from being taken prisoners, and will require something to take them to their homes.”

“That I will, with all my heart,” answered the captain of the brig.

While he was speaking, I kept looking at him. Though his features were the same, his way of expressing himself was so different to that of Captain Tooke, that I felt I must be mistaken.

Farewells were said between the two captains, and once more the Bremen captain shook hands with us all round. The emigrants cheered as the ship bore up round us, and away she went to the west, while we lay as near the wind as our dismasted state would allow us.

I was anxious to settle the question as to the identity of the captain, so I asked one of the men what his name was. He somewhat startled me by answering “Tooke.” He, however, could tell me nothing about his past history; so I went up to the captain himself, and asked him if he had not been on board the Fate when she was wrecked?

“Yes,” he replied; “I was the sole survivor of all on board that unfortunate craft.”

“No, sir, you were not,” I answered, and I told him how a number of us had got away in the boat, and how all, with the exception of old Cole, Iffley, and I, had been lost, and how the old mate had died, and we were the only ones left. He told me that when the mast went overboard, he had clung to it, and that the tide had carried it out into mid-channel. When morning broke, he found himself close to a vessel hove-to. The wind then began to fall, and the sea to go down, and in a short time they sent a boat and picked him up. He by that time was very much exhausted, and could scarcely have held out another quarter of an hour.

He himself had been all his life utterly careless about religion; but while he was hanging on to the mast amid the raging ocean, he had been led to think of the future, towards which he felt that he was probably hastening, and he could not help discerning the finger of God in thus bringing him directly up to the only vessel within many miles of him. When he got on board, however, he was struck by the utter want of respect shown by the master and all the crew for anything like religion. He and they were scoffers and blasphemers and professed infidels. He said that he was so horrified and shocked at all he heard, that he trembled lest he might have become like them.

From that time forward he prayed that he might be enlightened and reformed, and he felt truly a new heart put into him. He had never since gone back. He had met with many misfortunes and hardships. He had been frequently shipwrecked; had lost all his property; had been taken prisoner by the enemy; had been compelled to serve as mate instead of master; and had scarcely ever been able to visit his family on shore. Still he went on, trusting in God’s mercy, and feeling sure that whatever happened to him was for the best.

“And, sir,” said I, when he had finished his account of himself, “I heartily agree with you. I have often fainted and often doubted, but I have always come back to the same opinion, that what is, is best—that is, that whatever God does is best for us.”

This conversation, by the bye, did not take place at once. We first set to work to get the ship to rights. We got sheers up, and, the weather being calm, we without difficulty got the new mast stepped, and another bowsprit rigged. The mast was only a jury-mast, but we set it up well with stays, and it carried sail fairly.

While we were working away, I observed the countenance of one of the men who was doing duty as mate, he being the most experienced of the three survivors of the crew.

“I am certain that you must be an old shipmate of mine,” said I as we were hauling away together. “Is not your name Flood, and were you not on board the Kite schooner when we were attacked by pirates?”

“The very same, lad,” said he. “And you—I remember you, too, very well now—you are Will Weatherhelm.”

“The same; and is it not extraordinary that thus, in the middle of the Atlantic, I should meet with two men whom I have not heard of for years, and one of whom I thought was dead?”

“Not more extraordinary than that those two men should have become thoroughly changed characters,” he answered. “I was a careless reprobate, Weatherhelm, when you knew me, and now I have learned to think and to pray, and to strive to do well.”

It certainly was surprising to me to hear John Flood speak as he did, for, unhappily, in those days there were not many seamen who could say the same for themselves. But, poor fellows, their opportunities were few of hearing anything about religion, and I believe men will be judged according to the advantages they may have possessed. Let those take heed, therefore, who have them, that they do not throw them away.

Flood gave me an account of the way the brig—the Fair Rosamond was her name—met with her accident. It was indeed providential that she and all on board had not perished. She had sailed from Port Royal, in Jamaica, bound for Liverpool, with several other vessels, under convoy of a frigate. The first part of the voyage was favourable, but the Fair Rosamond was very deeply laden with sugar and rum and other West India produce, and being then out of trim, she proved herself a very dull sailer.

To avoid the risk of capture, the convoy had steered a more northerly course than is usual, and had not kept east till nearly in the latitude of Newfoundland.

“We were constantly lagging behind, and the frigate had to come and whip us up so often that we completely lost our character in the fleet,” continued Flood. “We did our best to keep up with the rest of the convoy, by setting every stitch of canvas we could carry; but nothing would do, and we should have had to heave part of the cargo overboard to have enabled her to keep up with the rest. At length we were overtaken by a gale of wind, and we had to heave-to. We thought that the rest of the fleet were doing the same near us. It was night. When morning broke not a sail was to be seen. We were more likely to fall into the hands of the enemy, but still we could take our own time, and we thought that we were less likely to meet with an accident than when, blow high or low, we had to press her with canvas. However, we were mistaken. We had been driven a long way to the nor’ard of the Gulf Stream, and the weather was cold and bad, when one night, just as I had come on deck to keep the middle watch, and had gone to the wheel, I looked up and thought I saw a great white glittering cloud right ahead of us. I sang out, and the first mate, who was officer of the watch, crying, ‘Hard a-lee!’ ran forward. I put down the helm, but scarcely had I done so before I saw what I knew to be a huge iceberg rising up directly ahead of us. I fully believed that our last moments were come. It appeared to me as if the ship was running into a cavern in the side of some vast mountain of marble. I held my breath. If my hair ever stood on end, I believe that it did on that occasion. My eyeballs seemed starting from their sockets. I felt the blood leave my cheeks and rush round my heart, as if it would burst. A terrific crash came. There were despairing shrieks and cries. I thought the brig was lost. The bowsprit was carried away; the foremast came toppling down, and at the same time a sea struck the ship, and swept over the decks. I held on by the wheel. The captain rushed on deck just as the sea had passed over us. I felt the brig rebound as it were from the iceberg, and I found that we were drifting away from it. The two men who were below came on deck at the same time the captain did. We shouted to our companions. We looked about aboard and around us, on either side where the wreck of the foremast was still hanging on to the channels, but no voice replied—not a glimpse of them could be seen. We four were left alone on that stormy ice-surrounded sea, with a shattered, almost unmanageable ship. We did not fear. Our captain was a host in himself. We could not get the wreck of the mast on board, so we had to cut it away. Happily the wind came round from the nor’ard, and by rigging a stay from the head of the mainmast to the stump of the bowsprit, we were able to set a sail and to get the brig’s head round. We had been knocking about ten days when you fell in with us. Two vessels passed us, and must have seen our condition, but they did not alter their course. All who sail the ocean are not good Samaritans, like your friend the Bremen captain.”

Such was the brief account Flood gave me of their disaster. I have always designated the good man of whom he spoke as the Bremen captain, for I could not pronounce his name, and did not write it down. I hope we shall meet in heaven.

I must hurry on with my adventures. Once more I indulged in the hope of being speedily restored to my wife and home. The weather was fine, and, considering her crippled state, the brig made fair way. In some respects we were better off than on board the Bremen ship, for we had ample and good provisions and plenty of room, and as our supply of clothes was small, Captain Tooke distributed among us those belonging to the poor fellows who had been lost.

I had one night turned in, after keeping the first watch, under the belief that all was going well. I was roused up with the so often heard cry, “All hands shorten sail!” I hurried on deck to find the brig plunging into a heavy sea, which was straining every timber in her. A fierce north-easter was blowing. To attempt to face it was impossible, and it was not without difficulty that we got the brig’s head round from it. Away we went before the wind, and away from England and my home. By the captain’s computation we were only three hundred miles or so to the northward of the Bermudas. The brig had for some time been in a leaky state, and we had frequently to turn to at the pumps, but, with fine weather, we had had no fear of keeping her clear. Now, however, the case was altered, and Captain Tooke resolved to run for the Bermudas.

It is no easy matter to hit a small spot in the middle of the ocean, after dark and blowing weather, when no observation has lately been taken. We had to keep a bright look-out not to miss the islands. I felt especially anxious about the matter. Should we run past them, we might, after all, be compelled to put into an American port to repair the ship, and my return home might be still further postponed.

The morning came; the day wore on. No land was in sight. My heart sank within me. Over and over again I went to the main-topmast-head to look out for the group of rocks I so anxiously desired to see.

At length, just on the starboard bow, I caught sight of a blue mound rising out of the water. I hurried below to tell the captain. In a couple of hours we were safely at anchor within Saint George’s harbour.

I was in hopes that the brig would be quickly repaired, and that we should be allowed to proceed on our voyage. However, as it turned out, an agent of the owner’s resided there. He ordered the brig to be surveyed. The surveyor was connected with the chief shipbuilder of the place. He pronounced her unfit to proceed on her voyage without a thorough repair. The cargo was consequently discharged, and the crew were paid off. Captain Tooke regretted this exceedingly, but could not help it. He said that he should have been perfectly ready to take the brig home, with a new mast and a little caulking in her upper works, which could be got at simply by heeling her over. However, he had to submit.

He not only paid us our wages, but the wages which were due to the poor fellows who were lost, and also the value of the spars which had been given to him by the Bremen captain. Thus I found myself possessed of more money than I had had in my pocket since I had been pressed. The question was now, how I could most speedily reach England. I took counsel with La Motte. He observed, that the longest way round is often the shortest way there; and that, perhaps, by going to some port in the United States, we might more quickly get to Europe, as there was no vessel in harbour bound there at that time.

Just as we had arrived at this determination, a homeward-bound West Indiaman, which had parted from her convoy, put into the harbour. She had lost several men by yellow fever, and her captain, who came on shore, was very glad to ship us the moment we offered. He took all the men who had been paid off from the Fair Rosamond.

Once more we were under weigh for Old England. The Jane was a fine ship, belonging to London. She was in good repair, and well found, and with the fresh hands taken on board, well manned. We had no reason to dread gales of wind or disasters of any sort. The wind came fair, and we had a fine run till we were not far off the chops of the Channel, when it fell a dead calm. There we lay for a couple of days, well-nigh rolling our masts out, when a light breeze sprung up from the eastward. Though it was against us, anything was better than a calm. Oh, how I longed to be at home! Again almost in sight of England, I could not help every moment conjuring up pictures of the scenes that home might present. Sometimes they were bright and happy, but then they would become so sad and painful that I grew sick at heart by their contemplation. “At all events,” I said to myself, “all my doubts will soon be at an end. I shall know what has occurred.”

Such thoughts were passing through my mind, when the look-out from the masthead reported several sail in sight, coming down before the wind. The report caused considerable excitement on board. They might be friends, but they might be enemies; and if so, there was too great a probability of our finding ourselves entering a French port as prisoners, instead of returning home as we had expected. Our captain resolved to stand on close-hauled, till he could ascertain whether they looked suspicious, and if so, to keep away to the northward. As they drew nearer, we did not doubt from the breadth of canvas they showed that they were men-of-war. In a short time we got near enough to them to exchange signals, when we made out that they were British ships. The headmost one, a frigate, signalled to us to heave-to, an order our captain very unwillingly obeyed.

“Perhaps she only wants to send some message home, but I doubt it. Lads, look out for yourselves,” said he.

I knew too well to what his remark referred. We, as ordered, hove to, and a lieutenant and midshipman with a boat’s crew strongly armed came aboard us.

“Turn the hands up, captain,” said the lieutenant briskly. The order was obeyed, and we all had to appear on deck. “You are strongly manned, captain,” observed the officer, running his eye over us. “You can easily manage to get into port with half the number of hands you now have.”

“Could not work my ship without all the hands I have,” answered the captain gruffly.

“There is nothing like trying,” observed the lieutenant. “Let me see your papers. Ah, I observe you entered some of these men when part of your voyage was accomplished. You can do very well without them, at all events. They none of them have protection. No, I see that clearly. Come, lads, get your bags up; I can take no excuses. Our ships must have men; I know nothing more about the matter. Be smart now.”

I endeavoured in vain to expostulate. I entreated the officer to allow me to proceed in the ship. He replied that it was his duty to take me. He could not stop to argue about duty. I must go. I knew that he was right; but, oh, how grievous was this new trial to bear! I thought that I should have been beside myself.

La Motte was doing duty as mate of the ship, and he escaped. All I could do was to tell him where to find my wife, and to entreat him to lose no time in visiting her, and in assuring her of my safety. He promised faithfully to fulfil my wishes, and with a heavy, almost breaking heart, I stepped into the man-of-war’s boat.

I felt inclined to curse the country which could allow of such a system. Happily, I did not. I knew that it arose from the ignorance of those in authority as to how to get seamen for the king’s ships, and not from cruelty or heartlessness. It may seem surprising to those who live in happier times that no better plan could be thought of.

I found myself conveyed on board the Nymph, a thirty-six twelve-pounder gun frigate, commanded by Captain Edward Pellew. When questioned, I did not deny that I had before served on board a man-of-war, and having given an account of my adventures, I was rated at once as an able seaman. I went about my duty, and did it to the best of my power, but it was mechanically, without any spirit or heartiness.

Month after month passed away. I felt as if I was in a trance. I could not think. I tried to forge, the past; I dared not meditate on the future. How I lived through that time I scarcely know. I never laughed or smiled, I scarcely spoke to any one; even the active duties of the ship did not arouse me.

Chapter Sixteen.

On board the Nymph—A hot engagement—Escape of the enemy—I am transferred to the Pelican—Action off the Isle of Bas—I fancy myself with a wooden leg—We put into Plymouth—Writing under difficulties—A sad disappointment—We sail—A chase—Trying time—Action between the Venus and Sémillante—In search of the enemy.

Captain Edward Pellew, who commanded the Nymph, was, I was told, one of the smartest officers in the British navy.

“Where there is anything to do, he’ll do it; and if there is nothing to do, he’ll find something,” was the opinion expressed of him on board.

He had during the last war been first lieutenant of the Apollo, Captain Pownoll.

“I belonged to her at the time,” said my messmate Dick Hagger. “We were in company with the Cleopatra, Captain Murray, who, one morning, sent us in chase of a cutter seen in the north-west quarter. About half-past ten, when we had got nearly within gun-shot of the cutter, we saw a large ship standing out from the land. That she was an enemy, there was no doubt; so Captain Pownoll at once did his best to close her. The wind was about north-east, and the stranger, standing to the nor’ard on the starboard tack, was enabled to cross our bows. Soon afterwards she tacked to the eastward, and we also hove about until, she being on our weather quarter, we again tacked, as did also the stranger. We exchanged broadsides with her in passing, when we once more tacked and brought her to close action about noon. It was the hottest fight I had ever then been engaged in. We tossed our guns in and out, determined to win. It was sharp work; numbers of our men were falling, several killed and many wounded. Among the former was our brave captain, who was shot down about an hour after the action commenced, when our first lieutenant, Edward Pellew, who was now our captain, took command of the ship. You may be sure that he continued the fight bravely, cheering us on. What we might have thought about the matter had another man been in his place, I don’t know; but we knew him, and felt sure that he would keep it up as long as we had a stick standing or a shot in the locker.

“We were now edging away off the wind towards Ostend. It was soon seen that it was the intention of the enemy to run ashore. We had by this time made her out to be the Stanislaus, a French thirty-two gun frigate, though she was only carrying at the time, so we afterwards found out, twenty-six long twelve-pounders, so that she was no match for us.

“Our young commander now did his best to prevent the Stanislaus from running ashore by crossing and recrossing her bows; but on heaving the lead, we found that we were in little more than twenty feet of water, and that if we stood on, we ourselves must be aground before long.

“The master and other officers now came up to Mr Pellew, and strongly advised him to wear ship. You may be sure we were very sorry when we had to bring the Apollo to the wind, with her head off shore; and a few minutes afterwards the Stanislaus took the ground, when her foremast and main-topmast fell over the side. Still greater was our disappointment when we heard that Ostend was neutral ground, and that we should be violating what was called the neutrality of the port by renewing the engagement. I am not certain that our commander would not have run all risks, had not the enemy fired a gun to leeward to claim the protection of the Dutch. It is but right to say that the French fought well, for besides our captain, we hid five poor fellows killed and twenty wounded. Our rigging was cut to pieces, and we had three feet of water in the hold. The French loss was much more severe.

“Mr Pellew got his promotion to the rank of commander for this action. I next served with him on board the Pelican, a fourteen gun brig to which he was soon afterwards appointed. We were off the Isle of Bas, towards the end of April 1782, I mind, when we made out several vessels at anchor in the roads.

“Our commander at once resolved to attack them, and for this purpose stood inshore, when we saw two privateers—a brig and a schooner, each of equal force to the Pelican—spring their broadsides towards the entrance of the roads, to prevent us entering. Our commander was not the man to be stopped by threats of that sort. Standing on, we opened a brisk fire on the two privateers, and soon drove them, as well as a third which appeared inside, on shore, close under the shelter of some heavy batteries, whose guns at once began blazing away at us. We were struck several times, and two of our men were wounded, but no one was killed. It was about as pretty and well-executed an affair as I ever saw, and we were all right glad to hear that our commander had obtained his post rank for it. So you see, Will, we’ve got a man to be proud of.”

I agreed with Hagger, but yet my heart was too sore to feel any satisfaction at knowing this, and I would a thousand times rather have been on shore with my dear wife; and who, under my circumstances, would not? Still I might hope by some means or other to be able to rejoin her. The frigate, I found, had been fitted out at Portsmouth, and to Portsmouth she would in all probability return. I would thankfully have received a wound sufficiently severe to have sent me to hospital. Then, if I once got home, discharged from the ship, I determined to take very good care not again to be pressed. It would be hard indeed if Charles Iffley should discover me. In the meantime, I resolved, as I had done before, to perform my duty.

I prayed, for my wife’s sake, should we go into action, that my life might be preserved. For myself, just then, I cared very little what might become of me.

I remember, however, laughing as I thought, if my right leg were to be shot away, how Uncle Kelson and I should go stumping about Southsea Common together,—he had lost his left leg,—now our heads almost knocking against each other, now going off at tangents. I pictured to myself the curious figure we should cut.

Hagger thought, as he looked at me, that I had gone daft.

“What is the matter, Will?” he asked. I told him.

“Don’t let such fancies get hold of your mind, man,” he answered. “You’ll keep your two legs and get safely on shore one of these days, when we have well trounced the mounseers. Ever bear in mind that ‘there’s a sweet little cherub who sits up aloft, to take care of the life of poor Jack.’

“He’ll take care of both your legs for your wife’s sake, as I doubt not it would be better for you to keep them on.”

After cruising up and down the Channel for some time, we put into Plymouth, where we found the Venus frigate. Commander Israel Pellew, our captain’s brother, came on board to keep his brother company, he having no command at the time.

No leave was granted, and very little communication held with the shore. I was unable to obtain a sheet of paper and a pen, the officers only having writing materials. I would willingly have given a guinea for a sheet of paper, a pen, and some ink; but it was not until we had been at anchor some time that I got a sheet from the purser’s steward, with a wretched pen and a small bottle of ink, for which I paid him five shillings. I was thankful to get it at that price, and immediately hurried down to write a letter to my wife. Bitterly to my disappointment, before I had finished it, I heard the boatswain’s shrill call summoning all hands on deck to heave up the anchor and make sail. Placing the half-finished letter in my bag, which I had brought from the Jane, I followed my shipmates.

We sailed in company with the Venus, Captain Faulknor, and stood down Channel in search of French cruisers. My earnest prayer was, that we might put into Spithead, whence I should have an opportunity of sending my letter on shore, even though I should be unable to get leave to go myself. As a pressed man, I knew that I should have a difficulty in obtaining that.

The Venus had been hurriedly fitted out. She had no marines on board, while she was twenty seamen short of her complement. She was rated as a thirty-two gun frigate, mounting twenty-four long twelve-pounders on the main-deck, with six eighteen-pounder carronades and eight long six-pounders on her quarter-deck and forecastle, which gave her a total of thirty-eight guns. Thus, except her carronades, her guns were of light calibre. We were somewhere about a hundred leagues north-west of Cape Finisterre when a sail was seen to the south-east. Captain Pellew, as senior officer, ordered Captain Faulknor (the Venus being much the nearer) to chase. We at the same time made out another sail to the eastward. Hoping that she might be an enemy, we immediately steered for her. She proved, however, to be an English frigate bound out with despatches to the West Indies. As her captain could not go out of his way to look after the Frenchman, we bore up alone to follow the Venus, hoping to get up in time to take part in the engagement, should she be fortunate enough to bring the stranger to action. We could calculate pretty accurately whereabouts to find our consort, when about noon the next day it came on calm for some hours, and though we set all sail, the ship made but little progress through the water.

Late in the evening, the sound of rapid firing reached our ears, and we knew that the Venus must be engaged, but whether or not with a ship of superior force, it was impossible to decide. It greatly tried our patience to hear the sound of the battle and yet not be able to take part in it. Even I was aroused, and for a time forgot my own troubles. The midshipmen went aloft to the mastheads, but still they were unable to catch sight of the combatants. The fast-coming gloom concealed the clouds of smoke which might have risen above the horizon and shown their position.

The officers walked the deck with hurried strides, their glasses in their hands, every now and then turning them in the direction from which the sound came, though they knew they were not likely to see anything.

The men stood about whistling for a wind until it seemed as if their cheeks would crack.

At last the breeze came; the order was given to trim sails. Never did men fly to their stations with more alacrity.

The days were long, and as night came down at last on the world of waters, we could hear the firing more distinctly than ever, but still we could not see the flashes of the guns.

Next morning a sail was sighted to the south-east. She was standing towards us, but alone.

“She may be the Venus, or she may be an enemy which has captured her, and is now coming on to fight us,” I observed to Dick Hagger.

He laughed heartily. “No, no, Will,” he answered. “Depend upon it, the Venus, if she is taken, which I don’t believe, would have too much knocked about an enemy to leave her any stomach for fighting another English ship.”

“But suppose she is not the ship with which the Venus engaged, but a fresh frigate standing out to fight us.”

“I only hope she may be; we’ll soon show her that slip has caught a Tartar. Depend on’t, we’ll not part company till we’ve taken her.”

The matter was soon set at rest, when, the stranger nearing us, we observed her crippled state, and recognised her as our consort.

“She’s had a pretty tough fight of it,” said Hagger as we gazed at her. Her fore-topgallant main and cross-jack yard were shot away, her yards, rigging, and sails sadly cut up, but what injuries her hull had received we could not make out.

On closing with each other, both ships hove-to, and our third lieutenant, Mr Pellowe, whose name curiously enough was very like that of our captain (we used to call the one the Owe, the other the Ew), went on board, accompanied by Commander Israel Pellew. I was one of the boat’s crew. We found, on getting up to her, that no small number of shot had struck her hull, some going through her sides, others her bulwarks, besides which she had received other damages.

Her people told us that they had had an action, which had lasted the best part of three hours, with a French frigate of forty guns, the Sémillante; and that, though they had suffered sharply, the Frenchman had been much more knocked about.

After engaging her for two hours, they had got up to within half a cable’s length of her, when, trimming their sails as well as they were able, they ranged up alongside with double-shotted guns and gave her a broadside.

Having shot ahead, they were going about to repeat their fire, when they discovered to leeward a large ship under French colours. The Sémillante, recognising the stranger, bore up to join her, when their captain, seeing that he should have no chance of victory, considering the way their ship had suffered, and that they might be taken, hauled close to the wind, and, making all the sail they could carry, stood away from their new enemy.

If it had not been for that, they declared they would have taken the Sémillante, and of this there seemed little doubt. They had had two seamen killed, and the master and nineteen seamen wounded.

We afterwards learned that the enemy had had twelve killed and twenty wounded.

Considering the disparity of force, the action was a gallant one, and we more than ever regretted that we had been prevented taking part in it; for we should, we felt sure, have captured one or both of the French ships.

As soon as the shot-holes in the Venus had been stopped and her rigging repaired, we made sail together in search of the enemy, we hoping to have an opportunity of tackling the fresh ship, while our consort attacked her old opponent.

Chapter Seventeen.

In sight of the foe—The enemy get clear—Return to England—I lose my letter too late—We again sail—Action with the Cleopatra—Tough work with British tars—A last effort—Death of the French captain—On board the prize—Steer a course for the Isle of Wight—Our reception—My hopes and fears—Leave or no leave?—We run into Portsmouth harbour.

We continued our course under all sail to the eastward, and next evening caught sight of two sail, which we took to be French, standing up Channel.

We made chase, but lost sight of them in the night. Next morning, however, there they were, hull down, right ahead. We continued the pursuit along the French coast, but had the disappointment of seeing them at last take refuge in Cherbourg harbour. Knowing that they were not likely to come out again, we stood across channel, the Venus running into Plymouth to land her wounded men and repair damages, while we stood on for Falmouth.

Again I was disappointed in not being able to despatch my letter, for after we knew where the Venus was bound for, no communication was held with her.

I had got the letter written and addressed, but had not closed it, as I wished to add a few more words at latest. For safety’s sake, I kept it in my bag, as it might have got wetted and soiled in my pocket. Until we were off Falmouth, I did not know that we were to stand in. I was then too much engaged in shortening sail to get out my letter. When I was at last able to go below, I hurried to my bag, intending to add a postscript, but what was my dismay to be unable to find it.

I felt again and again, and then turned out all my things, but could nowhere discover the missing epistle. I hastened to try and obtain another sheet of paper from the purser’s steward, but he was just then too much engaged to attend to me, and directly after I got it my watch was called and I had to return on deck.

The moment my watch was over, I went below and, as well as I could, began writing. It was no easy matter in the dim light and hubbub going on around me. I finished it, however, telling my dear wife all that had occurred, how miserable I was at being separated from her, and my hopes, while I remained in the Channel cruiser, of being allowed to get on shore some day, even though we might be together but for a few short hours. The letter was closed and wafered; I rushed on deck with it, but only to find that the last boat from the shore had shoved off, and the next instant the hands were turned up to make sail.

I felt more inclined than I had ever done since my childhood to burst into tears. I think I should have done so from very vexation and disappointment, had I not been obliged to hurry to my station, putting my letter in my pocket as I did so.

It was trying, every one will allow, for all this time my dear wife could not tell what had become of me. My other friends might think me dead, but I knew that she would never believe that to be the case until she had strong evidence of the fact. Even if she had, I felt sure nothing would ever induce her to marry again.

The wind was fair up Channel. Arriving nearly abreast of the Start Point, we ran out to the southward, the captain hoping to fall in with one of the two French frigates which a short time before we and the Venus had chased into Cherbourg. One of the two was, as I before said, the Sémillante, the other was the Cleopatra.

On the morning of the 18th of June, just as day broke, the Start bearing east by north, distant five or six leagues, we discovered a sail in the south-east quarter, and immediately afterwards bore up in chase, carrying all the canvas we could set. As we approached the stranger, we felt nearly sure that she was the very French frigate we were in search of. She was under all sail, some of us thought, for the purpose of getting away.

“We shall have another long chase, and if that there craft has a fast pair of heels, she’ll get into Cherbourg and make us look foolish,” said Dick Hagger as we watched her.

We stood on, and soon had the satisfaction of discovering that we were sailing faster than the stranger. The captain and several of the other officers were examining her through their glasses.

In a short time they formed the opinion that she was no other than the Cleopatra which had before got away from us, and such we afterwards found to be the case.

A shout rose from our deck when we observed her haul up her foresail and lower her topgallant sails, showing that she had made up her mind to fight us.

In about two hours and a half, we got so near that we heard some one from her quarter-deck hail us.

Captain Pellew, on this, not making out distinctly what was said, shouted, “Ahoy! ahoy!” when our crew gave three cheers, and right hearty ones they were, and shouted, “Long live King George.”

As yet, not a shot had been fired, and it might have been supposed that we were two friendly ships meeting. On hearing our cheer, the French captain—his name we afterwards heard was Mullon—came on to the gangway, and waving his hat, exclaimed, “Vive la Nation!” on which his crew tried to give three cheers, as we had done; but it was a very poor imitation, I can vouch for it.

They had no one to lead them off, and they uttered shrieks rather than cheers, which, when we gave them, came out with a hearty ringing sound.

We saw the French captain talking to his crew, and waving a cap of liberty which he held in his hand. He then gave it to one of the men, who ran up the rigging and screwed it to the masthead.

“We’ll soon bring that precious cap of yours down, my boys,” cried Dick.

We were all this time at our guns, stripped to the waist, ready and eager to begin the game; and if the Frenchmen behaved as they seemed inclined to do, it would be, we felt sure, pretty sharp work.

The French captain now coming to the gangway, waved his hat. Our captain did the same, and passed the word along the deck that we were not to fire until we saw him raise his hat to his head.

Eagerly watching for the signal, we stood on, gradually nearing the French frigate, both of us running before the wind, until our foremost larboard guns could be brought to bear on the starboard quarter of the Cleopatra.

The captain raised his hat. Almost before it was on his head, the foremost gun was fired, the others being rapidly discharged in succession.

We were not to have the game all on our own side, for the French ship at once returned the compliment, and her shot came crashing on board of us.

We now, being within rather less than hailing distance of each other, kept blazing away as fast as we could run our guns in and out. We were doing considerable damage to the Frenchman, we could sea, but we were suffering not a little ourselves. Two of our midshipmen had fallen, killed while steadily going about their duty. Soon afterwards I saw another poor young fellow knocked over. Then the boatswain, in the act of raising his whistle to his mouth, had his head shot away; and some of the men declared that they heard it sounding notwithstanding, as it flew overboard. I saw three or four of our jollies—as we called the marines—drop while firing away from the forecastle. A round shot also striking our mainmast, I every instant expected to see it fall.

Though badly wounded, it was not cut through, however, and the carpenter and his crew set to work immediately to fish it.

We had been engaged some twenty minutes or so, when we saw the Cleopatra haul up some eight points from the wind.

We followed her closely, having no intention of allowing her to escape, if such was the expectation of her commander.

After blazing away some little time longer, down came her mizenmast; directly afterwards her wheel was shot away. She was thus rendered unmanageable, though for some time her crew endeavoured to keep her on her course by trimming sails; but our shot soon cutting away her braces, she played round off, and came stem on towards us, her jibboom passing between our fore and main masts, pressing so hard against the already wounded mainmast that I expected every instant to see it fall, especially as we had lost the main and spring stays. It was a question which would first go, our mainmast or the Frenchman’s jibboom.

Fortunately for us, the latter was carried away, and our mainmast stood. The moment our captain saw the stem of the Cleopatra strike us, supposing that the French were about to board, he shouted out, “Boarders, repel boarders!” But the Frenchmen hadn’t the heart to do it, and instead of their boarding us, we boarded them.

One party, led by our first lieutenant, rushed on the enemy’s forecastle; while another division, headed by the master, got through his main-deck ports.

Although the Cleopatra’s jibboom had given way, her larboard main-topmast studding-sail boom-iron had hooked on to the leech rope of our main-topsail, and was producing so powerful a strain on the mast that it seemed as if it could not possibly stand a minute longer. Seeing this, a brave fellow named Burgess, a maintop man, sprang aloft, and, in spite of the bullets aimed at him by some of the French marines stationed aft, cut the leech rope from the end of the main-yard.

Our third lieutenant had in the meantime cut away our best bower anchor, which had hooked on to the enemy’s ship.

I was one of those who had got through the main-deck ports. Following our gallant master, we fought our way aft, the Frenchmen for some time defending themselves bravely; but they could not resist the impetuosity of our charge, our cutlasses slashing and hewing, and our pistols going off within a few inches of their heads. At last many of them began to cry for quarter.

Although they numbered eighty more men than we did, most of them, throwing down their weapons, leapt below, tumbling head over heels upon each other. The rest fled aft, and seeing we had won the day, made no further resistance. Remarking that the Frenchman’s flag was still flying, I sprang aft to the halyards, and down I hauled it, cheering lustily as I did so, the cheer being taken up by the remaining crew of the Nymph.

The Cleopatra was ours. Never did I witness a more fearful sight. The decks fore and aft were slippery with gore, and covered with the dead and dying. During the short time we had been engaged, upwards of sixty had been struck down who, not an hour before, full of health and spirits, had attempted to reply to our cheer. Among them, on one side of the quarter-deck, lay the gallant Captain Mullon, surrounded by a mass of gore, for a round shot had torn open his back and carried away the greater part of his left hip. In one hand he was holding a paper, at which, strange as it may seem, he was biting away and endeavouring to swallow. I, with two other men, went up to him to ascertain what he was about. In the very act his hand fell, his jaw dropped, and there was the paper sticking in his mouth. He was dead. It evidently, however, was not the paper he intended to destroy, but, as it turned out, was his commission; for in his right pocket was found the list of coast signals used by the French, which, with his last gasp, he was thus endeavouring to prevent falling into the hands of the British.

Without loss of time one hundred and fifty prisoners were removed on board the Nymph, and just as the last had stepped on board the ships separated.

The third lieutenant, who had been sent on board with a prize crew, at once set to work to repair the damages which the Cleopatra had received, while all hands in the Nymph were actively employed in the game way. When we came to look at our watches, we found that we had dished up the enemy in just fifty minutes from the time the first shot had been fired at her until her flag was hauled down.

“Pretty quick work,” said Dick Hagger to me as we were working together repairing the rigging. “I told you the captain would be sharp about it; he always is at all he undertakes.”

On making up the butcher’s bill, however, as the purser called it, we found that although the Frenchmen out of three hundred and twenty men and boys had lost sixty-three, we, out of our two hundred and forty, had had no less than twenty-three killed and twenty severely wounded, making fifty in all. Of these, the gentlemen belonging to the midshipmen’s berth had suffered most severely, for four of them had been killed and two wounded. Of the senior officers, none had been killed; but the second lieutenant had been wounded, as was the lieutenant of marines, with six of his men.

As soon as sail could be got on the two frigates, we, to my great joy, steered a course for the Isle of Wight. I now felt more thankful than ever that I had escaped, as there seemed every probability that I should be able to see my dear wife, or at all events communicate with her. As soon as I went below, though I could with difficulty keep my eyes from closing, I opened my letter and added a few lines describing the action, and then placed it in my pocket, ready to send off on the first opportunity.

In spite of the poor fellows suffering below, and the number of shipmates we had lost, we felt very happy as with a fair breeze we sailed in through the Needles, our well-won prize following in our wake.

Never did those high-pointed rocks look more white and glittering or the downs more green and beautiful, while the blue sea sparkling in the sunlight seemed to share our joy. The people on the shore, as we passed the little town of Yarmouth, waved to us, and threw up their hats, and the flags from many a flagstaff flew out to the breeze.

As soon as we brought up at Spithead, I eagerly looked out for a boat going to the shore, by which to send my letter, hoping to have it delivered at once, instead of letting it go through the post office; but, as it was late in the evening, no shore boats came off, and I had to wait all the night, thinking how little my dear wife supposed I was so near her.

I turned out at daybreak, before the hammocks were piped up, that I might take a look at the spot where I thought she was living. Suddenly a sickness came over me. What if she should have been taken ill when I was so rudely torn from her! Perhaps she had never recovered, and was even now numbered among the dead. I could scarcely refrain from jumping overboard and trying to swim to Southsea beach. It seemed so near, and yet I knew that I could not do it. Then I thought I would go boldly up to the first lieutenant and tell him how treacherously I had been carried off,—snatched, as it were, from the arms of my young wife,—and ask him to give me leave for a few hours, promising faithfully to come back at the time he might name. Then I reflected that the ship was short-handed, that we had the prisoners to guard, and that until she had been brought up safe in Portsmouth harbour, every man would be required for duty.

“It would be useless to ask him,” I groaned out. “He’ll remember I’m a pressed man, and would not trust me. It is too common for men to break their word and desert, indifferent to what others may suffer in consequence. No,” I thought, “I’ll try to send my letter first, and then wait with all the patience I can muster until I can get an answer.”

Before long the hands were turned up, and we all set about our usual duties, washing down decks and giving them a double allowance of holystoning, to try and get out more of the blood stains before, visitors should come on board.

Scarcely was this work over than the order was given to get up the anchor and make sail, as, tide and wind being favourable, we were to run into harbour.

My heart bounded at the thought, I sprang with eagerness to my station, the ship gathered way and, followed by our prize, we stood towards the well-known entrance of Portsmouth harbour.

Chapter Eighteen.

The ship made snug—Visitors come on board—Jerry Vincent—News of my wife, and home—How my uncle became indignant—Jerry wishes me to take French leave—I refuse, I ask for and obtain permission to go ashore—Meeting with Uncle Kelson—Jerry prepares my wife for the interview—Tempted to desert—A happy time—Jerry’s recollections—On board the Arethusa—Yarns—A ghost story—A slippery deck—The pirates’ heads.

The Nymph under all plain sail, our prize following in our wake, glided on past Southsea Castle—the yellow beach, the green expanse of the common, the lines of houses and cottages beyond the Postdown hills rising in the distance, the batteries of Gosport and Portsmouth ahead, the masts of numberless vessels of all sizes seen beyond them.

I waited at my station in the fore-top for the order to shorten sail I cast many a glance towards the shore, where she whom I loved best on earth was, I fancied, gazing at the two ships with thousands of other spectators, little supposing that I was on board one of them. As we entered the harbour, we heard with joyous hearts the order given to shorten sail. The boatswain’s pipe sounded shrilly; the topmen flew aloft. Never did a ship’s crew pull and haul, and run out on the yards, with greater alacrity to furl the canvas.

The water was covered with boats, the people standing up and waving and cheering. It was no easy matter to steer clear of them as we stood up the harbour. When rounding to off the dockyard, the anchor was dropped, the cable running out like lightning, as if eager to do its duty and help to bring us safe home. The prize then massing us, brought up close under our stern.

Scarcely was the cable stoppered, and the ship made snug, than hundreds of boats pulled up alongside, those on board anxious to hear all about the victory we had gained.

Among the first was a somewhat battered-looking wherry, with a little wizened old man and a boy pulling. The former, catching sight of me as I stretched my neck through a port, throwing in his oar, uttered a shout of astonishment, and then, with the agility of a monkey, quickly clambered up the side by a rope I hove to him.

“What! Will, Will, is it you yourself?” exclaimed Jerry Vincent, wringing my hand and gazing into my face. “We all thought you were far away in the East Indies, and Mistress Kelson made up her mind that you’d never come back from that hot region where they fry beefsteaks on the capstan-head.”

“But my wife—my wife! is she well? Oh, tell me, Mr Vincent,” I exclaimed, interrupting him. “She expected me to come back.”

“She’s well enough, if not so hearty as we’d be wishing; for, to say the truth, the roses don’t bloom in her cheeks as they used to do.”

I cannot describe the joy and relief this reply brought to my heart. The gratitude which I felt made me give old Jerry a hug, which well-nigh pressed the breath out of his body.

“Why, Will, my boy, you are taking me for Mrs Weatherhelm,” he exclaimed, bursting into a fit of laughter. “You’ll soon see her, and then you can hug her as long as you like, if you can get leave to go on shore; if not, I’ll go and bring her here as quick as I can pull back to the point and toddle away over to Southsea.”

“Oh, no, no; I wouldn’t have her here on any account,” I answered as I thought of the disreputable characters who in shoals would soon be crowding the decks, and who were even now waiting in the boats until they were allowed to come on board.

“Tell me, Jerry, about my uncle and Aunt Bretta; how are they both?”

“Hearty, though the old gentleman did take on when you were carried away by the pressgang. If ever I saw him inclined to run a-muck, it was then. We had a hard matter, I can tell you, to prevent him from posting off to London to see the First Lord of the Admiralty, to grapple him by the throat if he did not send an order down at once to have you liberated. I don’t know, indeed, what he’d have done; but at last we persuaded him that if he made up his mind to proceed to such extremities, the First Lord would either laugh in his face or order the porters to kick him down stairs. He in time came to that conclusion himself, and so quieted down, observing that you would do your duty and bear yourself like a man.”

“I must try and get leave from the first lieutenant. He could not refuse me, when I tell him I was torn away from my wife, and I will promise to be back again at any time he may name.”

“You may try it, Will, but I’m not so sure about the matter. If he doesn’t, why, I’d advise you to take French leave and slip into my wherry as soon as it’s dark. I’ll have a bit of canvas to cover you up, and pull you ashore in a jiffey. You can land at the yard of a friend of mine, not far from the point, and disguise yourself in shore-going toggery. Every one knows me, and I’ll get you through the gates; and if I’m accused of helping you off, I’ll stand the consequences. It can only be a few months in gaol, and though I’d rather have my liberty, I can make myself happy wherever I am.”

“No, Jerry, I would not let you run that risk for my sake on any account; nor would I run it myself, much as I love my liberty and my wife,” I answered. “You stay here and I’ll go and ask the first lieutenant at once; if he refuses me now, he’ll be sure to give me leave another day.”

“Well go Will,—go,” said Jerry. “I’m much afraid that your first lieutenant, unless he is very much unlike others I have known, won’t care a rap about your wife’s feelings or yours. He’ll just tell you it’s the same tale half the ship’s company have to tell, and if your wife wants to see you, she may come aboard like the rest of the women.”

Without waiting to hear more of what Jerry might say, I hurried aft, and found the first lieutenant issuing his orders.

“What is it you want, my man?” he asked as I approached him, hat in hand.

“Please, sir, I’ve got a young wife ashore at Southsea, and I was torn away from her by a pressgang. May I have leave to go and see her, and I promise to be back at any time you may name.”

“A pressed man!—no, no, my fine fellow, no pressed men can be allowed out of the ship. They may take it into their heads not to return at all,” he answered, turning away.

“Pardon me, sir,” I said, “but I give you my word of honour that I will come back as soon as you order me.”

He glanced round with a look of astonishment, muttering, “Your word of honour! Who are you, my man?”

“I am a Shetlander, sir. I have been brought up to keep my word. Though I was pressed, I have done my duty. It was I, sir, who hauled down the flag of the Cleopatra when we took her.”

While he was speaking, a midshipman brought him a letter. He opened it, and glancing over the few lines it contained, his eye brightened. I stood watching, resolved not to be defeated.

As soon as he had folded the letter and put it into his pocket, I again stepped up.

“May I go, sir?” I said.

“Well,” he answered, smiling, “you hauled down the Frenchman’s flag. I am to have my reward, and you shall have yours. You may go ashore, but you must be back in three days. All the crew will be required for putting the ship to rights, to take the mainmast out of her and replace it by a new one,” and he ordered one of the clerks to put down my name as having leave.

I found afterwards that the letter I saw him read contained an intimation that he was forthwith to be made a commander.

In a few days the news was received that the great Earl of Chatham had presented our captain and his brother to King George, who had been pleased to knight our captain, and to make Commander Pellew a post-captain.

No one else, that I know of, obtained any honours or rewards, though each man and boy received his share of prize-money, and with that we had no cause to complain.

However, to go back to the moment when the first lieutenant gave me leave. “Thank you, sir! thank you!” I exclaimed, with difficulty stopping myself from tossing up my hat for joy.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I rushed below, and, taking the things I wanted out of my bag, I tumbled into Jerry’s wherry.

The old man pulled as fast as he and his boy could lay their backs to the oars.

“Stop, stop, my lad! wait for me!” he exclaimed as I jumped ashore and was preparing to run to Southsea. “You’ll frighten your wife and send her into ‘high strikes’ if you pounce down upon her as you seem inclined to do. Wait till I go ahead and tell her to be looking out for you. You won’t lose much time, and prevent a great deal of mischief, though I can’t move along quite at the rate of ten knots an hour, as you seem inclined to do.”

I at once saw the wisdom of Jerry’s advice, and waited, though somewhat impatiently, until he and his boy had secured the boat.

“Come along, Will, my lad,” he said at length, stepping ashore; “I’ll show you what my old legs can do,” and off he set.

We soon crossed the High Street, and made our way through the gate leading out of the town on to Southsea Common.

The village of Southsea was but a small, insignificant place in those days. We had not gone far when we caught sight of a person with a wooden leg stumping along at a good rate some way ahead. Although his back was towards us, I at once felt sure that he was Uncle Kelson.

“All right!” cried Jerry, “that’s Mr Kelson. He always carries a press of sail. It couldn’t have been better. I’ll go on and make him heave-to, and just tell him to guess who’s come back; but I don’t think there’s much fear of his getting the ‘high strikes’ even though he was to set eyes on you all of a sudden.”

I brought up for a moment so as to let Jerry get ahead of me.

“Heave-to, cap’en! heave-to! I ain’t a thundering big enemy from whom you’ve any cause to run,” I heard him shouting out. “Just look round, and maybe you’ll see somebody you won’t be sorry to see, I’ve a notion.”

My uncle, hearing Jerry’s voice, turned his head, and instantly catching sight of me, came running along with both his arms outstretched, his countenance beaming all over like a landscape lighted up by sunshine. I was somewhat fearful lest he should fall, but I caught him, and we shook hands for a minute at least, his voice almost choking as he exclaimed, “I am glad! I am glad! Bless my heart, how glad I am! And your wife, Will? You’ll soon make her all to rights. Not that she is ill, but that she’s been pining for you, poor lass; but no wonder: it’s a way the women have. Glad I hadn’t a wife until I was able to live on shore and look after her. Come along! come along!” and he took my arm, almost again falling in his eagerness to get over the ground, which here and there was soft and sandy, and full of holes in other places.

“Please, Mr Kelson, as I was a-telling of your nevvy, it won’t do just to come down on the lass like a thunder-clap, or it may send her over on her beam-ends,” said Jerry as he ranged up alongside, puffing and blowing with his exertions. “Just you stop and talk to him when we get near the house, and let me go ahead and I’ll break the matter gently, like a soft summer shower, so that they’ll be all to rights and ready for him when he comes.”

Jerry, I guessed, wanted to undertake the matter himself, suspecting that my uncle would, notwithstanding his good intentions, blurt out the truth too suddenly.

I therefore answered for him, that we would wait till Jerry had gone to the house and summoned us, though I had to exert no small amount of resolution to stop short of the door when we got in sight of it.

Jerry ran on at first, but went more deliberately as he approached the door, when, knocking, he was admitted.

He must be spinning a tremendous long yarn, I thought, for it seemed to me as if he had kept us half an hour, though I believe it was only two or three minutes, when at length he appeared and beckoned.

“Come along, Will! come along, my boy!” cried my uncle, keeping hold of my arm; but, no longer able to restrain my impatience, I sprang forward and, brushing past old Jerry, rushed into the house.

There was my Margaret, with Aunt Bretta by her side to support her; but she needed no support except my arm. After a little time, though still clinging with her arms round my neck, she allowed me to embrace my good aunt. My uncle soon joined us, and Old Jerry poked his head in at the door, saying with a knowing nod, “All right, I see there’s been no ‘high strikes.’ I shall be one too many if I stop. Good-day, ladies; good-day, friends all. I’ll look in to-morrow, or maybe the next evening; but I shall have plenty of work in the harbour, taking off people to see the prize and the ship which captured her.”

“Stop, Jerry, stop!” cried my uncle; “have a glass of grog before you go?”

“No, thankee, cap’en,” answered Jerry. “I must keep a clear head on my shoulders. If I once takes a taste, maybe I shall want another as I pass the Blue Posteses.”

Uncle Kelson did not press the point, and the old man took his departure.

Of course it required a long time to tell all that had happened to me, but I need not describe those happy days on shore. My dear wife would scarcely allow me for a moment to be out of her sight. She once asked the question, “Must you go back?”

“I have given my word that I would,” I answered. I knew full well what her heart wished, though she had too much regard for my honour even to hint at the possibility of my breaking my word.

Aunt Bretta and Uncle Kelson were of the same way of thinking; but old Jerry, who paid us a visit the second evening according to his promise, looked at the matter in a very different light.

“Now, Will, I’ve been thinking over this here business of yours every day since I first clapped eyes on you, and I’ve made up my mind that as they had no right to press you aboard that ’ere frigate, you have every right to make yourself scarce. I’ve got the whole affair cut and dry. There’s a friend of mine who is as true as steel. He’s got a light cart, and we intend to bundle you in soon after dark, and drive away, maybe to Chichester, and maybe to some country place where you can lie snug till the frigate has sailed, and the hue and cry after you is over.

“It’s all as smooth as oil. There’ll only be one man less aboard, as there would be if a shot was to take your head off; so it can’t make any odds to the captain and officers. And let me tell you, you’ll have a different set over you; for Mr Morris the first lieutenant, has got his promotion, Mr Lake is too badly wounded to allow him to return on board for some time, and the captain is sure to get a better ship; so you don’t know what double-fisted fellows you’ll get in their places.

“Follow my advice, Will; escape from all the tyranny and floggings, for what you can tell, that are in store for you. Run, and be a free man.”

“No, no, Mr Vincent; the advice you give is well meant, but I dare not even ask my husband to do as you propose,” answered Margaret in a firm voice, though she looked very sad as she spoke. “He would not be a happy man if he broke his word, and he has given that word to return. Even I can say, ‘Go back to your duty.’”

“So do I,” said Uncle Kelson, “though, if he had not given his word, I don’t know what I might have advised.”

“We can all pray for him,” said Aunt Bretta, “and I trust that we shall see him again before long, when he is free and can with a clean conscience remain with us.”

“I thank you, Jerry, for your good wishes,” I put in. “It cannot be, you see. I wish I could get away from the ship; but until I am paid off, and properly discharged, though I was pressed, I am bound to remain; so if you care for me, do not say anything more on the subject.”

“Well, well, if it must be, so it must,” answered Jerry with a deep sigh. “Some people’s notions ain’t like other people’s notions, that’s all I’ve got to say; and now I think it’s time for me to be tripping my anchor.”

“No, no, not until you have wetted your whistle,” said Uncle Kelson, beginning to mix a glass of grog.

The old man’s eyes glistened as he resumed his seat, replacing his hat under the chair; and putting his hand out to take the tumbler which my uncle pushed towards him across the table, and sipping it slowly, he looked up and said:

“I forgot to tell you that Sir Edward Pellew, as we must now call him since he got the sword laid across his shoulders by the king, has been appointed to the command of the Arethusa, a fine new frigate which will make a name for herself, if I mistake not, as the old one did. You remember her, cap’en, don’t you! It was her they writ the song about,” and he began singing:—

“Come all ye jolly sailors bold

Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,

While English glory I unfold:

Huzza! to the Arethusa;

She is a frigate tight and brave

As ever stemmed the dashing wave,

Her men are staunch to their fav’rite launch.

And when the foe shall meet our fire,

Sooner than strike, we’ll all expire

On board of the Arethusa!

“’Twas with the spring fleet she went out,

The English Channel to cruise about,

When four French sail, in show so stout,

Bore down on the Arethusa.

The famed Belle Poule straight ahead did lie,

The Arethusa seemed to fly,

Not a sheet or a tack or a brace did she slack,

Though the Frenchman laughed and thought it stuff,

But they knew not the handful of men how tough

On board of the Arethusa!

“On deck five hundred men did dance,

The stoutest they could find in France;

We with two hundred did advance,

On board of the Arethusa!

Our captain hail’d the Frenchman, ‘Ho!’

The Frenchman then cried out ‘Hullo!’

‘Bear down, d’ye see, to our Admiral’s lee.’

‘No, no,’ says the Frenchman; ‘that can’t be.’

‘Then I must lug you along with me,’

Says the saucy Arethusa!

“The fight was off the Frenchman’s land.

We forced them back upon their strand,

For we fought till not a stick would stand

Of the gallant Arethusa.

And now we’ve driven the foe ashore,

Never to fight with Britons more,

Let each fill a glass to his fav’rite lass,

A health to our captain and officers true,

And all who belong to the jovial crew

On board of the Arethusa!”

“I mind,” continued Jerry after another sip at his grog, “that she carried thirty-two guns, and was commanded by Captain Marshall. It was in the year 1778, just before the last war broke out. We hadn’t come to loggerheads with the mounseers, though we knew pretty well that it wouldn’t be long before we were that. We and two other frigates sailed down Channel with a fleet of twenty sail of the line under Admiral Keppel.

“When off the Lizard, on the 17th of June, we made out two frigates and a schooner to the southward. On seeing them, and guessing that they were French, the Admiral ordered us and the Milford to go in chase. The strangers separated, the Milford frigate and Hector, a seventy-four, following the other ship, which turned out to be the Licorne, and took her; while the Albert cutter pursued the schooner, and captured her by boarding after a sharp struggle. We meantime alone followed the other stranger, which was the French forty gun frigate Belle Poule.

“On getting within hailing distance, our captain, in the politest manner possible, invited the French captain to sail back with him to the English fleet.

“‘No, no,’ answered the French skipper, ‘that it cannot be, seeing I am bound elsewhere.’

“‘Then, mounseer, I must obey orders and make you come with me,’ says our captain just as politely as before, and without further ado he ordered the crew of the foremost main-deck gun to fire a shot across the French ship’s bows. It was the first shot fired during the war. We in return got the Frenchman’s whole broadside crashing aboard us.

“We then began pounding away at each other as close as we could get. It seemed wonderful to me that we were not both of us blown out of the water. Our men were falling pretty thickly, some killed and many more wounded, while our sails and rigging were getting much cut up.

“You see the enemy had twenty guns on a side to our sixteen, but we tossed ours in and out so sharply that we made up for the difference. For two mortal hours we kept blazing away, getting almost as much as we gave, till scarcely a stick could stand aboard us; but our captain was not the man to give in, and while he could he kept at it. At last, our rigging and canvas being cut to pieces, and our masts ready to fall, so that we could not make sail, the Belle Poule having had enough of it, shot ahead, and succeeded in getting under the land where we were unable to follow her.

“The song says that we drove her ashore; but though we did no exactly do that, we knocked her well about, and she had forty-eight men and officers killed and fifty wounded. As it was, as I have said, the first action in the old war, it was more talked about than many others. We lost our captain, not from his being killed, but from his getting a bigger ship, and Captain Everitt was appointed in his stead.

“The old Arethusa, after this, continued a Channel cruiser. We had pretty sharp work at different times, chasing the enemy, and capturing their merchantmen, and cutting-out vessels from their harbours; but we had no action like the one the song was wrote about.

“At last, in the March of the next year, when some fifty leagues or more off Brest, we made out a French frigate inshore of us. Instead of standing bravely out to fight the saucy Arethusa, she squared away her yards and ran for that port. We made all sail in chase, hoping to come up with her before she could get into harbour. We were gaining on her, and were expecting that we should have another fight like that with the Belle Poule, when, as we came in sight of the outer roads of Brest, what should we see but a thumping seventy-four, which, guessing what we were, slipping her cable, stood out under all sail to catch us.

“We might have tackled the seventy-four alone, with a good breeze; but we well knew that if we did not up stick and cut, we should either be knocked to pieces or be sent to the bottom; so our captain, as in duty bound, ordered us to brace up the yards and try to make the best of our way out of danger. We might have done so had there been a strong breeze blowing, but we could not beat the ship off shore as fast as we wanted.

“Night came down upon us, and a very dark night it was. We could not see the land, but we knew it was under our lee, when presently thump goes the ship ashore. Our captain did his best to get her off, but all our attempts were of no use. The saucy Arethusa was hard and fast on the rocks.

“The word was given to lower the boats. I was one of the first cutter’s crew. We had got her into the water, and the master, as good a seaman as ever stepped, came with us, and two young midshipmites.

“‘We’ll not be made prisoners if we can help it, lads,’ said the master. ‘Here, lower down these two casks of bread, and this breaker of water.’

“We had no time to get more, and we hoped the other boats would follow our example, but they would have to be sharp about it. We got round from under the lee of the ship, against which the surf was already breaking heavily, and pulled away to the windward out to sea. You may be sure we pulled as men do who are pulling for their lives and liberty. If we had been a minute later, we shouldn’t have done it. No other boats that we could see followed us. Next morning we were twenty miles off shore.

“We felt very downcast at the thoughts that we had lost our little frigate, but were thankful to have got away from a French prison. We learned afterwards that the captain, fearing for the lives of his people, sent the other boats at once to the shore, and establishing a communication, managed to land the whole crew, who were forthwith made prisoners. It was fortunate that we had the biscuit and water, or we should have been starved to death; for it was a week or more before we fell in with an English homeward-bound West Indiaman, when we had not a gill of liquid left, and not a biscuit a-piece. I learned the value of water at that time, but I have always held to the opinion that a little good rum mixed with it adds greatly to its taste,” and Jerry winked at my uncle with one eye, and with the other looked at his tumbler, which was empty.

Uncle Kelson mixed him another glass.

“Ladies both,” he said, looking round at my aunt and Margaret, “here’s to your health, and may Will be with you a free man before many months are over. Maybe you haven’t heard of the ghost we had on board the old Cornwall, some years before the time I am speaking of? If you haven’t, I’ll tell you about it. Did you ever have a ghost aboard any ship you sailed in, cap’en? Maybe not. They don’t seem to show themselves now-a-days, as they used to do.

“Dick Carcass was the boatswain of the old Cornwall when I served aboard her. He was a tall spare man with high shoulders and a peculiar walk, so that it was impossible to mistake him meet him where you might. He was also a prime seaman, and had a mouth that could whistle the winds out of conceit. If he did use a rope’s-end on the backs of the boys sometimes, it was all for their own good. We were bound out one winter time to Halifax, Nova Scotia. It isn’t the pleasantest time of the year to be sailing across the North Atlantic. We had had a pretty long passage, with westerly gales, which kept all hands employed. The boatswain was seldom off deck, and a rough life he had of it.

“At last, what with the hard work he had to do, and having been in hospital too before we sailed, he fell sick, and one night the doctor came out of his cabin and told us he was dead. Now our captain was a kind-hearted man; and as he expected to be in port in two or three days, instead of sewing the boatswain up in a hammock and lowering him overboard, he gave notice that he should keep him to give him decent Christian burial on shore, and let the parson pray over him, for, d’ye see, we had none aboard. To pay him every respect, a sentry was placed at the door of his cabin in the cockpit. He had been dead three or four days, and we had expected to get into port in two or three at the furthest; so as the wind continued foul, and might hold in the same quarter a week longer, the captain, thinking the bo’sun wouldn’t keep much longer, at last determined to have him buried the next morning. That night I had just gone below, and was passing close to the sentry, when he asked me if I couldn’t make his lantern burn brighter. He was a chum of mine, d’ye see. I took it down from the hook where it was hanging, and was trying to snuff it, when all of a sudden the door of Mr Carcass’s cabin opened with a bang like a clap of thunder, and, as I’m a living man, I heard the bo’sun’s voice, for you may be sure I knew it well, shout out:—

“‘Sentry, give us a light, will ye!’

“Somehow or other—maybe I nipped the wick too hard—the candle went out, and down fell the lantern. I did not stop to pick it up, nor did the sentry who got the start of me, and off we set, scampering away like rats with a terrier at their tails, till we gained the upper step of the cockpit ladder. We then stopped and listened. There were steps thundering along the deck. They came to the very foot of the ladder. Presently we heard something mounting them slowly. The sentry moved on. So did I, but looking round I saw as surely as I sit here, the head of old Dick Carcass’s ghost rising slowly above the deck.

“We did not stop to see more of him, but walked away for’ard. Again we stopped, when there he was, standing on the deck—eight feet high he looked at least—rubbing his eyes, which glared out at us like balls of fire.

“We made for the fore-ladder, and there thought to get out of its way by moving aft as fast as our legs could carry us. Presently, as I looked over my shoulder, I saw the ghost come up the ladder on to the forecastle. The men there saw him too, for they scuttled away on either side, and left him to walk alone. For five minutes or more he kept pacing up and down the deck, just as he was accustomed to do when he was alive. By this time the men were crowding aft, the sentry among them, when the lieutenant of the watch, thinking maybe there was going to be a mutiny, or something of that sort, sings out and axes what we were about.

“‘Sir,’ answers the sentry, who was bold enough now; ‘there’s the ghost of Mr Carcass a walking the fo’c’stle.’

“‘The ghost of Mr Carcass be hanged! he is quiet enough in his cabin, poor man. What are all you fools thinking about?’ says the lieutenant. ‘Be off for’ard with you.’

“‘He is there, sir! he is there! It is the bo’sun’s ghost,’ we all sung out, one after the other, none of us feeling inclined to go near him.

“‘Blockheads!’ cried the lieutenant, beginning to get angry.

“‘It is him, sir; it is him,’ cried others. ‘He’s got on the hat and monkey jacket he always wears.’

“The lieutenant now became very angry, and ordering us out of the way, boldly steps forward. When, however, he gets abreast of the barge, he stops, for there he sees as clearly as we did the bo’sun’s tall figure pacing the deck, with his hands behind his back, looking for all the world just as he had done when he was alive.

“Now the lieutenant was as brave a man as ever stepped, but he did not like it, that was clear; still he felt that go on he must, and so on he went until he got up to the foremast, and then he sings out slowly, as if his words did not come up readily to his mouth:—

“‘Mr Car-car-car-cass, is that you?’

“‘Sir!’ said the ghost, turning round and coming aft.

“‘Mr Car-car-car-cass, is that you?’ again sings out the lieutenant.

“‘Sir!’ answers the boatswain, and he came nearer.

“The lieutenant stepped back, so did we, all the whole watch tumbling over on each other. Still facing for’ard, the gallant lieutenant kept retreating, and the ghost kept coming on slowly, as ghosts always do, I’m told, though I can’t say as I’ve had much experience with those sort of gentry. At last the ghost sings out:—

“‘Pardon me, Mr Pringle, what’s the matter? have all the people gone mad?’

“‘Who are you?’ asked the lieutenant.

“‘I am Richard Carcass, bo’sun of this here ship, to the best of my knowledge, and was never anybody else, sir.’

“‘What! ain’t you dead?’ says the lieutenant.

“‘Not that I knows on,’ answers the ghost. ‘I was alive when it struck eight bells in the middle watch, and its now only just gone two. I take it it is the morning watch, for I heard it strike just before that stupid sentry put out his light, and for some reason or other I couldn’t make out, took to his heels.’

“‘Why, the doctor said you were dead,’ says the lieutenant.

“‘The doctor, then, doesn’t know a dead bo’sun from a live one,’ answered Mr Carcass.

“‘Well, I wish you’d let him see you, and hear what he’s got to say on the subject;’ and he ordered the midshipman of the watch to call the doctor, who came on deck, grumbling not a little at being roused out from his berth. When he saw the bo’sun he seemed mighty pleased, and taking him by the hand told us all that he was as alive as ever he was, and advised him to turn in again and get some sleep, as the night was cold, and he was on the sick list.

“Well, ladies, that was the only ghost I ever saw. He was not dead either, but had been in a sort of trance, and when he heard two bells strike, not knowing how many days had passed since he had gone to sleep, he called for a light, but not getting it, he dressed in the dark and came on deck, thinking he ought to be there.”

Jerry spun other yarns before he took his leave. He was once, he declared, on board a trader bound out from Ireland to the West Indies with butter and cheese, “The Jane and Mary, that was her name,” he continued. “We were off the coast of Saint Domingo, almost becalmed, when we made out a couple of suspicious—looking craft sweeping off towards us. That they were pirates we had no doubt. At that time those sort of gentry used to cut the throats of every man on board if there was the slightest resistance.

“Our skipper, Captain Dillon, was a determined fellow, and had proved himself a good seaman during the passage.

“‘Lads,’ he sang out, ‘do you wish to be taken and hove overboard to feed the sharks, or will you try to save the ship if those scoundrels come up to us? I’ll promise you we’ll beat them if they venture aboard.’

“We all answered that we were ready to stick by him, for I believe there was not one of us that did not think we should be dead men before the day was an hour older. The mates promised also to fight to the last.

“‘Be smart then, my lads, get up some of the cargo from the hold.’ We soon had a dozen butter casks hoisted up, knocked in their ends, and payed the decks, and sides, and ropes, and every part of the ship over with the butter. We chucked our shoes below, and got the cutlasses, boarding pikes, and pistols ready. In a few minutes the deck was so slippery, that a man, unless without his shoes, could not stand upon it. We were all ready, with our cutlasses at our sides and the pikes handy, to give the scoundrels a warm reception. Meantime the Jane and Mary did her best, as far as the breeze would help her, to keep moving through the water.

“The pirates crept up, and kept firing away at us, one on one quarter and one on the other.

“We answered them with the few guns we carried, though each of them had nearly twice as many as we had, while their decks were crowded with men. Presently they ranged up alongside, and both boarded together, a score or more villainous-looking rascals leaping down on our decks, expecting to gain an easy victory; but they never made a greater mistake in their lives, and it was the last most of them had the chance of making. The moment their feet touched our deck, over they fell flat on their faces, while we with our cutlasses, rushing in among them, killed every mother’s son of their number. Others following, shouting, shrieking, and swearing, met the same fate; when the rest of the pirates, seeing what was happening, though not knowing the cause, but fancying, I suppose, that we had bewitched them, sheered off, and the breeze freshening we stood away, leaving the two feluccas far astern. Forty men lay dead on our decks, and not one of us was hurt.

“‘Heave the carcases overboard, and swab up the decks,’ cried our skipper, as coolly as if nothing had happened.

“We had a pretty job to clean the ship afterwards, but we didn’t mind the trouble, seeing that we had saved our lives, and the skipper was well content to lose the dozen casks of batter which had served us so good a turn.

“That skipper of ours had no small amount of humour in his composition, though it was somewhat of a grim character. Before we hove the bodies overboard, he ordered us to cut off the heads of those who had fallen, forty in number, and to pickle them in the empty butter casks, lest, as he said, his account of the transaction might be disbelieved by the good people of Jamaica.

“We arrived safely in Kingston harbour, where the merchants and a lot of other persons came on board. Many of our visitors, when they heard the skipper describe the way we had beaten off the pirates, looked incredulous.

“‘Seeing is believing,’ says he, and he ordered the casks which had been kept on deck to be opened. It was mightily amusing to watch the way our visitors looked at each other, when our skipper forthwith produced the gory heads, among which was that of the captain of one of the piratical craft and that of the first mate of the other.

“Some of them started back with horror, as well they might, for the heads looked dreadful enough as they were pulled out in succession.

“‘There’s the whole score,’ says the skipper, as we arranged them along each side of the quarter-deck. ‘Now, gentlemen, what have you got to say about my veracity?’

“After that, you may be sure the captain’s word was never doubted. The heads were then hove overboard, and it was said that Old Tom, the big shark which used to cruise about between Port Royal and Kingston, got the best part of them for his supper. I’m pretty sure he did, because for many a day after that he was not seen, and some thought he had died of indigestion by swallowing those pirates’ heads. Howsomdever, he wasn’t dead after all, as poor Bob Rattan, an old messmate of mine, found out to his cost. Just about two months had gone by, and Bob one evening was trying to swim from his ship to the shore, when Old Tom caught, him by the leg and hauled him to the bottom. His head was washed ashore three days afterwards, bitten clean off, a certain proof that Old Tom had swallowed the pirates’ heads, and not finding them agree with him, had left poor Bob’s alone.

“Taking in a cargo of sugar we sailed homewards; but I can tell you, till we were well clear of the West Indies we didn’t feel comfortable, lest we should fall in again with the pirates, when, as we had no butter aboard to grease our decks, the chances were, we knew, that in revenge they would have cut all our throats and sent the ship to the bottom.

“You see, ladies, that a man may go through no end of dangers, and yet come scot free out of them. So I hope will our friend here, and have many a yarn to spin, and that I may be present to hear them, although I don’t think he’ll beat mine; and now, as it’s getting late, I’ll wish you good evening;” and Jerry, taking his hat from under the chair, shook hands with all round.

“You won’t take my advice then, Will?” he whispered, as he came to me. “Well, well, it’s a pity. Good-night, lad, good-night, I’ll see you aboard the Nymph;” and he hurried away across the common towards the beach where he had left his boat, intending to pass the night under her, as was his general custom in the summer.

Chapter Nineteen.

A sad parting—I set out to rejoin my ship—How our fleet was manned—Scene at the Point, Portsmouth—An explosion—A narrow escape—I am transferred with Dick Hagger and others to the Culloden, 74—A bad crew—Intelligence received of the sailing of the French fleet—We sail—Looking out for the enemy—A general chase—Lord Howe’s victory of the first of June—Behaviour of the Culloden—Return to England—Discontent on board our ship—The Lord Mayor’s men—My signature is obtained—What came of it—Mutiny breaks out—Among the mutineers.

The time for which I had obtained leave came soon, far too soon, to amend. It seemed as if I had been but a few hours with my dear wife, and now I must part again from her for an indefinite period, how long I could not tell. I knew that while I had health and strength, no sum could obtain my discharge. Men were wanted for the service, and every effort was made to get them, while strict watch was kept on those who had been obtained. Pressgangs were sent on shore every day all along the coast where there was a chance of picking up men. Agents even visited the mines, and people who had been working under ground all their lives, were suddenly transferred to the deck of a man-of-war, and very fine seamen they made too, for they were hardy, intelligent fellows, and liked the change, and no wonder.

Captain Nelson, and other officers, had thus picked up from the Cornish mines a number of prime seamen. However, as I was saying, the time came for me to part from my wife and my kind uncle and aunt. I would not let Margaret accompany me on board, though she wanted to do so, for the reason I have before stated. She and Uncle Kelson, however, came with me down to the Point, where Jerry had promised to be on the look-out to take me on board. Even there the scene was such as it must have pained any right-minded woman to witness.

Drunken seamen and marines, and women, and Jews, and crimps, all crowded together so that it was difficult to get through the surging mass of human beings, many of them fighting and wrangling and swearing, while the Jews were trying to sell their trumpery wares to such of the poor ignorant sailors as had any money left in their pockets, and the more sober of the men were endeavouring to lift their tipsy shipmates into the boats.

I led Margaret back up the street; “Go home with uncle, dearest,” I said, “I cannot be happy with you in this fearful crowd. The sooner you are out of Portsmouth the better.”

Uncle Kelson took her arm, and led her along the street, while I hurried back to the Point, for I had not many minutes to spare, as I would not have been a moment behind-hand on any account.

I remember seeing an old Irish woman with a pipe in her mouth, seated on one of several casks placed close together in the middle of the Point. I fought my way through the crowd, and seeing Jerry’s wherry, jumped into her, begging him at once to shove off as I was late. He and his boy pulled away; but scarcely had we got half a dozen fathoms from the Point when there was a dreadful explosion. Flames burst up from the midst of the crowd, arms and legs and human bodies were lifted into the air, while others were shot out into the water or on board the boats, while fearful shrieks and screams rose from the scene of the catastrophe. Almost immediately afterwards not a single person could be seen standing on the Point, but many lay there dead, or fearfully mangled. Boats full of people were pulling away from the spot, and the rest of the crowd were flying up towards the street.

It turned out that the old Irishwoman I had noticed seated on the cask, not dreaming that it contained gunpowder, had shaken out the ashes from her pipe on it. How the casks of powder came to be left there is more than I can say. All I know is, that great carelessness prevailed in all departments of the navy in those days, and it’s only a wonder that more accidents did not occur.

Numbers of persons were killed by the explosion, others were dreadfully mutilated, and scarcely a scrap of the old woman herself could be discovered. I felt grateful to Heaven that my dear wife and uncle had escaped. Had they come on with me, we should have been close to the spot and among the sufferers. I could not go back, though Jerry wanted to do so, as I had to be on board by noon, and there were but a few minutes to get alongside the ship.

I reported myself to the first lieutenant as having come on board.

“Very well,” he said, and just then it struck eight bells. I had not been long on board when I heard it reported that the Nymph was to go into dock, and that the crew would be turned over to other ships wanting hands. It was but too true, and I found that Dick Hagger, I, and others were to be transferred to the Culloden, 74, forming one of the Channel fleet, under Earl Howe, and then commanded by Captain Schomberg. She was soon ready for sea, and we went out to Spithead, where the ships were rapidly collecting. I had never seen so many men-of-war together, for there were thirty-four sail of the line, eight frigates, and smaller vessels.

No leave was granted, so I could not get on shore, for we were to be ready to start at a moment’s notice, directly intelligence should arrive from the numerous cruisers off the French coast that the Brest fleet had put to sea.

We had a mixed crew, and a bad lot many of them were—jailbirds, smugglers, who were good, however, as far as seamanship was concerned, longshore men, and Lord Mayor’s men, picked up from the London streets, the only difference between the two last being that the latter had tails to their coats,—one slip of the tailor made them both akin,—and we dubbed them K.H.B., or king’s hard bargains. Then we had a lot of ordinary seamen, and very ordinary they were. We A.B.’s were in the minority by a long chalk. Lastly came the marines; they were mostly steady men, and, as they had been at sea before, were better sailors than the ordinary seamen, besides which they knew their duty and did it. Without them I am very sure the crew could never have been kept under.

Flogging was the order of the day; scarcely a morning passed but we had two or three triced up, and the boatswain’s mates swore that they had never worn out so many cats-o’-nine-tails before.

I don’t know that it was the officers’ fault, for they knew no better way of maintaining discipline. It was because some hundreds of men, few of whom had ever served on board a man-of-war, were brought together.

I had been on board some days when I caught sight of a face I knew too well; it was that of Charles Iffley. I was certain it was him, though when I inquired I found that he had entered under the name of Charles Trickett.

I saw him start when he first recognised me, but he kept out of my way, and I had no wish to speak to him. His presence, I feared, boded me no good. Whether his feelings of revenge were satisfied, I could not tell; but if not, I was very sure that he would wreak them on my head if he could.

During the early spring, merchant vessels of all sizes, but mostly large ones, kept coming in until nearly a hundred were assembled, when the whole fleet, including men-of-war, amounted to one hundred and forty-eight sail,—three being of a hundred guns, four of ninety-eight, while a large number were seventy-fours. The merchantmen were bound out either to the West Indies or Newfoundland, and some of the men-of-war were intended to convoy them.

At last, on the 2nd of May, a frigate came in with the news that the Brest fleet had put to sea. We immediately made sail from Saint Helen’s and stood down Channel.

Besides looking out for the French fleet, which Lord Howe had determined to attack, we had to see the merchantmen clear of the Channel, and besides that to try and intercept a French convoy coming from America, said to consist of three hundred and fifty sail, laden with provisions and stores, the produce of the West Indian islands, of which the French Republic stood greatly in need.

On arriving off the Lizard, eight of the large ships and six of the frigates were detached to see the merchantmen clear of the latitude of Cape Finisterre, while the Channel fleet, thus reduced to twenty-six sail of the line, besides seven frigates and smaller vessels, stood for Ushant. Before long the frigates made the signal that the French fleet were at sea.

We after this kept cruising up and down looking for them, though our Admiral knew that many of the ships were far larger than ours, but our numbers were equal.

To describe all that took place is more than I can do. I know that it was on the 28th of May that the Admiral heard through some prizes which had been taken that the French fleet of which he was in search were close to us.

Soon after sunrise we made them out bearing down towards us with topgallant sails set. The signal was at once thrown out by the Admiral to prepare for battle. It was a fine sight to see them coming down upon us; but though there was a strong breeze blowing and a heavy sea on, they did not near us as fast as we had expected, and we were ordered to go to dinner. It was the last many a fine fellow on board some of the ships was to take, but I do not believe that any one, on account of the thoughts of the coming battle, ate a worse meal than usual.

Greatly to our disappointment, a short time after we returned on deck, the French fleet were seen making off, but our spirits revived when Lord Howe threw out the signal for a general chase, followed, almost immediately afterwards, by another to engage the enemy’s ships as soon as we should arrive up with them. Only our leading ships were, however, able to do so, and we saw them blazing away at the Frenchmen till night closed in on us.

The Audacious got most fighting, and being terribly knocked about, was nearly taken by the enemy. She gave as much as she received, and so battered the Révolutionnaire that the French ship had to be taken in tow by one of her own frigates.

Next day we had some more fighting, much in the same fashion as on the first, but more severe, several of our ships having lost their topmasts and yards, and two or three of the French being completely disabled.

Thus we kept manoeuvring for two days, till, to our great disappointment, we lost sight of the French fleet during the night of the last of May. We had been standing to the westward, when at daybreak on the first of June, latitude 47 degrees 48 minutes north, longitude 18 degrees 30 minutes west, the wind a moderate breeze, south by west, and the sea tolerably smooth, we descried the French fleet, carrying a press of sail about six miles off on our starboard or lee bow, and steering in a line of battle on the larboard tack. At 5 a.m. our ships by signal bore up together and steered north-west. At about 7 a.m., we having again hauled to the wind on the larboard tack, plainly saw the French fleet, consisting of twenty-six sail of the line, the whole, with the exception of one or two, complete in their masts and rigging.

Shortly after this we saw the welcome signal flying, ordering us to breakfast, and as soon as it was over, the still more welcome one to bear down on the enemy. The next signal thrown out was for each ship to steer for and independently engage the ship opposite to her in the enemy’s line, the Caesar leading the van. The Bellerophon, or Billy Ruffian, as she used to be called, followed her; next came the Leviathan. We were about the thirteenth in line. The ships of both fleets were carrying single-reefed topsails. Of those of the French, some were lying to, and others backing and filling to preserve their stations. We were steering about north-west, with a fresh breeze south by west, and going little more than five knots an hour.

We were standing on, every ship keeping regularly in line, when what was the disgust of the true men on board the Culloden to hear the captain give the order to back the fore and main-topsails, three other ships having done the same, though we were not even yet within range of the enemy’s guns. We soon, however, saw the Admiral speaking with his signals, and ordering us to make more sail. Our brave old chief was at the same time setting topgallant sails, and letting fall his foresail in order that the Queen Charlotte might be first through the enemy’s line. In a short time that noble ship was engaged singlehanded with three of the enemy, for neither the Gibraltar nor the Brunswick were near enough to aid her. She was opposed to one French hundred-and-twenty gun ship, and two of eighty guns. In a short time, down came her fore-topmast, followed shortly afterwards by her main-topmast, while so damaged were her lower yards and rigging, that she was almost unmanageable. Notwithstanding this, she kept blazing away, till she beat off the two eighty gun ships, which made their escape, and had now only the biggest opposed to her.

The action had now become general, a few of our ships had cut their way through the French line, and engaged the enemy to leeward; the remainder hauled up to windward and opened their fire, some at a long, others at a more effectual distance. I am sorry to say the Culloden was among the former. Perhaps our captain thought, with his undisciplined crew, that it would be hazardous to venture alongside an enemy’s ship. He was wrong if he thought so. Bad as our fellows were, we had enough good men to load and fire the guns and the others were able at all events to haul them in and run them out again. It was impossible to see what was taking place. Each captain had to act for himself, and the greater number were doing their duty nobly. The Brunswick for some time was hooked by her anchors alongside a French ship, which she almost knocked to pieces. Another, coming up to rescue her friend, received so tremendous a fire that her three masts were speedily cut away by the board.

One ship after another of the French struck, and several were almost dismasted. Of these, four were recovered by the French Admiral, who now stood away to the northward, leaving Earl Howe in possession of six line-of-battle ships which had been captured. The victory was an important one, for although many of our ships had suffered severely, we had not lost one, while besides the six we had taken from the French, we had fearfully knocked about a large number of others.

The old Earl, as far as I know, made no complaint of the way in which some of the ships had disobeyed his orders and kept out of action. We in the Culloden, who knew what ought to have been done, felt ashamed of ourselves, that’s all I can say.

As soon as the worst damages could be repaired, the whole fleet made sail and stood up Channel, steering for Spithead, where we arrived early on the morning of the 13th, and brought up with our six prizes.

I felt very little of the enthusiasm which animated most of the thousands of visitors who came off to see us; but many were mourners, anxious to obtain information of the loved ones they had lost, and others to see their wounded relatives and friends groaning in pain below. My great desire was to let my wife know that I had escaped, and I was very thankful when Jerry Vincent came alongside, and I was able to despatch a letter by him, he promising to deliver it immediately, and to tell her that I looked well and hearty.

A few days afterwards the King and Queen came down to Portsmouth, and went on board the Queen Charlotte, to present the old Admiral—for he was then seventy years of age—with a diamond-hilted sword, and to hang a gold chain round his neck. They then dined with him, and returned on shore in the evening. One of the vice-admirals was made Lord Graves, and the other Viscount Bridport. The rear-admirals were created baronets, and the first lieutenant of every line of battle ship in the action was made a commander. The rest got empty thanks, and a small share of prize-money, which was spent by the greater number of the men the first time they got ashore, so that the grog-sellers, lodging-house keepers, and Jews, benefited chiefly by that. The ships which had suffered went into Portsmouth harbour to refit; but as the Culloden had no honourable wounds to show, we were kept at Spithead, and no leave was granted.

The men grumbled and growled, complaining that they were ill-treated, and that it was not their fault that they had not taken a more active part in the battle. The captain and officers best knew the reason why, and they also were out of sorts, for they heard it whispered that they had shown the white feather. They consequently, being out of temper, bullied us, and we were kept at work, exercising at the guns, and making and shortening sail.

Our former captain being removed, Captain Thomas Trowbridge, well-known as a good officer, took command of the ship, and we put to sea for a cruise.

The state of the crew, however, had become too bad to be amended in a hurry. Discontent of all sorts prevailed on board.

As we lay at Spithead, one day Hagger came to me and said:

“Will, I don’t like the look of things, there’s something going to happen. The men complain that the provisions are bad, and we don’t get fresh meat and vegetables from shore as we ought, and there’s no leave given, and flogging goes on just as it did before, and that our present captain is as severe as the last. There’s a knot of them got together, and they are plotting something. That fellow, Charles Trickett, is at the bottom of it, though he takes good care not to be too forward. They have won a good many men over, and they tried to win me, but I’m not going to run my head into a noose to make bad worse.”

“I know all you tell me,” I replied, “except that I was not aware there was any plotting going on. No one has spoken to me, and Trickett is the last person to do so, though he would be ready to get me into a scrape if he could. I don’t think they would be mad enough to attempt anything when they must know what would be the upshot. The leaders will be taken, and either flogged round the fleet, or hung at the yard-arm. I’m glad that you’ve kept clear, Dick.”

Next day a man I had seldom spoken to came up while I was writing a letter to my wife, and asked me to put my name to a paper which he said wanted a witness, and he could not find any man just then who could sign his name. He was one of the Lord Mayor’s men, but notwithstanding by this time had become a pretty smart hand. He had been a pickpocket or something of that sort it the streets of London, and always spoke of himself as being a gentleman, and was fond of using fine language.

“You’ll render me an essential service, Weatherhelm, if you’ll just do as I request. Here is the paper,” and he produced a large sheet folded up. “You’ll see me write my name, and you’ll just write yours as a witness under it. There’s the word ‘witness,’ you see, in pencil, you need not cover it up.”

He wrote down his own name as Reginald Berkeley, and I attached my signature.

“Thank you extremely,” he said, taking up the paper before I had time, notwithstanding what he said, to write down the word “witness,” which I knew ought to be in ink. “That is all I require. It may, I hope, be the means of bringing me a nice little income of a thousand a year or so, to which I am entitled if I obtain my rights, as my solicitor tells me I am sure to do. I’ll not forget you, Will, depend upon it. You shall come and stay with me at a snug little box I own down at Richmond,—that is to say, as soon as I come into possession of it, for I have not, properly speaking, got it yet,—or if you want a few pounds at any time, they are at your service. Thank you, thank you, go on with your letter. I must apologise for interrupting you;” and putting the paper in his pocket, he walked away.

I thought no more about the matter, and having finished and closed my letter, went on deck to get it sent on shore, as I knew my wife would be anxiously expecting to hear from me.

A short time after this another fellow, very much the same sort of man as Berkeley, as he called himself, addressed me, and invited me to come forward and take a glass of grog with him.

“I’ve got a little store of liquor of my own, and I like to share it with honest fellows like you, Weatherhelm,” he said. “You and I haven’t had much talk together, but I have heard of you from Hagger and others, and seen what a prime seaman you are.”

“I’m much obliged to you, Pratt,” I answered, for that was his name, “but I am not over fond of spirits, and never take a glass except when they are served out, and even then I had as soon, on most occasions, go without it as have it.”

“I dare say you are right,” answered Pratt, “there’s nothing like keeping a cool head on your shoulders; we want cool heads now to guide us. You see we have been barbarously treated, and I am sure you will agree that we ought to get our rights, if we are worthy of being called men. I am told that some of the best hands in the ship have made up their minds on the subject, and they have asked me to join them; but I want to know what your opinion is, for I do not suppose, as you are a fellow of spirit, that you’ll be hanging back.”

I guessed what he was driving at, and was cautious in what I said. I advised him not to join any mad attempt to gain by force what he called our rights, saying that I had made up my mind to have nothing to do with anything of the sort. On this I endeavoured to get clear of him, but he stuck to me, and managed somehow or other to lead me among a knot of men who were all talking eagerly together. Several of them spoke to me, and one of the party began to go on much in the same strain that Pratt had done. As he held me fast by the arm, I could not get away from him without using violence, and that I did not want to use. The men were talking away, many of them together, speaking of their grievances, and complaining of the treatment they had received. Some swore that they had been flogged unjustly for things they had never done, others complained of their leave being stopped, some of the badness of their provisions, others of the tyranny of the officers, and the hard work they had to do. I made no observation, for I did not wish to have myself mixed up with them.

There was some truth in what they said, but a great deal of exaggeration, and I observed that the King’s Hard Bargains were the very men to make most to do of what they suffered. Except that I had escaped a flogging, and being an able seaman never had to perform what is called dirty work, I had to suffer as much as any of them.

All this time, neither Trickett, or rather Charles Iffley, nor the fellow who called himself Reginald Berkeley, had appeared among us.

They came at last, as if sauntering by, and joining in, asked the men what they were talking about. Several again went over the list of their grievances.

“It’s not to be borne!” cried Iffley.

“I should think not!” exclaimed Berkeley; “I’ve heard tell of a crew taking the ship from their officers, and sailing away, either to live the life of free rovers of the ocean, or to carry her into some foreign port where they have sold her for a large sum of money, and divided the profits among themselves. I don’t say this is what we should do, or what we should be compelled to do, if things don’t mend.”

Soon after Berkeley had spoken, half-a-dozen of the most ruffianly fellows in the ship, two of whom boasted of the murders they had committed,—others had been smugglers or pirates for what I know,—came among us, and proposed that we should begin work that very night.

“Now is our opportunity,” they said. “The captain is on shore, so are many of the officers, including the lieutenant of marines.”

I soon found that matters had proceeded much farther than I had supposed, and that Berkeley and Pratt had spoken to me merely to try and get me to join them, their plans being already formed. Still, what those plans were I could not tell, or I ought, I considered, to go aft and tell the first lieutenant. If I went now, he would think that I had got hold of some cock-and-bull story, and very likely take no notice, while, should the mutineers suspect me, I might have been knocked on the head and have been hove overboard by them in revenge.

I told Hagger, however, what I feared. He acknowledged that he had been spoken to on the subject, but did not think it would be wise, without more certain information, to take any steps in the matter.

The long evening drew on, the hammocks were piped down as usual, and the watch below pretended to turn in; but I observed that they merely kicked off their shoes, and slipped under the blankets all standing.

It had just gone four bells in the first watch, when every man turned out of his hammock. The watch on deck came springing down below and immediately unshipped the ladders. While some were engaged in lashing up the hammocks, others rushed aft and secured the warrant and petty officers.

Another more daring band made their way down to the magazine, took out a quantity of ammunition, and as many muskets and tomahawks as they could lay hands on. They then set to work to form a barricade across the deck between the bits with the hammocks, and shifted the two second guns from forward, which they loaded with grape and canister, and pointed them towards the hatchway. Hunting about, I found Dick Hagger, and he agreed with me that we should try to get on deck; but the ladders being unshipped, we had no means of doing so, and several of the men, seeing what we were about, swore that they would cut us down if we made the attempt. There were several others who also wished to escape, and observing what we had been trying to do, came and joined us. I saw a few marines among the mutineers, but the larger body of the “jollies,” on turning out of their hammocks, retreated aft with their sergeants and corporals; but as the guns were pointed at them, they could do nothing.

The whole lower part of the ship was thus in possession of the mutineers, together with the magazine, stores, and water, though they could not prevent the officers from getting away or sending on shore to give information of what had occurred.

All night long things continued in this state. No one slept. Councils were held among the men, who swore that until their grievances were redressed they would not give in, and they would rather, if force were used, blow the ship up, and go to the bottom. There was nothing to prevent them doing this except their unwillingness to destroy themselves. There were some daring spirits among them, but the greater part had cowardly hearts. They thus fortunately took half measures. They might have destroyed all the officers, overpowered the marines, and carried the ship off. They knew well enough, however, that there was not a man among them capable of navigating her, and that there was a great chance that they would run her ashore before they got away from Saint Helen’s. They were sure also that there was not an officer who would have taken charge of her, even if they had held a pistol to his head to try and compel him to navigate the ship.

Chapter Twenty.

A long night—An attempt to escape—Threats of my shipmates—Three admirals visit the ship—Interview with the mutineers—Refusal to give in—Holding out—Captain Pakenham addresses the men—Returning to duty—I am taken as a mutineer—Awaiting trial—Conduct of the ringleaders—The court-martial—My signature produced in evidence against me—A plot to destroy me frustrated—Captain Pakenham proves my friend—Examination of Dick Hagger on my behalf—I am acquitted—Execution of the mutineers.

I have spent many a trying night, waiting anxiously for day, but this was as trying as any. It was, if I recollect rightly, the 3rd or 4th of December. When at length the morning broke, the mutineers seemed as determined as ever. At last it was proposed to let the warrant and petty officers go on deck. On hearing this, Hagger and I with a few others crept along to the after-hatchway, pretending that our object was merely to ship the ladder to allow the officers to reach the upper deck. The officers hurried up as fast as they could, glad to get away out of the power of the mutineers. Several of the men followed them, and Hagger and I had got our feet on the ladder, when we were seized hold of and dragged back, and the ladder was again unshipped.

Ten or twelve of the men had made themselves most active, and were looked upon as the ringleaders of the conspiracy, Berkeley and Pratt being among the number; but Iffley, if he had really been at the bottom of the affair, pretended to be led by the others. Whenever he spoke, he counselled mild measures, though he managed, some way or other, that they should not be adopted.

Having command of the store-rooms, the mutineers served out among those below as many provisions as were required. Dividing themselves into two watches, one stood guard with fifty or sixty muskets, and the guns pointed aft, while the rest either slept or sat on deck and smoked.

There were hot discussions as to what should be done, and occasionally there were quarrels, for enough grog was served out to excite the men’s spirits; but the ringleaders took care that they should get no more, for if once drunkenness began, they were aware that they would very speedily be overpowered. In the course of the afternoon, the first lieutenant hailed down the after-hatchway, saying that three admirals whom we all knew had come on board to hear what grievances we had to complain of, and to endeavour to redress them.

On hearing this, the ringleaders went aft, each man armed with a musket, a tomahawk or cutlass by his side, looking as brazen-faced and impudent as could be, trusting to the numbers at their backs.

Among the officers who addressed us were Lord Bridport and Admiral Cornwallis. Lord Bridport inquired, in a kind way, what the mutineers had to complain of, and pointed out the folly and wickedness of their proceedings, “What would become of our country if other ships were to follow your bad example, my lads?” he asked. “The honour and glory of England, of which you are so justly proud, would be humbled in the dust, and we should have the Frenchmen coming over to England with their guillotine and their Republican notions, and the ruin of all we hold dear would be the consequence. But I am not afraid of that. I know English seamen too well to suppose for a moment that others would imitate you. They may have grievances to complain of, but would disdain to adopt the mode you have of showing your dissatisfaction.”

Admiral Cornwallis spoke in a more indignant strain. “I am ashamed of you, lads,” he exclaimed; “you call yourselves British seamen, and yet upset all discipline, and act the part of rascally buccaneers who turn against their officers the moment they have anything to complain of.”

He said a good deal more in the same strain, but the men would scarcely listen to him. Some of them shouted out together what they wanted, but even on those points they were not all agreed.

“Are you going to return to your duty, lads!” asked Admiral Bridport at last.

“No, we are not,” shouted several of the men. “We don’t return to our duty until we get our rights.”

On this the admirals walked away, and we saw them shortly afterwards, through the ports, leaving the ship for Portsmouth.

The second night went by much as the first had done. The mutineers, numbering about two hundred and fifty men, retained possession of the lower deck, and would allow no one to come down, and none of the better-disposed men whom they doubted to go up. Hagger and I, with others, were thus kept prisoners. They had opposed to them the commissioned, warrant, and petty officers, all the marines except six, who, silly fellows, had been persuaded to join them, and about thirty seamen who had managed to escape on deck. They might thus quickly have been subdued by force, but then the lives of many on both sides must have been sacrificed; and if once blood had been shed, the mutineers, knowing that they fought with ropes round their necks, would have struggled desperately to the last, and would very likely have blown the ship up when they found all hope had gone. At length the watch off duty lay down on deck to sleep, for they had used all the hammocks to form a barricade. Hagger and I followed their example, hoping that next morning they would come to a better state of mind; but we were mistaken, and all day they held out, just as they had done before, and so they did the next and the next.

At last two or three of the petty officers, who were the least obnoxious, came and asked them to allow water and provisions to be got up, saying “that if those below were badly off in one way, they themselves were worse off in another, as neither had come off from the shore, and they were pretty well starving.”

Though some of the ringleaders would have prevented this if they could, the greater part of the men were ready enough to let those on deck have the provisions, and accordingly they set to work and sent up whatever was wanted.

Though they did this, they seemed as resolved as ever to resist. The heavy guns and small arms were kept loaded, and some of the ringleaders talked as big as ever, but I saw that the greater number were getting heartily weary of their confinement and their state of uncertainty. The authorities must have well-known that this would be the case. At last, on the morning of the 11th, word was received that Captain Pakenham (with whom a good many of the men had served) wanted to speak to them.

Coming to the hatchway, he addressed the men in firm but gentle terms. I forget exactly what he said, but I know it at once had a good effect with many of them, notwithstanding that the ringleaders tried to persuade them to hold out longer.

I was trying to persuade some of my shipmates to listen to what Captain Pakenham was saying, and to return to their duty, when Berkeley and Pratt, seizing hold of me, swore that they would shoot me through the head if I uttered another word, and dragged me forward.

At the same moment Hagger, who had been nearer the hatchway, with some of the better-disposed men, getting hold of the ladders, suddenly shipped them, and sprang up on deck, followed by nearly the whole of the rest of the crew, who were glad of the opportunity of escaping, as they hoped, born the consequences they had brought upon themselves. Only nine besides myself remained below, including Trickett and the two men I have spoken of.

Captain Pakenham at once asked the men who had escaped, if they were prepared to return to their duty, and in one voice they declared that they were. He had before taken his measures, and the marines, who were drawn up ready to act, coming down the ladder, made a rush forward.

Three or four of the more desperate of the ringleaders sprang to the guns, with the intention of firing them; but before they had time to do so, the marines, forcing their way over the barricade, seized every man they could find, I being among the number.

As two of them got hold of me, I assured them that I had been prevented from the first by force from going on deck, and that I had not joined the mutineers. They laughed at my assertion, and I was dragged along the deck and brought before Captain Pakenham.

Though he had spoken mildly enough to the other men, he was stern when addressing us, and being speedily handcuffed, we were committed to the charge of the lieutenant-at-arms, and placed under a guard of marines.

I begged Captain Pakenham to listen to me, asserting as before that I had never joined the mutineers, and called upon Hagger and the others to bear witness to the truth of what I said, Hagger, stepping out from among the men drawn up on either side of the deck, declared that what I said was the truth; that we had both tried to escape from the first, but had been prevented; and that, as the officers knew, I was among the best-conducted men in the ship.

“All you have to say will be heard at the trial, which will, depend upon it, be held in a few days,” answered Captain Pakenham. “You were found among the ringleaders, who refused, when summoned at the last, to come up and return to their duty; you must therefore, meantime, abide by the consequences.”

No words can describe the grief and dismay I felt, not on my own account, but lest my wife and uncle and aunt should hear what, had happened. They would be confident that I was innocent, but at the same time they would know the risk I ran of being inculpated with the guilty. How could I prove that I had taken no part in the mutiny? I had been below all the time, and except on the evidence of Hagger, I could not prove that I had made any attempt to escape. His evidence, indeed, might not be of any value, as he had been with me, and had himself remained below. I had been found with the ringleaders, and very probably two such utter scoundrels as were Berkeley and Pratt would not, unless it could benefit themselves, be induced to confess that they had kept me back by force.

I entreated to be supplied with paper and pen and ink, that I might write to Uncle Kelson to tell him what had happened, and beg him to break the news to Margaret, as also to ask him if he could procure legal advice; but the boon was refused me, and I was told that before the trial I should not be allowed to hold communication with anybody.

The prisoners in vain tried to keep up their spirits. Most of them soon broke down altogether, and sat with their heads bent, resting on their manacled hands, except two desperate fellows who had long faced death in every form, and were not afraid of him now, though they well knew what the punishment of their crime must be. Men were hung for lesser crimes than theirs, and the maintenance of discipline being the great object of the authorities, they were not likely to be let off.

So great was the agony of my mind that I thought I should go mad. At last I dropped into a dreamy state, my great wish being that the day of the trial should come on. Had I been called to suffer alone I should not have complained, but it was the thought of the trouble, the distress and sorrow it would be to Margaret and my uncle and aunt, to hear that I had died an ignominious death at the yard-arm, assured though they might be of my innocence, which caused me the greatest grief.

At last, on the 15th of December, several admirals and captains assembled to hold a court-martial on board the Culloden, and we ten men, accused of mutiny, were brought up for trial. It was quickly proved that four of our number had been captured while attempting to fire the guns behind the barricade, and that the whole of us had been found below when the rest of the ship’s company had returned to their duty. We were asked singly what we could say for ourselves.

Trickett was the first who spoke. He pleaded that he had been led away by others, that he did not know their object, and had no idea that matters would have proceeded to extremities. “I wished to see my shipmates righted, but I should have advised them, had they allowed me, to employ only legal means. As a proof that I was not one of the ringleaders, permit me to present this paper which came into my possession, and which, as you will see, does not contain my name.”

As he spoke, he produced a paper, and presented it to the President, who, after glancing over it, read it aloud. It began, I remember, “We, the undersigned, bind ourselves to hold fast to each other, and to take all the means in our power to obtain our rights, and have our grievances redressed; we resolve that no consideration shall hinder us, and that if our petition is not listened to, we will take possession of the ship, and carry her over to the French.” The paper wound up with terrible oaths, calling God to witness that nothing should make them give up their object.

“I see by the names attached to this precious document,” said the President, “that they are all those of the prisoners on trial, with the exception of that of the man who handed it in, which doesn’t appear,” and he slowly read out the names. Among the last was that of Pratt, then came that of Reginald Berkeley, and lastly, to my horror and dismay, was my own.

“I never signed that paper!” I exclaimed; “nothing should have induced me to put my hand to it.”

“Can you swear that your name is not Willand Wetherholm, and that this is not your signature?” asked the President, and the paper was shown me, “That is my name, and that is my signature, but I didn’t put it to any document of that sort. I was writing a letter to my wife, just before the mutiny broke out, when the man whose name appears above mine, came and asked me to put my name as a witness to his signature, stating that it was required for legal purposes, in order to enable him to obtain a property to which he was entitled.”

“A likely story,” observed one of the members of the court. “Reginald Berkeley, as you call yourself, is this man’s story correct? Did you ask him to witness your signature for such a purpose as he states?”

I saw Iffley and Berkeley exchange glances.

“I don’t remember the circumstance, my lord,” he answered with the greatest effrontery. “I know that the paper was passed round for signature, and that I put my name to it; and I suppose Wetherholm put his, knowing what was written above it.”

When again allowed to speak, I once more acknowledged that the signature was mine, but that through carelessness, not having looked at the document, which was doubled back, I had simply acceded to Berkeley’s request to sign as a witness.

“The word ‘witness’ was written in pencil at the time, and I was about to write over it in ink when I was interrupted,” I said.

The President examined the paper through his spectacles, but declared that he could see no traces of any pencil marks. It was passed round to two or three other officers, who agreed with his lordship.

At last it was handed to Captain Pakenham, who, holding it up against the light, produced a magnifying glass from his pocket, through which he examined the paper.

“I see traces of pencil marks. Yes; and the letters ‘w-i-t,’ then there is a blank, and ‘e-s,’ though an attempt has been made to rub it out, and probably the person who tried to do so fancied that he had succeeded. Sergeant, examine that man’s pockets,” and he pointed to Iffley.

The sergeant, after fumbling about, produced a piece of india-rubber.

“I thought so,” observed the Captain. “There has been some knavery at work. This is greatly in the man’s favour.”

I breathed more freely at this than I had for many a day. He then turned to Dick Hagger, and told him to make his statement.

Dick, pulling his hair, at once stepped forward, and in a clear voice began: “My lords, and cap’ens, and gentlemen, I’ll speak the truth and nothing but the truth. I hated the notion of this here mutiny directly I got an inkling of it, and so did my messmate Will Weatherhelm, and we had made up our minds, if it was likely to come to anything, to get away aft and tell the commander or first lieutenant; but when we was agoing, quite unbeknown to us, before we had time to get on deck, the mutiny broke out, the ladders were unshipped, an’ we was kept prisoners. We were both of us marked men, and when we again tried to join the officers we was held back. Every one who has ever served with Weatherhelm knows him to be a good seaman, and an orderly, well-conducted chap, who wouldn’t, for to get a pocketful of gold, have become a rascally mutineer.” The warrant and petty officers who were called, gave both Hagger and me good characters, and his evidence appeared to weigh greatly in my favour; still I could see that most of the members of the court-martial considered it necessary to make an example of the whole of those who had been captured, and one after the other the ringleaders were condemned to death. Berkeley and Pratt fell on their knees on hearing their sentence, and implored for mercy.

“It was through the treachery of that man that Wetherholm’s signature was obtained,” said Captain Pakenham, pointing to the former; “I am not inclined to grant him it.”

The other members of the court were of his opinion.

Charles Iffley, though he had been the chief instigator of the mutiny, was pardoned, in consequence of his having produced the paper with the signature of the ringleaders. My fate still hung in the balance, for Captain Pakenham alone seemed to consider me innocent. I saw my judges conferring together. How my heart bounded with joy when the President at length acquitted me!

Iffley cast a glance of disappointed spite towards me as he heard this, and walked away. I was again a free man. My first act, after returning thanks to Heaven from the bottom of my heart for my merciful deliverance, was to obtain a sheet of paper, and write an account of what had happened and my happy acquittal to Uncle Kelson, and beg him to break the matter to my wife, for I was afraid that she would be overmuch agitated should I address her directly.

Several boats were returning to the shore, and I, without difficulty, got a man I knew to take it. The first to come up and congratulate me was Dick Hagger.

“I was sure, Will, that they couldn’t bring you in guilty. It would have been against all right and reason; and if they had, why, I would have gone up and axed to be hung too, and told them you was no more a mutineer than I was!”

Many other shipmates came up, and expressed themselves much in the same way. No one, however, spoke to Iffley, for they well knew that he was at the bottom of the whole affair, and deserved hanging more than any of the rest. He was from that day forward shunned by all in the ship, for even the men who had mutinied would not trust him.

This made him more morose and ill-tempered than ever, and I could not help suspecting that if he had an opportunity, he would still try to do me an injury. Discipline was now perfectly restored, but the ship was still not a happy one. No liberty was allowed, and we were kept hard at work exercising the guns and reefing sails. When I asked for leave to go on shore, I was refused.

“If we grant it to one, we must to another,” was the answer.

So I had to stop on board, and as Dick observed, “grin and bear it.”

Thus nearly a month went by. The condemned men had been sent on board various ships for safe keeping, there to remain until the day they were doomed to die. On the 13th of January, early in the morning, they were brought on board the Culloden, heavily handcuffed, and looking the picture of misery and despair. At the same time boats from every ship in the fleet came alongside to witness the execution.

The wretched men, still with their irons on, were now conducted to the upper deck. Ropes were rove through the main, fore, and mizzen-yard-arms. The whole eight were thus standing, with the chaplains by their sides, giving them the last consolations of religion, when our captain appeared with a paper in his hand. It was a pardon for the three youngest. The other five looked up with imploring glances, and an expression of hope lighted up their countenances, but there was no pardon for them. The three having been led on one side by the marines who had them in charge, the preparations for the execution of the other five were continued. They were shortly finished. The gun, the signal for their execution, was fired, and in another instant they were all run up in sight of the whole fleet, and of the crews of the boats who were compelled to witness their punishment. It was an awful sight. I felt that but for God’s great mercy I might have been among the hapless men who were struggling now in mid air. I sickened as I gazed at them, and hid my eyes with my hands, as did many another stout-hearted fellow.

After a time they were lowered down. The doctor pronounced them dead, and they were placed in shells and taken on shore to be buried. The ropes were unrove, the hands were piped down, and the boats returned to their respective ships. The fearful drama was over.

Chapter Twenty One.

The crew of the Culloden distributed—Dick and I have to go on board the Mars—Cruise off Ushant—Fall in with the enemy—A narrow escape—Masterly retreat of Admiral Cornwallis—A ruse de guerre—A severe struggle—The Mars rescued by the Queen Charlotte—Return to England—State of the ships—My expectations of leave disappointed—We are drafted on board the Galatea.

The Culloden having gained a bad name for herself, in consequence of the late event and her behaviour on the 1st of June, her officers and crew were distributed among several ships; I, with Dick Hagger and other men, being sent on board the Mars, seventy-four, one of the squadron under Vice-Admiral the Honourable William Cornwallis, whose flag was flying on board the Royal Sovereign, of one hundred guns. The other ships were the Triumph, Sir Erasmus Gower, the Brunswick, and Bellerophon, seventy-fours, the Phaeton and Pallas frigates, and the Kingfisher, an eighteen gun brig.

We sailed at the end of May from Spithead, for a cruise off Ushant. On the 8th of June we made the land about the Penmarcks on the French coast, and soon after the Triumph threw out the signal of six sail east by north.

We immediately gave chase. After some time, one of the frigates, with the little Kingfisher and the Triumph, being considerably ahead, commenced firing at the enemy, while we were crowding all sail to get up with them, the admiral having made the signal to close.

Before we had done so, however, the admiral ordered us and the Bellerophon to chase two French frigates to the south-west, one of which had a large ship in tow. This, after a short time, they abandoned to us, and we took possession of her. We stood so close in that the batteries at Belle Isle opened upon us, and shoaling our water, the signal for danger was made.

Thereupon Admiral Cornwallis recalled us, and we stood off the land with the prizes we had taken, and eight others, captured by the frigates, laden with wine and brandy. A good many small vessels, however, escaped us by plying to windward under the land, to gain the anchorage in Palais Roads.

The next day it was calm, so that the enemy could not, even if they had had a mind to do so, come out and attack us, and in the evening a breeze springing up, we took the prizes in tow, and stood away for the Channel.

Sighting Scilly, Admiral Cornwallis ordered the Kingfisher to convoy the prizes into port, while we stood back to the southward and eastward to look after the French squadron. Several days had passed when the Phaeton, our look-out frigate, made the signal of a French fleet in sight; but as nothing was said about the enemy being of superior force, and as she did not haul her wind and return to us, Admiral Cornwallis must have concluded, as did our captain, that the signal had reference to the number rather than to the apparent strength of the French ships, and we accordingly stood on nearer than we should otherwise have done. It was not indeed until an hour afterwards that we got a sufficiently clear sight of the French fleet to make out that it consisted of one very large one-hundred-and-twenty gun ship, eleven seventy-fours, and the same number of frigates, besides smaller craft. Dick Hagger, who had been sent aloft, told me that he had counted thirty at least.

“Never mind! If we can’t out-sail them, we’ll fight them, and show the mounseers that ‘hearts of oak are our ships, British tars are our men,’” he exclaimed with a gay laugh, humming the tune.

All hands on board our ship were in the same humour, and so were the crews of the rest of the squadron. We knew that we could trust our stout old admiral, for if he was at times somewhat grumpy, he was as gallant a man and as good an officer as any in the service. I heard it said, many years after, that when some of the Government gentlemen offered to make a lord of him, he declined, saying, “It won’t cure the gout.”

The admiral now threw out the signal to the squadron to haul to the wind on the starboard tack under all sail, and form in line ahead, the Brunswick leading, and we in the Mars being last. Thus we stood on for about three hours, when we saw the French fleet on the same tack separate into two divisions, one of which tacked and stood to the northward, evidently to take advantage of the land wind, while the other continued its course to the southward. Of course it was the object of our admiral to escape if possible; for, fire-eater as he was, he had no wish to expose his ships to the risk of being surrounded and sunk, as he knew, well enough might be the case should the French get up with us.

After this we twice tacked, and then we saw the French north division tack to the southward, when the wind shifted to the northward, and this enabled that division to weather on us, and the south division to lie well up for our squadron.

The first division now bore east by north about eight or nine miles, and the south division south-east, distant about ten miles on our larboard quarter. Night soon came on, and we could not tell but that before it was over we might have the French ships close aboard, and thundering away at us, “Well, if they do come,” cried Dick, “we’ll give them as good as we take, although we may have three to fight; but what’s the odds if we work our guns three times as fast as they do?”

To our surprise the watch was piped down as usual, for the admiral knew better than we did, that the enemy could not be up with us until the morning while the wind held as it then did.

We slept like tops, not troubling our heads much about the battle we might have to fight before another day was over, but I doubt whether many of the officers turned in.

The middle watch got their sleep like the first. After that the hammocks were piped up, and every preparation made for battle. Two of our ships, the Bellerophon and Brunswick, which were always looked upon as fast sailers, had, somehow or other, got out of trim, and during the night had to cut away their anchors and launches, and to start a portion of their water and provisions. The old “Billy Ruffian,” however, do all they could, would not move along, and they were compelled to heave overboard her four poop carronades with their carriages, and a large quantity of shot. Notwithstanding this, and that they were carrying every stitch of canvas they could set, we and the other ships had to shorten sail occasionally to keep in line with them. It may be supposed that we had been keeping a bright look-out for the French fleet, and when daylight broke we saw it coming up very fast, formed in three divisions.

The weather division, consisting of three ships of the line, and five frigates, was nearly abreast of our ships. In the centre division we counted five ships of the line and four frigates, and in the lee division four sail of the line, five frigates, two brigs, and two cutters. These were somewhat fearful odds, but notwithstanding, as far as I could judge, the hearts of none on board our ship, and we were the most exposed, quailed for a moment. We had made up our minds to a desperate fight, but we had confidence in our old admiral, and we knew that if any man could rescue us, he would do it.

Stripped to the waist, we stood at our quarters, waiting the order to fire, and resolved to fight to the last. At that moment I did not think of my wife, or home, or anything else, but just the work we had in hand. At such times it does not do to think. We all knew that it was our business to run our guns in as fast as possible and fire when ordered. We watched the approach of the French ships, eager for the moment when we should begin the fight.

A seventy-four was the van ship of the weather division, and a frigate led the centre division. We had had our breakfast and returned to our guns, when the seventy-four opened her fire upon our ship, the Mars. We immediately hoisted our colours, as did the rest of our squadron, and returned it with our stern-chasers. Directly afterwards the French frigate ran up on our larboard and lee quarter, and yawing rapidly, fired into us. This sort of work continued for nearly half an hour. Several of our men by that time had been struck down, though none that I could see were killed, while our standing and running rigging was already a good deal cut up. We had been blazing away for some time, and the enemy’s shot were coming pretty quickly aboard, when I heard a crash, and looking up saw that our main-yard was badly wounded. Now for the first time I began to fear that we should get crippled, and, being surrounded by the enemy, should be unable to fight our way out from among them.

Two other ships, the Triumph and Bellerophon, were now warmly engaged, and soon afterwards the remainder of the squadron began firing their stern or quarter guns as they could bring them to bear on the enemy. The Brunswick, it should be understood, was leading, then came the Royal Sovereign, next the Bellerophon and Triumph, we being, as I before said, the sternmost. We now saw the Royal Sovereign making signals to the two ships to go ahead, while she, shortening sail, took her station next in line to the Brunswick.

We had kept up so hot a fire on the first ship which had attacked us, that we had at length knocked away her main-topgallant mast and had done considerable damage to her rigging. To our great satisfaction we saw her sheer off and drop astern.

“Hurrah! there’s one done for,” cried Dick Hagger.

“So there is, my boy, but one down another came on,” remarked a wag among the crew of our gun, pointing as he spoke to a French seventy-four, which, crowding all sail, was approaching to open directly afterwards a brisk cannonade on our larboard quarter.

“Never mind, lads, we will treat her as we did t’other, and maybe we’ll capture both of them,” cried Dick.

I did not see there was much chance of that, considering that the whole French fleet was at hand to support the crippled ships. Had we been more nearly matched we might have done it.

We were now getting pretty severely mauled. First one and then another got up under our quarter, and blazed away at us. More men were wounded, and our fore-topsail yard was badly damaged, in addition to our main-topsail yard, while we had to cut away the stern galleries the better to train our guns, run through the after ports. The other ships—especially the Triumph, Sir Erasmus Gower—were keeping up a tremendous fire from their stern-ports. Notwithstanding this, the French were getting closer and closer.

Four hours thus passed away. While we were thus engaged, it must be remembered we were pressing on with all sail, so that we kept ahead of the enemy. While our sticks stood we had no fear of making our escape, but we well knew that at any moment a shot might carry away one of our masts, and then, too probably, our brave chief would have to leave us to our fate for the sake of the safety of the rest of the squadron, not that we supposed for an instant that he would do so until compelled by the most dire necessity. Strange to say, I had not the slightest fear of being shot, but I did dread the thought of being captured and shut up in a French prison, to be treated as we heard that English prisoners were treated by the French Republicans. The wretches who had cut off the heads of their king and beautiful queen, and had guillotined thousands of innocent persons, until the very streets of Paris ran with blood, were not very likely to be over kind to the English they got into their power. As yet, to be sure, they had not made many prisoners, but those they had made we heard were treated barbarously.

The expectation of what we should receive should we be defeated did not make us fight with the less determination. Still, as day wore on, the French ships in greater numbers crowded up astern, and the chances that we should escape seemed to diminish. Not a man, however, quitted his gun. We should have a tremendously hard fight before we were taken—of that we were certain; and many said, and believed it too, that Sir Charles would let the ship sink under his feet rather than strike our flag. Matters seemed getting worse and worse. We saw the Royal Sovereign throw out signals to us to alter our course to starboard, and get away from the ships most annoying us.

Immediately afterwards we saw her keep away in our direction, accompanied by the Triumph. We cheered lustily as she opened her powerful broadside upon the enemy, when we running down were brought into close order of battle, thus being saved from the mauling we were getting.

Our two friends did not arrive a moment too soon; for just then four of the French van ships had borne up, hoping to secure us. On seeing the approach of a three-decker, they again hauled their wind.

While this work had been going on, the Phaeton frigate, which had been sent by the admiral in the morning to a distance of some miles, was seen approaching, making the signal of a strange sail west-north-west, soon afterwards for four sail, and finally she let fly her topgallant-sheets, and fired two guns in quick succession, which we all well knew was the signal for fleet, probably that of Lord Bridport. This cheered up our hearts, as may be supposed, for we fancied that the tables would soon be turned, and that instead of being chased, we should be chasing the Frenchmen, with the prospect of a stand-up fight, ending in the capture of a part, if not the whole of their fleet.

No one thought at the time that the Phaeton was carrying out a ruse de guerre, which had shortly before been arranged by Admiral Cornwallis.

In the afternoon, about three o’clock, we saw the Phaeton making private signals to the supposed fleet; and then using the tabular signals with which the French were well acquainted, she communicated to our admiral the fact that the fleet seen were friends.

About an hour and a half afterwards, she signalled that they were ships of the line. She then hoisted the Dutch ensign, as if replying to a signal made by the admiral in the distance to Admiral Cornwallis, ordering him to join company.

Shortly afterwards she shortened sail, then wore, and stood back towards us. We had been all day retreating, most of the time warmly engaged with our overpowering enemy, when soon after 6 p.m. the French ships suddenly ceased firing; and shortly afterwards, their admirals making signals to them, they shortened sail and stood to the eastward. By sunset they were nearly hull down in the north-east, while we sailed on, rejoicing in having escaped from as dangerous a position as squadron was ever placed in. I don’t know if I have succeeded in explaining the position of our ships sufficiently well to be understood by shore-going persons. So close were the French ships upon us, that had they not given up the chase when they did, it would have been scarcely possible for us and the Triumph, which, if she had not suffered as much as we had, was too much cut up to have afforded us any assistance, to have effected our escape. I am very certain that our old admiral would not have deserted us, nor was it likely that the other two ships would have done so. We should all, therefore, after a desperate fight, either have gone down, been blown up, or captured. As it was, our brave admiral’s masterly retreat excited general admiration. Every seaman on board was well able to judge of our danger, and of the way in which we had been rescued. Had he not so gallantly bore up to save us in the Mars, our ship must inevitably have been taken. He might, as some officers would have done, have left us to our fate, for the sake of preserving the rest of the squadron; but he had no notion of doing anything of the sort, and gallantly determined that if he could help it, not a single one of his squadron should fall into the hands of the enemy. In his despatch, giving an account of the transaction, he spoke in the handsomest way of the behaviour of the officers and ships’ companies engaged, saying very little of the manner in which he had come to our rescue. He and all of us got the thanks of both Houses of Parliament for what had been done, and all will acknowledge that he richly deserved them. As soon as we lost sight of the French fleet, we steered a course for Plymouth, to carry the intelligence that it was at sea. From the way the stern of our ship had been knocked about, we were compelled to remain for some time at Hamoaze to refit, and were therefore unable to sail with the fleet under Lord Bridport, which went out to look for the French fleet from which we had effected our escape. He came up with the enemy off Isle-groix; and after a tough fight, in which a good many officers and men were killed and wounded, three French ships were captured. One of them was the Alexander, but she was so knocked about by the Queen Charlotte, that she was worth little. The two others, the Tigre and Formidable, were fine new seventy-fours. The former was allowed to retain her name, but we already having a Formidable in the service, her name was changed to the Belle Isle, near which the action was fought.

We and the Triumph were at once ordered up to Hamoaze to get our damages repaired. We were much injured aloft, and when I looked at the stern of our ship, she had the appearance of having received a dreadful pounding. The Triumph had suffered still more, as from her position in the line she had to keep up the heaviest stern fire. In order to train her guns, the stern galleries, bulk-heads, and every part of the stern of the ward-room, except the timbers, had been cut away, and it was said that from her three stern batteries—namely, her first deck, her second deck, and quarter-deck—she had expended in single shots five thousand pounds of powder.

I now hoped that I might be able to get leave in sufficient time to reach Southsea, and spend a few days with my wife, and I resolved to make bold and ask for it as soon as I could see the commander. Meantime, the moment I was off duty I hurried below and began a letter to my wife. While thus engaged, all hands were piped on deck.

“What can it be for?” exclaimed Dick. “We are not going to sea, I suppose, in this state?”

On reaching the deck, we found numerous boats alongside, and besides them also several lieutenants not belonging to our ship. As soon as we were mustered, our commander addressed us. He said that as the Mars would be some time refitting, the Admiralty had ordered part of our crew to be drafted on board a line-of-battle ship and two frigates requiring hands, the Thunderer, Arethusa, and Galatea. He did not ask for volunteers, but said that those whose names were called over must get their bags at once and go off in the boats waiting alongside to receive them. I don’t know what my shipmates felt, but I hoped earnestly that I should not be among those selected. I listened almost breathlessly as the names were called over, and as they did so, the men were sent down for their bags. A hundred and fifty or more had been chosen, about two hundred were wanted. At last, what was my dismay on hearing my own name called! It was vain, I knew, to expostulate; I had to submit. Before going below, I stopped to speak to Hagger. Taking out the almost finished letter, I begged him to add a postscript, saying how I had been sent off, but that I trusted I might return before long. Scarcely were the words out of my mouth when his name was called.

“It can’t be helped, Will,” he said; “bear up, lad, I’m thankful I’m going with you. You must try and finish your letter, and send it off when we get aboard the ship we’re ordered to join.”

I made no reply, my heart was too full to speak. I wanted to do my duty, but this disappointment was almost more than I could bear.

“Move on, be smart now, lads!” I heard one of the officers sing out, “there’s not a moment to lose.”

Dick and I hurried below, shouldered our bags and returned on deck, when we found that we were both to go on board the Galatea frigate, commanded by Captain Keats. The boats immediately shoved off, and away we pulled down the Sound.

Chapter Twenty Two.

I fail to send a letter to my wife—We sail with transports and emigrants for Quiberon—Early success of the expedition—Action between the Royalists and Republicans—I accompany a midshipman to Fort Penthièvre with an important message—I witness some strange scenes—A rough night—Surprised by the Republicans—Attack and capture of the fort—We escape—Conduct of the Royalists—Steadiness of the British marines—Advance of the army under General Hoche—The fleet rescue the party—Return of the expedition.

The Galatea, we found, formed one of a squadron under the command of Commodore Sir John Warren. It consisted of the Robust, Thunderer, and Standard, seventy-fours; the frigates Pomone, on board which the commodore’s flag was flying, the Anson, Artois, Arethusa, Concorde, and our frigate the Galatea, convoying fifty sail of transports with about two thousand five hundred French Royalists. The expedition was bound for Quiberon, the inhabitants of which district had remained faithful to their king, and it was hoped that from thence the Republicans could be attacked, and a large part of the country gained over to the royal cause.

The Galatea was a smart frigate, and now that she was well manned was likely to make a name for herself. On being sent below to stow away my bag, I managed to sign my name in pencil to my letter, by placing it on a gun, and to add a few lines describing what had happened, and then I hurried on deck, but the boatswain’s pipe was already shrilly sounding, and his voice shouting, “All hands up anchor!”

The commodore’s frigate was letting fall her topsails, and the other ships were following her example. The capstan went merrily round, the anchor was away, the sails were sheeted home, and we stood out of Plymouth Sound, steering for the southward.

My poor wife would have to wait some time now before she could hear from me, or know indeed where I was. There was nobody on board the Mars to whom I could have entrusted the duty of writing to her. I had to bear it, therefore, as I had to bear many another trial. Hope still supported me. As far as we could learn, we were not likely to be long away. Lord Bridport had driven the French fleet into harbour and was watching them, although we, of course, might on our return fall in with an enemy and have a fight.

The weather was fine and the wind fair, but we had plenty to do in keeping the transports together. There were many of them very slow sailers, merchant vessels hired for the purpose, some of them brigs of a hundred and fifty to two hundred tons, which must have afforded very miserable accommodation to the unfortunate emigrants. The troops were under the command of a royalist officer, the Comte de Puisaye, who had as his lieutenants the Comtes d’Hervilly and de Sombreuil.

On the 25th of June we entered the capacious bay of Quiberon, which affords one of the most secure anchorages on the French coast. On one side is the Peninsula of Quiberon, which extends out some way from the mainland, and seaward are two small, well-cultivated islands, so that it is completely protected from westerly and south-westerly gales. The next day was spent in preparations for landing, and to allow the laggards to come up; and on the 27th, at daybreak, the troops, conveyed in a large flotilla of boats, escorted by six of the squadron, pulled for the village of Carmac, where they landed. A small body of about two hundred Republicans attempted to oppose them, but were quickly driven back, leaving several dead on the field, while the Royalists did not lose a man.

This slight success encouraged the royalist inhabitants, who came down to the number of sixteen thousand, eager to receive the arms and ammunition which we landed from the ships for their use.

The troops were at once cantoned among the inhabitants, who gladly supplied them with everything they required. The French officers and soldiers we put on shore were in high spirits, laughing and joking, and seemed confident of success, and the people who came down to help to unload the boats were equally merry, declaring that they had only to attack the Republicans to compel them to lay down their arms.

Some days passed by, daring which the Royalists on shore were drilling and preparing for action. At length an expedition was planned to attack the Peninsula of Quiberon. Two thousand Royalists, and five hundred emigrants, supported by three hundred British marines, were disembarked. They at once marched towards the Port of Penthièvre, situated on a commanding eminence on the northern extremity of the peninsula, which was invested at the same time on the other side by the Comte d’Hervilly.

Without much fighting, its garrison of six hundred men soon surrendered. We immediately set to work to land stores and provisions for the supply of the royalist troops.

A day or two after this, the Comte led a body of five thousand men, including two hundred British marines, against the right flank of the army of General Hoche, which was strongly posted on the heights of Saint Barbe. At the same time, for their support, five launches, each armed with a twenty-four pounder carronade, manned from the ships of war, were sent in and stationed close to the beach. I was in one of them, and could see what was going forward.

We watched the small body of red-coats and the motley dressed Royalists marching on to the attack. At first they advanced with considerable firmness, but being met by a withering fire from the heights, and being ill-disciplined, they began to beat a hasty retreat. The marines were compelled, of course, to retire too, but they did so with their faces to the foe, defending the fugitives as well as they could.

On this, Captain Keats, who commanded the boats, ordered us to open fire, and we began to blaze away at the Republicans in a fashion which considerably retarded them in their pursuit of the retreating force. So well-directed were our shot on their flanks, that beyond a certain line they were unable to advance.

Both the marines and Royalists got back to the beach, though not without considerable loss. Among the badly wounded was their brave leader, who was conveyed on board our frigate, and placed under the care of our surgeon. Though he suffered much from his wound, his thoughts were still with his friends ashore.

It was, I think, about two days afterwards, being anxious to communicate with his friend the Comte de Sombreuil, at Fort Penthièvre, which was under the command of the Comte de Puisaye, he requested that a messenger might be sent on shore with a letter. Captain Keats accordingly ordered Mr Harvey, one of the senior midshipmen, to take the letter, and allowed him to select a man to accompany him. He chose me, I having served with him already in two ships, and being well-known to him.

We at once, shoving off in the second gig under charge of another midshipman, pulled for the beach nearest the fort, towards which, as soon as we landed, we made our way. We remarked six transports, laden, as we were told, with provisions and stores of all sorts, come to an anchor as close to the fort as they could bring up.

As we stepped on shore, Mr Harvey directed the gig to return without delay to the frigate. “I don’t like the look of the weather,” he observed, “and depend upon it, before nightfall, it will come on to blow hard.”

We were to remain at the fort until the following morning, when the boat was to come in again and take us off.

Mr Harvey delivered his despatch to the young Comte, who received him very graciously, and gave him the best accommodation he could for the night, while I, that I might be ready to attend to his wants, was allowed to sleep on a sofa in a little ante-room outside of the one he occupied.

Mr Harvey told me that the Count was greatly out of spirits in consequence of the numerous desertions which had taken place from the fort. Various causes were at work. Some of the garrison were Republicans at heart, and others, hopeless of the success of the Royalists, were afraid of the consequences should they remain. One or two plots had been discovered, but the conspirators had been seized, and it was hoped that those who had been won over would be deterred from carrying out their plans.

Notwithstanding these forebodings of evil, the officers met, as I suppose was their custom, at an early supper. I looked in with some of the attendants to see what was going forward. The table was covered with all sorts of good things, such as French cooks know well how to prepare. Wine flowed freely, and conversation seemed to be carried on with great animation. Speeches were made, and compliments paid to Mr Harvey, who spoke very good French, for which reason he had been selected to convey the letter to the Count. The major commanding the marines, a captain, and two lieutenants, were also present, but as none of them spoke French, Mr Harvey had to reply for the whole party.

After supper the marine officers went to their quarters, which happened to be on the side of the fort nearest the sea, in rooms prepared for them.

I remember we had to run across an open space, and were nearly wetted through by the tremendous rain which poured down upon us. It was blowing very hard too, the wind howled and shrieked among the buildings of the fort, while the windows and doors rattled till I thought that they would be forced in.

“I was afraid, Wetherholm, that we were going to have a dirty night of it,” observed Mr Harvey. “I hope the gig got back safely, but I doubt very much whether she will be able to return for us to-morrow if this weather continues. However, it may only be a summer gale, though from the appearance of things it might be mid-winter.”

I looked out; the sky seemed as black as ink, and the night was so dark that had it not been for the light in the window above the door we had to make for, we could not have found our way.

Mr Harvey, of course, wore his sword, and, as was customary for the men sent on shore, I had my cutlass slung to my side and a brace of pistols; for, as we were before the enemy, we might at any moment be called upon to fight.

I having hung up Mr Harvey’s coat to dry, and his sword against the wall, went to the ante-room, and taking off my wet jacket lay down on the sofa, all standing. At sea, I should not have been two minutes in my hammock before I had fallen asleep, but the howling and shrieking wind sounded very different on shore, and seemed to make its way through every chink and crevice, producing all sorts of strange sounds, a mingling of moanings, shriekings, whistlings, and howlings. Frequently the building itself would shake, until I fancied that it was about to come down upon our heads. Notwithstanding this, I was just dozing off, when I was aroused by still stranger sounds. I listened; I felt sure they could not be caused by the wind. They were human voices. I could distinguish shrieks and shouts and cries. Almost at the same instant there came the sharp report of pistols.

I sprang into Mr Harvey’s room to awaken him. Fortunately he had a light burning on the table.

“There’s something fearful happening, sir,” I said, as he started up, looking very much astonished. I got down his coat and sword, which I helped him to put on.

“The treachery the Count spoke of is at work, I fear, but I hope the conspirators will quickly be put down. We must go to the help of our friends if we can manage to find them,” he said, while he was quickly slipping into his clothes.

We hurried down stairs; the rest of the people in the house were rushing out, but, as far as I could discover, they were hurrying off, away from the direction of the firing and shouts.

Presently I could hear the cry of “Vive la République,” then came a sharp rattle of musketry, some of the bullets pinging against the walls above our heads.

“Come on, Wetherholm, I think I can find out where the Count is quartered; we may be in time to help him.”

As we were about to leave the house, the cry of “Vive la République” again echoed from all parts of the fort in front of us, the shouting and shrieking continuing, mingled with cries and groans and fierce exclamations, with the constant report of pistols. Still Mr Harvey was pushing on, when through the darkness we could distinguish a number of persons flying towards the rear of the fort.

At length we made out others following them, the flash from their pistols showing that they had swords in their hands. They fortunately turned away from where we were standing.

“There can be no doubt that the fort has been surprised, and that it will go hard with the Count and his soldiers,” said Mr Harvey. “I should like to have assisted him in defending his post, but perhaps the best thing I can do is to bring up the marines to his support. I think we may find their quarters, though I am not very certain about the direction.”

I agreed with Mr Harvey, for I saw that it would be madness to rush among a number of people fighting, when we could not distinguish between friends and foes.

We accordingly made our way across the fort to where we believed we should find the major of marines. Mr Harvey thought we ought to keep more to the left, but I felt certain that if we turned to the right we should reach the building.

“Who goes there?” I heard a voice shout out.

It was that of the sentry stationed in front of the building used for the marine barracks, and finding who we were, he told us that the men were mustering in the court-yard. Hurrying forward, we there found the major ready to lead them out.

On Mr Harvey telling him the state of things in front, he directed us to proceed to the quarters of the Comte de Puisaye, to say that he would endeavour to drive back the Republicans and to hold the fort until the Count should come up with all the troops he could collect.

Mr Harvey and I accordingly hastened forward on the errand. As we went on, we heard several of the fugitives passing us. One, from the clatter of his scabbard, was evidently an officer. Mr Harvey stopped him, and told him that the English marines were ready to hold their ground, and that we were going to the General’s quarters, begging him, if he knew the way, to conduct us.

This information seemed somewhat to restore his confidence; but he expressed his fears that unless assistance could be brought immediately to the Comte de Sombreuil, he would be overwhelmed. He was, he believed, defending the building in which he was quartered with several of the leading officers, but that many who were in their houses, as well as all those on guard, had been shot by traitorous soldiers who had revolted. He himself had had a narrow escape from a party of assassins, among whom he distinguished the voices of some of his own men; but he had cut down several of them, and then, favoured by the darkness, had effected his escape. We owed our safety to the brave defence made at this time by the Comte de Sombreuil, who was thus preventing the Republicans from advancing farther across the fort.

Conducted by the officer, whose name I forget, we at length reached the quarters of the Comte de Puisaye. He was issuing orders to the officers who were coming and going, to collect the troops under his immediate command.

As they came in they were formed up into various companies. Being imperfectly disciplined, they were much longer assembling than they ought to have been, and I greatly feared that the fort would be lost. Before the troops were ready to march.

Mr Harvey waited until he believed that they would follow in another minute or two, and then set off with me, intending to return to where we had left the marines.

As we got near his quarters, we heard a rapid firing, returned evidently by a large number of men, for, as they fired their pieces, they shouted again and again, “Vive la République!” When, however, they discovered that these were English troops in their front, they did not venture to rush upon the bayonets they would have had to encounter.

Mr Harvey, after some difficulty, found Major Stubbs, who commanded the marines, and told him what the General proposed doing.

“He must come pretty quickly, or we shall be overpowered,” he answered. “If it was daylight we should know what we were about, but in this pitchy darkness, with the rain clattering down upon us, the wind howling in our ears, and hosts of enemies pouring in on the other side of the fort, we may get separated and cut to pieces, and I will not sacrifice my men if I can help it.”

The bullets came whistling past our heads, and it seemed to me that the men were dropping fast, but as one marine fell the others closed up their ranks and bravely held their ground. What would become of them and us I did not know; but at last the officer to whom Mr Harvey had spoken, found us, and informed him that the Comte de Puisaye, seeing the hopelessness of endeavouring to regain the fort, had determined to retreat with his troops, and to save the lives of as many of the Royalist inhabitants as he could collect, advising Major Stubbs to draw off his men, and at the same time saying he should be obliged to him if he would cover his retreat.

The darkness and the howling of the storm prevented the movements of the marines being discovered. The stout old major passed the order along the line, and his men, facing about, made their retreat towards the rear of the fort, which was gained before the enemy attempted to pursue them.

I don’t know what the major said, but I suspect it was not complimentary to the Comte de Puisaye.

We remained with the marines, who had, as far as I could make out, lost a large number of men. What had become of the young Comte de Sombreuil and the other French officers, we could not tell; but probably, as the firing had ceased from the building in which they had been defending themselves, they had all been put to death.

Major Stubbs halted for some time, during which a number of inhabitants of the houses and cottages in the neighbourhood came in entreating his protection.

At length, escorting them, we again advanced towards the south-east point of the peninsula, which afforded the easiest landing-place, and which, from the nature of the ground, could be defended should the Republicans advance in force to attack us. We found that the Comte de Puisaye, with upwards of a thousand of his troops, and more than double that number of Royalists, had arrived there before us. The Comte had received intelligence of the attack on the fort and its capture, and believing that de Sombreuil and his companions inside had at once been cut to pieces, had considered it useless to go to his assistance.

He had, therefore, mustering his troops, formed an escort to the fugitive Royalists, and immediately commenced his march to the point.

Mr Harvey expressed his fear that, in consequence of the gale, the ships would be unable to get up to embark the people, and advised him to make preparation foe a determined resistance should the Republicans follow and attack him.

Scarcely had the troops been drawn up in position, to make the best defence possible, and to protect the landing-place, than several terror-stricken fugitives arrived, bringing the alarming intelligence that the Republicans, in great force, under Hoche, were advancing. The darkness, increased by the gloomy state of the weather, continued much longer than usual, and prevented us from ascertaining the truth of these statements. The unfortunate people were in the greatest alarm, for they well knew the barbarous treatment the Royalists had received throughout the country from the Republicans. As their comparatively small force could not hope to hold out long should they be attacked by the overwhelming army of General Hoche, they fully expected to be massacred to a man. In vain they turned their eyes seaward; no ships could be seen through the gloom coming to their relief, nor were there any boats on the shore. The wind, however, was falling, and daybreak was close at hand. I felt sure, also, that the marines, who were posted in a position which would certainly first be attacked, would hold their ground. This gave confidence to the Royalist troops.

I was standing near Mr Harvey, who was looking seaward. One after another, the fugitives who had escaped from the massacre came in, bringing further intelligence of the nearer approach of the Republicans. One of them, an officer, told Mr Harvey that the Comte de Sombreuil, the Bishop of Doll, and other emigrants of distinction, after holding out in their quarters until all their ammunition had been expended, and many of them killed, had capitulated to the Republicans on the condition that they should be allowed to retire on board the English ships.

“This is better news than I expected,” observed Mr Harvey; “I feared that the Count and all his companions had been killed. I wish I could believe that the Republicans are likely to keep their word.” A short time after this, while I was standing close to Mr Harvey on an elevated spot overlooking the bay, the dawn broke. He gave a shout of satisfaction as we saw dimly through the gloom, or rather the grey light of early morning, the whole squadron beating up. On they came.

As the wind fell they shook out the reefs in their topsails. There was no time to spare if they were to save the lives of the unfortunate people gathered on the shore.

The Galatea was leading. In fine style she came on and dropped her anchor with a spring on her cable, so as to bring her broadside to bear in the direction by which the Republicans would approach.

The other ships of the squadron brought up in succession, and directly afterwards a large flotilla of boats was seen approaching the beach.

To account for the opportune arrival of the squadron at this moment, I may state what I afterwards heard, that directly the fort was captured, the Comte de Puisaye had sent off a boat, though she ran a great risk of being swamped, to the commodore, who had, immediately the gale abated, got under weigh.

The leading columns of the Republicans appeared in the distance, just as the Galatea’s guns had been brought to bear on the shore.

A few shots made the enemy beat a hasty retreat, and allowed us to embark the troops and fugitive Royalists without molestation.

The boats were under the command of Captain Keats, and by his good management nearly four thousand people were embarked without a casualty, leaving behind, however, for the benefit of the Republicans, ten thousand stand of arms, ammunition of all sorts, and clothing for an army of forty thousand men.

Chapter Twenty Three.

A few particulars of the expedition—I learn to be patient—A strange sail—Cheated of a prize—We destroy a French frigate—Chase a brig—Becalmed at an awkward time—Our captain plans a cutting-out expedition—Success of our efforts—Dick Hagger and I with others are put on board a prize under Mr Harvey—Sail for England.

We were now kept actively engaged, but my readers would not be interested were I to give a detailed account of the various incidents of the unfortunate expedition to Quiberon. After taking possession of two islands commanding the bay, we were despatched, in company with the Standard, sixty-four, to summon the Governor of Belle Isle to deliver up the island for the use of the French king.

The boat proceeded to the shore with a flag of truce, carrying a long letter from the captain of the Standard. A very short reply was received, we heard, from the Republican general, who declared that, as he was well supplied with provisions and artillery, we might come when we liked, and he should be ready for us.

I know that we sailed away and left him alone. Soon after this we were joined by the Jason frigate, escorting a fleet of transports, containing four thousand British troops, under command of Major-General Doyle, who was accompanied by the Comte d’Artois and several other French noblemen. The troops were landed on the Isle d’Yeu with provisions, stores, and clothing, and there they remained doing nothing, for nothing could be done. The Republicans, under their clever, daring chiefs, had completely gained the upper hand, and the Royalist cause was lost. We meantime had to enjoy the luxuries of salt pork and mouldy biscuit, either blockading the enemy’s ports or looking out for their cruisers or merchantmen.

Thus we continued week after week, month after month, until my heart grew sick at the long delay. We had occasional opportunities of writing home, and I always availed myself of them, but I got very few letters in return, though my wife wrote frequently. The packet was often carried on to the Mediterranean, or to other more distant parts of the world.

At last, while cruising with three other frigates and an eighteen gun brig, the Sylph, off the mouth of the river Gironde, we one morning made out a French frigate in the south-south-west, standing in towards the entrance of the river, the wind being at the time north-north-west. Our frigate and the Sylph were close in with the land, while our consorts were considerably astern of us. We immediately crowded all sail to cut off the French frigate from the mouth of the river, while our captain ordered several signals to be made, intended to deceive her and induce her to suppose that we were also French. Dick Hagger and I were on the forecastle.

“She’ll take the bait, I hope,” he observed, glancing up at the strange bunting which was being run up at the fore royal masthead and quickly lowered. “See, she’s answering. Well, it may be all ship-shape, but I don’t like telling lies, even to an enemy. Hurrah! I suppose the signals were to tell her to come to an anchor, for see, she is shortening sail.”

Presently the French frigate rounded to and brought up. It was just what we wanted, for if she had stood on, she might have run up the river and escaped us. All we now had to do was to get up alongside her, and we trusted to our guns to make her ours. We carried on, therefore, as we had been doing to reach her.

This probably made her suspect that all was not right, for in a few minutes, letting fall her topsails, she stood away to the southward.

“She has cut her cable, and is off again,” cried Dick; “however, she can’t get up the river, that’s one comfort, and we shall have her before long.”

The French ship was now under all the canvas she could spread, standing to the southward. We had the lead going, for we were running through a narrow channel, with a lighthouse on one side on some rocks, and a sandbank on the other. We had a pilot on board, however, who knew the coast, and our captain was a man of firm nerve. The men in the chains were singing out all the time. For my part, I know I was very glad when we cleared the danger, and once more ran off before the wind, followed by the commodore in the Pomone and the Anson frigate. Meanwhile the commodore sent off the Artois frigate and Sylph brig to examine two suspicious ships seen away to the south-west. Night was approaching, and just before darkness came down on the ocean, we were not more than two miles astern of the chase. We could still see her dimly through the gloom ahead, and we hoped to keep sight of her during the night. Suddenly, however, about nine o’clock, a heavy squall struck us, accompanied by thunder and lightning, with tremendous showers of rain. The order was given to shorten sail. We flew aloft; there was no time to be lost. The thunder rattled, almost deafening us, and the lightning flashed in our eyes. Between the flashes it was so dark that we had to feel our way on the yards, for as to seeing six inches from our noses, that was out of the question. For nearly an hour it blew fearfully hard, and when we came down from aloft and looked ahead, we could nowhere see the chase, nor were either of our consorts visible astern. We, however, continued standing to the southward as before. What had become of the other ships we could not tell.

“The weather seems to be clearing,” observed Dick; “if we keep a sharp look-out, the chances are we catch sight of the chase again.”

The third lieutenant, who was forward peering out with his hands on either side of his eyes, asked if any of us could see her.

“Yes, there she is!” cried Dick immediately afterwards, “away a little on the starboard bow.”

The lieutenant, looking again to assure himself that Dick was right, sung out to the captain. Immediately the order was given to make all sail. We were, during this time, scarcely more than a mile from the shore, but the wind held fair, and there were no rocks to bring us up. Thus we stood on until daybreak, when we found that we were about the same distance from the chase as we had been at sunset, while, looking round, we discovered the frigate and brig, hull down, in the north-west.

As the other vessels were so far off, we now fully expected that the Frenchman would make a stand-up fight of it, and that before many minutes were over we should be blazing away at her, for, as far as we could judge, she was as big if not bigger than our ship. All this time, however, she had neither hoisted ensign nor pennant. This seemed strange, as there was no doubt about her being a Government ship. For some time she stood on, edging away towards the land. “Perhaps there is danger ahead, and the Frenchmen hope to lead us upon it,” I observed to Dick.

“We are all right as to that,” he answered. “Our master knows the coast too well to run the ship ashore. I only wish we could see the enemy haul her wind to, and wait for us.”

“She is going to haul her wind, see!” I exclaimed, as I saw the French frigate brace up her yards.

“Yes, she is, but she’s putting her head towards the land; I do think she’s going to run ashore!”

That such was the case there appeared every probability; still there was room enough for her to come about, and as we eagerly watched her, I hoped she would do so.

She stood on and on, and presently what was my amazement to see her mizzen-mast go by the board!

“The Frenchman must have cut it away,” cried Dick. “I was right, then.”

So he was; of that there could be no doubt. Soon afterwards down came her mainmast. On she went, however, until we saw that she was ashore, and then her foremast followed the other masts, and the sea catching her, drove her broadside on to the beach, where she heeled over away from us, so that it was difficult to see what her crew were about. As the seas kept striking her, it seemed that her people must be in considerable danger.

Our men bestowed no small amount of abuse on the French for trying to deprive us of the frigate, when they could not keep her for themselves.

Our captain ordered three guns to be fired at her as we passed within a quarter of a mile of the shore; but though some of hers might have been brought to bear on us, not one was discharged. We then stood off and hove-to. The boats were lowered and manned, our first lieutenant going in command of them, with directions to effect the destruction of the frigate. The heavy surf breaking against her bottom, and sweeping round towards the side turned to the shore, made it difficult and dangerous work to attempt boarding her.

The tide was now falling, and a considerable number of the French crew seeing us coming, in spite of the risk of being swept away, plunged into the water, and partly by swimming and partly by wading, managed to reach the beach. None of them made any attempt to defend the ship, nor did we molest the poor fellows who were making for the land.

At length we managed to get up to the ship, when the captain and several of his officers surrendered themselves as prisoners. We also took off a few Portuguese seamen, who had been taken out of two captured Brazil ships. We were soon joined by the boats of the Artois and the Sylph, which had in the meantime approached. The former was now standing off the shore, while the Sylph came close in to protect the boats should the French seamen venture to attack us.

Having put the prisoners on board the Artois and Galatea, we returned once more to effect the destruction of the frigate. The rollers, however, went tumbling in on shore with so much fury that the boats would probably have been lost had we made the attempt. We therefore had to wait patiently until the rising tide should enable us with less hazard to get up to the ship. Meantime we took the Sylph in tow, and carried her to within seven hundred yards of the shore, where, dropping her anchor, she got a spring on it, and began firing away at the frigate, so as to riddle her bottom and prevent the possibility of her floating off at high water. At last we once more pulled in, the tide allowing us to approach close to the beach, when Mr Harvey, in whose boat I was, went on shore with a flag of truce to tell the French seamen, who were gathering in considerable numbers on the sand-hills, that we were about to destroy their ship, and to advise them to keep out of the way. I was very glad when my young officer came back to the boat.

They did not attend to the warning they received, but as soon as we pulled for the ship they came down, threatening us in considerable numbers. On this the Sylph opened her fire, and soon sent them to the right about. We now boarded the ship, which I should have said was the Andromaque, and having searched every part of her to ascertain that none of her crew or any prisoners she might have taken remained on board, we set her on fire fore and aft, so effectually that even had the Frenchmen returned and attempted to put out the flames they would have found it impossible to do so. She burned rapidly, and as we pulled away towards the Sylph the flames were bursting out through all the ports. The Sylph then got under weigh, and, taking the boats in tow, stood off the land and rejoined the frigates.

We had not got far when a tremendous roar was heard, and we could see the whole after-part of the ship blown into fragments, some flying seawards, others towards the land, many rising high into the air.

We gave a cheer of satisfaction, for since we could not carry off the frigate as a prize, the next best thing was to prevent her doing any farther harm to our commerce.

This exploit performed, we separated from our consorts, and after cruising about for some time, we one morning, when about twenty miles off the land, just at daybreak, saw, inside of us, a large brig, which, from the squareness of her yards, we knew to be a vessel of war. The wind was from the southward, and she was close-hauled. We instantly made all sail, and stood after her, hoping to get her within range of our guns before she could run on shore, or seek for safety in port. She at once kept way, and was evidently steering for a harbour, though I forget its name, which lay some short distance to the northward. She soon showed that she was a fast craft, for though the Galatea sailed well, she maintained her distance. At length, getting her within range of our long guns, we made sure of capturing her. Two shots struck her, but did not produce any serious damage.

“Never mind, she’ll be ours in a few minutes,” observed Dick, as he stood near me at our gun. We expected in a few minutes to send a broadside into her.

Just then our topsails flapped loudly against the masts, and we lay becalmed. The brig almost immediately got out some long sweeps, and with her boats towing ahead, quickly crept away from us. I thought our captain would have ordered out the boats to attack her, but I suppose that he thought it was not worth risking the lives of the men by boarding a vessel with a crew so strong as she probably possessed. Thus we lay for some hours, rolling our sides into the smooth, shining waters. I heard some of the officers say that they could see through their glasses several other craft at anchor in a small bay protected by a fort. As evening approached a breeze sprang up, and making sail, we stood off the land. As soon as it was dark, however, the ship was put about, and we stood back again for some distance, when we hove-to, and the boats were lowered. The captain then announced that he intended to send four boats in, under the command of the first lieutenant; the third lieutenant taking charge of one, Mr Harvey of another, and the boatswain of a fourth. Dick and I were in Mr Harvey’s boat. The object was to cut out the brig we had chased into port, as well as any other vessels we could get hold of. It was just the sort of work sailors are fond of, though at the same time often as dangerous as any they can engage in. They like it all the better, however, for the danger.

The brig was to be the first attacked, and we hoped to surprise her, as probably some of her officers and crew were ashore. If we could take her, we had little doubt about cutting-out one or two of the others which had been seen at anchor.

The night was very dark, and just suited for our purpose. The first lieutenant took the lead in one of the gigs. The two cutters and pinnace followed close astern, to prevent the risk of separating. In perfect silence we pulled away from the frigate with muffled oars. As yet we could see no light to guide us, but we expected to catch sight of some of those on shore as we drew nearer. To get up to the anchorage we had a point to round. There was the risk, should any sentry be posted there, that we should be discovered. The lieutenant accordingly gave it as wide a berth as he could. Once round it, we could see the masts of the brig against the sky, but there was no light visible, nor was any movement perceptible on board her. We pulled on steadily, hoping to get up to her without being discovered. We fancied that the Frenchmen must be keeping a bad look-out. On and on we glided, like spirits of evil bent on mischief, when, as we were within a cable’s length of the brig, suddenly a flame of fire burst from her ports, with the loud reports of six heavy guns, followed by the rattle of musketry.

“On, lads, on!” cried our commanding officer; and the boats casting off from each other, we pulled away as hard as we could.

The first lieutenant and Mr Harvey in our boat, pulled for her bows, one on either side, while the other boats were to board on her quarters. Our boat was to go round to the starboard side, which was the inner one. The instant we hooked on, we clambered up, Mr Harvey gallantly leading, Dick and I being close to him. We reached the deck without opposition, for the Frenchmen were all over on the other bow, attempting to beat back the lieutenant and his people, so that we took them completely by surprise, and were cutting and slashing at them before they knew we were on deck. They quickly turned, however, to defend themselves, and this allowed the lieutenant and the gig’s crew to clamber on board. United, we drove them back from the forecastle. Some, to save themselves, tumbled down the fore-hatchway, but others, unable to get down, retreated aft. Here they joined the rest of the crew, who were fighting desperately with the third lieutenant and boatswain’s party, but were being driven slowly back.

The uproar we made, the flash of the pistols, the clash of our cutlasses, the shouts and shrieks of the combatants, served to arouse the garrison in the fort and the crews of the other vessels. The guns in the fort had not opened upon us, probably because the Frenchmen were afraid of hitting their friends, not knowing whether we had captured the brig or been driven back.

The Frenchmen, as they generally do, fought bravely, but they could not withstand the desperate onslaught we made. Attacked as they were on both sides, they were unable to retreat, and those who had been aft leapt down the hatchways, crying out for quarter. Mr Harvey told them that if they made further resistance they would be shot. He then called his boat’s crew away, as had been arranged, to cut the cable, and began to tow the brig out of harbour, while the crew of another boat flew aloft to loose the sails. The canvas was let fall and rapidly sheeted home. The moment we began to move the fort opened fire. One of the first shot struck our boat, which at once commenced to fill. Strange to say, not a man among us was hit. We on this dropped alongside the brig and scrambled on board, just as the boat sank beneath our feet. On this the lieutenant, seeing that the brig had got good way on her, calling his own boat’s crew and that of the pinnace, shoved off, with the intention of taking one of the other vessels, leaving the third lieutenant and Mr Harvey to carry out the brig. The shot from the fort came pitching about us, and we were hulled several times. One shot struck the taffrail, and as the splinters flew inboard, the third lieutenant, who was at the helm, fell. I at once ran to help him, while Mr Harvey took his place. He was badly wounded, I feared; but on recovering he desired to be left on deck, observing that should he be taken below, the French prisoners might, he feared, get hold of him, and hold him as a hostage, until we promised to liberate them, or restore the brig.

Soon after this we got out of range of the guns from the fort. Looking astern, we could see the flashes of pistols, and could hear the rattle of musketry, as if a sharp fight were going on. It was very evident that the first lieutenant was engaged in warm work. Possibly we thought he might have caught a tartar and been getting the worst of it. Mr Harvey proposed going back to his assistance, but the lieutenant feared that if we did so, we should run a great risk of getting the brig ashore, and might probably be captured. We therefore stood on until we were clear of the harbour. Just as we were rounding the point, and looking aft, I made out a vessel under weigh.

“Hurrah, Mr Lloyd has made a prize of another vessel,” I shouted.

Some of the men doubted this, and declared that she was coming in chase of us. I could not deny that such might possibly be the case, but presently the fort opened upon her, which proved, as we supposed, that she was another prize. We accordingly hove-to, out of range of the guns of the fort, to wait for her; still some of the men fancied that she might be after all, as they had at first supposed, an armed vessel coming out to try and retake us. To guard against this, Mr Harvey ordered us to load the guns. We found plenty of powder and shot, so that we felt sure, if she was an enemy, of beating her off. The breeze freshened as she got clear of the harbour and stood towards us. We were at our guns, ready to fire should she prove an enemy. All doubt was banished when, on approaching, a British cheer was raised from her deck, to which we replied, and making sail, we stood on together.

In about half an hour we were up to the frigate, when both prizes hove-to to windward of her, that we might send our prisoners as well as our wounded men on board. Besides the third lieutenant, we had had only two hurt in capturing our prize, the Aimable; but the first lieutenant, in capturing the other, the Flore, had had two men killed and three wounded, besides the boatswain and himself slightly. Not only had the crew of the Flore resisted toughly, but boats had come off from the shore and attempted to retake her, after her cable had been cut. The Flore had, however, escaped with fewer shot in her hull than we had received.

During the night we ran off shore, and as soon as it was daylight the carpenters came on board to repair our damages. The captain had meantime directed Mr Harvey to take charge of the Aimable, and to carry her into Plymouth.

“I have applied for you, Wetherholm and Hagger, to form part of my crew,” he said, on returning on board. “I know you are anxious to get home, as it will be some time probably before the frigate herself returns to port.”

I thanked him heartily, and Hagger, I, and the other men, sent for our bags. As soon as all the arrangements had been completed, we made sail and stood for the British Channel. The Flore, which sailed in our company, had been placed under charge of the second master. We had been directed to keep close together so that we might afford each other support. The wind being light, we did not lose sight of the frigate until just at sundown, when we saw her making sail, apparently in chase of some vessel, to the southward. Our brig was a letter of marque, and had a valuable cargo on board, so that she was worth preserving, and would give us, we hoped, a nice little sum of prize-money.

For long I had not been in such good spirits, as I hoped soon to be able to get home and to see my beloved wife, even if I could not manage to obtain my discharge, for which I intended to try. When it was my watch below, I could scarcely sleep for thinking of the happiness which I believed was in store for me.

We had kept two Frenchmen, one to act as cook, the other, who spoke a little English,—having been for some time a prisoner in England,—as steward. They were both good-natured, merry fellows. The cook’s name was Pierre le Grande, the other we called Jacques Little. He was a small, dapper little Frenchman, and played the violin. He would have fiddled all day long, for he preferred it to anything else; but he could not get any one to dance to him except Le Grande, who, as soon as he had washed up his pots and kettles, came on deck, and began capering about to Jacques’ tunes in the most curious fashion possible.

The rest of us had plenty to do in getting the brig into order, and occasionally taking a spell at the pumps, for she leaked more than was pleasant. We tried to discover where the water came in, but could not succeed. However, as the leak was not serious it did not trouble us much.

As we were so small a crew, we were divided into only two watches. Mr Harvey had one and gave me charge of the other, at which I felt pleased, for it showed that he placed confidence in me. I understood navigation, which none of the other men did, and I had a right to consider myself a good seaman.

Chapter Twenty Four.

We are chased by a large vessel—Overtaken by a storm—A stern chase—The stranger is dismasted—We are in a dangerous position—Loss of our crew—The gale moderates—The brig gives signs of sinking—We set about building a raft—An unexpected appearance—Jacques and his fiddle—The raft completed and launched—The first night—Dick and I compare notes—Troubled sleep—A dreadful reality—My companions swept overboard—Clinging on for life.

Two days had passed by since we left the frigate. It was my middle watch below, and I fancied that the greater part of it had passed by when I heard Mr Harvey’s voice shouting, “All hands on deck, and make sail.”

I was on my feet in a moment, and looking astern as I came up, I saw through the gloom of night a large vessel to the southward, apparently standing to the eastward, while a smaller one, which I took to be the Flore, had hauled her wind, and was steering west.

“She is taking care of number one,” observed Dick to me, as we together went aloft to loose the topgallant sails, for, like a careful officer, being short-handed, Mr Harvey had furled them at sundown. We then rigged out studden sail booms, hoping, should the stranger not have perceived us, to get a good distance before daylight. Soon after the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky, we saw her alter her course in pursuit of us. We had, however, got a good start, and, unless the wind fell, we might still hope to escape her.

At first it was doubtful whether she would follow us or the Flore. If she should follow her, we should be safe, as she would have little chance of capturing us both. As the day drew on the wind increased, and at length it became evident that the stranger intended to try and take us.

“She may, after all, be an English frigate,” said Dick to me.

“Mr Harvey doesn’t suppose so, or he wouldn’t be so anxious to escape her,” I answered. “He thinks it best to be on the safe side and run no risk in the matter.”

We were all at our stations, including the cook and steward, who were told to stand by and pull and haul as they might be ordered.

I asked the latter whether he thought the ship in chase of us was English or French.

He shrugged his shoulders, observing that he was not much of a sailor, and could not tell one ship from another unless he saw her flag.

Mr Harvey stood with his glass in his hand, every now and then giving a look through it astern. Then he glanced up at the sails. The topgallant masts were bending like willow wands. Every instant the wind was increasing, and the sea was getting up; still he was unwilling to shorten sail while there was a possibility of escaping.

At last, after taking another look through his telescope, he shut it up, observing to me, “She’s French! there’s no doubt about it. We’ll hold on as long as we can, she hasn’t caught us yet.”

Scarcely two minutes after this there came a crash. Away went both our topgallant masts, and as I looked aloft, I was afraid that the top masts would follow. Still the wreck must be cleared. Dick and I sprang up the main rigging, and I hurried aloft to clear the main-topgallant mast, while two others, imitating our example, ascended the fore rigging. The brig was now plunging her bows into the fast-rising seas. It was a difficult and dangerous work we had undertaken, but getting out our knives, we succeeded in cutting away the rigging, and the masts and yards with their canvas fell overboard.

“That’s one way of shortening sail,” said Dick as we came on deck. “To my mind, the sooner we get a couple of reefs in the topsails, the better.”

This was indeed very evident. Mr Harvey taking the helm, the rest of us went aloft and performed the operation. We were too much occupied to look at the frigate. When we came down off the yards, we saw that she had shortened sail, but not before she also had carried away her fore-topgallant mast. We were still going as rapidly as before through the water, but the increase of wind gave the advantage to the larger ship, which kept drawing closer.

I have not spoken of time. The day was passing, and Mr Harvey ordered the steward and cook to bring us some food on deck, for no one could be spared below to obtain it. Already it was some hours past noon. If we could keep ahead until darkness came down, we might still manage to escape by altering our course, as soon as we had lost sight of the frigate. At length, however, we saw her yaw. She had got us within range of her guns. She fired, and two shot came whizzing past us. On this Mr Harvey ordered us to run out two long guns, brass six-pounders, through the stern-ports, and to fire in return.

We blazed away as fast as we could run them in and load, but it was a difficult matter to take aim with the heavy sea on through which we were plunging. We managed, however, to pitch two or three of our shot on board, but what damage we caused we could not tell.

Again the frigate yawed and fired all her foremost guns. One of the shot came crashing into the mainmast, and two others hulled us. I sprang towards the mast to ascertain the extent of damage it had received. It seemed a wonder, with so large a piece cut out of it, that it could stand, and I expected every moment to see it go. Still, should the wind not increase, I thought it might be preserved, and Mr Harvey calling all the hands not engaged at the guns to bring as many spars as could be collected, we began fishing it. We were thus engaged when two more shot pitched on board, carrying away part of the bulwarks and capsizing one of the guns.

Another followed, bringing one of our men to the deck with his head shattered to pieces. Our position was becoming desperate. Presently two more shot struck us between wind and water. Several of the men, who had before shown no lack of courage, cried out that we had better strike before we were sent to the bottom.

“Not while our masts stand,” answered Mr Harvey firmly.

We had had but slight experience in fishing masts, so I had little confidence in its strength. Mr Harvey then called me aft to work one of the guns.

I again pitched a shot into the frigate. My great hope was that I might knock away one of her spars, and give us a better chance of escaping. The wind had been drawing round to the westward of south. We still kept before it. Presently the frigate braced up her yards, intending apparently to fire her whole broadside at us. As she did so, the wind suddenly increased. Over she heeled. She was almost concealed from sight by the clouds of spray and dense masses of rain which came suddenly down like a sheet from the sky.

Even before Mr Harvey could give the word we were letting fly everything. The brig rushed on through the foaming seas. When I looked aft, I could just distinguish the dark hull of the frigate rolling helplessly from side to side, her masts gone by the board.

On we flew, soon losing sight of her altogether. Though our masts were standing, our canvas, except the fore-topsail, was blown to ribbons. The storm showed no signs of abating, for although there was a short lull, the wind again blew as hard as ever. The thunder roared, the lightning flashed from the clouds, and the night became pitchy dark. The seas increased, and, as they came rolling up, threatened to poop us.

How long the gale might last it was impossible to say. Before it had abated we might have run on the Irish coast. It would be wiser to heave the brig to while there was time; but the question wag whether the mainmast would stand. The fore-topsail was closely reefed, the helm was put down; but as the vessel was coming up to the wind, a sea struck us, a tremendous crash followed, the mainmast, as we had feared, went at the place where it had been wounded, and, falling overboard, was dashed with violence against the side, which it threatened every moment to stave in.

Mr Harvey, seizing an axe and calling on us to follow and assist in clearing away the wreck before more damage was done, sprang forward. At any moment the sea, striking the vessel, might sweep us off the deck. With the energy almost of despair, we worked away with axes and knives, and at length saw the mast drop clear of the side. While we were still endeavouring to clear away the wreck of the mast, Mr Harvey had sent one of the crew below to search for some more axes, as we had only three among us. Just at this juncture he came on deck, exclaiming, in a voice of alarm, “The water is rushing in like a mill sluice!”

“Then we must pump it out,” cried Mr Harvey, “or try and stop it if we can. Man the pumps!”

We had two each, worked by a couple of hands, and we began labouring away, knowing that our lives might depend upon our exertions.

The brig lay to more easily than I should have supposed possible, though we were still exposed to the danger of an overwhelming sea breaking on board us. We got the hatches, however, battened down, and kept a look-out, ready to catch hold of the stanchions or stump of the mainmast, to save ourselves, should we see it coming.

As soon as the pumps had been manned, Mr Harvey himself went below, accompanied by Dick and another hand, carrying a lantern to try and ascertain where the water was coming in, with the greatest rapidity.

It appeared to me that he was a long time absent. He said nothing when he at last came up, by which I guessed that he had been unable to discover the leak. “As long as there is life there’s hope, lads,” he said: “we must labour on to the last;” and he took the place of a man who had knocked off at the pumps. He worked away as hard as any man on board. After some time I begged that I might relieve him, and he went and secured himself to a stanchion on the weather side. I at last was obliged to cry “Spell ho!” and let another man take my place.

I had just got up to where Mr Harvey was seated on deck, and having taken hold of the same stanchion, remarked that the brig remained hove-to better than I should have expected.

“Yes,” he observed; “the foremast is stepped much further aft than in English vessels, but I wish that we had been able to get up preventer stays; it would have made the mast more secure.”

Scarcely had he uttered the words than a tremendous sea came rolling up and burst over the vessel.

“Hold on for your lives, lads!” shouted Mr Harvey.

Down came the sea, sweeping over the deck. I thought the brig would never rise again. At the same instant I heard a loud crash. Covered as I was with water, I could, however, see nothing for several seconds; I supposed, indeed, that the brig was sinking. I thought of my wife, my uncle and aunt, and our cosy little home at Southsea, and of many an event in my life. The water roared in my ears, mingled with fearful shrieks. Chaos seemed round me. Minutes, almost hours, seemed to go by, and I continued to hear the roar of the seas, the crashing of timbers, and the cries of my fellow-men.

It must have been only a few seconds when the brig rose once more, and looking along the deck I saw that our remaining mast had gone as had the bowsprit, while, besides Mr Harvey, I could distinguish but one man alone on the deck, holding on to the stump of the mainmast. At first I thought that Mr Harvey might have been killed, but he was only stunned, and speedily recovered. He got on his feet and looked about him, as if considering what was to be done.

“We’re in a bad state, Wetherholm, but, as I before said, while there’s life there’s hope. We must try to keep the brig afloat until the morning and perhaps, as we are in the track of vessels coming in and out of the Channel, we may be seen and taken off. Where are the rest of the men?”

“I am afraid, sir, they are washed overboard, except the man we see there; who he is I can’t make out.”

“Call him,” said Mr Harvey.

“Come aft here!” I shouted.

“Ay, ay!” answered a voice which, to my great satisfaction, I recognised as that of Dick Hagger. He did not, however, move, but I saw that he was engaged in casting himself loose. He at length staggered aft to where we were holding on.

“Did you call me, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, my man. Where are the rest of the people?” said Mr Harvey.

“That’s more than I can tell, sir,” answered Dick. “I saw the sea coming, and was making myself fast, when I got a lick on the head which knocked the senses out of me.” After saying this, he looked forward, and for the first time seemed to be aware that we three, as far as we could tell, were the only persons left on board.

The blast which had carried away the foremast seemed to be the last of the gale. The wind dropped almost immediately, and though the seas came rolling up and tumbled the hapless brig about, no others of the height of the former one broke over us. Our young officer was quickly himself again, and summoned Hagger and me to the pumps.

We all worked away, knowing that our lives might depend upon our exertions. Though we did not gain on the water, still the brig remained buoyant. This encouraged us to hope that we might keep her afloat until we could be taken off. It was heavy work. Dick and I tried to save our officer, who had less physical strength than we had, as much as possible.

Hour after hour we laboured on, the brig rolling fearfully in the trough of the sea, and ever and anon the water rushed over us, while we held fast to save ourselves from being carried away. At length we could judge by the movement of the vessel that the sea was going down, as we had expected it would do since there was no longer any wind to agitate it.

At length daylight broke, but when we looked out over the tumbling, lead-coloured ocean, not a sail could we discern. We sounded the well, and found eight feet of water. Our boats had all been destroyed,—indeed, had one remained, she would even now scarcely have lived.

“We may keep the brig afloat some hours longer, but that is uncertain,” said Mr Harvey, after he had ceased pumping to recover strength. “We must get a raft built without delay, as the only means of saving our lives. At present we could scarcely hold on to it, but as the sea is going down, we will wait to launch it overboard till the brig gives signs of being about to founder.”

We agreed with him. He told us to take off the main hatch, and get up some spars which we knew were stowed below. While we were thus occupied, my head was turned aft. The companion-hatch was drawn back, and, greatly to our surprise, there appeared the head of Jacques Little. He was rubbing his eyes, looking more asleep than awake.

“Ma foi!” he exclaimed, gazing forward with an expression of horror on his countenance, “vat hav happened?”

“Come along here and lend a hand, you skulking fellow!” cried Dick. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Sleep, I suppose, in de cabin,” answered Jacques. “Vere are all de rest?”

“Gone overboard,” said Dick. “Come along, there’s no time for jabbering.”

“Vat an Le Grande?” exclaimed Jacques. “Oh! comme je suis faché! Dat is bad, very bad.”

Jacques had evidently been taking a glass or two of cognac to console himself, and even now was scarcely recovered from its effects. We made him, however, help us, and once aroused, he was active enough. Between whiles, as we worked at the raft, we took a spell at the pumps. At last Mr Harvey told us that our time would be best spent on the raft. We sent Jacques to collect all the rope he could find, as well as to bring up some carpenter’s tools and nails. Having lashed the spars together, we fixed the top of the main hatch to it, and then brought up the doors from the cabin, and such portions of the bulk-heads as could be most easily knocked away. We thus in a short time put together a raft, capable of carrying four persons, provided the sea was not very rough. Most of the bulwarks on the starboard or lee side had been knocked away; it was therefore an easy task to clear a space sufficient to launch the raft overboard. We hauled it along to the side, ready to shove into the water directly the brig should give signs of settling. Still she might float for an hour or two longer.

Dick, while searching for the spars, had found a spare royal, which, after being diminished in size, would serve as a sail should the wind be sufficiently light to enable us to set one. We put aside one of the smaller spars to fit as a mast, with sufficient rope for sheets and halyards.

Mr Harvey gave an anxious look round, but not a sail appeared above the horizon. He then ordered Jacques to go below and bring up all the provisions he could get at, and a couple of beakers of water. Fortunately there were two, both full, kept outside the cabin for the use of the pantry. We soon had these hoisted up, and Jacques speedily returned with a couple of baskets, in which he had stowed some biscuits, several bottles of wine, some preserved fruits, and a few sausages.

“Come, lads, we are not likely to be ill provisioned,” said Mr Harvey, making the remark probably to keep up our spirits.

Once more he sounded the well while we were giving the finishing strokes to our raft. He did not say the depth of water in the hold, but observed, in a calm tone, “Now we’ll get our raft overboard.” We had secured stays with tackles to the outer side, so as to prevent it dipping into the water. By all four working together, and two easing away the tackles, we lowered it without accident. We had found some spare oars, and had secured a couple of long poles to enable us to shove it off from the side. There were also beckets fixed to it, and lashings, with which to secure ourselves as well as the casks and baskets of provisions.

“Be smart, lads, leap on to the raft!” cried Mr Harvey.

Dick and I obeyed, and he lowered us down the baskets, but Jacques, instead of following our example, darted aft and disappeared down the companion-hatchway.

“Comeback, you mad fellow!” exclaimed Mr Harvey, still standing on the deck, wishing to be the last man to leave the brig.

“You had better come, sir,” I could not help saying; for I feared, from the depth the brig already was in the water, that she might at any moment take her last plunge.

We were not kept long in suspense. Again Jacques appeared, carrying his fiddle and fiddlestick in one hand, and a bottle of cognac in the other, and, making a spring, leapt on the raft. Mr Harvey leapt after him.

“Cast off,” he cried, “quick, quick!”

We let go the ropes which held the raft to the brig, and, seizing the poles, shoved away with all our might; then taking the paddles in hand, we exerted ourselves to the utmost to get as far as we could away from the sinking vessel.

We were not a moment too soon, for almost immediately afterwards she settled forward, and her stern lifting, down she glided beneath the ocean, and we were left floating on the still troubled waters. Yet we had cause to be thankful that we had saved our lives. We were far better off than many poor fellows have been under similar circumstances; for we had provisions, the sea was becoming calmer and calmer, and the weather promised to be fine. We could scarcely, we thought, escape being seen by some vessel either outward or homeward-bound. There was too much sea on to permit us, without danger, to set the sail, but we got the mast stepped and stayed up in readiness. The wind was still blowing from the southward, and we hoped it would continue to come from that direction, as we might thus make the Irish coast, or if not, run up Saint George’s Channel, where we should be in the track of numerous vessels.

The day was now drawing to a close, and we prepared to spend our first night on the raft Mr Harvey settled that we should keep watch and watch, he with Jacques in one and Dick and I in the other. The weather did not look altogether satisfactory; but as the sea had gone down, we hoped that we should enjoy a quiet night, and get some sleep, which we all needed.

Jacques seemed in better spirits than the rest of us; he either did not understand our dangerous position, or was too light-hearted to let it trouble him.

“Why should we be dull, Messieurs,” he said, “when we can sing and play!” And he forthwith took his fiddle, which he had stuck up in one of the baskets, and began scraping away a merry air, which, jarring on our feelings, had a different effect to what he had expected. Still he scraped on, every now and then trolling forth snatches of French songs. At last, Mr Harvey told him to put up his fiddle for the present, and to lie down and go to sleep.

“I shall want you to look out by and by, when I keep my watch,” he said; “and meantime you, Wetherholm and Hagger, take charge of the raft, and I hope in a short time to be able to let you lie down.”

Saying this, Mr Harvey laid down on a small platform which we had built for the purpose of enabling two of us at a time to be free of the wash of the water. Dick and I kept our places, lashed to the raft with our paddles in our hands. Our young officer was asleep almost immediately he placed his head upon the piece of timber which ran across the platform and served to support the mast.

“What do you think of matters, Will?” asked Dick, after a long silence. “If it comes on to blow, will this raft hold together?”

“I fear not,” I answered; “at all events, we should find it a hard job to keep alive on it if the sea were to get up, for it would wash over and over us, and although we might hold on, our provisions would be carried away. I hope, however, before another day is over that we shall be picked up by some homeward-bound craft; but don’t let such thoughts trouble you, Dick. Having done our best, all we can do is to pray that we may be preserved.”

“I don’t let them trouble me,” answered Dick, “but still they will come into my head. I’ve fought for my king and country, and have done my duty, and am prepared for the worst.”

“You should trust rather to One who died for sinners,” I felt myself bound to say. “He will save our souls though our bodies perish.”

“I have never been much of a scholar, but I know that,” answered Dick, “and I believe that our officer knows it too. If he didn’t, he would not be as sound asleep as he is now.”

I was very glad to hear Dick say this, for although we were at present much better off than we might have been, I was fully alive to our precarious situation. Even should the weather prove fine, we might not reach the shore for many a day, and our provisions and water would not hold out long, while, should it come on to blow, they might be lost, and we should be starved, even if the raft should hold together and we had strength to cling on to it.

Dick and I occasionally exchanged remarks after this, but still the time went on very slowly. Neither of us had the heart to call up Mr Harvey; but about midnight, as far as I could judge, he started up, and calling Jacques, told Dick and me to lie down. We did so thankfully securing ourselves with lashings one on either side of the mast. Before I closed my eyes, I observed that not a star was twinkling in the sky which seemed overcast down to the horizon. Though there was not much wind, there was rather more than there had been, and there was still too much sea on to allow us to set sail.

I was never much given to dreaming, but on this occasion, though I closed my eyes and was really asleep, I fancied all sorts of dreadful things. Now the raft appeared to be sinking down to the depths of the ocean, now it rose to the top of a tremendous sea, to sink once more amid the tumbling waters. I heard strange cries and shrieks, and then the howling of a gale as if in the rigging of a ship. I thought I was once more on board the brig, and saw the sea which had swept away my shipmates come rolling up towards us. Again the shrieks which I had heard sounded in my ears, and I felt the wild waters rushing over me. I started up to find that it was a dreadful reality. The portion of the raft to which I was clinging was almost submerged. The larger part appeared broken up. I looked round for my companions. The night was pitchy dark, I could see no one. I called to them, there was no reply. I felt across to where Dick had been—he was gone!

“Dick Hagger, Mr Harvey, Jacques, where are you?” I shouted.

Dick’s voice replied, “Heave a rope and haul us in.” I felt about for one, but not a line could I find, except the lashings attached to the raft.

“Where are you?” I again cried out.

“Here, with Mr Harvey; I tried to save him,” was the answer.

Alas, how helpless I felt! With frantic haste I endeavoured to draw out some of the lashings, in the hopes of forming a line long enough to reach Dick, but my efforts were in vain. The raft was tossing wildly about. It was with the greatest difficulty I could cling on to it, pressing my knees round one of the cross timbers. I heard once more the cry:

“Good-bye, Will, God help you!” and then I knew that Dick and the young officer he was trying to save had sunk beneath the waves.

Again and again I shouted, but no voice replied. Though thus left alone, I still desired to live, and continued clinging to the shattered raft, tossed about by the foaming seas. Frequently the water rushed over me; it was difficult to keep my head above it long enough to regain my breath before another wave came rolling in. It seemed to me an age that I was thus clinging on in pitchy darkness, but I believe the catastrophe really occurred only a short time before daylight. In what direction the wind was blowing I could not tell. When the raft rose to the top of a sea I endeavoured to look round. No sail was in sight, nor could I distinguish the land. I felt that I could not hold out many hours longer. One of the baskets still remained lashed to the raft, but its contents had been washed out, and the casks of water had been carried away. Hour after hour passed by. There was less sea running, and the wind had somewhat gone down. The thoughts of my wife still kept me up, and made me resolve to struggle to the last for life, but I was growing weaker and weaker. At length I fell off into a kind of stupor, though I still retained sufficient sense to cling to the rail.

Chapter Twenty Five.

At the last gasp—Taken on board the Solway Castle Indiaman—Homeward-bound—Hopes of freedom at last—We enter the Thames—Ship brings up at the mouth of the Medway—Visited by a pressgang—Carried on board the Glatton, 56 guns, Captain Henry Trollope—Sail to join the northern fleet under Admiral Duncan—Reach Yarmouth roads—Sent to join a squadron off Helvoetsluis—The Glatton encounters a French squadron of four frigates, two corvettes, a brig, and cutter—We engage them, and our heavy carronades fearfully cut them up—They take to flight and escape—While returning to Yarmouth I fall overboard—Find a boat—Picked up by a cutter bound to Plymouth—Becalmed off the Eddystone—Am again seized by a pressgang and taken on board the Cleopatra—My despair—Sail for the West Indies—A desperate battle—Overpowered by numbers—We strike our flag—Miserable contemplations.

How long I had remained thus I could not tell, when I was aroused by hearing a man’s voice, and looking up, saw a boat close to me, beyond her a ship hove-to. One of the crew sprang on to the raft, and casting off the lashings, he and others leaning over the bow of the boat, dragged me on board. After this I knew nothing until I found myself in a hammock on board a large merchantman. A surgeon soon afterwards came to me.

“You will do well enough now, my man,” he said to me in a kind voice; “but you were almost gone when we picked you up.”

I inquired what ship I was on board.

“The Solway Castle, homeward-bound East Indiaman,” he answered.

This was indeed satisfactory news, as I should now, I trusted, be able to get back to my dear wife without the necessity of asking leave. I might indeed almost consider myself a free man, for I did not feel that it would be my duty to return to the Galatea, considering that the prize I had been put on board had gone down. After the doctor had left me, the sick bay attendant brought me a basin of soup which wonderfully revived me, and in shorter time than the doctor said he expected I could not help acknowledging that I was almost myself again.

I felt very sad as I thought of the loss of young Mr Harvey and my old friend Dick Hagger; still the hopes of so soon being at home again made me think less of them than I might otherwise have done, and contributed greatly to restore my strength. I was treated in the kindest way by the doctor, and many others on board, who, having heard my history, commiserated my hitherto hard fate. A fair breeze carried us up Channel. When I was able to go on deck I kept a look-out, half expecting to see an enemy’s ship bear down on us, although, unless she should be a powerful frigate or line-of-battle ship, she would have had a hard job to capture the Solway Castle, which was well armed, and carried a numerous crew. Still I could not help recollecting the old saying, “There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.” The truth was, I had not yet recovered my full strength, and the doctor remarked that I required tonics to set me up and drive gloomy thoughts out of my head. We kept well over to the English coast to avoid the risk of falling in with French cruisers. We had got abreast of Portland when a strange sail was made out to the southward, which, as she was seen edging in towards the land, it was supposed without doubt was an enemy. The passengers, of whom there were a good number returning after a long absence from India, began to look very blue.

“Never fear, ladies and gentlemen,” I heard the captain observe, “we’ll show the Frenchman that we’re not afraid of him, and the chances are, make him afraid of us.” Saying this, he ordered the studden sails we had carried to be taken in, and the royals to be set, and then bringing the ship on a wind, boldly stood out towards the stranger. The effect was as desired. The stranger, hauling her wind, stood away to the southward, taking us probably for a line-of-battle ship, which the stout old “tea chest” resembled at a distance. By yawing and towing a sail overboard, we stopped our way, until the captain thought the object had been answered, when once more, squaring away the yards, we continued our course up the Channel.

As we passed the Isle of Wight, I cast many a look at its picturesque shores, hoping that a pilot boat might put off at the Needles, and that I might have the opportunity of returning in her, but none boarded us until we were near the Downs, when, unfortunately, I was below, and before I could get on deck the boat was away. However, I consoled myself with the reflection that in another day or two we should be safe in the Thames, and I resolved not to lose a moment in starting for Portsmouth as soon as I stepped on shore. I thought that I might borrow some money from my friend the doctor, or some of the passengers, who would, I believed, willingly have lent it me, or if not, I made up my mind to walk the whole distance, and beg for a crust of bread and a drink of water should there be no other means of obtaining food. My spirits rose as the lofty cliffs of Dover hove in sight, and rounding the North Foreland, we at length, the wind shifting, stood majestically up the Thames. When off the Medway, the wind fell, and the tide being against us, we had to come to an anchor. We had not been there long when a man-of-war’s boat came alongside. I observed that all her crew were armed, and that she had a lieutenant and midshipman in her, both roughish-looking characters. They at once stepped on board with an independent, swaggering air. The lieutenant desired the captain to muster all hands. My heart sank as I heard the order. I was on the point of stowing myself away, for as I did not belong to the ship, I hoped to escape. Before I had time to do so, however, the midshipman, a big whiskered fellow, more like a boatswain’s mate than an officer, with two men, came below and ordered me up with the rest. The captain was very indignant at the behaviour of the lieutenant and the midshipman, declaring that his crew were protected, and had engaged to sail in another of the Company’s ships after they had had a short leave on shore.

“Well and good for those who are protected, but those who are not must accompany me,” answered the lieutenant. “We want hands to man our men-of-war who protect you merchantmen, and hands we must get by hook or by crook.” Having called over the names, he selected twenty of the best men who had no protection. I was in hopes I should escape, when the midshipman pointed me out.

The lieutenant inquired if I belonged to the ship. I had to acknowledge the truth, when, refusing to hear anything I had to say, though I pleaded hard to be allowed to go free, he ordered me with the rest into the boat alongside. Having got all the men he could obtain, the lieutenant steered for Sheerness, and took us alongside a large ship lying off the dockyard, where she had evidently been fitting out. She looked to me, as we approached her, very much like an Indiaman, and such I found she had been. She was, in truth, the Glatton, of one thousand two hundred and fifty-six tons, which had a short time before been purchased, with several other ships, from the East India Company by the British Government. She was commanded, I found, by Captain Henry Trollope, and carried fifty-six guns, twenty-eight long eighteen-pounders on the upper deck, and twenty-eight carronades, sixty-eight pounders, on the lower deck. Her crew consisted in all of three hundred and twenty men and boys, our arrival almost making up the complement. The ship’s company was superior to that of most ships in those days, although somewhat scanty considering the heavy guns we had to work.

We were welcomed on board, and I heard the lieutenant remark that he had made a good haul of prime hands. It was a wonder, men taken as we had been, could submit to the severe discipline of a man-of-war, but all knew that they had do help for it. They had to run the risk of being flogged or perhaps hung as mutineers if they took any steps to show their discontent, or to grin and bear it.

Most of them, as I did myself, preferred the latter alternative. I had never before seen such enormous guns as were our sixty-eight pounder carronades, larger than any yet used in the service,—indeed, their muzzles were almost of equal diameter with the ports, so that they could only be pointed right abeam. We had neither bow nor stern-chasers, which was also a great drawback. Some of the men, when looking at the guns, declared that they should never be able to fight them; however, in that they were mistaken. Practice makes perfect, and we were kept exercising them for several hours every day.

The ship was nearly ready for sea, and soon after I was taken on board we sailed from Sheerness, for the purpose of reinforcing the North Sea Fleet under Admiral Duncan. In four or five days, during which we were kept continually exercising the guns, we arrived in Yarmouth Roads. Scarcely had we dropped anchor than we were ordered off again to join a squadron of two sail of the line and some frigates, commanded by Captain Savage of the Albion, sixty-four, supposed to be cruising off Helvoetsluis.

Next morning, long before daylight,—it had gone about two bells in the middle watch,—we made the coast of Flanders, and through the gloom discovered four large ships under the land. The wind, which had hitherto been fresh, now fell, and we lay becalmed for some hours in sight of Goree steeple, which bore south by east. We and the strangers all this time did not change our relative positions. That they were enemies we had no doubt, but of what force we could not make out. As the day wore on, a breeze sprang up from the north-west; at the same time we saw two other good-sized ships join the four already in view. We instantly made all sail, and stood towards the strangers, making signals as soon as we got near enough for them to distinguish our bunting. No reply being made, we were satisfied that they were an enemy’s squadron. There were four frigates and two ship corvettes, while a large brig corvette and an armed cutter were seen beating up to join them from leeward.

“We’re in a pretty mess. If all those fellows get round us, they’ll blow us out of the water, and send us to the bottom,” I heard one of the sailors who had been pressed out of the Indiaman observe.

“Our captain doesn’t think so, my boy,” answered an old hand. “Depend upon it, he intends trying what the mounseers will think of our big guns.”

The order was now given to clear for action, and we stood on with a light breeze in our favour towards the enemy. The wind freshening, the four frigates, in close line of battle, stood to the north-east. Shortly afterwards they shortened sail, backing their mizzen-topsails occasionally to keep in their stations. We were nearing them fast. Up went the glorious flag of Old England, the Saint George’s ensign, just as we arrived abreast of the three rearmost ships, the two corvettes and the smallest of the frigates. Our captain ordered us, however, not to fire a shot until we had got up to the largest, which he believed from her size to be the commodore’s, and intended to attack.

“I wonder what we are going to be after?” I heard the man from the Indiaman inquire. “We seem to be mighty good friends; perhaps, after all, those ships are English.”

“Wait a bit, my bo’, you’ll see,” answered the old hand, “our captain knows what he’s about. If we can knock the big one to pieces, the others will very soon give in.”

The ship next ahead of the commodore had now fallen to leeward, so that the latter formed the second in the line. Not a word was spoken. I should have said that as we had not men sufficient for our guns, for both broadsides at the same time, we were divided into gangs, one of which, having loaded and run out the gun, was directed to leave it to be pointed and fired by the others, picked hands, and we were then to run over and do the same to the gun on the other side. We thus hoped to make amends for the smallness of our numbers.

The ship we were about to attack was evidently much larger than the Glatton, upwards of three hundred tons as it was afterwards proved, but that did not daunt our gallant captain. We continued standing on until we ranged close up alongside her, when our captain hailed and desired her commander to surrender to his Britannic Majesty’s ship. No verbal reply was made, but instead, the French colours and a broad pendant were hoisted, showing that the ship we were about to engage was, as we had supposed, that of the commodore. Scarcely had the colours been displayed, than she opened her fire, her example being followed by the other French ships. We waited to reply until we were within twenty yards of her. Then we did reply with a vengeance, pouring in our tremendous broadside. The shrieks and cries which rose showed the fearful execution it had committed.

Still the French commodore continued firing, and we ran on, keeping about the same distance as before, exchanging broadsides. Meantime the van ship of the enemy tacked, evidently expecting to be followed by the rest of the squadron, and thereby drive us upon the Brill shoal, which was close to leeward. The van ship soon after arrived within hail of us on our weather-beam, and received our larboard guns, which well-nigh knocked in her sides, while the groans and shrieks which arose from her showed that she had suffered equally with her commodore. Anxious to escape a second dose of the same quality of pills, she passed on to the southward, while we cheered lustily at seeing her beaten. We had not much time for cheering; we were still engaged with the commodore on our lee bow, while the second largest frigate lay upon our lee quarter, blazing away at us. Just then our pilot shouted out, “If we do not tack, in five minutes we shall be on the shoal!”

“Never mind,” answered the captain; “when the French commodore strikes the ground, put the helm a-lee.”

Just as he spoke, the French ship tacked, evidently to avoid the shoal, and while she was in stays, we poured in another heavy raking fire which well-nigh crippled her. Meantime the other French ships had gone about.

“Helm’s a-lee!” I heard shouted out, but as our sails and rigging were by this time terribly cut about, it seemed as if we should be unable to get the ship round. The wind, however, at last filled our sails, and round she came. We, as well as the Frenchmen, were now all standing on the starboard tack. The three largest frigates had fallen to leeward, and could do us but little damage, but the three smaller ones kept up a harassing long-shot fire, to which we, on account of the distance, could offer but a very slight return. All our topmasts being wounded, and the wind freshening, it became necessary to take a reef in the topsails. In spite of the risk we ran, the moment the order was issued we swarmed aloft, though we well knew that at any moment the masts might fall, while the enemy’s shot came flying among us.

The frigates and the two corvettes to leeward, seeing us cease firing, stood up, hoping to find us disabled; but springing below, we were soon again at our guns, and gave them such a dose, knocking away several of their yards, that they soon stood off again to join the other ships, which had already had enough of it. I forgot to say that latterly we had had the brig and the cutter close under our stern, and as we had no guns with which to reply to the smart fire they opened, we could only fire at them with musketry. After a few volleys, however, they beat a retreat, and as night closed down upon us, all firing ceased on both sides. The Frenchmen had fired high, and our sails and rigging were too much cut up to enable us to follow them. Strange as it may appear, scarcely a dozen shot had struck the hull, and in consequence, notwithstanding the tremendous fire to which we had been exposed, we had not had a single man killed, and two only, the captain and corporal of marines, wounded. The former, however, poor man, died of his wounds shortly afterwards. During the night every effort was made to get the ship into a condition to renew the action. At daybreak we saw the French squadron draw up in a close head and stern line. By eight o’clock, having knotted and spliced our rigging, bent new sails, and otherwise refitted the ship, we stood down to offer battle to the enemy, but they had swallowed enough of our sixty-eight pounders, and about noon they bore away for Flushing. We followed until there was no hope of coming up with them, when our ship’s head was turned northward, and we steered for Yarmouth Roads, to get the severe damages we had received more effectually repaired than we could at sea.

I afterwards heard that the large French frigate we had engaged was the Brutus, which had been a seventy-four cut down, and now mounted from forty-six to fifty guns. We saw men and stages over the sides of the French ships stopping shot-holes, and we heard that one of them had sunk in harbour.

I was in hopes that we should go back to Sheerness to refit, and that I might thus have an opportunity of getting home. I had done my duty during the action, so had every one else. The wind freshening during the night, the hands were ordered up aloft to shorten sail.

“Be smart, my lads,” I heard the officer of the watch sing out, “or we may have the masts over the sides.”

I was on the main-topsail yard-arm to leeward, when, just as I was about to take hold of the ear-ring, the ship gave a lurch, the foot rope, which must have been damaged, gave way, and before I could secure myself, I was jerked off into the sea. It was better than falling on deck, where I should have been killed, to a certainty. I sang out, but no one heard me, and to my horror, I saw the ship surging on through the darkness, and I was soon left far astern. I shouted again and again, but the flapping of the sails, the rattling of the blocks, and the howling of the wind drowned my voice.

At the same time the main-topgallant mast with its sail and yard was carried away. I saw what had happened, and I feared that two poor fellows who had been handing the sail must have been killed. Their fate made me for the moment forget my own perilous condition. When I saw that I had no hope of regaining the ship, I threw myself on my back to recover my breath, and then looked about, as I rose to the top of a sea, to ascertain if there was anything floating near at hand on which I might secure myself. Though I could see nothing, I did not give way to despair, but resolved to struggle to the last for life. Having rested, I swam on until a dark object appeared before me. It was a boat, which, though filled with water, would, I hoped, support me. I clambered into her, and after resting, examined her condition. She was, as far as I could ascertain, uninjured. I had my hat on, secured by a lanyard, and immediately set to work to bale her out with it. I succeeded better than I could have expected, for though the sea occasionally washed into her, I managed by degrees to gain upon the water. At length I found that her gunwale floated three or four inches above the surface. This encouraged me to go on, and before daybreak she was almost clear. When dawn broke I looked out, but no land was in sight, nor was a sail to be seen. I was without food or water, but I hoped to be able to endure hunger and thirst for some hours without suffering materially.

The day went on, the hot summer’s sun beat down upon my head, and dried my clothes. Several sail passed in the distance, but none came near me. There was nothing in the boat with which I could form even a paddle. I looked round again and again, thinking it possible that I might find some spar which might serve cut in two as a mast and yard. I would then, I thought, try to steer this boat to land, with the help of one of the thwarts, which I would wrench out to make a rudder, using my clothes tacked together as a sail.

Such ideas served to amuse my mind, but no spar could I see. Another night came on, and, overcome by hunger, thirst, and weariness, I lay down in the bottom of the boat to sleep. At length I awoke. Some time must have passed since I lay down. I felt so low, that I scarcely expected to live through another day should I not be picked up. I looked about anxiously to ascertain if any sail was near; none was visible, and I once more sank back in a state of stupor. I knew nothing more until I found myself in the fore peak of a small vessel, a man sitting by the side of the bunk in which I lay feeding me with broth. In a few hours I had recovered sufficiently to speak. I asked the seaman who had been attending me, what vessel I was on board.

“The Fidelity, collier, bound round from Newcastle to Plymouth,” he answered. “We picked you up at daybreak. The captain and mate thought you were gone, but I saw there was life in you, and got you placed in my bunk. You’ll do well now, I hope.”

I replied that I already felt much better, thanks to his kind care, and asked his name.

“Ned Bath,” he answered. “I’ve only done to you what I’d have expected another to do for me, so don’t talk about it.”

He then inquired my name. I told him, giving him an outline of my history, how I had been carried off from my wife, and how cruelly I had been disappointed in my efforts to get back to her.

“You shan’t be this time if I can help it, Will,” he said, “and as soon as we get into Plymouth, I’ll help you to start off for Portsmouth. I’ve got some wages due, and you shall have what money you want, and pay me back when you can.”

I thanked him heartily, feeling sure that Uncle Kelson would at once send him the money, and accepted his generous offer. I could not help hoping that we might meet with a foul wind and be compelled to put into some nearer port; but the wind held fair, and we at length sighted the Eddystone, when, however, it fell calm. Not far off lay a frigate which had come out of the Sound. Several other vessels were also becalmed near us. I was looking at the frigate, when a boat put off from her and pulled towards one of the other vessels. She then steered for another and another, remaining a short time only alongside each.

“She’s after no good,” observed Ned; “I shouldn’t be surprised if she was picking up hands. We’ve all protections aboard here. You’d better stow yourself away, Will. Jump into my berth and pretend to be sick, it’s your only safe plan.”

This I did not like to do, and I guessed if Ned was right in his conjectures, that the officer who visited us would soon ascertain there was one more hand on board than the brig’s complement. Unhappily he was right—the boat came alongside. It was the old story over again. Just as I had expected to obtain my freedom, I was seized, having only time to give Ned the address of my wife, to whom he promised to write, and to wish him and my other shipmates good-bye, when I was ordered to get into the boat waiting alongside. She, having picked up three or four more men from the other vessels becalmed, returned to the frigate, which was, I found, the Cleopatra, of thirty-two twelve-pounder guns, commanded by Captain Sir Robert Laurie, Bart., and bound out to the West Indies.

I very nearly gave way altogether. In vain, however, I pleaded to be allowed to go on shore. I acknowledged that I belonged to the Glatton, and promised faithfully to return to her as soon as I had visited my wife. My petition was disregarded, my statement being probably not even believed. A breeze springing up, all sail was made, and the Cleopatra stood down Channel.

I must pass over several weeks. They were the most miserable of my existence. Three times I had been pressed, when on the very point, as I supposed, of getting free. I began at last to fancy that I never should return on shore. Though my spirits were low, I retained my health, but I did my duty in a mechanical fashion. My shipmates declared that for months together they never saw me smile.

At length, after we had visited the West Indies, we were cruising in search of an enemy, when soon after daybreak we sighted a ship standing to the eastward, we having the wind about north-west. Instantly we made all sail in chase. Every one was sure that she was an enemy, and from her appearance we had no doubt that she was a big ship. She, observing that she was pursued, stood away from us before the wind. All day we continued the chase. Everything was done to increase our speed. We began to be afraid that the enemy would escape us. The sun went down, but there was a bright moon, and numbers of sharp eyes were constantly on the watch for her. We marked well the course she was steering. Anxiously the night passed away. When daylight returned, the watch on deck gave way to a shout of satisfaction, as in the cold grey light of dawn she was seen right ahead rising out of the leaden waters. One thing was clear, we were overhauling her surely, though slowly. We went to breakfast, the meal was quickly despatched, and we were all soon on deck again to look out for the stranger. In a short time there was no doubt about her character. The order was given to clear the ship for action. As I heard the words, I felt more cheerful than I had done since I came on board. Strange as it may seem, my spirits rose still higher when the stranger was made out to be a forty gun frigate. By half-past eleven he shortened sail, and hauled his wind to allow us to come up with him, and hoisting his colours at the same time, we now knew him to be a Frenchman. Probably he had run away at first thinking that we were the biggest ship, whereas in reality, as we afterwards discovered, he was vastly our superior, not only in the number of his guns but in weight of metal, for they were eighteen-pounders, and while we had only 200 men fit to work our guns, he had 350. The Cleopatra measured only 690 tons, while the enemy’s ship, which was the Ville de Milan, measured 1100, and carried forty-six guns. We also shortened sail ready for action, and directly afterwards began to fire our bow-chasers, which the enemy returned with his after-guns. Thus a running fight was carried on for some time, we in no way daunted by the vastly superior force with which we were engaged.

At about half-past two we were within a hundred yards of the Ville de Milan, when she luffed across our bows and poured in a crashing broadside, while we, passing under her stern, returned her fire with good interest. We now ranged up within musket-shot, on the starboard side of our big antagonist, and thus we kept running parallel to each other, sometimes on a wind and sometimes nearly before it—we trying to prevent her from luffing again across our bows or under our stern, and she not allowing us to perform the same manoeuvre. Never in a single combat was there a fiercer fight. We worked our guns with desperate energy—not that we ever doubted that we should be the victors, but we knew that we must fight hard to win the victory.

For upwards of a couple of hours we had been hotly engaged, when a loud cheer broke from us. We had shot away the enemy’s main-topsail-yard. We, however, had suffered greatly, not only in spars, but our running rigging had been literally cut to pieces. A number of our men, also, lay killed and wounded about our decks; and though the latter were carried below as fast as possible, their places were rapidly supplied by others doomed to suffer the same fate.

The loss of the enemy’s main-topsail-yard caused us to forge ahead, but unhappily, from the condition of our running rigging, we could neither shorten sail nor back our main-topsail. Our captain therefore resolved to endeavour to cross the bows of the Ville de Milan.

The order was given to put the helm down. At that moment a shot struck the wheel, knocking it to pieces and killing one of the men standing at it. There we lay, with the ship utterly unmanageable and at the mercy of our opponent. It was enough to make us weep with sorrow, but instead of that we set to work to try and get tackles on to the tiller to steer by.

“Look out, my lads! stand by to repel boarders!” sang out our captain.

At that moment the enemy bore up and ran us on board, her bowsprit and figure-head passing over our quarter-deck, abaft the main rigging. I was on the quarter-deck. As I saw the bows of our huge enemy grinding against our sides, our ship rolling terrifically, while the other was pitching right at us as it were, I felt that never were British courage and resolution more required than at that moment. It was put to the test.

“Repel boarders!” was the shout. On came the Frenchmen, streaming in crowds over their forecastle. We met them, cutlass and pistol in hand, and with loud shouts drove them back to their own ship. They must not have been sorry to get there, for every instant it appeared that our gallant frigate would go down under the repeated blows given us by our opponent. I do not believe, though, that such an idea occurred to many of us. We only thought of driving back the enemy, of striving to gain the victory. All this time our great guns were blazing away, and the marines were keeping up a hot fire of musketry, while the enemy were pounding us as sharply in return.

Not a minute of rest did they afford us. Led on by their officers, with shouts and shrieks they rushed over their bows and down by the bowsprit on to our deck. Every inch of plank was fiercely contested, and literally our scuppers ran streams of blood.

Try and picture for a moment the two ships rolling, tumbling, and grinding against each other, the wind whistling in our rigging (for it was blowing heavily), the severed ropes and canvas lashing about in every direction; the smoke and flames from our guns, their muzzles almost touching, the cries, and groans, and shouts; spars and blocks tumbling from aloft; the decks slippery with gore; the roar of big guns, the rattle of musketry, the flash of pistols, the clash of cutlasses as we met together; and some faint idea may be formed of the encounter in which we were engaged.

Once more the enemy were driven back, leaving many dead; but we also suffered fearfully. Still we persevered. For an instant I had time to look round. I saw the shattered condition of our ship, my brave companions dropping rapidly around me, several of our lieutenants severely wounded, and for the first time the dread came over me that we must strike our flag or sink at our quarters, for I felt convinced that the ship could not stand much longer the sort of treatment she had been undergoing.

Again the shout was raised, “Repel boarders!”

“Steady, my brave lads, meet them!” cried our gallant captain. We saw the Frenchmen hurrying along the waist, leaping up on the forecastle, and then in dense masses they rushed down on our decks. We met them as bravely as men can meet their foes, but already we had nearly sixty men (more than a quarter of our crew) either killed or wounded, and, terribly overmatched, we were borne back by mere force of numbers.

The way cleared, the Frenchmen continued pouring in on us till our people were literally forced down the hatchways or against the opposite bulwarks, while our cutlasses were knocked out of our hands, no longer able to grasp them. The bravest on board must have felt there was no help for it, and no one was braver than our captain. The British colours were hauled down.

When I saw what had happened, I felt as if a shot had gone through me—grief and shame made my heart sink within my bosom. The Frenchmen cheered; we threw down our weapons, and went below. We were called up, however, to assist in getting the ships free of each other. This was a work of no little difficulty. Some of our people were removed aboard the Ville de Milan, and she sent about forty men, including officers, to take possession of the Cleopatra.

Some of the Frenchmen told us that their captain had been killed by one of the last shots we fired. We had four lieutenants, the master, and the lieutenant of marines wounded, as well as the boatswain and a midshipman, though not an officer was killed. Of the seamen and marines, we had twenty-two killed and thirty wounded. Another proof that we did not give in while a chance of victory remained was, that scarcely were we free of the Frenchman than our main and fore masts went over our side, and very shortly afterwards the bowsprit followed, and our gallant frigate was left a miserable wreck on the waters.

The French lost a good many men, and their ship was so knocked about, that her main and mizzen-masts both went over the side during the night, and when day broke, to all appearance she was not much better off than the Cleopatra.

We at once were summoned to assist the prize crew in getting up jury-masts, and the weather moderating, we were able to do this without difficulty. Both frigates then shaped a course for France. Even now I scarcely like to speak of what my feelings were when once more all my hopes were cruelly dashed to the ground, and I found myself carried away to become the inmate of a French prison.

I sat most of the day with my head bent down on my knees, brooding over my grief. I certainly felt ripe for any desperate adventure; but nothing else would, I think, have aroused me. The Frenchmen did not like our looks, I conclude, for they kept a strict watch over us lest we should attempt to play them a trick, and would only allow a few of us on deck at a time. This was very wise in them, for had they given up the chance, we should certainly not have let it slip.

Chapter Twenty Six.

A Friend in need—The Frenchmen catch a Tartar—The tables turned—Return to Old England—Off again to sea—England expects that every man will do his duty—Battle of Trafalgar—Wreck of our prize—My enemy found—Home—Conclusion.

I ought to have said that the larger portion of the ship’s company and all the officers had been removed at once on board the Ville de Milan. I, with about sixty or seventy others, remained on board the Cleopatra. I would rather have been out of the ship, I own. I could not bear to see her handled by the Frenchmen. Often and often I felt inclined to jump up and knock some of them down, just for the sake of giving vent to my feelings. Of course I did not do so, nor did I even intend to do so. It would have been utterly useless, and foolish in the extreme. I only describe my feelings, and I dare say they were shared by many of my shipmates.

Nearly a week thus passed, when one morning, as I was on deck, I saw a large ship standing towards us. What she was I could not at first say. The Frenchmen, at all events, did not like her looks, for I observed a great commotion among them. The two frigates had already as much sail set on their jury-masts as it was in any way safe to carry, so nothing more could be done to effect their escape should it be necessary to run for it, by the sail in sight being, what I hoped she was, a British man-of-war.

How eagerly I watched to see what would be done! The French officers kept looking out with their glasses, and constantly going aloft.

Soon the two frigates put up their helms and ran off before the wind, and almost at the same instant I had the satisfaction of seeing the stranger make all sail in chase.

One, at all events, was certain of being captured, for, knocked about as they had been, they made very little way. Anxiously I watched to ascertain to a certainty the character of the stranger. The Frenchmen, I doubted not, took her to be an English man-of-war, and I prayed that they might be right, but still I knew that their fears might cause them to be mistaken.

Most of the English prisoners were sent below, but I managed to stow myself away forward, and so was able to see what took place. On came the stranger. Gradually the foot of her topsails, and then her courses rose out of the water, and when at length her hull appeared I made out that she was not less than a fifty gun ship, and I had little doubt that she was English. The Frenchmen looked at her as if they would like to see her blow up, or go suddenly to the bottom. I watched her in the hope of soon seeing the glorious flag of Old England fly out at her peak. I was not long kept in doubt.

As soon as the ship got near enough to make out the French ensign flying on board the Cleopatra and Ville de Milan, up went the British ensign. Forgetting for the moment by whom I was surrounded, I could scarcely avoid cheering aloud as I watched it fluttering in the breeze. The Frenchmen, in their rage and disappointment, swore and stamped, and tore their hair, and committed all sorts of senseless extravagances, and I felt that it would be wise to keep out of their sight as much as possible, as some of them might, perchance, bestow on me a broken head, or worse, for my pains.

The two frigates closed for mutual support, but when I came to consider the condition they were in, I had little doubt that the English ship would be more than a match for them. The stranger had first been seen soon after daybreak. The people had now just had their breakfasts. They were not long below, for all were anxious to watch the progress of their enemy. The weather had been all the morning very doubtful, and thick clouds were gathering in the sky. My earnest prayer was that it would continue moderate; I began, however, to fear that my hopes would be disappointed. The clouds grew thicker and seemed to descend lower and lower, while a mist arose which every instant grew denser.

At length, when I had for a short time turned my head away from our big pursuer, I again looked out. What was my horror and disappointment not to be able to see the English ship in any direction! I looked around and tried to pierce the thick mist which had come on, but in vain; and again my heart sank within me. The Frenchmen also searched for their enemy; but when they could not find her, they, on the contrary, began to sing and snap their fingers, and to exhibit every sign of satisfaction at the prospect of escaping her.

One or two of my shipmates had slipped up on deck, and they returned with the sad tidings below. After a little time I joined them. I found them all deep in a consultation together. It was proposed that we should rise upon the French prize crew, and, taking the frigate from them, go in search of the English ship. Some were for the plan, some were against it. It was argued that the Ville de Milan would, at every risk, attempt to stop us—that, short-handed as we were, we could not hope to hold out against her—that we might very probably miss the English ship, and then, if we fell in with another Frenchman, we should very likely be treated as pirates.

I rather agreed with these last-mentioned opinions; still, as I have said, I felt ready to undertake any enterprise, however desperate. Hour after hour passed away. The Frenchmen kept walking the deck and rubbing their hands, as the prospect of escape increased.

Suddenly we heard them stop. I slipped up again on deck; a breeze had carried away the mist, and there, right away to windward, was the English ship, much nearer than when she had last been seen. I did cheer now, I could not help it. The Frenchmen were too much crestfallen to resent by a blow what they must have looked upon as an insult, but an officer coming up, ordered me instantly to go below.

I was obliged to comply, though I longed to remain on deck to see what course events would take. The people below, as soon as they heard that a friend was in sight, cheered over and over again, utterly indifferent to what the Frenchmen might say or do. They did utter not a few sacrés and other strange oaths, but we did not care for them.

The two frigates were, as I said, at the time I went below, close together, with the French ensigns hoisted on the main-stays. The British ship was coming up hand over hand after them. We tried to make out what was going forward by the sounds we heard and the orders given. Our ship was before the wind. Presently a shot was fired to leeward from each frigate, and a lad who had crept up, and looked through one of the ports, reported that the Ville de Milan had hauled her wind on the larboard tack, and that we were still running before it. We all waited listening eagerly for some time, and at last a gun was fired, and a shot struck the side of our ship. Then we knew full well that our deliverance was not far off. The Frenchmen sacré’d and shouted at each other louder than ever. Our boatswain had been left on board with us. He was a daring, dashing fellow.

“Now, my lads, is the time to take the ship from the hands of the Frenchmen!” he exclaimed. “If we delay, night is coming on, and the other frigate may get away. If we win back our own ship, it will allow our friend to go at once in chase of the enemy.”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when we all, seizing handspikes and boat-stretchers, and indeed anything we could convert into weapons, knocked over the sentry at the main hatchway, and springing on deck, rushed fore and aft, and while the Frenchmen stood at their guns, looking through the ports at their enemy and our friend, we overpowered them. Scarcely one of them made any resistance. In an instant we were on the upper deck, where the officers, seeing that the game was up, cried out that they gave in, and hauled down the French flag.

On this, didn’t we cheer lustily! The ship which had so opportunely come to our rescue was the fifty gun ship Leander, the Honourable John Talbot. Her crew cheered as she came up to us, and her captain asked us if we could hold our own against the Frenchmen without assistance. We replied that we could, and against twice as many Frenchmen to boot. We thought then that we could do anything. He told us we were fine fellows, and ordering us to follow him, he hauled his wind in chase of the Ville de Milan.

We took care to disarm all the Frenchmen; and, you may believe me, we kept a very sharp look-out on them, lest they should attempt to play us the same trick we had just played them.

The Ville de Milan had by this time got some miles away, but the Leander made all sail she could carry, and we had little doubt would soon come up with her. Still we could not help keeping one eye on the two ships, and the other on our prisoners. In little more than an hour after the French flag had been hauled down aboard the Cleopatra, as we hoped, never to fly there again, the Leander, with her guns ready to pour forth her broadside, ranged up alongside the Ville de Milan. The Frenchmen were no cowards, as we had found to be the case, but they naturally didn’t like her looks; and not waiting for her to fire, wisely hauled down their colours. Then once more we cheered, and cheered again, till our voices were hoarse. People have only to consider what the anticipation of a prison must be to British sailors, to remember that we fancied that we had lost our gallant ship, and that we were smarting under a sense of defeat, to understand our joy at finding ourselves once more at liberty. I had a joy far greater than any one, or at least than any one not situated as I was (and perhaps there were some as anxious as I was to return home), of feeling that I had now a far greater chance than had before occurred of once more setting foot on the shores of Old England, and of returning to my beloved wife.

The three ships all hove-to close together, while arrangements were made for our passage to England. The Leander put a prize crew on board the Ville de Milan, strengthened by some of our people, and our gallant captain, Sir Robert Laurie, and his officers once more took possession of their own ship. It was a happy meeting on board the Cleopatra, you may depend on that; and on the first Saturday afterwards, as may be supposed, there was not a mess in which ‘Sweethearts and wives’ was not drunk with right hearty goodwill. Some, and I trust that I was among them, felt that we owed our deliverance to a power greater than that of men, and thanked with grateful hearts Him who had in His mercy delivered us from the hand of our enemies. And oh! my fellow-countrymen, who read this brief account of my early days, I, now an old man, would urge you, when our beloved country is, as soon she may be, beset with foes, burning with hatred and longing for her destruction, that while you bestir yourselves like men and seize your arms for the desperate conflict, you ever turn to the God of battles, the God of your fathers, the God of Israel of old, and with contrite hearts for our many national sins, beseech Him to protect us from wrong, to protect our native land, our pure Protestant faith, our altars, our homes, the beloved ones dwelling there, from injury. Pray to Him—rely on Him—and then surely we need not fear what our enemies may seek to do to us.

Once more, then, we were on our way to England. I did believe that this time I should reach it, I could not fancy that another disappointment was in store for me. The weather, notwithstanding the stormy time of the year, proved moderate, and we made good way on our homeward voyage. While the boats were going backwards and forwards between the ships, I had observed in one of them a man whose countenance bore, I thought, a remarkable resemblance to that of Charles Iffley. Still I could not fancy it was Iffley himself. I asked some of the Leander’s people whether they had a man of that name on board, but they said that they certainly had not, and so I concluded that I must have been mistaken. The man saw me, but he made no sign of recognition, but neither, I felt, would Iffley have done so had he been certain of my identity. Still the countenance I had seen haunted me continually, and I could not help fancying that he was still destined again to work me some evil.

“Land! land ahead!” was sung out one morning, just as breakfast was over. The mess-tables were cleared in a moment, and every one not on duty below was on deck in a moment looking out for the shores we all so longed to see. It was the coast of Cornwall, not far from the Land’s End. Point after point was recognised and welcomed, as, with a fair breeze, we ran up Channel. Then the Eddystone was made, and the wind still favouring us, we at length dropped our anchor close together in Plymouth Sound. I could scarcely believe my senses when I found myself once more in British waters. Oh! how I longed to be able to go on shore and to set off at once for Portsmouth; but, in spite of all my entreaties, I could not obtain leave to go. The captain was very kind, and so was the first lieutenant, but they were anxious to get the ship refitted at once, to be able to get to sea to wipe out the discredit, as they felt it, of having been captured even by so superior a force. All I could do, therefore, was to sit down and write a letter to my wife to tell her of my arrival, and to beg her to send me instantly word of her welfare. I entreated her, on no consideration, to come to meet me; I did not know what accident might occur to her if she attempted to come by land or by sea. Travelling in those days was a very different matter to what it is at present. Even should no accident happen to her, I knew that before she could reach Plymouth I might be ordered off to sea. I felt bitterly that I was not my own master. I did not blame anybody. Who was there to blame? I could only find fault with the system, and complain that such a system was allowed to exist. Fortunate are those who live in happier days, when no man can be pressed against his will, or be compelled to serve for a longer time than he has engaged to do.

The three ships as we lay in the Sound were constantly visited by people from the shore, and the action between the Cleopatra and the Ville de Milan was considered a very gallant affair, and instead of getting blamed, the captain, officers, and crew were highly praised for their conduct. Our captain, Sir Robert Laurie, was presented with a sword of the value of a hundred guineas by the Patriotic Fund, as a compliment to his distinguished bravery, and the skill and perseverance which he exhibited in chasing and bringing the enemy to action. Indeed, we obtained more credit for our action, though we lost our ship, than frequently has been gained by those who have won a victory. The Ville de Milan was added to the British Navy under the name of the Milan, and classed as an eighteen-pounder thirty-eight gun frigate, and Sir Robert Laurie was appointed to command her. Our first lieutenant, Mr William Balfour, was also rewarded by being made a commander.

Day after day passed away, and I did not hear from my wife. Dreadful thoughts oppressed me. I began to fear that she was dead, or that, not hearing from me, or perhaps believing me lost, she had removed from Southsea. Indeed, I cannot describe all the sad thoughts which came into my head, and weighed down my heart. Then the tempter was always suggesting to me, “Why not run and learn all about the matter! What harm is there in deserting? Many a man has done it before. Who will think the worse of you if you do?” But I resisted the temptation, powerful as it was. I had undertaken to serve my country, and to obey those placed in authority over me; and I knew that their reasons were good for not allowing me to go on shore. Still I own it was very, very hard to bear. I had yet a sorer trial in store for me.

Things were done in those days which would not be thought of at the present time. Men were wanted to work the ships which were to fight England’s battles, and men were to be got by every means, fair or foul. Often, indeed, very foul means were used. While we were expecting to be paid off, down came an order to draft us off into other ships. In spite of the bloody battles we had fought, in spite of all we had gone through, our prayers were not heard—we were not even allowed to go on shore; and, without a moment’s warning, I found myself on board the Spartite, 74, commanded by Sir Francis Laforey, and ordered off at once to sea. I had barely time to send a letter on shore to tell my wife what had occurred, and no time to receive one from her. Well, I did think that my heart would break this time; but it did not. I was miserable beyond conception, but still I was buoyed up with the feeling that I had done my duty, and that my miseries, great as they were, would come some day to an end.

We formed one of a large squadron of men-of-war, under Lord Collingwood, engaged in looking out for the French and Spanish fleets. We continually kept the sea cruising off the coast of Spain and Portugal, and occasionally running out into the Atlantic, or sweeping round the Bay of Biscay. From August to September of this memorable year, 1805, we were stationed off Cadiz to watch the enemy’s fleet which had taken shelter there, and in October we were joined by Lord Nelson in his favourite ship the Victory. We all knew pretty well that something would be done, but we little guessed how great was the work in which we were about to engage. The French and Spanish fleets were inside Cadiz harbour, and we wanted to get them out to fight them. This was a difficult matter, for they did not like our looks. That is not surprising, particularly when they knew who we had got to command us. Lord Nelson, however, was not to be defeated in his object. Placing a small squadron inshore, he stationed other ships at convenient distances for signalling, while the main body of the fleet withdrew to a distance of eighteen leagues or so from the land.

The enemy were deceived, and at length, on the 19th and 20th, their whole fleet had got out of the harbour. No sooner was Lord Nelson informed of this, than he stood in with his entire fleet towards them.

At daybreak on the memorable 21st October 1805, the combined French and Spanish fleets were in sight, about twelve miles off, the centre of the enemy’s fleet bearing about east by south of ours. At 6 a.m. we could from the deck see the enemy’s fleet, and, as I afterwards learned, the Victory was at that time about seven leagues distant from Cape Trafalgar. At about 10 a.m. the French Admiral Villeneuve had managed to form his fleet in close order of battle; but owing to the lightness of the wind, some of the ships were to windward and some to leeward of their proper stations—the whole being somewhat in the form of a crescent. We had at an early hour formed into two columns, and bore up towards the enemy. The Victory led the weather division, in which was our ship. We had studden sails alow and aloft; but the wind was so light that we went through the water scarcely more than two knots an hour. I am not about to give an account of the battle of Trafalgar, for that is the celebrated action we were then going to fight. It has been too often well described for me to have any excuse for making the attempt. Indeed, when once it began, even the officers knew very little about the matter, and the men engaged in working the guns knew nothing beyond what they and their actual opponents were about. All I know is, that Lord Nelson was afraid the enemy would try and get back into Cadiz, and in order to prevent him, he resolved to pass through the van of his line.

At 11:40 a.m. Lord Nelson ordered that ever-memorable signal to be made—“England expects that every man will do his duty.”

Nobly, I believe, one and all did their duty; and, oh! may Englishmen never forget that signal in whatever work they may be engaged. It was received with loud cheers throughout the fleet both by officers and men. The Royal Sovereign, Lord Collingwood’s ship, led the lee division, and at ten minutes past noon commenced the action, by passing close under the stern of the Santa Anna, discharging her larboard broadside into her, and her starboard one at the same time into the Fougueux. These two ships fired at her in return, as did the San Leandro ahead, and the San Justo and Indomitable, until other ships came up and engaged them. The action was now general. All that could be seen were wreaths of smoke, masts and spars falling, shattered sails, shot whizzing by, flames bursting out with a tremendous roar of guns, and a constant rattle of musketry; ships closing and firing away at each other, till it appeared impossible that they could remain afloat.

In the afternoon I know that we and the Minotaur bore down on four heavy ships of the combined squadron, which we hotly engaged, and succeeded in cutting off the Spanish Neptuno. She was bravely defended; but in two hours we compelled her to strike her flag, with the loss of her mizzen-mast and fore and main-topmast. No seamen could have fought more bravely than did the Spaniards on this occasion; but their bravery did not avail them. As the spars of the enemy’s ship went tumbling down on deck, and his fire slackened, we one and all burst into loud cheers, which contributed not a little to damp his courage. I forgot my own individuality, my own sorrows and sufferings, in the joy of the crew at large. I felt that a great and glorious victory was almost won—the most important that English valour, with God’s blessing, had ever achieved on the ocean. I felt certain that the victory would be gained by us. My spirits rose. I cheered and cheered away as loudly as the rest. Many of our people had been struck down and carried below, though comparatively few had been killed outright. I saw my messmates wounded; but it never for a moment occurred to me that I should be called on to share their fate. Suddenly, as I was hauling away at my gun, I felt a stunning terrific blow. I tottered and fell I was in no great pain, only horribly sick. The blood left my checks. It seemed to be leaving me altogether. “Carry him below,” I heard some one say. “He’s not dead, is he?” Then I knew that I was badly wounded; I did not know how badly. I was almost senseless as I was conveyed below, where I found myself with a number of my shipmates, who had lately been full of life and activity, strong, hearty men, now lying pale and maimed or writhing in agony. One of the surgeons soon came to me and gave me restoratives, and I then knew where I was, and that my left arm was shattered, and my side wounded. I thought at that time that I had suffered a very great misfortune; but I had reason afterwards to believe that I ought to have been thankful for what had occurred. I said that we were engaged with the Spanish ship the Neptuno. In spite of the hammering we gave her, her people continued to serve her guns with undaunted courage. At length, when we had knocked away her mizzen-mast and main and fore-top masts, and killed and wounded a number of her people, and sent many a shot through her hull, her crew, seeing that numbers of the combined fleet had already succumbed to British valour, hauled down their colours. I heard the cheering shout given by my shipmates, and discovered the cessation of the firing from no longer experiencing the dreadful jar which the guns caused each time they were discharged. As soon as any of our boats could be got into a condition to lower, the prize was taken possession of. I found afterwards that my name was called over to form one of the prize crew; but when it was known that I was wounded, another hand was sent in my place. I had been selected by the first lieutenant, who looked on me as a steady man, and wished to recommend me for promotion. I give an account of what befell the prize as narrated to me by a shipmate.

“You know, Weatherhelm,” said he, when I met him some months afterwards, “that I formed one of the prize crew sent to take possession of her. Before we got her sufficiently into order to be manageable, we fell on board the Téméraire, one of our own squadron. We little thought at that time that our beloved chief was lying in the cockpit of the Victory mortally wounded. He had been struck by the fatal bullet at 1:25, while walking his quarter-deck, and at 4:30 he expired without a groan. Lord Nelson had directed that the fleet with the prize should anchor as soon as the victory was complete; but Lord Collingwood, who now took the command, differed on the subject, and ordered the ships to keep under way, being of opinion that the less injured ships might the better help the crippled ones. Our ship was less injured than most; for we only had our main-topmasts wounded. Our prize, however, was in a very crippled condition. She had lost her fore and mizzen-masts by the board, and as it was late in the afternoon before we took possession of her, after which we had to secure the prisoners and send them on board our ship and the Minotaur, it was nearly night before we could begin putting the ship to rights. We had then in the dark to work away to set up a jury, fore, and mizzen-mast. We laboured all night, and by the morning had them both standing. The morning after that never-to-be-forgotten battle broke dark and lowering, giving every indication of a gale. How little prepared to encounter it were the greater portion of the ships which had been engaged in the desperate struggle! Down came the gale upon us from the westward. Every instant it increased, and very soon our two jury-masts were carried away, leaving us a helpless wreck on the raging waters. The Spanish coast was under our lee, and towards it we were rapidly driving.

“A lee shore, on any occasion, is not a pleasant object of contemplation, but still worse was it for us when we remembered that it was inhabited by our enemies, whose ships we had just so soundly thrashed. We tried to range one of our cables to bring up, but it was useless to trust to it a moment, it had been so much injured by the shot. It soon became evident that if the gale continued, we should drive ashore or go down. Anxiously we looked out to windward, but in the prospect on that side there was very little to cheer us, and still less was there on the other side, where a few miles off only the sea broke on the rock-bound, inhospitable shore. Towards that shore we were rapidly driving. The gale came down on us stronger and stronger. ‘There’s no help for it!’ exclaimed our commanding officer with a deep sigh, for he felt, as we all did, that it was very hard to win a prize and to have helped to win a great victory, and then to lose our prize and perhaps our lives. ‘Up with the helm—keep her dead before the wind!’ he added, going forward with his glass, as did the other officers, looking out for a spot free from rocks into which to run the ship. Evening was coming on, and he saw that it was better to go on shore in the day-time, when we might take advantage of any chance of saving ourselves, instead of at night, when our chance would be small indeed. Orders were given for every man to prepare as best he could to save himself. On we drove towards the shore. We had a large number of prisoners on board. As we approached the land they were all released, the danger pointed out to them, and they were told to try and save themselves, the officers promising that they would try and help them.

“There was little time for preparation. Every moment the gale was increasing. The roar of the surf on the shore was terrific, sadly warning us of the fate of the ship once cast within its power. Even the bravest turned pale as they saw the danger. The Spaniards, bravely as they had fought, tore their hair, shrieked, and called on their saints to help them, but did little to make ready for the coming catastrophe. We, with our axes, tore up the decks, and each man provided himself with a spar or bit of timber on which he might float when washed overboard, as we expected soon to be. Darkness overtook us sooner even than we had calculated. In thick gloom, with a driving rain and a howling wind, the ship was hove in among the breakers. She struck with terrific violence. The sea broke furiously over us. I know little more. I received a blow on my head, I suppose. When I came to myself, I was lying on the beach and unable to move. Then I saw lights approaching, and I found myself lifted up and carried to a cottage, where my head was bound up and food was given me. I found the next day that not ten of the prize crew had escaped, but that of the Spaniards upwards of forty had been washed safely on shore. I was treated kindly, but afterwards carried off to prison. A Spanish prison is one of the last places in which a man would like to take up his abode; and, my dear Weatherhelm, you may believe me, I am right glad to find myself exchanged and once more treading the shores of Old England.” Such was the account my old shipmate gave me; and then I felt, as I have said, that I should be thankful for what had happened to me. To return to my own adventures. Our ship had a long passage home, for in her crippled condition we could carry very little sail. This gave me a longer time to recover before landing. From my abstemious habits, I did not suffer as much as many of my companions in misfortune, several of whom died of their wounds from inflammation setting in, caused by their previous intemperate mode of life.

We at last reached Plymouth, and I was carried to the hospital. I longed to write to my wife, and yet my heart sank within me when I thought that I should have to tell her what a maimed and altered being I was. I fancied that she would not know me, and would look on me with horror. When the surgeon saw me, directly I was carried to the hospital, he bid me cheer up, and said that he thought I should soon be strong enough to move. Scarcely had he left me, when I heard a man groaning heavily in the bed next to mine. The groans ceased. I asked the sufferer what was the matter with him. I was startled when he answered in a voice which I knew at once, “I am dying, and going I know not where, with a thousand sins on my head unrepented of and unforgiven.” It was Iffley who spoke. I was not certain whether he knew me. I answered, “There is forgiveness for the greatest of sinners. Repent. Trust in Christ. His blood will wash away all your sins.” There was no reply for some time. I thought that he had ceased to breathe.

“Who are you who says that?” he exclaimed suddenly; “you think that I do not know you. I knew you from the first, and I believe you know me. Can you forgive one who has injured you so severely—who would have injured you still more had he found the opportunity? Weatherhelm, I ask you, can you forgive me?”

I was silent for some minutes. There was a severe strife in my bosom. I prayed earnestly for God’s Holy Spirit. I uttered the words, “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.” I felt that I could reply with sincerity, “Iffley, I do forgive you—from my heart—truly and freely.”

“Then I can believe that God will forgive me,” he cried out with almost a shriek of joy. “Yes, the chaplain here and others have talked to me about it. I could not believe them. I felt that I was far too guilty, and too wretched an outcast; but I am sure that what man can do, God will do. Yes, Weatherhelm, you have given a peace to my heart I never expected to dwell there. Go on, talk to me on that subject. Pray with me. I have no time to talk on any other subject, to tell you of my past career. That matters not. My hours are numbered. Any moment I feel may be my last on earth. Go on, go on.”

I did talk long and earnestly to him, and what I said seemed to increase his comfort. Our conversation was interrupted by a visitor who came round and read and talked to the poor wounded occupants of the wards. He came to my bed. I looked up in his face, and recognised in him my old friend and commander, Captain Tooke. He had left the sea, I found, and having a competence, thus employed himself in visiting hospitals, especially those which contained seamen, and in other works of a labouring Christian. I told him what had occurred between me and Iffley. He sat by the bedside of my former shipmate, and talked, and read to him, and prayed with him. His voice ceased. I saw him bending over Iffley. Slowly he turned round to me. “He is gone,” he said in a low voice. “He placed his hope on One who is ready and able to forgive, and I am sure that he is forgiven.” Captain Tooke promised to write to my wife to break to her the news of my wound. I got rapidly round,—indeed, the doctors said I might venture to move to my home whenever I pleased. Just then business called Captain Tooke to Portsmouth, and he invited me to accompany him. We found a vessel on the point of sailing there. We had a quick and smooth run, and in two days we were put on shore at the Point at the entrance of the harbour. A hackney coach was sent for, and we drove to Southsea. When I got near the house where I had left my uncle and aunt, and where I hoped to find my beloved wife, I felt so faint that I begged to be put down, thinking that the fresh air would revive me. Captain Tooke thought the same, and so, getting out of the carriage, he told me to sit down on a low wall near at hand, while he went on to announce my coming. While there, a little rosy, fair-haired boy ran laughing by, as if trying to escape from some one. I sprang forward, and putting out my hand, he took it and looked up in my face. I cannot describe the tumultuous feelings which came rushing into my bosom when I saw that child. “Who are you, my little fellow? What’s your name?” I asked, with a tremulous voice.

“Willand—Willand Wetherholm,” he answered plainly.

Yes, my feelings had not deceived me. I took him up, he nothing loth, though he looked inquiringly at my empty sleeve. “And your mother, boy, where is she?” I asked, still more agitated.

“In there,” he answered, pointing to our old abode. “She no guess I run away.”

I now went up to the house with the child hanging round my neck. I was blessed indeed. There was my own dear wife, still pale from her anxiety about me, weeping, but it was with joy at seeing me; and there were my kind uncle and dear Aunt Bretta, just as I had always known her.

My tale is ended. I never went to sea again, but in a short time obtained the same employment in which I was engaged when I was pressed. Never after that did I for a moment doubt God’s good providence and loving-kindness to all those who put their trust in Him. He afflicts us for our good. He tries us because He loves us. Reader, whatever may occur, trust in God and in His Son, whose blood can alone wash away all your sins. Love Him, confide in Him, and let your great hope, your chief aim, be to dwell with Him for eternity.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"With Axe and Rifle"

Chapter One.

Captain Loraine’s farm in the Far West—Hot-headed young men—Our family—Uncle Denis taken sick—We set out to visit him—The corduroy road—A wayside hotel—Rough company—Appearance of the country—Crossing the ford at Green River—Nearly lost—A brave Negro—Gratitude of my parents—At Mr Silas Bracher’s plantation—Diogenes—Mammy Coe—The slave-owner—My father endeavours to purchase the Negro—Slavery—Unexpected recovery of Dr O’Dowd’s patient—A sportsman’s ambition—Trapping—A rich prize—Something about turkeys—The wonderful Cave of Kentucky—Our return to Illinois.

Some time after the termination of the long war which England had waged in the cause of liberty when well-nigh all the world was up in arms against her, my father, Captain Patrick Loraine, having served for many years as a subaltern, believing that he should no longer find employment for his sword, sold out of the army, and with the proceeds of his commission in his pocket, quitting the old country, came to the United States in the hopes of making his fortune more rapidly than he could expect to do at home.

Finding that as a British officer he was looked upon with distrust in the Eastern States, he made his way westward until he finally located himself in Illinois on a fertile spot, sheltered on the north by a wide extent of forest, and overlooking that part of the river Ohio which separates the state from Kentucky. I remember even now the appearance of the country. On the eastern side was a range of hills of slight elevation, on one of which our house stood, while westward stretched away as far as the eye could reach, a vast plain, with the mighty Mississippi beyond. The scenery could boast of no great beauty except such as lofty trees, the prairie, with its varied tints of green and brown, yellow cornfields, rich meadows in the valleys, and the shining river in the distance, canopied by the blue vault of heaven, could give it. Still, it was my home, and as such I should have loved it, had it possessed even less pretensions to beauty.

So well satisfied was my father with the country that he returned to Ireland to bring back a young lady who had promised to become his wife. Two or three years afterwards I was born, and was succeeded by my brother Dan, and finally by my dear little sister Kathleen. My mother, whose maiden name was O’Dwyer, was, I should have said, accompanied by her two brothers, Michael and Denis, who came out with the intention of assisting my father, and ultimately settling near him, but they were hot-headed young men, and before even they reached the farm they had a quarrel which resulted in their separation. Denis finally settled in Kentucky, while Michael, with a rifle on his shoulder and axe in his belt, saying that he should turn trapper, pushed away further west, and from that day to the time I am about to describe we had received no tidings from him. Uncle Denis became a successful settler. He was soon reconciled to my father, and occasionally paid us a visit, but preferred remaining in the location he had chosen to coming near us, as he had originally intended. He had remained a bachelor, not a very usual state of life for an Irishman; but, somehow or other he had not met the girl he “wished to marry,” as he used to say. He was, notwithstanding, a merry, good-natured, kind-hearted man, and I remember that we always enjoyed his brief visits whenever he rode over on his fast-trotting cob to see us. Uncle Denis had not come for some time, when my father received a message from a doctor who was attending him, stating that if his sister wished to see him alive, she must come over immediately. My mother did not hesitate a moment, and my father agreed to drive her over in the waggon. I was to accompany them. Preparations were at once made for our departure, and as the Shawanees, long the foes of the white man in those regions, had buried the war-hatchet, and were not likely to come that way, the rest of the children were left without any apprehensions of danger, under the charge of our old black nurse, Rose.

The waggon was a long, light vehicle, with little or no iron-work about it, having benches across, and rails on either side. It had four wheels of equal size, and was drawn by a couple of horses harnessed to a pole; owing to the height and position of the two front wheels, we could not turn without making a long sweep.

My father sat on the box to drive. My mother and I occupied the front bench, and behind was stowed our luggage, provisions for the journey, and various other articles, Although I was very young at the time, I have nevertheless a clear recollection of some of the incidents of the journey.

Descending by a thickly wooded valley to the level of the Ohio, we crossed that river in a large ferry-boat, which conveyed our horses and waggon at the same time, while my mother and I sat in the vehicle and my father stood at the head of the animals to keep them quiet. The stream carried us down for some distance, and I remember my mother holding me tight in her arms, and looking with terrified glances at the water as it whirled by, apparently about to sweep the lumbering boat far down below the point the rowers were endeavouring to gain. They exerted themselves, however, to the utmost. The boat’s head was turned partly up the stream, and an eddy taking her, we at length reached the landing-place. My father then mounting the box, with voice and whip urged the horses up the steep bank, and once more the waggon rolled over tolerably even ground.

The country through which we passed was in those days almost in a state of nature, with the exception of the high road traversing the State from one end to the other. The first part lay across the “Barrens,” a wild region, where the soil being inferior in fertility to that of the uplands, it was destitute of inhabitants. To the south extended a level prairie covered with long grass, with here and there groves of oak, chestnut, and elm. To the north the country appeared more undulating, clothed with a far greater variety of trees; hickory, black walnut, cherry, as well as magnificent oak and elm.

“I hope we shall not have another river to cross like that,” observed my mother, after keeping silence for some time, while she was endeavouring to recover from her alarm.

“Not so broad a one, Kate,” answered my father, “but there are several streams which we must manage to get over either by fords or ferry-boats, for I doubt whether we shall find any bridges as yet put up to drive over, though they will come in good time, I have no doubt. We run no danger just now, and I don’t suppose that we shall have the least difficulty in crossing any stream in our way.”

As we drove along we occasionally started a herd of deer feeding on the rich grass in the forest-glades. Hares in abundance crossed our path, and a fox slunk by, casting a suspicious glance at us, as he ran out of sight into a bush. Towards evening, as we were hoping soon to reach a log hut in which we could pass the night, our ears were assailed by a long, low howl.

“Where can that come from?” exclaimed my mother.

“Possibly from a wolf; but I’ll give a good account of the brute if he makes his appearance,” answered my father; “hand me out my rifle.”

My mother gave him the weapon, and he placed it by his side ready for use. He had also a brace of pistols stuck in his belt, so that he was prepared for an encounter either with wolves, bears, or any hostile Indians who might have ventured thus far eastward.

At last we found ourselves rumbling over a corduroy road, a sign that we were approaching human habitations. It was composed of the trunks of large trees, placed close together across the path, over a swampy place into which the wheels of carriages would otherwise have been imbedded. The interstices had originally been filled in with earth, clay, or chips of wood, but in many parts the small stuff had sunk through, so that the waggon moved on over a succession of ridges, on which it seemed a wonder that the horses could keep their legs, and that we could escape being jerked out. Sometimes a trunk, rotted by the wet, had given way and left a gap, to avoid which it required my father’s utmost skill in driving. Occasionally, with all his care, he could not find a space wide enough to enable the wheels to pass. On such occasions, lashing his horses into a gallop, he made the waggon bound over it, crying out, as he came to the spot—

“Hold fast, Kate; don’t let Mike be hove overboard.”

The waggon was strong, and stood the jolting better than my poor mother did. She, however, bore all the bumping, jolting, and rolling with perfect good humour, knowing well that my father would spare her as much of it as he possibly could.

Darkness found us still on the road, although my father could still see his way between the tall trees. Scarcely had the sun set than we again heard that ominous howl, followed by sharp yelps.

“Oh! the wolves, the wolves!” cried my mother.

“Never fear,” said my father, “they are arrant cowards, and there are no large packs hereabouts to do us harm.”

The thought, however, that they might follow us, alarmed my mother, and she kept me close to her side, looking out anxiously behind, expecting every instant to see a hungry pack coming up in chase of us. My father, perhaps, was not quite easy on the subject; he kept shouting out, and in spite of the roughness of the road, made the horses go at a faster pace than before.

“Hurrah! I see a light ahead,” he shouted at last; “that’s the log hut we were told of; and even if the wolves do come, we shall be safe from them in a few minutes, for they will not approach a human habitation.”

On we jolted; I could distinguish a clearing on the side where the light appeared, it grew brighter and stronger, and presently my father pulled up in front of a good-sized building, composed of huge logs placed one above another, with the doors and windows sawn out of them, and roofed with shingles, which are thin broad slabs of wood, split from the trunks of large trees.

“Can you afford us shelter for the night, friend?” said my father to a man, who, hearing the sound of wheels, came outside the door.

“Ay, and a welcome too, such as we give to all strangers who have money or money’s worth to pay for their lodging, and I guess you’ve got that.”

“Yes, I am ready to pay for our board and lodging, but I could not tell in the dark whether or not this was a house of entertainment.”

“I guess it’s the finest hotel you’ll find between the Ohio and Harrodsburg,” answered the man.

“All right,” said my father; “I’ll see my wife and child, as well as our goods, safe inside; then we’ll take the horses and waggon round to the stables.”

Saying this he helped my mother and me to the ground. We entered a large room with a huge cooking-stove at one end, and a long table down the middle, flanked by benches. A middle-aged woman, with three strapping girls, her daughters, advanced to meet us, and conducted my mother and me up to the stove, that we might warm ourselves; for as it was early in the year, the evening had set in cold. Our hostess talked away at a rapid rate, giving us all the news of the country, and inquiring what information we could afford her in return.

We found that we were still nearly another day’s journey from Green River, after crossing which it would take us the best part of a third day to get to my uncle’s location. Three or four other travellers came in, armed with bowie-knives, and pistols in their belts, each carrying a long gun, which he placed against the wall. A black man and a girl appeared, to serve at table, and we heard several others chattering outside, reminding us that we were in a slave-state. On my father’s return he took his seat by my mother’s side, and talked away to prevent me hearing the conversation which was going on between the other travellers at the further end of the table, which showed they were as rough in their manners as in their appearance. However, they did not otherwise interfere with us.

At an early hour my father begged to be shown a room.

“I guess it’s not a very big one,” answered our hostess; “but you and your wife won’t mind a trifle like that. There’s a bunk in the corner, in which your young one can stow himself away.”

I remember the dismay with which I saw the bunk spoken of. It was in reality a huge chest with the top propped up, but I tumbled into it notwithstanding, and was soon fast asleep. At daybreak the next morning, after a substantial breakfast, in which fried eggs and Johnny cake formed an important item, we again started off over the same sort of corduroy road as on the previous evening. On either side were numerous clearings with log huts, and here and there a more pretentious store, before each of which several persons were seen taking their morning drams. My father was an abstemious man, and although invited to stop and liquor, declined doing so. We drove on as fast as the horses could go, as he was anxious to cross the river early in the day. The weather had hitherto been fine, but it now looked threatening, though as the day advanced the clouds blew off. My father told my mother that he hoped we should escape the storm.

About mid-day we stopped at another log shanty, similar to the one at which we had rested for the night, in order to bate the horses. We afterwards passed through several forests of considerable size, with more open wild land covered with low bushes, where the rocky soil afforded no depth for larger vegetation.

The country improved as we approached Green River, growing tobacco, Indian corn, flax, and buck-wheat, while the numerous parties of blacks we saw at work on plantations showed that the country was more thickly populated than any we had hitherto passed through. From information my father gained, he understood that we should cross Green River by a ford without difficulty.

“The river is pretty broad about there, and the shallow is not very wide; so, stranger, you must keep direct for the landing-place, which you will see on the opposite side. Better drive up than down the stream, but better still to keep straight across,” added his informant.

“Oh, Patrick, must you positively cross that wide extent of water?” exclaimed my mother as we reached the bank and she surveyed the broad river flowing by.

“There are marks of wheels on this side, and I make out an easy landing-place on the other,” answered my father.

Having surveyed the ford, my father without hesitation drove in, telling my mother not to be afraid, as he did not suppose that the water would reach above the axles.

The stream as it flowed by, bubbled and hissed between the wheels, making me quite giddy to look at it. The water grew deeper and deeper until it reached the axles; then in a little time on looking down I saw it bubbling up through the bottom of the waggon.

My father did not turn his head, but keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the landing-place, urged on the horses. They had not got more than half-way over when they began to plunge in a manner which threatened to break the harness. Again my father shouted and applied his whip over their backs; the animals seemed every instant as if about to lose their legs, while the water not only bubbled up through the bottom, but completely flowed over it. To turn round was impossible, not only from the construction of the waggon, but from the pressure of water, and in all probability had the attempt been made an overturn would have been the consequence.

My mother suppressed her fears, but grasped me tighter than ever. Presently I heard a dull roar, and looking up the river I saw a white-crested wave—so it appeared—curling down upon us. My father saw it too. He leapt from the waggon into the water, which reached almost up to his shoulders, and seizing the horses’ heads, endeavoured to drag them forward. Every instant the current became stronger and deeper and deeper. At last it seemed as if the waggon must inevitably be swept away down the stream. Just then I heard a shout from the shore, where I saw a black man running rapidly towards us. Without stopping a moment he rushed into the water, wading as far as the depth would allow him, then he struck out swimming, and quickly reached the horses’ heads.

“Here, massa stranger, nebber fear, dis boy help you,” he exclaimed, and seizing the bridle of one of the animals he pointed to a spot, a little lower down the bank. My father, being taller than the negro, was still able, though with difficulty, to keep his feet, and grasping the bridle of the other horse, he followed the advice he had received. Before, however, we had gone far, the wave was upon us. The next instant the waggon was lifted up and jerked violently round. I had until then been holding on, but how it happened I cannot tell, for I felt myself suddenly thrown into the water. I heard my mother’s shriek of frantic despair, and my father shouted to her to hold on for her life, while he dragged forward the horses, whose feet almost the next moment must have touched the firm ground.

“Me save him!” cried the black, “go on, massa stranger, go on, all safe now,” and the brave fellow, relinquishing his hold of the horse, which he left to my father’s guidance, swam off to where I was struggling in the seething water. With one arm he seized me round the waist, and keeping my head above the surface, struck out once more towards the bank. His feet fortunately soon regained the ground, and wading on while he pressed with all his might against the current, he carried me safely in his arms to the bank. Having placed me on the grass, he hastened back to assist my father in dragging up the waggon.

My mother, as may be supposed, had all the time been watching me with unspeakable anxiety, forgetting the danger in which she herself was placed. As the banks sloped very gradually, the horses, by a slight effort, contrived to drag the waggon up to the level ground.

“Blessings rest on your head, my brave man!” exclaimed my mother, addressing the black who had saved me, as she got out of the waggon and rushed to where I lay; then kneeling down, she gazed anxiously into my face.

I had suffered less I believe from immersion than from fear, for I had not for a moment lost my consciousness, nor had I swallowed much water.

“Berry glad to save de little boy, him all right now,” answered the black.

“Yes, I believe I’m all right now. Thank you, thank you,” I said, getting up.

My mother threw her arms round my neck and burst into tears.

My father wrung the hand of the black, who had hurried back to help him rearrange the harness of the horses. “You have saved the lives of us all, my gallant friend; I thank you from my heart, and should wish to show you my gratitude by any means in my power.”

“Oh, massa, him one poor black slave,” answered the negro, astonished at being so spoken to by a white man; “him berry glad to save de little boy. Now, massa, you all berry wet, want get dry clo’ or catch cold an’ die ob de fever.”

“Indeed I am most anxious to get my wife and child under the shelter of some roof;” answered my father. “Can you guide us to the nearest house where we can obtain what we require?”

The black thought a moment, and then answered—

“De plantation where I slave not far off; Massa Bracher not at home—better ’way perhaps, he not always in berry good temper, but de housekeeper, Mammy Coe, she take care ob de lady and de little boy. Yes, we will go dare dough de oberseer make me back feel de lash ’cos I go back without carry de message I was sent on. It can wait, no great ting.”

I do not believe that my father heard the last remark of the black, as he was engaged in replacing some of the articles in the waggon which had escaped being washed out, for he answered—

“Yes, by all means, we will drive on to Mr Bracher’s plantation. It’s not very far off, I hope, for the sooner we can get on dry clothing the better.”

My father, as he helped in my mother, and placed me in her arms, threw his own coat, wet as it was, over me, as it served to keep off the wind and was better than nothing.

“What’s your name, my good fellow?” he asked of the black.

“Me Diogenes, massa, but de folks call me ‘Dio’.”

“Well, jump in, Dio, and tell me the way I am to drive.”

“Straight on den, Massa,” said Dio, climbing in at the hinder part of the waggon, “den turn to de right, and den to de lef’, and we are at Massa Bracher’s.”

My father drove on as fast as the horses could go, for although the weather was tolerably warm, my teeth were chattering with cold and fright, and he was anxious, wet as we were, not to expose my mother and me to the night air. By following Dio’s directions, in less than ten minutes we reached a house of more pretensions than any we had yet seen. It was of one story, and raised on a sort of platform above the ground with a broad veranda in front. Behind it was a kitchen-garden, and plantations of tobacco, and fields of corn on either side. Dio, jumping out, ran to the horses’ heads, and advised my mother to go first, taking me with her, and to introduce herself to Mammy Coe.

“Yes, go, Kathleen,” said my father, “the good woman will certainly not turn us away, although from what Dio says, she may not receive us very courteously.”

The door stood open; as we ascended the wooden steps, two huge blood-hounds rushed out, barking furiously, but Dio’s voice kept them from molesting us. The noise they made served to summon “Mammy Coe,” a brown lady of mature age, a degree or two removed from a negress, dressed, as I thought, in very gay colours, with a handkerchief of bright hue bound round her head, forming a sort of turban.

“Who you strangers, whar you come from?” she asked in an authoritative tone, as if accustomed to command.

My mother, in a few words, explained what had happened. “We should be thankful to you to allow us to have our clothes dried,” she added.

“Yas, strangers, me will gib you dat permission,” answered Mammy Coe; “come ’long dis way. Your man too, him want change him clo’,” she said, looking out and perceiving my father standing on the steps, still dripping wet. “Dio,” she shouted, “take de horses round to de stable and bring in de strangers’ tings.”

Dio promptly obeyed, glad, I am very sure, that his kind intentions had thus far been successful.

“Come ’long, young woman, and bring de boy. You shall hab supper afterwards, den go to bed, you all right to-morrow.”

She led the way to a bed-room on one side of the entrance-hall, where my mother quickly stripped off my wet clothes and wrapped me up in a blanket.

“Him better for some broth!” observed Mammy Coe in a kinder tone than she had yet used. “Now, young woman, you go to me room, and me give you some dry clothes, while your man, him go into Massa Bracher’s room.”

My father, however, first came and had a look at me and almost the minute afterwards I was fast asleep. When I awoke I saw a person standing near me, dressed so exactly like Mammy Coe, that at first I thought it was her, but I quickly discovered that she was my mother. She had brought me my clothes perfectly dry. I was very glad to put them on and accompany her to supper in the great hall, where several not very pleasant-looking personages were seated at a long table, with Mammy Coe at the head of it. The people appeared to me much alike, with sallow faces, long hair, untrimmed beards, and bowie-knives stuck in their belts. I remember remarking that they gobbled down their food voraciously, and put a number of questions to my father, which he answered in his usual calm way.

Supper was nearly over when the barking of dogs announced another arrival. Soon afterwards a tall man wearing a broad-brimmed hat entered the room, and nodding to the other persons, threw his whip into the corner and took the seat which Mammy Coe vacated. He stared at my mother and me. My father rose, concluding that he was the host, and explained how he happened to be his guest, while Mammy Coe stood by ready to answer any questions if required. My father narrated our adventures, stating that we were on our way to visit my mother’s brother, who was supposed to be at the point of death.

“I know Denis O’Dwyer, I guess. He was down with the fever I heard, but whether he’s gone or not I can’t say. Some pull through and some don’t. If you find him alive it’s a wonder. However, make yourself at home here, and to-morrow you may start on your journey,” observed our host.

My father thanked him, and remarked how much he was indebted to his slave Dio.

“The boy’s good property, I guess,” answered Mr Bracher, but not a word did he say of the black’s gallant conduct, and only laughed scornfully when my father alluded to it.

Our host spoke but little during the remainder of the time we sat at table, being employed as zealously as his overseers and clerks had been in devouring his food. My father then again reverted to Dio, and observed that he was anxious to make a suitable return to the black for the brave way in which he had risked his life in preserving ours.

“He is my property and you may thank me, but I don’t want thanks and I don’t want a recompense, though I should have lost well-nigh five hundred dollars if he had been drowned.”

“Will you take five hundred dollars for the boy?” asked my father feeling sure that unless he could obtain the slave, he should have no means of rewarding him.

“No, stranger, I guess I won’t,” answered Mr Bracher, putting a quid, which he had been working into form, into his mouth; “I don’t want money, and I wouldn’t take a thousand dollars for the black if I did: so you have your answer.”

My father saw that it would not do farther to press the subject. As soon as he properly could, he begged that my mother and I might be allowed to retire.

“This is liberty hall, and your wife can do as she likes, and so can you. I shall turn in myself before long, as I have had a pretty smart ride.”

On this my mother rose, and I had to return to my bunk, in which I was soon fast asleep. Next morning I remember looking out of the window just at daybreak and seeing a party of negroes mustered before being despatched to their respective labours. Two white overseers, dressed in broad-brimmed hats and gingham jackets, stood by with whips in their hands, giving directions to the slaves, and at the same time bestowing not a few lashes on their backs, if they did not at once comprehend what was said to them. Among them I caught sight of Dio. One of the overseers addressed him, and seemed to be putting questions to which satisfactory answers were not given. To my horror down came the lash on Dio’s back, cut after cut being given with all the strength of the white man’s arm.

“O father, father, they are beating Dio. Do go out and stop the cruel man,” I exclaimed. My father looked on for a moment, and then hurried out to the front of the house. I followed him, but Dio had disappeared and the overseer was walking along whistling in the direction one party of the blacks had taken.

“The poor fellow would only be worse treated were I to speak for him,” said my father stopping short; “but it is terrible that human beings should thus be tyrannised over by their fellow-creatures. It may not be against man’s laws, but it is against God’s law, I am very certain. The sooner we are away from this the better, but I should like to see poor Dio before we go, and again thank him for the service he has rendered us.”

We went round to the stables, where we found Dio, who was grooming the horses. My father, finding that no one else was present, put several dollars into his hand.

“That’s no return, my friend, for the brave way in which you risked your life to save ours,” he said; “but I have nothing else except my bare thanks to give you. You must remember, however, that I wish always to remain your friend, and if I have the power, to repay you in a more substantial manner.”

“Dis black boy no want any reward,” answered Dio, offering to return the money.

My father, however, pressed it on him, and without much difficulty induced him to keep it. As soon as breakfast was over, the horses were brought round. I believe that my mother made a present to Mammy Coe of the gayest article of dress she possessed, which she guessed would be far more welcome than money.

Our host treated us with but scant courtesy as we took our departure.

“Just tell Denis O’Dwyer, if you find him alive, that you saw me, and that I hope to liquor up with him next time I go his way.”

My father thanked him for his hospitality, but he made no reply, and turning on his heel, re-entered his house. We found Dio, who had run on, waiting for us out of sight of the house. He waved his hand, but said nothing.

Eager to reach Uncle Denis’s farm, my father drove on as fast as the horses could trot over the rough track. We had to endure the same amount of bumping and jolting as on the previous day. My poor mother’s anxiety increased as we approached my uncle’s farm. We met with no one who could give us any information. Since the fearful danger we had been in, she had become much more nervous than was her wont, and consequently could not help expecting to hear the worst. Great was her joy, therefore, when, on driving up to the door, who should we see but Uncle Denis himself seated in the porch, smoking a cigar.

“I’m glad to see you, sister,” he said, “but Doctor O’Dowd had no business to frighten you. He is always so accustomed to kill his patients that he fancies they are all going to die under his hand, and faith, it’s no fault of his if they get well.”

My uncle’s appearance, however, showed that he had gone through a severe illness. He was still too weak to walk without assistance, but his indomitable spirit, my father observed, had done much to keep him up; our coming also was of great assistance, as my mother was able to nurse him more carefully than were his usual black attendants. We remained with him for several days, at the end of which time he was able to mount his horse and take a gallop with my father in the early morning. Uncle Denis was one of the kindest-hearted men I ever met, and generally one of the merriest; but a shade of melancholy came over him occasionally. It was when he thought of Uncle Michael, or of that “dear fellow, Mike,” as he used to say. He believed himself to have been in the wrong, and to have been the cause of his brother’s leaving him, without taking an opportunity of acknowledging that such was the case, and asking for his forgiveness.

My father and mother of course described to Uncle Denis the narrow escape we had had in crossing the river, and the somewhat doubtful style of hospitality with which we had been received by Mr Bracher.

“He knows you, Denis,” said my father.

“And I know him,” answered my uncle; “a more surly curmudgeon does not exist in these parts, or a harder master to his slaves. He is a man people wish to stand well with, not because they love him, but because they fear his vengeance should they offend him. I make a point of keeping out of his way, for fear that he should pick a quarrel with me, though he pretends to be friendly enough when we meet. The slaves hate him, as well they may, but the lash keeps them in order, and he has a set of fellows about him of his own kidney, who serve him because no one else would willingly employ them.”

This no very flattering account of our late host made my father determine not to pay him another visit, if he could help it, on our return.

“I’ll follow your example and keep out of his way,” observed my father, “though I should have been glad to make another attempt to purchase his slave Dio, for the sake of getting the brave fellow out of his power.”

“The more desirous you appear to obtain the slave the less likely will he be to part with him, so I would advise you not to allude again to the subject,” said my uncle. “I’ll keep an eye on his proceedings, and, should he at any time suffer losses and be obliged to sell up, I’ll take means to buy Dio, not letting his master know that you want to become his owner.”

With this arrangement my father was obliged to rest satisfied, as he saw that there was no other chance of getting Dio out of the power of his tyrannical master.

A few days after this conversation Uncle Denis was so far recovered, that my father announced his intention of returning home.

“Stay a few days longer; don’t think of going yet,” answered Uncle Denis; “it seems but yesterday that you came, and I shall feel more lonely than ever when you are gone; besides, you haven’t seen the great wonder of our part of the country, nor have I forsooth, and I should like to pay it a visit with you.”

“Of what wonder do you speak?” asked my father.

“Sure, of the big caves we have deep down in the earth, a few miles only from this. It is said there are mountains, rivers and lakes within them, and I don’t know what besides.”

“Oceans, forests, and valleys, perhaps,” said my father, laughing, and scarcely crediting the account my uncle gave him; for at that time the wonderful Mammoth Caves of Kentucky were unknown to the world in general, although the native Indians might have been acquainted with them, and some time before, a mine of saltpetre at the entrance had been discovered. My mother, more to please Uncle Denis than from any expected pleasure to herself; agreed to accompany him, and to my great delight, they promised to take me.

We were to perform the trip in two or three days, and Uncle Denis said that in the meantime he would try and find means of amusing us. We went all over the farm, on which he grew tobacco, maize, and other cereals. He was a great sportsman, besides which he had a fancy for trapping birds and animals, and taming them, when he could. In this he was wonderfully successful; he had a large menagerie of the feathered tribe as well as numbers of four-footed beasts which he had trapped and contrived to domesticate. His ambition was to tame a panther, a bear, and a wolf; but as yet he had not succeeded in taking any of them young enough, as he said, to be taught good manners.

“Perhaps if you had a lady to help you, you would be more successful,” observed my mother, “like Orpheus of old, who charmed the savage beasts. She would with her voice produce a greater effect on their wild natures than any man can do.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Uncle Denis, looking up and laughing.

My mother’s great wish was to see Uncle Denis married happily, though where to find a wife to suit him, or, as she would have said, “good enough for him,” was the difficulty. There were no lack of excellent girls in Kentucky, daughters of settlers, but they could seldom boast of much education or refinement of manners, and Uncle Denis was a gentleman in every sense of the word; at the same time that he had as much spirit and daring as any Kentuckian born.

It must be understood of course, that at the time I speak of, I was too young to understand these matters, but I heard of them afterwards from my mother, and am thus able to introduce them in their proper place in my history.

Uncle Denis took great delight in showing us his various traps and snares, as well as other means he employed for capturing birds or animals.

The traps had been greatly neglected during his illness. I remember being especially delighted with what he called his “pens,” which he had erected for the capture of wild turkeys, with which the neighbouring woods abounded. The two first we came to contained birds lately caught; the third was empty, and the fourth had been broken into by a hungry wolf, which had carried off the captive.

“There is another I built the day before I was taken ill, further away in the forest. No one but myself knows of it,” observed Uncle Denis; “we’ll pay a visit to it, though I am much afraid if a bird has been caught, it must have starved to death by this time.”

The pens Uncle Denis was speaking of were simple structures formed like a huge cage by poles stuck in the ground sufficiently close together to prevent a bird from getting out. They were roofed over by boughs and leaves, and were without doors or windows. It will then be asked, how can a bird get in? The trap is entered in this way.

A passage or trench is cut in the ground twelve or fourteen feet in length, passing under the wall of the hut and rising again in its centre. Inside the wall and over the trench, a bridge is thrown. To induce the bird to enter, grain is strewn along the trench and scattered about its neighbourhood, while a larger quantity is placed on the floor inside the hut. The unwary turkey, on seeing the grains of corn, picks them up, and not suspecting treachery follows the train until it finds itself inside the pen; instead however of endeavouring to escape by the way it entered, it, like other wild birds, runs round and round the walls of the hut, peeping through the interstices and endeavouring to force its way out, each time crossing over the bridge without attempting to escape by the only practicable outlet. In this way Uncle Denis said that he had caught numbers of birds, one and all having acted in the same foolish manner.

“Hereabouts is my forest pen,” he said. “Hark! I hear some curious clucking sounds. There’s more than one bird there, or I am much mistaken.” Stepping forward he peered over the branches, when he beckoned us to advance, and, he lifting me in his arms, I saw not only a hen turkey in the pen, but a brood of a dozen or more turkey poults running in and out among the bars, while the hen was evidently calling to them, suspecting that danger was near.

They were too young to fly up into the trees, which they do on being alarmed, when scarcely more than a fortnight old. Uncle Denis was highly pleased.

“I shall have a fine addition to the poultry-yard,” he said, “for I shall tame all these young ones by cutting their wings, and they will not be able to follow their mother into the woods, so for their sake she will probably be content to share their captivity.”

Peter, a black boy, had accompanied us, and Uncle Denis sent him back for a couple of baskets. The turkey hen, though much alarmed, having gathered her poults under her wings, stood ready to defend them bravely. Uncle Denis said that she had probably got into the pen directly after he had last seen it, and he recollected having left inside a quantity of corn, with which he was going to bait some other pens in the neighbourhood. This had served to keep her alive, unless perhaps her faithful mate had brought her food. If such was the case, the “gobbler,” as the male bird is called, took good care to keep out of our way. Wild turkeys in those days abounded through the whole of the southern states. I have often seen—of course I speak of a subsequent time of my life—ten or a dozen hen turkeys, with their families amounting to eighty or a hundred head, on their annual migration, old and young moving in the same direction, making use of their legs in preference to their wings, unless when intercepted by a river, or frightened by the appearance of a hunter and his dogs. On reaching a river they climb to some neighbouring height, where they remain for a day or two to consult apparently as to the best means of getting across: on such occasions the males making a loud gobbling noise, strutting about looking very important, as if about to perform some heroic action. At last, when they have settled their plan, the birds of all ages mount to the tops of the highest trees bordering the stream. There they sit for a short time, when their leader gives a loud “cluck.” It is the signal to commence the adventurous passage. Together they expand their wings and rise in the air; the stronger birds will thus cross a river a mile wide, but some of the younger ones find it impossible to sustain themselves so long in the air, and fall flop into the water. Serious as this misadventure may appear, being birds of spirit, they do not give up the attempt in despair. Closing their wings, they spread out their broad tails, and strike away with their feet towards the bank they desire to reach. Should they find, as is sometimes the case, that the bank is too steep for landing, they cease their exertions and allow themselves to float down the stream until they reach an accessible part, when by violent efforts they manage to scramble up the banks and regain the main body. On such occasions, should any of their human or other enemies be on the watch for them, they are easily taken, as they are too much exhausted to fly away and have not regained their shore legs. On landing also they do not appear at first to know what direction to take, and are seen rambling about, sometimes up the stream, sometimes down it, or making an uncertain run inland. Of all the birds of America, the turkey deserves the pre-eminence: the plumage, a golden bronze, banded with black, and shot with violet, green, and blue, is beautiful in the extreme. We had scarcely done admiring our captive, when Peter returned with two large baskets, into one of which the hen turkey was trundled in spite of the fierce use she made of her beak and claws, while her brood, who were too much bewildered to run away, were caught and secured in the other. We returned home with our unwilling captives. Uncle Denis at once had a pen put up, and in a few days the young turkeys appeared perfectly reconciled to their lot, and Uncle Denis succeeded in domesticating them: as for the old hen, one day early in the following spring, a loud “gobbling” being heard in the distance, she, leaping up on a pailing, spread her wings and flew away in the direction from whence the sounds came. Her brood, then more than half-grown, would have followed her example, but their wings were cut, and down they toppled on their backs, greatly to the amusement of Peter, as Uncle Denis afterwards told us.

The day for our excursion to the wonderful Cave arrived, and having breakfasted by candle-light, we set off before sunrise in a waggon, attended by Peter and Caesar, another black boy, on horseback. Uncle Denis drove, and it needed an expert whip to get along the rough road. On coming to the farm, we had been bumped and jolted enough to dislocate our limbs, had we not had some soft cushions to sit upon. We were now tumbled about in a fashion which threatened to upset the waggon. Uncle Denis shouted out—

“Never fear, the machine is accustomed to it, and will go over places ten times as bad as this is. Hold fast though, in case of accidents.”

Sometimes we crossed what might have been called, in compliment, a piece of corduroy, though it looked more as if trees had been blown down by a hurricane in close ranks. On other occasions we had to twist and turn in and out among the stumps, and fly over big holes, the well-trained horses keeping their feet in the most wonderful manner. At last we reached a hut, where in subsequent years a fine hotel was built. As we pulled up before it, a tall Indian appeared and, asking if we wished to see the cavern, volunteered to act as our guide.

“You’re the man we want,” answered Uncle Denis.

On this the Indian, retiring to his hut, returned with a bundle of torches. We had brought a couple of lanterns and a supply of candles, so that there was no chance of our being left in darkness.

The two negro boys having taken charge of our horses, we proceeded on foot, followed by Peter and Caesar, to the mouth of the pit down which we were to descend into the cavern. This was like a large well into which a stream fell with a cheerful splash. I remember asking not unnaturally whether we should have to swim when we got to the bottom.

We made our way down a flight of wooden steps, when, passing under a high archway, we proceeded along a level road to what were called the “vats,” where saltpetre was manufactured.

The torches lighted up the subterranean region in which we found ourselves. As to describing it exactly is more than I can pretend to do. From the large entrance-hall we made our way through a low narrow passage, which is known as the Valley of Humility, into another hall of enormous extent, the roof so lofty that our torches scarcely illuminated either the walls or roof. At our feet we could see the glitter of water extending far away into the interior, while a bright stream flowed over a rocky bed into it. Uncle Denis proposed that we should sit down and refresh ourselves preparatory to exploring the interior recesses of the cavern. No objection being made, Peter produced some provisions from a basket he had brought on his back. Having discussed them, we slaked our thirst from the pure water of the rivulet. Once more moving on, in a short time we reached Echo River, on the shore of which we found a boat. Our guide invited us to embark. Looking upwards it appeared as if a canopy of black clouds hung over our heads, while on every side we could see precipices and cliffs rising up, apparently into the sky; silence and darkness reigned around us, the smooth sluggish water alone reflecting the glare of our torches. Not a word was uttered by any of our party, until the Indian’s voice suddenly burst forth into one of the melancholy chants of his race, echoed as it appeared by the spirit of his departed brethren. I clung to my father’s arm, and asked where all those sounds came from.

“They are but the echoes of the Indian’s voice,” he answered. Now they rose, now they fell, as he gave forth the notes with the full force of his lungs, or warbled softly, sometimes finishing with a melancholy wail which produced the most mournful effect.

“Come, this is more than I bargained for,” exclaimed Uncle Denis; “now stand by for a different kind of sound. Don’t be alarmed, it’s only the barrel of my pistol going to try what sort of noise it can make.” He pulled the trigger, when there was a flash and then there came a succession of crashing, thundering sounds echoed from every angle in those enormous vaults. Backwards and forwards tore the sounds, rolling and reverberating from wall to wall with terrific crashes. Half a dozen pieces of artillery fired in the open air could not have produced a more tremendous uproar.

Scarcely had the sounds died away, when Peter and Caesar struck up a merry negro melody, contrasting curiously with the melancholy notes of the Indian’s song; they made Uncle Denis and me, at all events, burst in to hearty fits of laughter.

“Come, I like that style of song far better than the music of our red-skin friend,” exclaimed my uncle. The guide told us that although it was perfectly safe at most times of the year to traverse the cavern, there were occasions when the waters rising suddenly had prevented the return of explorers, but that a way had been discovered, through a narrow passage, the course evidently at one time of a stream, up which they could climb over the mud and save themselves from being either drowned or starved, should they have come without provisions. This passage has appropriately been called “Purgatory,” but as we had not to take advantage of it, I cannot describe it more fully.

Leaving “Echo” River we entered another cavern named “Cleveland’s Cabinet,” when we found ourselves in what we might have taken for a fairy region.

Above our heads and on either side, the roof and walls were adorned with delicate flowers of snowy whiteness, and domes, and turrets, and spires, and shrubs, and trees, as well as the forms of birds and beasts of all descriptions; elephants and camels, eagles and turkeys and doves; indeed figures of every shape which imagination without any great exertion might please to picture. The representations of some indeed were so perfect that it was difficult to believe that they had not been carved by the hand of man, and yet one and all were produced by the dripping of water from the gypsum rock; the most delicate ice formations could not surpass them; indeed many equalled in form the choicest flowers growing in the most cultivated garden. As we proceeded on, we found that the cavern was not destitute of inhabitants. Huge crickets and spiders, almost of a white colour, crawled over the ground, the former not taking jumps, but moving steadily forward with their long legs. Rats too, Uncle Denis declared they were as big as leverets, ran by us, exhibiting their sharp teeth and extensive tails. When no other provisions are to be obtained, they live apparently on the spiders and crickets.

The next cavern we entered was called “Martha’s Vineyard;” the trunk of a vine climbed up the sides, and spread its branches over the roof from which hung suspended what looked like clusters of delicious grapes. Seeing also several which appeared to have fallen on the ground, I ran forward to examine them, when what was my disappointment to find that they were of a stony nature, thus formed by the dropping of the water. In another cave our guide, having lighted two of the largest torches, waved them about, when we appeared to be standing in a wintry scene. Ice above us, ice on the ground, with here and there patches of snow.

We did not get nearly to the end of the cavern, and therefore missed seeing a beautiful grotto which our guide told us was called “Serena’s Arbour,” and that the walls are covered with a drapery resembling yellow satin falling in graceful folds, while through it murmurs a rivulet, falling into one of the many rivers running through the cavern, which is said to be nine miles in extent. It appeared to me that we had been walking all day amid vast towering rocks. Often the roof was so far above us that even the light of our torches failed to reach it. We now entered another hall, when our guide told us to seat ourselves on some rocks and to extinguish our lights.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said; “I’m not going to be guilty of treachery.”

My father and Uncle Denis agreed to his proposal, and there we sat far down in the depths of the earth, not a ray of light reaching us. I could feel my mother’s hand, but although I placed it close to my eyes, I could not see it. After waiting some time I began to grow uneasy, when greatly to my relief the guide returned with a lantern in his hand.

“Look up!” he said, “see to what a region I have transported you.”

On gazing upwards, we saw stars innumerable glittering in the sky, so it seemed, but in vain we looked for those to which our eyes were accustomed, though it was difficult to persuade ourselves that they were not veritable stars. The guide, holding a stone in his hand, threw it upwards, when it struck the roof above our heads, and we found that the seeming stars were produced by pieces of mica imbedded in the roof on which the light from the lantern, being thrown in a peculiar way, was brightly reflected.

Relighting our torches, we saw that the walls were of a yellow colour, while the ceiling appeared to be of a dark undefined blue, resembling the midnight sky. We visited several other caverns, some of which appeared to be of immense height, though the ceiling in most parts is not more than thirty feet from the ground.

One cavern had, what looked like a mountain in that subterranean region, rising from the ground, with a stream running at its base. We crossed several rivers; besides the “Echo,” one called the “Styx,” the other the “Lethe.” Our guide had brought a net, with which he caught some fish and crawfish. On examining them we could discover no appearance of eyes, while, from being deprived of the warm rays of the sun, they were perfectly white. Uncle Denis remarked that as they had no lamps down there, eyes would have been useless, but their instinct, or probably their keen sense of feeling, told them when they were running into danger. The crickets which came hopping about around us, could however, we ascertained, see perfectly well, and appeared to be attracted by the light of our lanterns. They were not pleasant-looking creatures, and if the rats can find nothing else to eat, they must have an uncomfortable life of it. The guide told us that the cave was not known to white men until 1802, though he did not acknowledge that the natives were ignorant of its existence. For many years no one could advance beyond three miles from the entrance, further progress being stopped by a deep chasm called the “Bottomless Pit.” At length, however, a daring guide threw a ladder over it, and thus getting across, he explored six more miles of this underground region. A bridge has now been constructed, by which people can pass over in perfect safety. He asserted that no dog would willingly enter the cavern, and that although he had made the attempt several times to induce his own faithful animal to follow him, the creature had always run back howling with dismay. We readily believed this, and for my part I felt oppressed with a sensation of awe I had never before experienced, and which I can to this day vividly recollect. I have since, more than once, visited that subterranean world, and though aware that its dimensions are not so great as I then imagined, and that there was no real danger to be apprehended, I have on each occasion felt awestruck, though in a less degree than formerly.

My father and mother acknowledged that they were thankful when we regained the upper world, and Uncle Denis gave a shout of satisfaction as he inhaled the fresh air of heaven, while the black boys leapt and laughed, and tumbled against each other, as they hurried off to harness the horses to the waggon.

“Fine place dat, Caesar, for niggar to hide away if de white massa not know it,” observed Peter to his companion.

“Berry good for hide ’way, but bad for de food; nothing but rats and crickets to eat dare.”

Uncle Denis, jumping up on the box, shouted “Erin-go-bragh,” and away we dashed as fast as we had come. It was dark long before we reached the farm; my mother appeared pretty well tired out. We remained a couple of days more to recruit, and then set out on our return home. Uncle Denis accompanied us part of the first day’s journey.

“Keep clear of Master Silas Bracher,” he observed as we were about to part. “I have no wish to meet him again, for he is more likely to pick a quarrel and send a bullet through a man’s body than to do him any good.”

“I’ll follow your advice,” answered my father; “I wish from my heart, though, that I could get the black, Dio, out of his power. I really believe that he is jealous of the poor slave.”

“You may as well try to draw sunbeams out of a cucumber, as to get him to agree to your offer; keep clear of him altogether, and should I have the chance, I will not forget your wish to obtain the black, whom, should I succeed, you can either set free or keep in bondage, as you may decide; probably, were you to give him his choice, he would prefer remaining your slave.”

After an affectionate farewell, Uncle Denis turned his horse’s head, and rode back, while we continued our journey to “Uphill,” the name my father had given to his property. Avoiding Mr Bracher’s location, we drove down to the ford, and as the water was much lower than when we before crossed it, we got over in safety, though my mother naturally felt very nervous as we were making the passage.

We found all going on well at home, Martin Prentis, the overseer, also giving a favourable account of affairs on the estate. It may seem strange that, young as I then was, I should be able to give so minute an account of some of the incidents of our journey: but in the first place they made a deep impression on me; in the second, my parents have since assisted me to brush up my recollections of those days.

Chapter Two.

Life at Uphill—Our tutor—Mr Mark Tidey’s first lesson in Horsemanship—Studies from the book of Nature—Our trips westward—A Strange Combat—A Hasty Shot—Something worth knowing about Snakes—Camping out—The Bear’s visit and its result—Wolves—Drawing lots—A Sleepless Night—Timely Assistance—Dying from Hunger—Consequences of sheltering a Runaway Slave—Our Tutor turns Nurse—Chances of Discovery—We part Company—A mid-day Halt—An Unpleasant Meeting—The Bully receives a Lesson—Our March Homewards—The Way Dan kept Watch—We reach the Farm.

We had been living at Uphill for some years, the wilderness had been changed into a smiling garden, though I will not say a perfect paradise, for I am very sure that no such spot exists on earth. Our education had not been neglected, for my father had engaged a tutor for Dan and me, when we grew too old for the instruction our mother could give us. Our father was too much engaged to attend regularly to our studies, though very well able himself to teach us. Mr Mark Tidey, our tutor, was a character; he was fond of field-sports, but fonder still of books, and had an aptitude for teaching which many professed tutors do not possess. For the sake of indulging in both his fancies, he undertook to instruct us at a very moderate stipend. My father had found him during one of his journeys eastward at a wayside store—which he had visited for the purpose of obtaining a supply of powder and shot—without a cent in his pocket to pay for it. He had been endeavouring to persuade the storekeeper that he would return in the course of a week with a number of skins amply sufficient to pay his debts; but the wary trader, looking at his ungainly figure and discovering that he was a “Britisher,” was unwilling to trust him. Finding that all his arguments were useless, taking a book from his pocket, he had sat down in a corner of the store, philosophically to console himself by its perusal. My father entering found him thus engaged, and glancing his eye on the book, his surprise was considerable to find that it was a copy of one of the Greek classics. My father addressed the stranger, and soon discovered that he was a well-informed man. After some further conversation, he was pretty well satisfied that he was also an honest one. Mr Tidey, finding a person who could sympathise with him, poured forth the history of his adventures and misfortunes. He had come over to America with the intention of establishing a school, but his slender means had been almost exhausted before he could obtain any pupils, his attainments indeed being at that time such as were not generally required in the States. Believing that he could replenish his exhausted exchequer more satisfactorily by means of his gun than in any other way, he had come westward; but the game of which he was in search he found had been driven further into the wilderness than he had expected, and an illness of some weeks’ duration had entirely emptied his purse. He had notwithstanding, trudged boldly forward, though the game he killed had been barely sufficient to supply himself with the necessaries of life. From several letters and other documents which he exhibited, my father, being convinced that Mr Tidey had given a true account of himself, invited him to Uphill farm. The poor man jumped at the offer.

“With all the pleasure in the world, my dear sir,” he answered, the tears starting to his eyes. “You have boys to teach, I’ll teach them. If you’ve game to be shot, I’ll shoot it. If you’ve accounts to be kept, I’ll keep them. If you’ve any other work to be performed, which a gentleman and a man of honour can perform, I’ll undertake it. You would not ask me, I am sure, to do anything derogatory to my character.”

My father, however, did not accept his offer at once, wishing to see more of the stranger before he confided us to his care.

“I have a spare horse, and shall be happy if you will accompany me to Uphill,” said my father.

“I am not much accustomed to equestrian exercise, but I’ll try,” answered Mr Tidey; “and unless you have five-bar gates to leap, and the boundless prairie to gallop over, I trust that I shall stick on the back of the animal. I don’t like to be defeated, and I should not like to abandon the undertaking on account of my want of equestrian skill. Practice makes perfect; in the course of a few days I may perchance become an expert horseman.”

As dinner was about to be served, my father invited Mr Tidey to join him, and from the voracious way in which he shovelled the food into his mouth, it was very evident that he had long been a stranger to a satisfactory meal.

The horses being rested, my father ordered Peter, who had left my Uncle’s service, to bring out the steed he intended for his new acquaintance. Mr Tidey showed his ignorance of horsemanship by attempting, in the first instance, to mount from the wrong side, until a hint from Peter made him try the other, when, aided by the black, he scrambled up into the saddle. My father had advised him to let Peter carry his rifle and his slightly furnished knapsack, a fortunate circumstance, as was proved by the sequel. As long as the horse continued walking Mr Tidey kept his seat with becoming dignity, endeavouring to imitate the way my father held his rein, though he shoved his feet far into the stirrups. At length, coming to an even piece of road, my father put his horse into a trot. For some minutes Mr Tidey bore the jolting to which the movement subjected him with wonderful patience, until my father heard him shriek out—

“O captain, captain! for the love of heaven stop, or I shall be worn down to the bones.”

My father accordingly drew up, to allow his companion to recover himself. After a time he again proposed moving forward.

“I’ll try, captain, I’ll try,” was the answer, “fortes fortuna juvat; but I wish that my steed could manage to move forward in a fashion less calculated to stir up the bile in my system, than that he has hitherto adopted.”

“A canter, or an easy gallop would suit you best,” answered my father; “try him with a touch of your whip behind, and give a gentle jerk with your left rein. Now, away we go!” and both steeds broke into a canter, exchanging it in a short time for a gallop.

“Very pleasant, very pleasant; I only hope that my nag won’t run away altogether,” said Mr Tidey.

“No fear of that,” answered my father; “keep a sufficiently tight hold on your rein, and he’ll go on well enough.”

As long as the ground was level his companion stuck on to admiration, but at length, coming to a rough part, his steed gave a bound over it, swerving on one side and shooting his rider, fortunately, into the middle of a bush, from which my father saw him struggling desperately to get free. Having caught the horse, my father pulled up.

“Nil desperandum! I’ll try again,” cried Mr Tidey; “but I should be obliged to the animal not to play me such another trick.”

“You must be prepared for such tricks,” answered my father, calling Peter to hold the horse.

The Dominie at once bravely remounted, and the party moved forward, but before long he was again pitched off into the bed of a stream which flowed by the road-side, happily without any other damage than a thorough wetting.

“It won’t do, captain, it won’t do!” he cried; “I must trust to my feet, and I may hope some day or other to reach your hospitable home. Give me directions how to find it, and let me have my gun and the ammunition you were kind enough to obtain for me, and I doubt not but that in due course I shall present myself at your gate; the exercise will dry my clothes, and my gun will afford me as much food as I require; I am accustomed to the vicissitudes of fortune.”

My father being anxious to get home, and suspecting that Mr Tidey would still further delay him, somewhat reluctantly consented to his proposal, and slipping a couple of dollars into his hand, told Peter to give him back his rifle and knapsack, with his powder-horn and shot-belt.

“A thousand thanks, a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Mr Tidey; “I shall think better of the world in future than I have been inclined to do for some time past.”

On leaving Mr Tidey my father had some doubts whether he should ever see him again. He had, however, thought on his way home of the conversation which had taken place between them, and came to the conclusion that he was honest. That he intended to fulfil his promise was proved by his appearance about ten days afterwards, with a load on his back.

“I’ve not been idle, captain, I was anxious to return your kindness,” he said. “The country abounds with game, and I could live here in contentment for the rest of my days, provided I could occasionally indulge in a little literary recreation.”

From that day Mr Tidey became domesticated in our family. My father being convinced that he was a man of sterling worth, we were duly placed under his care, and immediately he set to work to afford us the instruction which it must be confessed we at the time greatly needed. We made rapid progress, an evidence that he possessed the art of teaching; and, as Kathleen grew older, she also came in for her lessons.

Mr Tidey was of opinion, much to our satisfaction, that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy; and we consequently spent a portion of each day in shooting or trapping, often making excursions to a considerable distance from home. Sometimes in summer we camped out for several days together. On these occasions we gained a considerable amount of information from our worthy tutor on natural history.

“You shall have a lesson now from the book of nature,” he used to say when we started. “It is a big book, and, if studied carefully, more knowledge can be gained from it than from any other source. It might not be of so much use in the great cities down east, but I opine that you are not likely to spend much of your time in that direction, and it is well worth obtaining for many reasons, besides the satisfaction knowledge always affords.”

We used to start with our rifles in our hands and our knapsacks on our backs, making our beds at night on a heap of leaves, the blue vault of heaven for our only covering; or, when the sky looked threatening, we either built a hut of boughs or occasionally took shelter in the log hut of one of the pioneers of civilisation, as the hardy backwoodsmen are called, although, in most instances, but little civilised themselves. We preferred, however, taking up our abode at night in a bower of our own construction.

We met with many adventures, but, owing to Mr Tidey’s caution and judgment—though sometimes we were exposed to dangers—we always escaped from them without any serious mishap.

We had had several encounters with bears and wolves, and now and then we met with more formidable enemies in the shape of a party of Shawanees who had ventured back to their old hunting-ground in search of game, or in the hopes of stealing the sheep or hogs of some solitary settler.

Our tutor always spoke them fair and showed them that he was not afraid, and if we had any game, presented it to them as a mark of his friendship. When we came across an Indian trail we took good care to keep a bright look-out on every side and a strict watch at night, so as to prevent being surprised, lest the Indians might be tempted to murder us for the sake of obtaining our arms and ammunition, unable to resist the desire of possessing what to them would be a rich prize.

I must not step to describe more minutely our adventures at that period, interesting as they were to us. I will however narrate the particulars of a curious incident which occurred during one of our excursions.

We had gone further west than usual, and were traversing a space of low-lying land through which a wide stream flowed onwards towards the Mississippi. We had expected to reach some higher ground where we could camp, when we found that the day was drawing to a close. We accordingly looked out for a dry spot, free from long grass, on which we could light our fire and spend the night. Some rocky ground just ahead, amid which grew a number of small trees and bushes, promised to offer us the sort of place we were looking for.

We had just reached it, when I, happening to be a little in advance of our Dominie and Dan, saw a squirrel running along the ground towards a tree, with the evident intention of ascending it. We had already as much game as we required, so I refrained from firing. Just as the little creature had gained the foot of the tree, the ominous sound produced by the tail of a rattle-snake reached my ear, and the next instant an unusually large reptile of that species, darting forward, seized the innocent squirrel by the head, and began to draw it down its throat, the hind-legs of the little animal still convulsively moving.

I beckoned to Mr Tidey and Dan, who ran forward to witness the operation, in which I knew they would be much interested. Of course we could quickly have put an end to the snake, though we could not have saved its victim. The reptile had got half the body of the squirrel down its throat, when I saw the long grass close at hand violently agitated, and caught sight of a large black snake moving rapidly through it. The two creatures were well matched as to size. It was the evident intention of the black snake to attack the other. Instead of attempting to escape with its prize, the rattle-snake, though it could not use its venomous fangs, which would have given it an advantage over its opponent, whose teeth were unprovided with a poison-bag, advanced to the encounter. In an instant the two creatures had flown at each other, forming a writhing mass of apparently inextricable coils. In vain the rattle-snake attempted to get down the squirrel so as to use its fangs, the animal sticking in its throat could neither be swallowed nor ejected. The struggle was truly fearful to look at. Round and round they twisted and turned their lithe bodies. In the excitement of the moment we cheered on the combatants, who appeared perfectly heedless of our cries. By the most wonderful movements the rattle-snake managed to prevent the black snake from seizing its neck with its sharp teeth, or coiling its lithe tail round the other.

Had the rattle-snake succeeded in swallowing the little squirrel, one bite with its venomous fangs would have gained it the victory. For some time the result of the combat appeared indecisive. In point of size the two creatures were tolerably well matched, both being upwards of six or seven feet long, with bodies of about equal thickness, but they differed greatly in the shape of their heads, and still more so in the form of their tails, that of the black snake being round and tapering to a fine point, while the thick rattle of the other was clearly discernible as they writhed and twisted round and round, its sound never ceasing while the deadly struggle continued; that and the angry hiss emitted by both alone broke the perfect silence which otherwise reigned around. At length the black snake succeeded in seizing the body of its antagonist at some distance from the head, when by a sudden whisk it encircled with its long tail the neck of the more venomous reptile. It then gradually drew the body of the latter within its coils until it had firmly secured its throat. In vain the rattle-snake attempted to free itself. At length, to our infinite satisfaction we saw the head of the venomous reptile drop towards the ground, and we no longer heard the rattle of its tail; still the black snake, which had from the first kept its sharp eyes intently fixed on those of the rattle-snake, did not appear satisfied that life was extinct, but held it in a fast embrace, carefully avoiding the risk of a puncture from its fangs.

“Hurrah!” shouted Dan when he saw the victory gained by the black snake. The reptile, the combat being now over, was startled by the sound of his voice. For an instant it looked at us with head erect, as if about to spring forward to the attack, when Dan, before Mr Tidey could stop him, lifted his rifle and fired. The big snake fell, and, after a few convulsive struggles, was dead beside its conquered foe.

“I wish that you had let the creature live,” said Mr Tidey; “it would have done us no harm and deserved to go free; besides which it would probably have killed a number more rattlesnakes.”

“Unless bitten itself,” I remarked.

“It was too wary a creature and too rapid in its movements to be taken at a disadvantage,” observed Mr Tidey. “It would have waited until it could catch another rattle-snake taking its dinner. However, as the creature is killed, we will examine it and see how it differs from the venomous reptile. To prevent the other from coming to life, we will make sure work by cutting off its head.”

“Be careful,” cried Dan, “I thought I saw its body move.”

Taking his axe from his belt, our tutor, with one blow, severed the head from the body.

“Don’t prick your finger with its sharp fangs,” said Mr Tidey, “for, although the creature is dead, the poison may exude and perhaps produce death even now.”

As he spoke he held up the head by the tail of the squirrel. The body of the little creature had begun to swell and filled the whole of the snake’s mouth. Taking out a sharp knife and pressing the head of the snake with his axe, he cut open its jaws so as to expose both the upper and lower portions; by this means also he extracted the body of the squirrel. He then showed us its poison fangs, which, on removing the little animal, folded back into the upper jaw, on the sides of which they were placed. The points were as sharp and fine as needles. He then cut out from each side of the head, close to the root of the fangs, the venom-bags.

“You see that, to enable the head to contain these bags, it is very much broader than that of the harmless snake,” he observed. “We shall find the same breadth of head in all the venomous species. The bags contain between them about eight drops of poison, one of which would be sufficient, introduced into the blood, to kill a man or a horse. You see round the base of each fang, a mass of muscular tissue. By its means the fang is elevated or depressed. When the snake opens its mouth to strike its victim, the depressing muscles are relaxed, and the opposite series become contracted, causing the fangs to rise up ready for action. Now look through my magnifying glass. You see that the fang is hollow from the base to the point, from the former the poison is pressed up out of the poison-bag and exudes through the fang point, which, as you see, is in the form of a narrow slit on its concave side.”

“I don’t see how any liquid could get through that,” observed Dan.

“It does though, and quite sufficient comes through to produce a deadly effect. The other teeth enable the serpent to hold its prey, but are not in communication with the poison-bags. I’ll now show you the poison, but we must be very cautious how we handle it,” observed the Dominie.

On this he cut open the poison-bags and exhibited a small amount of pale-yellow oil-like substance. He afterwards cleaned his knife carefully, and observed, “So potent is the venom, that even should a small drop remain, and were I to cut my finger, after the lapse of many days, I might fatally poison my blood. And now, to prevent any accident, we will bury the poison-bags and fangs, where they are not likely to do any harm,” he added.

Having dug a hole with his axe, he did as he proposed, covering it up with leaves.

“And now we will have an examination of the creature’s tail, in which it differs from all other reptiles.”

Having cut it off, he held it up, and counted the joints, of which the snake—one of the largest of its species—had twenty. Cutting them apart he showed us how the apparatus was arranged. I could best describe it by saying it looked as if a number of small cups were placed one within the other, flattened on both sides, with rings round the edges and slightly decreasing in size towards the end, the last joint being the smallest and forming a knob. These cups are horny and loosely joined, so as to produce the rattling sound for which the creature is noted. Every year of its life a new joint is supposed to be added, so that the reptile killed by the black snake, must have been twenty years old. Each joint was in form somewhat like the tip end of my thumb. I have often since seen rattlesnakes, though seldom one so large. Generally I have found them coiled up among the dry herbage, with the tip of the tail raised in the centre of the coil. On seeing me approach the creatures have instantly produced a quivering movement of their tails, which made the joints of the rattle shake against each other. I cannot find expressions to describe the sound, but having once heard it I never failed to approach with caution, or to keep out of the creatures’ way.

“We will now have a look at the blue or black snake, or, as it is called here, ‘the Racer,’” observed the Dominie, “and a ‘racer’ it is rightly called, for it moves along, as we saw this one do through the grass, at the speed of lightning. When I first saw one I fancied from the noise that it made rushing through the dried grass, that it was a rattle-snake and shot the creature before I discovered that it was of a non-venomous species. It can, however, bite very severely with its sharp teeth, and I once saw a poor man almost frightened to death, believing that he had been bitten by a rattle-snake. You see that the head is supplied with a formidable array of teeth, but its tail is much longer and finer than that of the rattle-snake. It can, however, open its jaws wide enough to gulp down a good-sized bird. It gains its name of the blue or black snake from the colour of its back, which is, as you see, blue-black; while the underside is of an ashen slate hue. The tints vary slightly, and hence the two names. Its tail is fine in the extreme, and enables it to steer its rapid course through the herbage.”

We let our Dominie run on, though we were well acquainted with the black snake, for several had at different times come to the farm in search of rats, of which they kill a vast number. My father gave orders that they should not be molested; after remaining, however, for some time, they invariably took their departure, for, as it may be supposed, it is impossible to detain them against their will, as they can climb over high palings or walls and insinuate their bodies into very small holes.

The battle and the lecture occupied some time, when we had to hurry in order to get our camp ready for the night. Our first care was to cut a sufficient supply of fire-wood to keep up a good blaze during the night, and as the air in that low situation was somewhat damp, Mr Tidey advised that we should build a hut, which would serve the double purpose of sheltering us from the heavy mist, as well as afford a protection from any wild beasts which might be prowling about. We had killed a couple of turkeys, and as soon as we had got a good pile of hot embers we stuck up our game to roast, Dan having plucked them while I formed the uprights and spits, and Mr Tidey was engaged in erecting the hut. The odour from the roasting turkeys filled the air and was wafted by a light breeze into the recesses of the forest. Preparations for the night were made. We had taken our seats before the fire, with one of the turkeys already placed on a large leaf, which served as a dish, when a rustling sound, accompanied by that of the breaking of branches, reached our ears. Dan and I started to our feet.

“Stay quiet!” whispered Mr Tidey, lifting his rifle which lay by his side: “we will see what will happen, no red-skins make those sounds, they would approach far more cautiously.” The sound of the snapping of the branches and underwood increased, and presently we saw a shaggy creature, which, by the light of the fire thrown upon it, we immediately recognised as a huge bear.

“What a monster!” cried Dan; “let me shoot it.”

“No, no, you might miss; the creature would become dangerous if wounded,” answered the Dominie.

We all three were at this time kneeling down with our rifles ready for action. The bear advanced cautiously, sniffing up the odours of the roast turkey, but not liking the glare in his eyes.

“Don’t either of you fire until I tell you,” whispered our tutor.

The next instant the bear, one of the brown species, raised itself on its hind-legs to look round. The Dominie pulled his trigger. So well aimed was his shot, that “bruin” rolled over, giving a few kicks with his thick legs.

“Stay, boys; don’t go near his head until you’re sure that he is dead,” cried the Dominie, who was always very careful of us; and advancing axe in hand, he dealt the prostrate bear a blow, which effectually knocked any life it might have retained out of it.

“It’s a pity we are not nearer home, or we might take the skin with us as a trophy,” I observed.

“Oh, I’ll carry it!” cried Dan, “provided that I have not to take the head.”

“I’ll help you,” said I.

“And I’ll relieve you when you get tired,” observed the Dominie. “At all events we will have some bear-steaks for breakfast as a change from turkeys.”

That bear, though easily gained, cost us a sleepless night. We had eaten our supper and had just thrown ourselves on our leafy couches, when a low howl was heard, followed by several yelps.

“Those are wolves!” cried Mr Tidey, starting up; “they’ll eat the bear and then eat us, if we don’t drive them off.”

“They sha’n’t have the bear!” cried Dan; “let’s drag him up to the fire and fight over his body.”

“It would be more prudent to skin him and cut off the steaks we may require,” said the Dominie: “we will then drag the body to a distance and allow the wolves to fight over it, so that we can pick them off at our leisure or drive the survivors away when they have done their feast.” Shouting and waving brands in our hands we drove the hungry pack to a distance, where they sat down howling with rage and disappointment while we, by the bright flames of the fire, succeeded in skinning the bear and cutting off the tit-bits; we then, as proposed, dragged the carcase to the borders of the forest-glade in which we were encamped, and returned to our fire with the skin and meat. No sooner had the flames produced by some fresh wood thrown on the fire decreased, than the howling pack drew near the carcase. Concealing ourselves behind our hut, we waited to watch what would next take place. It was evident that the brutes were still wary of the fire, for they approached cautiously: at last one bolder or more hungry than the rest, rushed forward and commenced gnawing at the carcase. His example was followed by his companions. We counted upwards of thirty of the savage creatures, a formidable pack had we been without arms, or a fire, but they caused us no anxiety about our safety. “Now, boys, wait until I give the word, and we’ll fire together,” whispered our Dominie. “I’ll take the one to the right; and you, Mike, take a fellow in the centre; and you, Dan, knock over a third to the left. We may exterminate the whole pack, if we take good aim, as the survivors are sure to kill their wounded companions. Now, fire!”

Dan and I did as he desired, and three wolves rolled over. Notwithstanding this the greater part of the pack were too eager in devouring the bear to take much notice of what had occurred. A few, apparently young wolves, who stood at a distance, howling and yelping, afraid to approach while the elders were enjoying their feast, ran back alarmed at the shots. They, however, quickly returned. We immediately reloaded, and at another signal from Mr Tidey again fired. Two more wolves were killed, but Dan only slightly wounded an animal, which went howling away, creating a panic among the outsiders. The rest, still regardless of the death of so many of their number, continued gnawing away at the bear, snarling and yelping, and wrangling over their feast.

The third time we fired, with the same success as at first.

“We may let them alone for the present until they have eaten up the bear, as there is no chance of their molesting us,” observed Mr Tidey; “and we shall expend too much of our ammunition, if we attempt to kill the whole pack. Let us make up the fire and they will not venture near us.”

Although the flames burnt up brightly, the wolves did not appear to be scared by them, but continued as before tearing the carcase to pieces, presenting a surging mass of heads, tails, and bodies twisting and turning and struggling together, while they kept up an incessant chorus of snarls and yelps. The Dominie proposed that we should lie down while he kept watch.

“No, no, we will take it by turns to do that,” I observed; “let us draw lots who shall take the first watch; we shall all of us then obtain some sleep and be ready to proceed in the morning.”

My proposal was agreed to, three pieces of stick served our purpose held in Dan’s hand. I drew the longest and had the first watch, promising to call the Dominie in a couple of hours. I took good care to keep up a blazing fire, while I paced backwards and forwards, between it and the hut. I had no fear of falling asleep, while the uproar continued, though scarcely had Dan stretched himself on the ground, than his eyes closed, while the snores which proceeded from the spot where the Dominie had thrown himself assured me that he too was in the land of dreams.

As the “patriarchs” of the pack had somewhat appeased their hunger, the younger members rushed, in uttering sharp yelps, to which the elders replied with still louder snarls, greatly increasing the horrible din. The Dominie and Dan started up, fancying that the wolves were upon us. Neither of them could after this go to sleep.

“Come, Mike, I’ll take your place,” said Mr Tidey. This I declined, for I knew it would be useless to lie down. We therefore all three sat round the fire, hoping that the wolves would at length leave us quiet. The savage brutes, however, having finished the bear began to tear up the bodies of their companions, wrangling over them as they had done over that of bruin.

At last the Dominie, losing patience, jumped up exclaiming, “We must drive these brutes off, though they are not worth any more of our powder and shot.”

Each of us taking a burning brand, we advanced towards the wolves, and, waving our torches, raised a loud shout. The brutes hearing the noise and seeing us coming, took to flight, disappearing in the depths of the forest. Where the body of the bear had been, part of the skull, and a few of the larger bones alone remained, while most of the wolves had also been torn to pieces and the whole ground round was strewn with the fragments and moist with gore. Disgusted by the sight, we hurried back to our camp.

“We shall get some rest now, I hope, for I don’t think the wolves will come near us,” said Dan.

“Not so sure about that,” observed the Dominie; “however, we will try and obtain some sleep.”

Before our eyes were closed the horrible chorus of howls and yelps and barking recommenced, and continued apparently on every side of our camp; still, while the fire burned brightly, there was no fear of the brutes rushing in on us. To sleep, while those dismal howls broke the stillness of night, was simply impossible. Now the creatures appeared to be coming nearer, now they retreated, now they seemed on this side, now on that; their voices had summoned a fresh pack, who, rushing in, quickly devoured the remainder of the feast. All night long the tumult was kept up. Occasionally Mr Tidey or I rose to attend to the fire. Upon each occasion I caught sight of numerous glaring eyes staring out at us from amid the darkness. As morning approached the sounds gradually ceased, and we had the satisfaction of believing that the wolves had retreated to the recesses of the forest. I immediately fell asleep, and when Mr Tidey roused Dan and me, the sun was already several degrees above the horizon. We breakfasted on some bear-steak, which we had fortunately secured, then set to work to scrape the skin and to pack it up in a tight compass. As we had no wish to carry the skin further than we could help, we put about and steered a course for home, which we calculated it would take us four days to reach. Nothing occurred worth narrating for the next three days.

We had still a march of about twenty-five miles to accomplish, and were looking for a convenient spot to camp in near a stream bordered by a wood, when we heard a low moan, which seemed to proceed from no great distance off.

“That’s a human voice,” observed Mr Tidey; “some poor fellow wounded by the Indians, or who perhaps has been injured by some other means.”

We hunted about, being still uncertain of the exact spot whence the sound proceeded. Again a moan reached our ears, and guided by it we hurried on, when behind a bush we found stretched on the ground, apparently at the last gasp, a negro dressed in the usual costume of the slaves, a rough shirt and loose trousers. His feet were cut and bleeding, probably from the sharp rocks and prickly bushes among which he had passed. He opened his languid eyes as the sound of our footsteps reached his ears, and pointing to his mouth murmured—

“Eat, eat,—massa, eat.”

Having fortunately the remains of our last dinner in our knapsacks, we were at once able to give him some food, while Mr Tidey poured some rum and water down his throat. The effect was most satisfactory. In a few minutes he was able to sit up, when he gazed at us earnestly.

“Where were you wanting to go, my poor fellow?” asked the Dominie in a kind tone.

The black’s eye brightened.

“Oh, massa, you kind to poor nigger,” he said in a weak voice.

“White man or nigger, we are all of the same stock, whatever the philosophers may say to the contrary. I won’t ask where you came from, except you wish to tell us; but perhaps we can help you on your way if you have friends you desire to reach.”

I don’t think the black quite understood the Dominie’s remarks, but he comprehended enough to know that they were dictated by a kind spirit and that he might trust us.

“You no gib up de poor slave to his hard massa?” he said in a whisper, his voice trembling as if he was divulging a secret on which his life depended.

“No, that I’ll not,” said the Dominie; “I don’t hold with those who think they have a right to buy and sell their fellow-creatures, and in my opinion those fellow-creatures are perfectly justified in endeavouring to get away from them, though if I was to say so down east, I might chance to be the victim of ‘Lynch law.’”

The countenance of the negro brightened still more.

“Dis nigger go whar you go, massa,” he said, attempting to rise. His strength, however, was insufficient for the exertion, and he sank back to the ground.

“You are not able to journey yet, and it will take you two or three days to regain your strength,” observed the Dominie; “so we will camp here, boys, and as we are not expected home for a day or two, it will be no great loss to us. We have light enough yet to shoot our suppers, and I heard a turkey ‘gobble’ not far off. You stay by the black man, collect wood for a fire and boughs for a shanty, while I go and try my luck.”

Saying this, our kind-hearted tutor took his rifle and soon disappeared in the forest. We, in the meantime, were too much occupied in obeying his directions to put any further questions to the negro, whose eyes, however, were turned towards us as we moved about. We had soon collected sufficient fuel to last us during the night, and then employed ourselves in cutting down some young trees and lopping off some boughs. While thus engaged we heard two shots. A short time afterwards the Dominie appeared, carrying a turkey in one hand and a small fawn over his shoulder.

“We’ve food here, boys, for ourselves and enough to set the negro on his legs again,” he exclaimed as he approached us. “Well done, I see you haven’t been idle; now kindle the fire while I fix up the shanty. I should like to get our poor friend here under cover as soon as possible, for more reasons than one, and he’ll be the better for a mug of soup.”

The Dominie, among other articles, had carried, I should have said, a small saucepan, which had served to fetch water, boil our tea, and was equally applicable for making a small quantity of soup. While I made up the fire, Dan, having filled the saucepan from the stream, plucked the turkey and cut up a part of it into small pieces. We then put it on to boil. The Dominie in the meantime had flayed the deer and spitted a couple of joints to roast, together with the remainder of the bird. This done, he finished the shanty, into which we lifted the black, and placed him on a bed of small twigs and leaves, a far more comfortable couch than from his appearance we suspected he had enjoyed for a long time. His looks, more than his words, expressed his gratitude, though he continued to murmur—

“Tankee, tankee, massa; God bless massa!” his vocabulary not enabling him to use any set phrases.

It was dark before the soup was ready. As soon as it was sufficiently cool, and I had added some pepper and salt, I took it to him.

“Oh, massa! dis too much good to poor nigger,” he murmured as he supped it up; and almost immediately afterwards sinking back, he fell into a deep slumber.

“I don’t care whether the black is a runaway slave or not, but I tell you what, boys, we must be cautious how we proceed with him, the chances are that he is pursued,” said the Dominie as we were seated before the fire eating our ample supper. “If so, the fellows who come after him are likely to treat us with scant courtesy.”

“I’m sure my father would wish to help the black, if he is a runaway slave, for he hates the system of slavery as much as any man,” observed Dan.

“I tell you what we must do, then,” continued the Dominie, “if any strangers appear, we must keep him inside the hut and cover him up with boughs and leaves. They will scarcely suspect he is with us, and you must leave me to answer any questions they put to us.”

“Suppose they have blood-hounds with them, the brutes are sure to scent him out.”

“If we see the dogs approaching, we must shoot them without ceremony, and take our chances of the consequences. I am only supposing what may not happen, but we must be prepared for contingencies.”

As on other nights, we kept watch, giving Dan a short one, the Dominie and I taking the longest. Our object, however, was to scare away wolves or bears, for no human enemies were likely to approach us during the night.

We got up as soon as it was daylight, but the black did not awake until the sun rose and we had finished our breakfast. We gave him some more soup, which suited him better than our own fare, but it was evident that he was still too weak to move.

“The chances are that he remains in this state several days, and your mother will become alarmed if you do not make your appearance,” said the Dominie. “You know your way home as well as I do, and I wish that you would set off alone, while I remain with the black. State what has happened, and perhaps your father will think fit to send the waggon to bring us in.”

As there appeared no objection to this proposal, Dan and I agreed to start immediately. Tears came into the eyes of the negro when we went into the hut to wish him good-bye.

“Oh, massa, you like angel from heaven, so good to poor black fellow,” he exclaimed.

We had a pretty long day’s march before us, for although on a beaten road the distance would have been nothing, we had to make our way through forests and across streams and bogs, some pretty rough hills to climb, and valleys to pass. We carried a portion of the venison with us, which was still uncooked, and felt sure that without going out of our way we should be able to kill something or other to serve us for supper should we not reach home in time. At first we had some difficulty in making our way, and without great care we knew that we might be steering too far to the right or left. Every mile we advanced the country became more and more familiar. At noon we camped, lighted a fire, and cooked the venison. We calculated that by this time we had done about twelve miles, so Dan thought, but I was not quite sure of that. There was no means of ascertaining which was right. “At all events, we must not spend much time here,” I exclaimed, as we finished the last of our venison, and jumping up I buckled on my knapsack, and took my rifle in my hand. Dan was in no hurry to start. Seeing that I was determined to go, he got up, and we trudged on together at the same speed as before. We had not got far when, as we reached the brow of a hill, we caught sight of two men on horseback passing along the valley at our feet. We instinctively drew back, hoping that we had not been seen, but their voices reached our ears hailing us.

“Hulloa! youngsters, have you seen a nigger-boy running in this direction?” asked one of the men as we drew near.

“We have seen no nigger-boy running in this direction,” I replied, such being the fact.

“If you do, just take him along with you, and threaten to shoot him if he won’t move; don’t do it though, for he’s worth a heap of dollars, and if you don’t catch him, some one else will.”

“It’s not our business to catch runaway slaves,” Dan answered unwisely.

“Whew! my young cock sparrow, to whom do you belong?” asked the man, squirting a stream of tobacco juice out of his mouth, which Dan narrowly escaped.

“We belong to our father,” answered Dan, “and to no one else.”

“And who is your father, master cock-a-hoop?” asked the man.

“Call me by my proper name and I’ll answer a civil question.”

“You’ll answer whether I put the question civilly or not,” cried the fellow, raising his whip and spurring his horse on towards Dan, on which I brought my rifle to bear on the man, exclaiming—

“If you touch my brother, I’ll shoot you, as sure as you’re a living man.”

On this he pulled in his rein, while his companion, bursting into a loud laugh, exclaimed—

“These young cocks crow loudly! I say, youngsters, who is your father? he must be a smart fellow to own such a pair of bantlings.”

“Our father is Captain Loraine who lives at Uphill, and he’s not the person to stand nonsense from you or any other man like you!” exclaimed Dan, whose Irish temper had risen almost to boiling pitch.

The strangers, seeing that they could not get much change out of us, rode on; the last man who had spoken bantering his companion on their defeat. I saw the other turn his head several times as though not quite sure that we should not fire after him.

“I am glad they didn’t come upon our camp this morning, although as they have no blood-hounds with them, we might have managed to conceal the negro without having had resort to force,” I remarked.

“But we should have had to tell lies if they had put questions to us, or have given him up or fought for him,” observed Dan.

“Still better reason why we should be thankful that they did not find us,” I answered.

We were so excited by what had occurred that we slackened our speed for a considerable way. We were still several miles from home when night overtook us; we had therefore again to camp out. We did not mind this, but we were anxious to get to the farm, to send assistance to our tutor and the poor black. According to our usual plan, we built a shanty, lighted a fire, and one of us sat up to keep the latter blazing. We heard strange sounds during the night, which kept us wakeful, and during my watch I caught sight of a bear, though the fire made him keep at a respectful distance. After surveying us for a few minutes, and not discovering any tempting odour, he slunk away, convinced that he would gain nothing by paying us a visit. When I roused up Dan, I told him to keep a look-out, lest bruin should come back, and lay down to snatch a short sleep, expecting to be roused up again before long. Dan, however, saw nothing during his watch to induce him to call me, so I had my sleep out. I was awakened by feeling him shaking my shoulder.

“It is near morning, Mike, I think,” he said; “I suspect that I must have nodded, for the fire is lower than it should be, but I have thrown on some sticks and it will soon be blazing up again.”

I sprang to my feet just in time to see a big shaggy beast emerging from the surrounding darkness. I gave a poke to the fire with my foot, it made some dry leaves burst into a flame, and then Dan and I both shouted at the top of our voices. The bear, who had again scented us out, might in another instant have caught Dan or me in his unfriendly embrace; but he stopped short, and then, turning round, retreated much faster than he had come. We did not fire, as we should probably only have wounded him and have excited him to rage.

Soon after this daylight broke. Having eaten the remainder of our provisions, we started off, hoping to reach home in three or four hours. We met with no other adventures by the way. The first person we saw on approaching our home was our father. We told him of our discovery of the apparently dying black, and that the dominie had remained behind to take care of the poor fellow.

“Mr Tidey has done as I would have had him, and acted the part of the good Samaritan. We’ll send the waggon off at once, to bring him and the negro in,” said my father.

Though I wanted to go too, our father declared that we looked so much knocked up from our long tramp and sleepless nights, that we must turn in and get some rest, and he said that he would despatch Peter, who knew the country better than we did, for the purpose.

Chapter Three.

Arrival of the waggon—Why Dio ran away—How to act for the best—Abolition of slavery—What Biddy O’Toole meant to do—Kathleen and Dio—Biddy’s interview with the strangers—Dio’s pursuers—A fortunate arrival—Teaching the black to read—Good words—An interrupted lesson—The alarm—Man-hunters—Every man’s house his castle—Watching the strangers—An agreeable surprise—Mr McDermont—My mother’s apprehensions of danger—Our garrison increased.

The first thing I did the next morning on getting up was to hurry out to ascertain if Mr Tidey and the negro had arrived, and was much disappointed to find that the waggon had not come back. Breakfast was over, and still it did not appear. My mother suggested that possibly the black was too weak to be removed. When I told my father of the two men we had fallen in with, in search of a runaway slave, he looked grave, remarking—

“Possibly the fellows on their return may have fallen in with the waggon, and if so, they have carried off it and its occupants.”

“I don’t think Mr Tidey would allow himself to be captured by only two men, or would surrender the black of whom he had taken charge,” I remarked.

“He is not likely to submit himself to be made prisoner, I grant, unless he should have been wounded, but possibly he may not have felt himself called on to fight for a stranger, should the men in search of the slave be able to prove that he belongs to them or their employer,” answered my father. “However, I’ll set out to try to ascertain what has happened; saddle Swiftsure, Mike, while I get ready.”

As I was on my way to the field in which our horses grazed, I heard Dan shout out—

“Here comes the waggon, no necessity to get the horses.”

On running back to the hill on which Dan was standing, I saw the waggon coming along, driven at a quick rate by Peter, while Mr Tidey was seated with his rifle between his knees, close behind him. I could not discover a third person, and I began to fear that the negro had died or been captured by his pursuers. This was a great disappointment, and I pictured to myself the misery of the poor fellow, should he have been dragged back into slavery.

While returning by a path running alongside the hill, we lost sight of the waggon. On our arrival at the house, however, it had just reached the foot of the hill. We here found our father, mother, and Kathleen, standing at the doorway to welcome Mr Tidey, and to hear what had happened.

At that moment a person rose from the bottom of the waggon, and, leaping to the ground, came running towards us. It was the black we had discovered. For an instant he stopped and gazed in my father’s face, then darting forward, he seized his hand and pressed it to his lips, exclaiming—

“Oh, massa! dis niggar Dio know you; nebber forget you, massa; you remember de poor slave niggar who pulled de little boy out of de water?”

“Remember you, my good fellow!” exclaimed my father, wringing his hand. “I have never forgotten you; you saved my boy’s life, and probably my wife’s too. There they both stand, though you don’t perhaps remember them.”

Dio gazed at my mother, then at Dan and me.

“De lady, yes! remember her,” and he made an obeisance to my mother. “But de little boy him not know which,” and he looked first at me then at Dan.

“That’s the one,” said my father, pointing to me, “he has grown considerably since then, but he has not forgotten you.”

“No indeed I have not,” I said, “and now I know who you are, I’m doubly thankful that we fell in with you.”

“Ah, massa, dis niggar gone coon if you hadn’t found him,” answered Dio.

“I’m very glad that they did find you, Dio; but how did you happen to be in such a condition?” asked my father.

The negro fixed his eyes on my father’s countenance—

“Massa, me tell you de tru’s. Dat cruel man, Bracher, him make de poor niggar’s back sore wid de lash, and den, when he find I lub one darkey girl, him beat her too and den sell her for fifty dollars, ’cos she almost dead. It almost break her heart, and her jump into de riber and drown herself. Den Dio tink if him stay him shoot Masser Bracher, so him run ’way and say him find de good cap’n, de only white man who eber say one kind word to poor Dio. Him wander in de wood, and at last, when he hab noting to eat, him sink down and tink him die. Den come de tall doctor and de young gentleman, dey put new life into dis niggar. Ah! massa, let Dio stay here, him ready to be always your slave, an’ nebber, nebber want run ’way.”

“Though I cannot let you be my slave, I will gladly protect you and allow you to remain here until you have sufficiently recovered to make your way northward into Canada, where alone you can be safe,” said my father.

“Dis niggar wish always to be de cap’n’s slave, no want to go to Canada,” answered Dio.

“But, my poor fellow, if you remain here, you will be recaptured to a certainty, as your former master would find you out before long, and would place men on the watch to seize you out of doors, even though I might protect you in the house.”

Still Dio entreated that even when he had recovered his strength he should not be sent away; but my father was firm in declining to make any promise both on his own account and for the sake of the black himself. It was in fact an illegal act to assist a slave in escaping, and much more to harbour one, and my father knew full well that possibly a party of Kentuckian slaveholders would come across and capture Dio. The black, although much recovered, was still somewhat weak. My father seeing this, and considering that it would be imprudent to allow him to sleep in the huts with the other negroes, ordered a small inner room to be prepared for him where he could remain in tolerable security even should any of those in search of him come our way. Peter was charged to be cautious not to mention that he had brought Dio to the house, while fortunately none of the other farm hands, (as far as we knew), had seen him arrive. Mr Tidey was fully alive to the importance of keeping the matter secret, and was as anxious as any of us to prevent the fugitive being retaken. The negro himself seemed perfectly satisfied that he was safe from capture now that he was with us.

My father’s intention was, as soon as he had recovered, to supply him with a suit of clothes and some money, and to carry him off during the night northward. He was then to make his way through Indiana to Ohio, whence he could cross Lake Erie into Canada. My father was acquainted with a quaker family residing not much more than a hundred miles from us in the former state on the Wabash, and they were sure to be ready to assist him on his journey by forwarding him on to other friends who held their principles. At that time what was called “the underground railway” was not regularly established, but there were a large number of persons in the northern states, including all the members of the Society of Friends, who objected to slavery as much as my father did, and were always ready to assist fugitives running away from their cruel taskmasters. The movement in England in favour of the abolition of the slave-trade had been commenced by Wilberforce in 1787. From that time the British emancipists gained strength, and in 1792 resolutions for the abolition of the slave-trade were carried in the House of Commons. The following year, however, the House did not confirm its former vote, and though Wilberforce annually brought forward a motion, for seven years it was regularly lost until in 1799 a bill was carried limiting the traffic to a certain extent of coast. It was not, however, until 1807 that a bill for the total abolition of the British slave-trade received the royal assent. At first a penalty in money was alone inflicted on British subjects captured on board slave-ships, but in 1811 an act carried by Lord Brougham made slave-dealing felony. This being found an inadequate check, in 1824 the slave-trade was declared to be piracy and the punishment death. This was enforced until 1837, when the punishment for trading in slaves was changed to transportation for life. Other nations imitated England in prohibiting their subjects from trafficking in slaves; the United States of North America and Brazil making the traffic piracy, and punishable with death. All, with one exception, the United States, agreed to permit their ships to be searched at sea by the vessels of other nations. Unhappily, however, the profits on the trade were so enormous, that the traffic in slaves continued to be carried on from the coast of Africa to the Brazils, Cuba, and the more southern of the United States in spite of the activity of the British cruisers. Of course it will be understood that there is a wide distinction between the abolition of the slave-trade, and the abolition of slavery. Great Britain abolished slavery in her colonies in 1833, at the same time slavery existed, with all its abominations, in the more southern of the United States, as well as in the Brazils and Cuba, and on the other side of the continent. At the time of which I am speaking negroes were bought and sold and driven from one state to another. Parents were separated from their children, husbands from their wives, and if any one was daring enough to speak a word in favour of the much-suffering race, he ran the risk of having his house fired, and his plantations devastated, or of being put to death, as John Brown was in subsequent years.

My father was well aware of the danger he ran in harbouring Dio. Under ordinary circumstances he would have hazarded much to save a slave from being recaptured, but he felt himself doubly bound to preserve our negro guest, and thus repay in the most effectual manner, the debt of gratitude he owed to him for saving my mother’s life and mine.

The fact of his being in the house was kept a profound secret from all the outdoor servants, and my father knew that he could trust Peter and Black Rose, who were the only persons in the family, besides ourselves, including Mr Tidey and our Irish servant Biddy O’Toole. The latter was cautioned not to speak about a negro being in the house, should any strangers come to look for him.

“Arrah! thim spalpeens w’d be mighty claver to get onything out of Biddy O’Toole,” she answered, with a curl of her lips and cock of her nose, while her eyes twinkled; “sure if they force themselves into the house while the master is away, I’ll bid them dare to disturb my old mither, whose troubled with a fever. If they come near the room, I’ll give them a taste of the broomstick.”

A couple of days had passed away, and we began to hope that Dio’s pursuers had given up the search, and would not suspect where he was concealed. He was rapidly recovering under the kind treatment he received, for he had never before in his life been so well tended. Either Dan, Kathleen, or I took him in his food, and Peter slept in the same room and looked after him at night, but of course in the day-time had to attend to his usual duties. Kathleen became Dio’s special favourite. I am sure from the way he spoke of her, he would have died to do her a service.

“She one angel, Massa Mike. If such as she lib in heaven, it mus’ be one beautiful place,” he remarked to me one day.

Kathleen would sit patiently by his bedside, and sing to him with her sweet child-voice, and then read a little or tell him a story, handing him some cooling drink when he was thirsty.

I had one day, while chopping wood, severely sprained my right wrist. My mother had bound it up and put my arm a sling, so that I could not use it, and I therefore remained at home while my father and Dan were out. The only persons in the house besides my mother, Kathleen, and myself, being Biddy and Dio. Rose had gone to assist the wife of a settler at some distance whose child was ill. I had been kept awake by the pain my wrist caused me during the night, and while attempting to read had fallen asleep, when I was aroused by the sound of the rough voices of two men at the front door demanding admittance, and abusing Biddy in no measured terms for refusing to let them in.

“It’d be mighty curious, now, if I’d be afther lettin’ strangers into the house while the cap’n is away,” answered Biddy, who had evidently seen them coming, and had confronted them on the threshold; “in here you don’t put your feet ’till the masther comes home to give ye lave, an’ unless yez keep more civil tongues in your head that’ll not be likely.”

“Are you the only person in the house?” asked one of the men.

“An’ what if I am the only person? I am as good as a dozen such spalpeens as you!” cried Biddy in high tones.

“You’ve got as good as a dozen tongues in your head, you saucy jade,” answered one of the men, with a laugh.

“Saucy or not saucy, you don’t come in here. I’m left in charge, with the mistress busy in one room an’ my ould mither, who came all the way out from Ireland when I was a slip of a girl, sick in bed in another, so I’ll ax you not to spake so loudly, or you’ll be afther disturbing them. Now just sit down on the bank outside ’till the cap’n comes, or mount your horses and ride away about your business.”

“Come, come, Mistress Sharptongue, whether the cap’n shows himself or not, we intend to look round the house inside and out. We are hunting for a runaway nigger, and we understand that Captain Loraine has a black boy, and if he is not the one we are looking for, he’s pretty sure to know where the other is. These free niggers ought to be hung up on the nearest trees wherever they are to be found; they are a pest to the country!”

“Sure is it Pater ye mane!” exclaimed Biddy in an indignant tone; “nigger though he may be, he is more honest than many a white man.”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, Misess Impudence or it may be the worse for you,” said one of the men.

Biddy gave a scornful laugh.

“I’ll be after t’aching you to keep a civil tongue in your head; just do as I tell you, or—”

I could suppose Biddy flourishing her broomstick. The men laughed in return, and then, hearing a scuffle, fearing that she might be ill-treated, I thought it time to make my appearance with my gun in my left hand, though it would have cost me much had it been necessary to pull the trigger. Biddy was standing at bay, defending herself bravely against the two men, who were endeavouring to force their way into the hall, where the scene I am describing took place.

Whack, whack! down came Biddy’s stick on their arms, which they held up to defend their heads, when one of the fellows, who had received a harder blow than he liked, seized the stick with one hand, while with the other he drew his bowie-knife and pointed it at the girl, as if about to strike.

“Arrah! now, ye coward, would ye be afther usin’ your knife on a woman?” shrieked Biddy.

Fearing that the man would not hesitate to commit some act of violence, I stepped forward, and, showing my gun, shouted, “Back, you villains, whoever you are, or take the consequences. I have overheard what you have said; the girl is doing her duty, and until my father comes back—and I expect him every minute—into this house you do not enter.”

The men, who had hitherto not seen me, observing my gun pointed at their heads, stepped back a pace or two; when Biddy, taking advantage of their eyes being withdrawn from her, struck the bowie-knife out of the hand of the man who had attacked her, crying out—

“Fire, Mr Mike, fire; an’ we shall, gain the day!”

The two men, who evidently had no wish to risk their lives in the task they had undertaken, sprang back together through the doorway to avoid the expected shot, when Biddy, darting after them, slammed the door in their faces, instantly slipping the bolt, so that they could not again force it open, though they made the attempt. As she did so she uttered a shout of triumph.

“Arrah! the spalpeens will not be again trying to walk into the houses of dacent people with a cock an’ bull story about hunting for a runaway slave. Just let them have a taste of your rifle, and they’ll not forget the lesson we ye given them.”

This she said at the top of her voice, knowing that the men outside would hear her. Whether or not they would have made another attempt to get in I cannot say, for at that moment, looking out from the window of the room at which I had been seated, I caught sight of my father, Mr Tidey, and Dan, with guns in hand, approaching the house.

I immediately cried out to them that some men had been endeavouring to force their way into the house. The brave Biddy’s assailants hearing what I said, and expecting probably to have some shot sent after them, took to their heels until they reached their horses, which they had left secured to some trees, when mounting, they galloped off as hard as they could go. Biddy, the excitement over, went into hysterics, laughing and crying and shouting out—

“We’ve won the day! We did it well, didn’t we, Master Mike?”

My father and Mr Tidey, on hearing the account I gave them, were of opinion that the men were satisfied that the black was not concealed in the house, but that Biddy had simply fought to prevent them from entering. Probably they admired her all the more for her determined conduct. Dan, keeping himself concealed, followed them for some distance, and when he came back reported that they had taken the road to Kentucky, so we hoped that we should be rid of them.

Several days passed away and Dio had recovered his strength sufficiently to get up and move about the house, though my father would not allow him to go out of doors. His delight was to attend to Kathleen and do her bidding. She, finding her power, kept him in constant employment. Young as she was, she could read remarkably well, and her great desire was to teach him to read. He probably had never before seen a book, as any person attempting to teach the blacks in the slave-states would have been thrown into prison, and very possibly hung to the nearest tree. Except ledgers and account books, probably not a volume of any description was to be found in Mr Bracher’s establishment. For hours together Kathleen would occupy a high chair, with Dio seated on the ground by her side, while she taught him the alphabet or read to him some interesting tale out of one of her books. My mother felt it her duty to instruct him in the gospel, of which he was perfectly ignorant, and she took great pains to impart to him its elementary truths, which he willingly and joyfully took in.

“Dis poor niggar nebber ’fore heard Jesus Christ,” he said to her one day in a low voice; “Him wond’ful good for die for black man like me who nebber do noting to please Him. Me try an’ lub Him an’ serve Him with all my heart to de end ob my days.”

“Christ died for black men and white men alike; God wants all people of every colour, nation, and tongue to come to Him and to be saved,” answered my mother. “If Dio gives God his heart, God will protect him and guide him through life until He calls him to that happy heaven He has prepared for all those who love Him here on earth.”

When Dio heard that the Bible contained God’s loving message to man, he became doubly anxious to learn to read it. It was wonderful the progress he made in a short time, showing that the minds of the negro race are as capable of imbibing knowledge as those of white men.

There was still a considerable risk that Dio might be recognised by some of the friends of Mr Bracher who might pass that way, and my father had determined to start with him in a few days on his projected journey northwards.

My father and I had just returned from a distant part of the estate, and were about to enter the house, when, looking along the road, I saw three horsemen, two of whom bore a striking resemblance to the men who had paid us a visit when in search of Dio.

“They may be mere travellers, or may be coming without any thought of Dio, but it will be prudent, in case of accident, to be prepared for them,” observed my father; “we will go in and stow away the black.”

We entered as we spoke. Kathleen had taken her usual place on a chair with a book in her hand while several others lay scattered before her. Dio was seated on the ground, his eyes level with the page from which she read, he endeavouring to repeat the words after her. Biddy was engaged at the other end of the room in making a cake, and did not observe us enter. My father, afraid of alarming the little girl, did not speak, but beckoned Dio who just then looked up, to come to him. Biddy, seeing that something was amiss, hurried out of the room after us.

“Not a moment to lose,” he whispered, “run back to your room, jump into bed, and draw the clothes over your head; take care that nothing belonging to you is left in sight. Mike will carry away your shoes and anything else you have. Some suspicious persons are coming this way.”

“I should not be surprised, Biddy, if they are your old friends,” I observed; “you will treat them with due hospitality if they enter the house.”

“Sure the cap’n won’t be lettin’ thim in at all at all,” she said, when she observed the three men on horseback approaching, two of whom she recognised as her former opponents.

“Biddy is right,” observed my father, “and our safest plan will be to keep them outside until we ascertain their business. Let your mother know, call Mr Tidey and Dan, and close the window-shutters as fast as you can.”

The latter order Biddy set about zealously executing, aided by Dan and my mother, while my father and I, joined by Mr Tidey, stood at the front door to receive our unwelcome guests.

“What brings you here?” asked my father; “I should have thought after the way you behaved at your last visit that you would have been ashamed to show your faces.”

“That’s neither here nor there, captain,” answered one of the men; “we have notice that you are hiding a runaway slave, and we have come to demand him from you; if you don’t give him up, you will learn that we have the power to take him by force.”

“No man shall enter my house unless I invite him,” said my father calmly, “as to taking any one out of my house by force, you can only do that when you have conquered me. Whether you can conquer me or not is to be seen.”

The men were somewhat taken aback by this address, and began to ride up and down in front of the house, casting doubtful glances at him and Mr Tidey.

At last they once more pulled up, and one of them exclaimed, “Come, captain, this won’t do! I ask you whether or not you have a negro boy anywhere about your premises? If you have, give him up without more words. He belongs to Silas Bracher, who is not the man to allow his property to be stolen from him.”

“I have stolen no man’s property,” answered my father, “and as to allowing strangers to come into my house, under any pretext whatever, I don’t intend to do it, so you have my answer. I’ll give you corn for your horses and food for yourselves, but over this threshold you don’t step with my good will.”

“Then you don’t deny having harboured the slave we are in search of?” exclaimed one of the men. “Come, give him up, I say, or it will be the worse for you!”

“I don’t acknowledge having afforded shelter to a black, and I don’t deny having done so. I have a perfect right to receive any strangers into my house who come to me in distress, and if they trust to me I’ll defend them with my life,” said my father.

“Your life’s not worth the snuff of a candle, then,” answered the leader of the party, one of Mr Bracher’s principal overseers.

The men, retiring to a little distance, consulted together, but seeing the muzzles of our rifles protruding from the windows, evidently considered that it would not be prudent to attempt any act of violence. After some time the overseer again rode forward. He must have felt sure that my father would not commence hostilities, or he would have kept at a distance.

“Captain, I give you warning that you are bringing down destruction on yourself and family,” he shouted; “you have either helped a runaway slave to escape, or you have still got him in hiding. It would never do for us Kentuckians to let such an act pass unpunished; we should have half the slaves in the state bolting for the borders, and claiming the protection of emancipists like yourself and others.” The speaker bestowed an epithet on my father which I need not repeat. “I ask you, once more, have you got the slave, and if you have, will you give him up?”

“I again answer that if I had the slave I would not give him up,” replied my father in a firm tone; “if you or your master attempt to injure my family or my property, I shall defend myself as I have a right to do, and should any of you be killed, your blood will be upon your own heads.”

“I call no man master, but if you mean Silas Bracher, he is not the person to change his intentions, so I shall give him your answer,” replied the overseer, who, without more ado, turned his horse’s head, and rejoined his companions, when the three rode away in the direction from whence they had come. Though pretty confident that the men had gone away, my father thought it prudent to keep a watch on their movements. Before they could have got to any great distance I hurried out to follow them. From a hill, a short distance to the south of the house a view could be obtained along the road they would probably take. A grove of trees, with some thick brushwood, enabled me to watch them without the risk of being discovered should they turn their heads.

I soon made them out, and saw them riding on without stopping until out of sight. Convinced that they had really gone away, I was on the point of returning when I saw two of them, as I supposed, coming back, spurring their horses over the level road. It was a question whether I could reach the house before them. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me until I got to another point whence I could take a look at them without being seen. I then saw by their dress and the colour of their horses that they were not the men I fancied, but that one of them was Uncle Denis, while the other was a stranger. I therefore ran down the hill to meet them.

“What has happened up at the farm, Mike?” asked my uncle, after we had exchanged greetings; “we met just now three of Bracher’s men, who were swearing away at your father and all of you in a fashion which made me fear that they had either done some mischief, or intended doing it. I don’t think they knew that we were coming here, or they would have picked a quarrel with us, for which they seemed very much disposed.”

I relieved my uncle’s mind by telling him that the men had only used threatening language, but I thought it prudent not to say that the fugitive slave was actually in the house, not knowing the character of the stranger who was with him. My uncle now introduced him to me as Mr McDermont, a countryman, who said he had come over to settle in the States, and who, not yet having any experience as a backwoodsman, had determined on purchasing an improved farm. “I offered him mine, but he does not wish to employ slave labour, and would prefer obtaining one in a free state. I therefore brought him here, feeling sure that your father would gladly assist him in finding the style of location he desires.”

Uncle Denis and his companion were, of course, heartily welcomed at Uphill.

“I am so thankful that you have come, Denis,” said my mother, who had been much alarmed at the late occurrence, “do, pray, remain and assist my husband in defending our property, for I dread lest those men should carry their threats into execution!”

Uncle Denis did his best to reassure her, saying that he did not think Mr Bracher would venture on any act of violence, but promising to stay some time at Uphill, until Mr McDermont had settled in the neighbourhood.

Chapter Four.

Dio in hiding—The agent of the Swampyville Land Company—The surveying party—Mr Tidey and the slave set off northward—Living in a state of siege—Unexpected return of Mr McDermont and Peter—An imaginary city—An offer to purchase Uphill—Our tutor’s sudden return—Dio nearly recaptured—In the cave—An expected attack—Dan and I start off to relieve the slave—Boxer discovers an enemy—A brave dog—Our retreat to the house—Sleepy Peter—Just in time—Prepare for action.

The first thing now to be done was to send poor Dio away, as my father had previously intended. He was strong enough to bear the journey, but when he was told that it would be necessary for him to go, he looked so miserable that we all begged that he might be allowed to remain.

“I much regret having to send him off, but for his own sake as well as ours, go he must,” answered my father; “he shall be escorted until he is delivered into the safe keeping of our friends, the Greys, though there is a risk of his being suspected, should he be seen in my company.”

“Let me take charge of him, then,” said Mr Tidey; “we will make our way through the forest by unfrequented paths with rifles in our hands as if on a shooting expedition, and shall run little risk of falling in with anyone who will interfere with us.”

Our tutor’s offer was accepted. My father wrote a letter to Mr Grey, introducing him, at the same time so carefully worded, that, should it fall into the hands of enemies, Dio might not be betrayed.

It was arranged that they should start the following morning. The poor negro was overcome with grief when he heard what was decided.

“Dis poor niggar break him heart leave Missy Kathleen, him no more learn read!” he exclaimed, bursting into tears. So powerful was the effect produced that he was taken seriously ill, and the next morning was utterly unable to proceed. I am sure he was not shamming, for he tried to get up and prepare for his journey. He recovered somewhat during the day, and acknowledging that it was his duty to go for the sake of our family, declared that he should be ready to start whenever Mr Tidey wished.

That evening a report was brought to the house by one of the farm-labourers that two suspicious characters had been seen in the neighbourhood, and from the description of the men we had no doubt that they were the same who had before paid us a visit and had been driven off by Biddy’s heroism.

On hearing this, Uncle Denis offered to go out to try and ascertain what they were about. I begged to accompany him. We hunted round in all directions, and were returning home when we caught sight of two persons skulking in a wood at a short distance from the house. On seeing us they beat a rapid retreat, and darkness coming on they managed to get away before we could overtake them, but Uncle Denis was of opinion that they were watching the house in the hopes of catching Dio.

This surmise was ultimately proved to be correct, showing that by some means or other they had information that he was still with us. My father, fearing that the black would be followed and recaptured, determined to postpone sending him off for two or three days; hoping in the meantime to mislead the slave-hunters and make them suppose that Dio had escaped. We took good care during this time not to leave the house unguarded, my father, Uncle Denis, or Mr Tidey remaining at home with either Dan or me as well as Biddy and Peter while the windows, unless some one was on the watch near them, were kept closed and barred. Our guest, accompanied by one or more of the party, made excursions in the direction my father thought he would most probably find a location, but he could hear of no farm at all likely to answer his purpose. His object soon became known, and the fourth morning after his arrival a stranger was seen approaching the house. He introduced himself as Mr Nicholas Chouse, agent for the Swampyville Land Company.

In the most glowing terms he described the new township which had been lately formed in the north-west part of the state, advising my father and Mr McDermont to become purchasers of the finest allotments which he had to offer for sale. Mr Chouse was a man of great volubility of tongue, unbounded assurance, with a look of determination which showed that he would not have his word doubted.

“These lands, sir, will become the most valuable in the State, I may say, with perfect confidence, in the whole Union; unrivalled water power, magnificent pastures and arable land capable of producing crops of corn such as the world has never seen. All that is required to develop their resources is capital and labour, and labour will always follow where capital leads the way. When once the country is opened up, we shall drain Canada of her population, and the inhabitants of the eastern states will come flocking in crowds, some to find employment, others to purchase the lots improved by the early settlers, paying a thousand per cent at least on the capital expended. You, sir, look like a man who would not neglect so favourable an opportunity of realising a fortune vastly surpassing that of the proudest duke in England,” he said, turning to Mr McDermont.

Our guest listened with eager ears. If only half what Mr Chouse said was true, it would be well worth his while at all events to inspect the country. If he found it even moderately answer the account given, though contrary to his previous intention, he might wisely become a purchaser.

The land agent, seeing that he made some impression, pressed home his advantage. I cannot repeat all he said, but he finally succeeded in inducing Mr McDermont to invest in a small allotment with the right of purchasing as much more of the surrounding country as he could desire. Had it not been for Dio, my father or uncle would have accompanied him, but they were unwilling to leave Uphill while there was a risk of annoyance from the slave-hunters. It was finally arranged that Mr McDermont should set out with Peter, who was well used to travelling, and would be of great assistance to him. Mr Chouse had given him maps of the country and a plan of the township, so that he would have no difficulty in finding the location of which he had become the happy possessor for the sum of two hundred dollars, which had been paid into the agent’s hands. As Mr McDermont and Peter set off in one direction, the agent departed in another, observing, “that he had a round to make, and would rejoin Mr McDermont at Swampyville.”

We had some hope that Peter being seen to leave Uphill might mislead any of the Kentuckians who were on the watch; that should they follow him, Dio might have a better opportunity of escaping.

Accordingly, the next morning, before daybreak, habited as a hunter, with a knapsack on his back, a gun in his hand, a broad-brimmed hat completely shading his face, he and Mr Tidey set out on their journey northward. All the family were up to see them off, and we offered up a prayer for their safety. Dan and I wanted to accompany them, but our father pointed out that it might be dangerous to do so, as, should any of the people on the watch for Dio meet us coming back, they might suspect the direction the travellers had taken, and follow them up.

We lived literally in a state of siege, for every day information was brought us that suspected persons were hovering about, and it was evident that Mr Bracher’s emissaries had not given up hope of recapturing the fugitive.

Some days passed away. Uncle Denis grew impatient, he was naturally anxious to return to his farm, and yet was unwilling to leave my father and mother while matters remained in this unpleasant state. My father was as firm as at first in his resolution not to allow any persons to enter his house without his permission, and it was impossible to say when we might receive another visit from the fellows who had before tried to force themselves in. Should he now permit them to enter, they would naturally conclude that the slave had been concealed in the house, though he had now made good his escape.

We did not expect to see Mr Tidey for some time, should he have succeeded in conveying Dio to a safe asylum, nor was it likely that Mr McDermont would return until he had made arrangements for locating himself on his new purchase. He would, however, certainly send back his companion to report the progress he had made. Great was our surprise, therefore, when one evening, soon after dark, he and Peter arrived at the house, looking travel-stained and weary.

“I hope you are satisfied with Swampyville?” said my father, after he had welcomed our friend.

“Faith, sir, I should be an easily pleased gentleman if I was,” answered Mr McDermont. “I’ve been thoroughly gulled by that fellow Chouse. As it was my first, so it shall be my last journey in search of a new location. I won’t trouble you with an account of all the adventures we met with. For the first two or three days we got on pretty well, barring the rough accommodation and the rougher inhabitants of this wild country. I thought we must have taken the wrong road. Nothing could I hear of Swampyville, although the map showed me that we were pursuing the right course. At last we arrived at a river which I guessed fell into the mighty Missouri, but our location was some way farther down. Accordingly, leaving our horses, I hired a boat, in the expectation of reaching it more easily by water than by land. Faith, sir, I was not wrong in that respect. The plan showed me a fine city, rising on the banks of the stream, with broad, handsome streets running at right angles to each other, a court-house, gaol, two banks, three or four hotels, masonic hall, and churches and chapels innumerable, proving what a moral and religious people were to be my neighbours. At length I reached the spot where the city should have been, but the water had risen and had, I concluded, flowed over the whole, for not a building of any sort could I discover. Certain well defined land-marks existed, and I could make out that I was in the midst of Swampyville, but not a trace could I discover of the property of which I had become the happy possessor. I stood up and gazed round me in despair. ‘Yes, massa,’ said Peter, letting his oars drop from his hands, ‘dis Swampyville, no doubt ’bout dat, only de houses and de streets not here, much easier to draw dem on de paper dan to build dem up.’ Peter was right; I had been bamboozled and lost my dollars.”

“You must not be cast down, my friend,” said my father, “you are not the only person who has been taken in in the same manner. There is however, no lack of first-rate localities in the country, both for cities and towns, or of arable and pasture land. It will be a lesson to all of us not to purchase property until we have visited the spot and ascertained its value.”

“I’m half inclined to go back to ould Ireland, where, although a landlord gets shot now and then, and the people are not always as peaceable as might be desired, honest labourers can be obtained for money, if not for love, and the land is free from the curse of slavery. If, however, I could find an estate in tolerably good order, such as yours for instance, I would become the purchaser, and settle down in this new world of yours. The dollars paid to Mr Chouse are lost, but I have still enough money left to buy and cultivate a fair-sized property.”

“Are you in earnest, Mr McDermont?” asked my father; “if you are, and would like to buy Uphill, I will consider the matter. I had no thoughts of leaving the place, but circumstances may occur which might induce me to part with it.”

“Never was more in earnest in my life,” said our guest. “I should have wished to be your neighbour rather than your successor, but if you have a mind to sell, I am ready to buy.”

My father and Uncle Denis talked the matter over. To our surprise, my uncle said that he had had an offer for his farm and had made up his mind to accept it, and that if we moved west he would accompany us. My mother, however was very unwilling to leave Uphill. We had all been born there, and she and all of us were attached to the place.

Mr McDermont appeared to be in no great hurry, and told my father that he would give him a week to decide.

That very evening as we were sitting down to supper, a knock was heard at the door, which was kept barred and bolted since the visit from the Kentuckians. My father, thinking that they had possibly returned, got up, and, taking his rifle in his hand, went to the door.

“Who knocks?” he asked.

“Mark Tidey,” was the answer. “Quick, quick, let me in.”

My father, recognising our tutor’s voice, withdrew the bolts. Mr Tidey entered, looking pale and thoroughly knocked up, his dress torn and bespattered with mud.

“What has happened, Mr Tidey?” asked my father; “has poor Dio been recaptured?”

“We will close the door first, and I will then tell you, sir,” answered the Dominie, hurriedly pushing back the bolts. “I have been pursued, and before long the villains will be here, if I mistake not.”

“We will be ready for them if they come, and teach them a lesson they’ll not forget in a hurry,” said my father.

“Oh! Mr Tidey, has poor Dio been retaken?” asked my mother, as he sank into a chair at the table.

“I hope not, and indeed I have good reason to believe that he has escaped them,” replied our tutor. “I fully expected to carry him safe to his destination, when, as we were making our way through a forest the second day after leaving this, I heard the bay of a hound, which I felt sure by the sound was one of those accursed dogs, used by the slave-owners to track runaway negroes. Dio heard it also and gave himself up for lost. I fortunately knew the country we were in, for I had visited it several times during my shooting excursions, and I remembered some rocky ground away to the left in which I had discovered a cave, the entrance concealed by a thick mass of brushwood. I had taken shelter there during a storm, and had spent the time in exploring it. It was perfectly dry, with several passages leading to smaller caverns, in which fifty men might lie concealed, with little risk of being discovered by a stranger to the place. I at once bethought me, if we could reach it we might be safe from pursuit, and remain there until the slave-hunters had passed by.

“We were making our way towards it, when the increasing loudness of the hound’s voice convinced us that we could not reach it before we should be overtaken. Had there been two dogs, I should have told Dio to remain with me, but as there was but one I determined to tackle the brute, and directed him to hurry on to the cavern, where I should join him. Scarcely had he disappeared in the brushwood, than the dog came in sight, with its nose to the ground, following up our trail. Its masters must be, I guessed, close behind. Lifting my rifle, as the hound was a dozen paces from me, I fired. Its loud baying ceased, and over it rolled with its legs kicking in the air. Feeling sure that it was done for, I turned and ran, having just time to get behind some thick bushes, when the Kentuckians reached the spot where the dog lay dead. I could hear their loud oaths and execrations on the man who had shot their animal. They seemed puzzled as to who had done the deed, and vowed vengeance on his head should they catch him, whoever he was. Presently I heard their footsteps pass close by. I had had no time to reload, so had they discovered me I should have been in their power. I determined, however, to have a fight for it rather than become their prisoner, or allow myself to be murdered on the spot. It was very evident that they had no experience as backwoodsmen, or they would have discovered my trail. They had been depending on their dog, and were now completely at fault.

“‘He must have run that way, and can’t have got far, for I heard the shot not five minutes ago,’ exclaimed one of them.

“‘On, on, we shall soon overtake him, whoever he is.’ These words greatly relieved my mind and I felt sure, from the sounds which reached my ears, that they were hurrying on to the northward. As soon as I calculated that they were out of sight, I made my way towards the cavern. I found Dio crouching down at the entrance.

“‘We will hide until to-morrow morning and then pursue our course,’ I whispered. ‘By that time the Kentuckians will probably have turned back and given up the pursuit, as it is very clear they can do nothing without their dog.’

“Dio agreed to this, and by searching about we soon discovered a hollow in which we could remain concealed until the following morning, when I proposed going out first to ascertain whether the coast was clear. There was abundance of dry wood not far from the mouth of the cavern. We soon collected enough to keep up a fire during the night, and in the spot we had chosen there was no fear of its reflection being seen outside. It served to cook our provisions and at the same time scare off any wolves or bears who might visit us. We were not disturbed, however, during the night, although nearly stifled with the smoke from the small fire we kept up. According to my intention, soon after daylight the next morning, I alone first went out to reconnoitre. Fortunate it was that I did so, for on reaching the edge of the forest I found the fire still burning where our pursuers had camped, and I had little doubt that they were watching for the man who had killed their hound. I therefore turned back, so that I could keep concealed among the trees, and before long I caught sight of them in the distance. This showed me that it would be prudent to remain in our cavern another day, until the fellows had got weary of looking for me. I was thankful that they had no Indians with them, or they would have tracked me without difficulty. In the afternoon I again went out, making my way cautiously, lest I should come upon them. I had made up my mind to proceed by myself some way to the northward until I could reach a settler’s hut, from whom I could learn whether the Kentuckians had gone on or turned back again, when I caught sight of them in the distance, making apparently for the very spot where they had rested the previous night. They had evidently ascertained from someone or other that the black and I had not gone that way. My only course was to return to the cave and to remain there in the hopes of tiring out our pursuers. Though they were determined fellows, they knew nothing of the country, and were completely at fault without their hound.

“As we had plenty of provisions, we could remain another whole day, by which time I hoped to find the coast clear. Once more I went out, leaving my knapsack with Dio, and taking only my rifle and ammunition. Instead of following the path I had pursued on previous occasions, I made a circuit to the right towards a hill, from whence I expected to catch sight of the spot where the Kentuckians had camped. Should I see no smoke ascending, I might hope that they had abandoned the search and gone homewards. I had nearly reached it, and was proceeding perhaps with less caution than before, when I came full in sight of the fellows. I knew them at once, and was still more convinced who they were by hearing a ball whistle past my ears. Although I might have shot one of them in return, I had no wish to take the life of a fellow-creature, but determined to trust to my heels. Off I set therefore as fast as I could run, and calculated that I knew the country better than they did, and that I could keep well ahead, thus drawing them away from Dio’s hiding-place. My intention was afterwards to return, and, together with the black, to continue the journey. On they came after me, and I could hear their voices shouting for many a mile, showing that they were still following. I have never had such a run in my life, but I have the satisfaction of believing that I have assisted Dio to make good his escape, and if they come here, you will be able to assure them that you have no slave concealed within your doors.”

My father highly approved of Mr Tidey’s conduct and the courage and judgment he had exhibited. We had now to consider the best way of relieving Dio, who was certain to remain in the cave until some one came from us. Mr Tidey was too much knocked up to set off immediately, so my father gave Dan and me permission to start away by daylight. By taking a circuitous course, we hoped to avoid the risk of meeting the Kentuckians, should they be still on the watch for the black. We were to try and reach the cave by nightfall, which, as we knew the spot and the country thoroughly, we expected easily to do. We were looking out all the evening for a visit from Mr Tidey’s pursuers, but for some cause or other they did not appear; had they done so, we were prepared to give them a warm reception. Besides our guest and Uncle Denis, our father, Dan and I, we had in the house, Martin Prentis the overseer, and Peter, all of whom were well able to handle their rifles, while Biddy was as likely to make as good a fight of it as anyone of us with her broomstick or a hot poker, which she had kept in the stove for the purpose.

The evening, however, passed away without any disturbance, although we two or three times heard the dogs barking in the huts of the farm-labourers, while our own animals in the outbuildings barked in return. Dan and I got ready for our journey before we lay down to sleep. Fancying that it was time to start, without waiting for daylight, we called up Peter to let us out, but we did not arouse the rest of the family. We agreed to breakfast when we had got some miles from home, and by making an early start we felt confident that we could perform the distance easily before sunset.

“Massa, don’t let those white niggers catch you. Better dat Boxer go wid you, he take care if dey come near to let you know. Dey no catch him asleep,” said Peter, as with candle in hand, a red night-cap, and his striped pink shirt-tails fluttering about his legs, he opened the door for us to go out.

“Never fear, Peter, we will keep a sharp look-out for the Kentuckians,” answered Dan; “if they show fight, we shall be ready for them; we know how to shoot as well as they do.”

Following Peter’s advice, we went to the stables and released Boxer, who leaped round and round, trying to lick our faces with pleasure at the thought of a day’s sport, which he supposed we were about to give him. We had our knapsacks on our backs with our usual camp traps, besides a good supply of provisions, as we must remain out one night, and should probably have to stay with Dio until Mr Tidey could return to escort him on his journey. We had not proceeded more than two or three hundred yards when Boxer gave a low growl, and then breaking into a fierce bark, dashed forward.

“Curse that dog, he’ll be waking up the people, and may be fixing his fangs into the throat of one of us,” exclaimed some one in a gruff voice, who was concealed apparently behind a snake fence some little way off.

“I’ll stick my bowie-knife into him, if he comes near me,” said another person.

Dan was about to cry out and call the dog back, but I stopped him in time.

“Keep silence!” I whispered, “those must be the Kentuckians; they are on the watch, probably intending to make a rush for the door when Biddy opens it in the morning, hoping to surprise the rest of the family in bed. The best thing we can do is to go back and let our father know what we have discovered: crouch down so that they may not see us. I suppose they have been creeping forward to get close up to the house without being discovered.”

The loud barking of the dog prevented any risk of my voice being heard, which, low as I spoke, it might have been in the still night air. The men, whoever they were, did not fire, probably because they could not catch sight of Boxer, who was rushing from side to side, concealed among some low shrubs and thick grass. I hoped when he found that we were returning, he would also retreat and avoid the risk he was running of being shot.

We hurried back, Boxer still keeping up his barking, preventing our footsteps being heard.

“But I am afraid poor Boxer will be shot,” said Dan.

“No fear of that; the men, if they wish to surprise us, won’t venture to fire,” I observed, “and if we call him it will show them that they have been discovered; better let him take his chance, he understands what he is about. While he keeps up his barking, the sound of the door opening will not be heard.”

We accordingly crept back towards the house, but on reaching it found that Peter had closed the door, and we had to make our way round to the window of the room in which he slept. We tapped on the shutter, but Peter did not answer.

“He has fallen asleep again, the lazy fellow!” said Dan in a low voice.

We knocked louder and louder.

“Who dare?” at length asked a voice from within.

“Open the window and I will tell you,” I said in a whisper, but sufficiently loud for Peter to hear me, I hoped.

“Who dare?” he again asked.

“Open the window, quick, quick,” I repeated, putting my mouth to the chink where the shutters joined.

“What! Massa Mike!” exclaimed Peter, “is dat you?”

“Yes, yes, open at once,” I answered, almost losing patience and speaking louder than I had hitherto done.

At that moment Boxer had ceased barking. Scarcely had the words left my mouth than I feared that we might have been heard by the Kentuckians.

Boxer again burst out into a furious bark, very much nearer to us, showing that he was retreating before the foe. By this time Peter had opened the shutter, and, assisted by the black, Dan and I scrambled in at the window. As we did so we heard footsteps, when Boxer, who was a prudent dog, as well as a brave one, feeling that he had done his duty in warning us and should be safer inside the citadel than outside, with one bound followed us into the room.

Chapter Five.

The attack on Uphill—My father’s warning—The beginning of the fight—Our victory—A cowardly revenge—Mr Tidey acts as scout—Mr McDermont renews his proposal to purchase our farm—We resolve to go West—Uncle Denis decides to join us—An expedition to Dio’s relief—We discover the cave—We find Dio—His delight at the prospect of returning—Too weak for the journey—Our arrival home—Preparations for departure—Uncle Denis with us again—The march commenced—Cross the Illinois river—On the prairies of Missouri—“Westward Ho!”—Possibilities of danger—The proper place to camp—The way to bivouac—The rear-guard.

No sooner was Boxer safe inside the room, than Peter began hurriedly to close the shutter, when we heard the report of a gun, and a bullet with a loud thud struck it. Fortunately the wood was thick, or one of us might have been shot. Peter, quick as lightning, closed the shutter and put up the bar.

“Dem rascally Kentuckians do dat!” he exclaimed; “hand me your rifle, massa, and me pay dem back. Stan’ by to open de shutter for me to fire.”

“No, no, Peter,” I said; “the men are not likely to show themselves, and the other is sure to fire the instant he sees the window open.”

The shot had aroused my father and mother and the rest of the household, and we heard my father and Uncle Denis calling to each other. Peter having struck a light, we went into the hall, where we all soon assembled, with the exception of my mother and Kathleen, when I narrated what had occurred.

“The fellows are bent on mischief, there can be no doubt about that,” said my father. “They are probably not aware how many there are of us in the house, and expect to force their way in without much opposition.”

Uncle Denis proposed rushing out and getting hold of the fellows who had fired, supposing that they were waiting for others to come up before attacking the house. My father, however, advised that we should remain within doors.

“If we go out the fellows will see us, and may pick us off with ease, while, on the other hand, they cannot approach without showing themselves, and we shall be perfectly justified in shooting them down should they come with hostile intent.”

My father’s first care was to place my mother and Kathleen in safety, and to insist on their going into a store-closet, to which no bullets could penetrate should any pierce the shutters. Black Rose begged leave to accompany them, but Biddy indignantly refused to hide herself, declaring that she only wished “the spalpeens” would show their ugly faces at the door, and she would put some marks on them which they would carry to their graves. Having thus expressed herself, she hastened into the kitchen, where she lighted the fire, blowing away with all her might to get the poker into a red heat.

My father’s first care was to set one of us to watch at the window of each room, to give the alarm should any attempt be made to force them, while he himself stood at the front entrance. Peter was posted at the rear of the house. Loop-holes had been formed in the shutters through which we could look and see what was taking place outside. They had slides so that they could be closed in an instant. As no lamps were left burning in any of the rooms, those outside could not distinguish the small openings, while the moon, though waning, afforded light sufficient to enable us to see anyone moving about round the house.

Our preparations for defence were made in a shorter time than I have taken to describe them. I was looking through the loophole in my window-shutter in the front of the house when I saw a person stealing cautiously forward along the road which led to it. I could make out that he had a rifle in his hand, which he was holding ready for action. Presently half-a-dozen more men came in sight, when their leader stopped until they got up with him. I instantly called out to my father that the enemy were close upon us.

“We must be certain that they come with hostile intent. Let no one fire until I give the word,” he said; “I will speak to them first, and hear what they want.”

There was little doubt about that, however; before my father could open the loophole, a thundering blow was dealt with the trunk of a tree against the door, making it shake on its hinges, though the tough wood held firm.

“Who dares thus attack my house?” shouted my father; “off with you, or take the consequences.”

A shower of bullets which pinged against the door and walls on either side was the reply. Our assailants, disappointed in their first attempt to break open the door, hoped to alarm us into submission.

“Open the door, and let us in; we come on lawful business to look after a runaway slave, and have him we will, alive or dead, although we burn your house about your heads,” shouted one of the men outside.

Uncle Denis thought from the sound of the voice that it was Mr Bracher himself who spoke.

“We have no runaway slave within, but open the door we will not; so if you again make the attempt to force it, your blood be on your own heads,” answered my father in a firm voice.

“That’s all empty boast,” was the answer; “if you hurt any of our men, not one of you shall escape with your lives.”

“Faith! we’re wasting time talking to the fellows,” cried Uncle Denis; “let’s begin to treat them as they deserve. If they don’t go away, I’ll knock over that big blackguard Bracher, and his crew will soon be taking to their heels if they haven’t him to lead them on.”

My father, although a soldier, was as averse as any man to shedding blood.

“We will show them that they are not likely to succeed, and that they will pay dearly for the attempt if they again try to break open the door,” he said. “Mr Bracher,” he shouted, “understand that I don’t wish to be your enemy, and have no unkind feeling towards you. You have made an unwarrantable attack on my house. No harm has as yet come of it. If you will go peaceably away I will overlook the insult and take no further steps in the matter; but if not, I once for all warn you that I am well prepared to defend my house, and that you will pay dearly should you try to enter it. I again say your slave is not within my doors, so that you will gain nothing if you succeed, which you have no chance of doing.”

My father in speaking this had some hopes of inducing the Kentuckians to change their intentions, and at all events he might prolong the time so that daylight would surprise them before they should recommence the attack. It would then be more easy to distinguish the leaders and shoot them down, when the rest would in all probability beat a hasty retreat.

Of this Silas Bracher, if he was there in person, was probably aware. In spite of the warning the Kentuckians had received, they, supposing perhaps from our not having fired that we had no ammunition, or were afraid of doing so, again assaulted the door with their battering-ram; it, however, as before, stoutly withstood the thundering blows they bestowed on it.

“If they will have it they must,” at length exclaimed my father; and scarcely were the words out of his mouth than Uncle Denis, the overseer, and our guest fired. I was going to fire when my father shouted to Dan and me not to pull a trigger. A cry arose from the midst of our assailants, followed by a loud shout.

“Death to all within the house! Batter in the door, boys; a few strokes and it will be done.”

The ram thundered against the door. I at that moment looked through my loophole, and I caught sight of a party in reserve, who the next instant sent a shower of bullets rattling against the shutters and walls, one shot narrowly missing my head as it whistled through the loophole. I therefore thrust out my rifle and fired in the direction from whence the shot came. Whether or not I had hit anyone I could not tell. I was too well-trained a sportsman to lose a moment before again reloading. All our little garrison were now engaged in firing and loading as fast as they could. My father kept his post at the door, and Uncle Denis and the overseer stationed themselves at the windows nearest to him on either side, ready, should the door be burst open, to assist in driving back the miscreants, while Biddy remained intently watching the proceedings, with her hand on the red-hot poker, prepared to help in the defence. As I could not bring my rifle to bear on the party with the battering-ram, I contented myself with firing at those in the distance, but as they kept as much as possible under cover, I could not tell whether my shot took effect. The blows which the door received threatened every instant to break it in, and I suspected that we should have a fearful struggle before we should succeed in driving back our assailants. Their cries and shouts increased. Excited with rage and disappointment they rushed again and again to the assault. The firing also became hotter and hotter. Fortunately, so well sheltered were all our party, as we only went to the window to fire, then retreating behind the walls, that not one of us had hitherto been hurt. From the sounds which reached my ears I believed that the rifles of those of the garrison who commanded the entrance were taking effect. Presently, after another attempt to break open the door, I saw our assailants in the grey light of morning beating a rapid retreat and dragging along with them three or four of their number who had been either killed or badly wounded.

“Victory, victory?” shouted Uncle Denis, “Erin-go-braugh, I knew we should do for the audacious villains. Hurrah, hurrah?” The rest of us echoed his shout, including Biddy from the kitchen, while she flourished her red-hot poker above her head.

My father hastened to assure my mother and Kathleen that we were safe for the present, while we all shook hands round, congratulating ourselves on our victory.

“We must not be too certain that we have got rid of them altogether,” observed my father; “those Kentuckians are persevering fellows. If they think they have a chance of success they will be at us again.”

Increasing daylight enabled us to see for some distance around the house, but no one could we discover. We all began to believe that they had finally gone away, when Peter, who was looking through a window at the side of the house exclaimed—

“See, massa, see! look dare!”

A bright flame shot up, its size rapidly increasing. It was in the direction of a barn in which a quantity of corn and other produce was stored.

“The scoundrels have set it on fire in revenge!” exclaimed Uncle Denis; “let’s be out and after them.”

“The very thing they would wish us to do,” observed my father; “probably one of their objects in firing the building was the hope that we should rush out to extinguish the flames. Provided the fire does not extend, it will be wiser to remain here.”

Uncle Denis agreed that my father was right. That he was so we afterwards ascertained from one of the farm-labourers who had cautiously followed the Kentuckians.

The sun at length rose, when Mr Tidey insisted on going out to learn whether they had actually taken their departure. To this my father consented, and the Dominie set off with his rifle, accompanied by Boxer. On going out, he found numerous splashes of blood in the front near the battering-ram, showing that the Kentuckians had been deservedly punished for the outrage.

We had reason to be thankful that we had all escaped without injury. Towards evening Mr Tidey came back bringing the satisfactory intelligence that he had traced the retreating party to the Ohio.

Severe as was the lesson they had received, it was but too probable that they would return and take another opportunity of wreaking their vengeance on our heads. My father was a brave man, and had he been alone would have remained and defended his property to the last, but he thought of the danger to which my mother and we were exposed, and this made him more willing than he otherwise would have been, to listen to the proposal of Mr McDermont.

“You’ll be after having a troubled life of it here, captain,” observed our guest, the next day. “For my part I am not altogether unaccustomed to such proceedings in the old country, and have no wife or children to be troubled about, and should rather like the excitement of the sort of life I should have to lead here for a year or two, until I have taught the Kentuckians to leave me alone in peace. This makes me bold to offer you a price for your farm, should you be disposed to move farther westward or northward, out of their way. I know how to deal with fellows of their character, though I should be puzzled if I had redskins to guard against, or a new country to clear. What say you now to twenty thousand dollars? It will go a long way westward. I am aware that your farm, under other circumstances, would be worth more than that. Should you accept my proposal, I would advise you not to migrate to Swampyville. You have the advantage of my experience in that matter,” he added, laughing.

My father took time to consider Mr McDermont’s proposal, and he and Uncle Denis had a long consultation on the subject. He finally decided to accept the offer, and greatly to his satisfaction Uncle Denis told him that he had made up his mind to part with his farm in Kentucky and to cast in his lot with us.

“I wish that I had done so years ago,” he said. “I had an offer just before I left home: I shall not be long in settling the matter.”

Our uncle was a man of action, and observing that he should give Mr Bracher a wide berth, and promising to return in a few days, at once set about making preparations for a start.

Mr McDermont was ready to purchase the furniture and everything we did not require. Dan and I meantime set off to try and find poor Dio, and either to escort him on his way to Mr Grey’s, or should he desire to return, to bring him back with us, as my father considered that for the present he would run no risk of being captured, and he might prefer continuing with us to seeking his fortune among strangers. We gladly undertook the duty, having little doubt of what he would like to do.

“I am afraid the poor fellow must have been starving all this time, as the provisions Mr Tidey left with him can scarcely have lasted more than couple of days,” observed Dan as we trudged along.

“He had his rifle, you must remember,” I answered, “and although he may not be a very good shot, he will be able to knock over a few birds or a racoon, or an opossum, and there are berries in abundance growing in the neighbourhood of the cave.”

Although I said this, I was well aware that there were many dangers to which Dio might have been exposed. Wolves or bears while prowling about might have found him asleep, or he might have fallen into the hands of Indians, or he might have been discovered by white men, who, suspecting him to be a runaway slave, might have secured him in the hope of obtaining a reward for bringing him back. There was also the possibility, should he have finished his provisions, that he might have been afraid of going out in search of more, and that he might be suffering from starvation. We therefore hurried on as fast as our legs could carry us. We did not pass a single farm on our route where we could obtain assistance should we require it, although there were several away to the eastward.

In spite of the utmost exertions we could make, it was nearly sunset before we reached the neighbourhood of the cave. We looked about, no sign of Dio could we discover, not the slightest trail to show that he had left the cavern or that anyone had entered it. So far this was satisfactory. Though we knew the locality, the mouth of the cavern itself was not very easy to find. We had therefore to hunt about for some time, until at length we discovered the bushes which grew in front of it, when we at once began to creep through them; we crawled on till we found ourselves in the mouth of the cave. Mr Tidey had minutely described the spot where he had left Dio. We groped our way forward expecting to see the light from his fire, but not a gleam came forth from any of the passages to direct us.

“Oh, suppose a bear and her cubs are hid away anywhere, what shall we do?” exclaimed Dan.

“Shoot the bear and knock the cubs on the head,” I answered, although I knew that was more easily said than done.

Dan and I called to Dio in vain. Again I shouted, “Dio, Dio, answer us, pray do, if you are here.”

“Listen! I hear a voice; it’s very faint, but not far off,” said Dan.

I stopped shouting, and distinctly heard the words—

“Here, massa, here, all in de dark; dis niggar bery sick.”

On this I struck a match, and by its faint light I saw a figure lying on the ground in a recess of the cave. There were a number of sticks collected for fire-wood piled up close to him, so putting the match to some dry leaves which we swept up together, we quickly had a blaze.

“What has happened, Dio?” I asked, kneeling down by his side.

“No matches, massa,” answered Dio; “and him eat up all de food Massa Tidey left. For two days him had noting to put in him mouth.”

“You shall have something then without delay,” I said, giving him a bottle, which I had fortunately filled at the last spring we had passed. He eagerly swallowed a draught, and we then produced the provisions we had brought. Though weak from his previous illness, the poor black was not so far gone as to be unable to eat a hearty meal. This quickly revived him. He told us that his fear of being captured by the emissaries of his old master had prevented him going out in search of food, and that he had imprudently on the first day consumed the provisions left by Mr Tidey, which, eked out, might have lasted almost to the present time. His joy at hearing that the Kentuckians had been defeated, greatly assisted to recover him, although he expressed his regret that we should have been exposed to danger on his account. When we told him we had come to escort him on his way to Mr Grey’s, his countenance fell.

“But my father says we may take you back, if you are willing to accompany us to the west, where we shall be at a distance from the slave-states,” I added.

“With all dis niggar’s heart,” exclaimed Dio; “me go whar’ massa go; right ’way to de Rocky Mountains, if him like.”

We spent the night in the cavern, neither wolves nor bears showing their noses, and the next morning Dio, after a good breakfast, declared that he was well able to go back to Uphill. On seeing him attempt to walk, however, I judged that it would be prudent to let him take another day’s rest, while we went in search of game and obtained some more water from a spring which rose at some distance from the cave.

We had capital sport, and a fat turkey which I shot put some more strength into Dio’s muscles. We were very happy in our roomy cave, which was large enough to afford shelter to a dozen families, and we agreed that we should like to spend several days there. However, we were wanted at home, and Dio having completely recovered, we set off at daybreak the following morning.

We stepped out so briskly, that although we made a circuit to avoid the risk of falling in with strangers on the high road, we reached home soon after sunset. We found the preparations for our departure much advanced. My father had procured four waggons and several teams of stout oxen, which were considered more suitable than horses for traversing the prairies, as being hardier and better able to go a long distance without water. My father, Mr Tidey, and I had a horse a-piece, and Uncle Denis would, of course, bring his own with probably half-a-dozen more for some of the men.

Martin Prentis was to remain with the purchaser of the property; indeed, without his assistance, Mr McDermont would have been badly off. Our overseer promised, however, when his services were not required, to join us.

Three days after our return Uncle Denis arrived, bringing with him several white men, among whom was his overseer, and two blacks, slaves whom he had emancipated with the promise that they should labour for him until they had paid the price of their freedom. “We shall see whether they prove faithful or not,” he remarked, as he described his arrangements. Besides them Uncle Denis was accompanied by his overseer, who, not being required on the farm, was in search of employment. Greatly to our satisfaction, just as we were on the point of starting, Martin Prentis came forward and offered to give up his situation to Uncle Denis’s overseer, Tom Sykes, if Tom would take it, and Mr McDermont would agree to the arrangement. This he did, and it was settled that Martin should accompany us, so that altogether we formed a pretty large, well-armed party. We all had rifles, and a brace of pistols, besides long knives in our belts, and my father and Uncle Denis wore their swords.

Our uncle’s followers, including Sam Hodding, his factotum, were sturdy fellows, and if some of them were not very bright, they were all, he said, as true as steel, while he believed that the two blacks, influenced by gratitude, would prove perfectly faithful.

He brought word that Mr Bracher was said to be very ill. We suspected that he was suffering from a wound he had received while attacking our house. There was some fear, should he hear of our intended departure, that he might for the purpose of revenging himself, send a party to follow us up and attack us while on the move.

“Never fear, friends,” said Mr McDermont, when the subject was spoken of, “I’ll keep an eye on the proceedings of the gentleman, and if I hear of any suspicious characters going in the direction you are travelling, I’ll dodge their steps and come to your assistance. They’ll not follow you far, if they follow at all, so I don’t think that you need have much fear of being troubled by them.”

We exchanged kind farewells with our new friend, and not without many a regret at leaving Uphill commenced our march. We all knew that it would be a toilsome one and not free from danger, but my father had determined, that as he was moving he would move far west, where the curse of slavery was unknown.

The waggons I have mentioned were of a stronger build than those before described. They had high tilts which made them comfortable sleeping-places at night. My father and Uncle Denis rode alongside the leading waggon, in which my mother, Kathleen, Biddy, and Rose travelled, and Dan condescended when tired to take his seat with them. Martin Prentis drove the first, Sam Hodding the second, Peter the third, and some of our other men the rest. Mr Tidey and I brought up the rear.

For some days we kept Dio inside, lest he might be recognised and an attempt made to carry him off. Boxer and Toby generally scampered on ahead, coming back every now and then, and giving a loud bark as if to hurry on the train.

We moved but at a slow pace, for although the patient oxen could travel on for many miles without growing weary, it was impossible to make them advance out of a steady walk. We proceeded northward, having the mighty Mississippi on our left, until we reached the banks of the Illinois river, which we crossed in flat-bottomed boats, and then proceeding several days’ journey westward, entered the wide prairies of Missouri, the vast river from which the state takes its name being to the south of us. We were now truly in the wilderness, but “Westward Ho!” was our cry. We had numerous dangers to guard against; prairie fires might occur and envelope us in their deadly embrace; hostile Indians might attack us and attempt to carry off our cattle during the night: when crossing rivers floods might come down and overwhelm us; or packs of fierce wolves might seize any of our oxen straying from the neighbourhood of the camp; but the fear of such contingencies did not deter my father and uncle, who had made up their minds to move on until they could find a region suited to their taste. Many had done the same and failed, others had succeeded, and they hoped to be ranked among the latter.

Our mode of camping at night, having reached a spot near water, was, to form a square with our waggons, leaving an opening through which the cattle might be driven in case of an attack; if close to a broad and deep stream, the water served for one side and the camp could thus be made of larger size. The fires were lighted in the centre, and two or more men were always posted outside to give due notice of the approach of a foe. We had brought a tent for my mother and Kathleen, which was of course pitched inside the square, that they might enjoy more room than their waggon afforded, although that was made as comfortable as circumstances would permit for sitting in during the day-time. In case of being attacked by Indians, the goods in the waggons would serve, we hoped, as protection against their arrows or even the bullets of those possessed of fire-arms.

We always did our best to reach a spot of this description before sunset. Our first duty was to water the horses and cattle, then to hobble the former. This was done by fastening the fore and hind-legs on one side with an iron chain, a leathern strap passing round the fetlock. They were then turned loose to graze, their instinct inducing them, provided there was plenty of grass, to remain close to the camp. We then set to work to get wood for our fires, after filling the kettles with water; the salt meat was then put on to boil, or when we had game, that was spitted and placed on forked sticks to roast. We each of us had our various duties to attend to, some made up the beds with blankets and buffalo robes; one man roasted the coffee berries in a frying-pan and prepared them for boiling in a primitive fashion by wrapping them in a piece of buffalo or deer-skin and pounding them with the back of a hatchet.

As soon as the coffee was boiled and the meat cooked we all turned to with good appetites, our mother, Kathleen, Biddy, and Rose, seating themselves on some of the lighter packages, which were taken from the waggons for the purpose.

After a few days’ travelling we got so accustomed to the style of life we were leading, that having encountered no serious difficulties we began to hope that the dangers we had heard of were more imaginary than real, and that we should after all perform our journey with ease and safety. Silas Bracher had either received no notice of our departure, or he did not suppose that Dio was with us, for we had travelled a hundred miles or more northward without seeing any of his people. Mr Tidey and I, however, as we rode in the rear, kept a look-out for them; and had they come up with our train they would have found us well prepared to give them a warm reception. It was satisfactory, however, at length to believe that there was no risk of an encounter with them.

Chapter Six.

Dan’s eagerness for adventures—Mosquitos—A tempest brewing—The storm upon us—Rising of the river—The flood—A fearful flash—Dio takes the lead—A miserable night—Strangers in camp—Rumours of Indians—Following up the trail—The plundered emigrant train—The wolves—A prairie flower—Alone in the deserted camp—New dangers—A surprise for my mother—The halt—Graves by the wayside—The only records of the slain—“Lily’s mother sleeps here.”

“I say, Mike, I thought by this time that we should have fought half a dozen battles with the redskins, killed no end of buffalo and deer, unkennelled black bears and grizzlies without number, and trapped beavers and racoons and ’possums by scores!” exclaimed Dan, as we were seated round our camp-fire.

“Wait a bit, my boy, until we get farther on our journey,” remarked Mr Tidey, who overheard Dan, “we shall have adventures enough then to satisfy you, and enable Mike to fill up his journal to overflowing, though, for my part, I confess I shall be very glad, as I suspect will be your father and mother, if we get through without them.”

“Not much chance of that,” I observed, “or we shall be an exception to the general rule. I hope, however, if we do meet with hostile Indians, that we may be able to beat them off. Martin Prentis, who has been a good deal among them, says that they are arrant cowards, and will only attack people when they find them unprepared.”

We were, I should have said, encamped in our usual fashion, near a stream, that we might obtain as much water as we required. Along the bank was a belt of trees with a copse, which afforded us a supply of fire-wood. The weather had been exceedingly hot, and scarcely had we halted than we had to encounter an enemy for which we had not bargained. Swarms of mosquitos attacked us the moment we left the protecting smoke of the fire, buzzing round our heads in countless numbers, stinging our faces and hands and such parts of our legs and ankles as were exposed. Fortunately my mother had some mosquito curtains, within which she and Kathleen obtained shelter at night, though we who had no means of resisting their assaults were so stung that we could scarcely recognise each other.

“In my opinion we shall have a storm before long,” observed Martin Prentis, “the way these creatures bite is a pretty sure sign of what is going to happen.”

Not long after he had made the remark, on looking up at the sky I saw a thick mass of clouds sweeping across it, the stars rapidly disappearing. Suddenly the whole horizon was lighted up with flashes of brilliant flame and reiterated peals of thunder burst forth with fearful loudness. There was, however, but little wind, and as yet no rain had fallen. As Martin had advised, my father had the tilts of the waggons carefully secured with additional ropes over them, as he had also my mother’s tent. The storm drew nearer and nearer. The lightning had hitherto been at a distance, but now thick bars of fire darted through the air, remaining visible for many seconds, zigzagging backwards and forwards before they reached the ground, along which they went hissing like fiery serpents, sometimes striking into it with loud crashes. Again for a minute or two all seemed darkness, then once more the whole heaven was illuminated, the thunder all the time roaring and rattling, now coming from one direction, now from another. Our terrified horses rushed up to the camp seeking protection, although the more stolid oxen appeared indifferent to the uproar. Hitherto the air had been calm. Suddenly a fierce blast swept across the plain, shaking the awnings of the waggons, and threatening to bear them off bodily, or tear them to pieces. Scarcely had the blast struck the camp, than down came the rain. My mother and Kathleen rushed hurriedly into their tent, followed at their invitation by Biddy and Rose, while we sought such shelter as the waggons could afford. That was rain, and not only rain but hail, each piece of ice the size of a pigeon’s egg, some even larger. The rain fell in no small drops, but in sheets of water, and soon converted our camp into a pond, the spot on which my mother’s tent stood happily forming an island. With the crashing of the thunder, the roar of the wind, and the fierce pattering of the rain, we could scarcely hear each other speak. We were thankful that we had already encamped before the storm came on. Hour after hour it raged without giving any sign of diminution. I was seated alongside Uncle Denis, wrapped up in a buffalo robe in one of the waggons nearest to the river, which we could occasionally see by stretching out our necks beyond the canvas as the flashes of lightning darted across it.

“Mike, does it strike you that the water has risen higher than it was when we first encamped? Watch for the next flash, and tell me what you think.”

I did as he directed me.

“It seems to me almost up to the top of the bank,” I answered.

“I hope it won’t come higher, then,” he said, “for if it does, we shall have to harness up, and seek for a more elevated position to spend the remainder of the night, though it won’t be pleasant to have to move while the storm lasts.”

Again looking out, and waiting for another flash, it appeared to me that the water had not only risen to the bank, but had overflowed. It was meandering in various channels over the ground.

I told my uncle, who watched as I had done, until he was convinced in another few minutes that our camp would be completely flooded. He shouted out to my father, who agreed with him. Our first care was to get my mother and Kathleen, with their attendants, into their waggon, and to wrap them up as well as we could. We then, calling to the men, hurried out, splashing over the wet ground, while the rain came like a shower-bath down on our heads, to catch the oxen and harness them up. It was no easy matter to find the animals, as it was only when the lightning flashed forth that we could distinguish them, so pitchy dark was the night. First one team was caught, then another and another, we all shouting at the top of our voices to make ourselves heard. There was no time to be lost; already the water was almost up to the axles. At length, however, we got the oxen harnessed and the horses saddled. First one waggon was drawn out, and then another, but it took some time before all were ready to move forward. The next point to be considered was the direction to take. We might possibly only find ourselves on lower ground, and consequently in deeper water. My father and Uncle Denis, who had mounted their horses, rode forward, telling us to keep shouting, that they might find us again. The lightning continued flashing as before, so that we could see them for a short time as they rode away. My father had directed me to move on in as straight a line as we could keep at right angles from the river, and by turning round I could occasionally get a view of the trees which fringed its banks, showing me that we were as nearly as possible keeping the course he wished. Still I felt very anxious. I had remembered passing along a deep gully which would in all probability be full of water, and before we were aware of it the leading oxen might tumble in, and perhaps drag the waggon after them. I told Martin and another man to go to their heads and feel the way with poles, while the rest of the waggons kept as close as possible one behind the other. The drivers, however, finding the water rising, could with difficulty be induced to follow my orders. Behind us we could hear the sound of the rushing waters as the swollen river swept along, and at intervals the voices of the men driving the rear waggons reached my ears, shouting to us to move faster. We were thus advancing cautiously when I caught sight of a dark object rising up almost before me and apparently reaching to the sky. It was a tree, but in the darkness it seemed of gigantic proportions.

At that moment a vivid flash darted from the clouds, a loud explosion followed with a deafening crash, and the stout trunk was rent asunder, the branches falling on every side, the leading oxen narrowly escaping being crushed. I should have been swept off my frightened horse had he not sprang forward, trembling in every limb. The flash revealed to me one of the gullies I had been anxious to avoid. I shouted to the other men to keep clear of the danger. At the same time a dread seized me lest my father and Uncle Denis might have ridden into it, and have been carried away by the boiling current.

The men replied that they could not see their way, and from the cries which reached me it was evident that the whole train was in confusion. The roar of the waters drowned our voices. At that moment another flash showed me a figure close by my side and I caught the words—

“Me show de way, dare high ground little ahead, come ’long.”

It was Dio, who had leapt from the waggon in which he had been seated and had come to the front, the post of danger. Endowed with a keener eyesight than the rest of us, during darkness he had distinguished the ground which we had failed to see. The leading waggon followed him, and we were soon assured that the ground was rising. Though this was the case, it might again sink and we should be in a worse position than before. I was greatly relieved when I heard a shout in reply to ours and could distinguish the figures of my father and Uncle Denis against the sky. They had found a spot, not likely to be reached by the water they believed, where we could camp for the remainder of the night. They led us to it along the ridge we had gained, avoiding a deep dip, into which, had we descended, we should have been worse off than before. Of course we were all wet to the skin; but, while the rain poured down in bucketfuls as it was doing, we could light no fire to dry our clothes. Still we were thankful that we had escaped the danger which had threatened us, and we managed to place our waggons in the usual position, so that at daylight we might be prepared for enemies should any appear. When morning broke we had reason to be grateful to Heaven that we had moved away in time from the bank of the river, for the ground on which we had encamped was covered with water to the depth apparently of several feet, while the current swept by with a force sufficient to have carried our waggons and cattle away. As the day advanced, the storm ceased, the clouds rolled off and the sun burst forth, his warm rays soon drying our clothes and the wet tilts of the waggons.

The flood had so completely obliterated the trail, that my father and uncle deemed it prudent either to ride on ahead themselves, or to send Mr Tidey and me forward to ascertain the proper route to take. They had gone on in the morning where the road was more difficult, and after our mid-day stoppage the Dominie and I took the lead. In all directions were traces of the storm, trees uprooted, the streams flooded, the ground being covered with broken branches of trees and occasionally we came across the bodies of animals which had been caught by the current and drowned.

As the day was drawing to a close we were looking out for a spot on which to camp for the night. As I gazed ahead I saw some objects moving across the plain.

“Can those be Indians?” I asked, pointing them out to Mr Tidey; “if so, they may be Sioux or Blackfeet and give us some trouble.”

He reined up his horse, and, shading his eyes with his hand, gazed at them steadily. “No, that’s a waggon, and coming this way too,” he answered, “they may be emigrants who have turned back either because they have been frightened by Indians, or having lost some of their cattle by the floods have found it impossible to proceed; supposing the latter to be the case, they appear to be coming on very rapidly.”

“They seem to me to be running away from enemies,” I observed, “however, we shall soon know.”

“At all events we must try to select our camping-ground before they come up, or they may occupy it,” answered Mr Tidey, “there is a stream to the right bordered by trees. It is just the spot we want. Ride back, Mike, and hurry on the waggons. We shall have formed our camp before the strangers arrive.”

While Mr Tidey rode in the direction towards which he pointed, I galloped back and gave notice of the approach of a train from the westward. I had observed an easy pass among the hills which led down to the stream, and through it I was able to guide our waggons. We reached the ground selected by Mr Tidey in good time to camp before dark, and our arrangements had just been concluded when the strangers approached. As they drew near, my father and I went to meet them, to show them a spot near ours where they might encamp. Two men, seeing us coming, advanced towards us: one of them was a sturdy, strong, bold fellow, but the other had nothing of the backwoodsman about him in appearance.

“Glad to fall in with you, strangers,” said the first; “and if you follow my advice, you will turn back with us, unless you wish to have your scalps taken by the Indians or your cattle drowned by the floods, or if you escape them, to die of hunger and thirst as you travel over the desert to the westward, though it’s my opinion you’ll never get many days journey from this.”

“Your report, friend, is not very encouraging,” answered my father, “though, as I am prepared to encounter some difficulty, I cannot promise to follow your advice; however, as we shall spend the evening together we shall hear more of what you have gone through. To save you time, we looked out for a spot for your camp. You cannot do better than occupy it.”

The stranger thanked us. “Whereabouts is it?” he asked.

“It is a little to the westward of where our waggons are drawn up.”

“I’d rather go further east,” said the stranger when he saw it, “and place you between ourselves and the redskins. We’ve had one battle already, and to say the truth have no stomachs for another. You may take your turn next, should they come, and I am not certain that they will not before daybreak.”

“You are welcome to camp where you like,” answered my father, amused at the stranger’s cowardice, of which he did not seem at all ashamed; “we shall look to you, however, to help us in driving back the redskins if they make their appearance.”

We, however, assisted the strangers in finding a suitable spot a little to the eastward of our camp, and in a short time they drew up their waggons on it.

As soon as we had finished supper my father and Uncle Denis and I went over to the strangers’ camp, to hear a further account of their proceedings.

The story they gave of the dangers they had encountered was sufficiently alarming to make persons less determined than my father and uncle give up the expedition they had undertaken. They had narrowly escaped being carried away by a flood the previous evening, and had been only the day before surrounded by a body of Indians, with whom, as it turned out, they had only exchanged shots, when the redskins had retreated without blood being shed. They mentioned, however, another train of four or five waggons which had been some way ahead of them, and told us that they had considerable apprehensions as to their fate.

“We will hope for the best,” said my father, “if the people are prudent and keep a careful watch, I believe they may easily beat off any Indians of these parts, who never attack white men unless they can take them by surprise.”

We did our best to persuade our new acquaintances to turn back once more with us, but they had so completely lost heart that nothing we could say had any effect.

“No, no, friend,” answered their leader, “we committed a folly in leaving our comfortable farm in Ohio. We have made up our minds to be wiser in future, and look out for another location eastward, beyond the reach of the Indians. If you are wise, you will do the same.”

“From my experience I should say that we are as likely to be annoyed by white men as the redskins, and by treating the latter honestly I hope that we shall gain their friendship and have no cause to dread them,” said my father.

“You’ll act as you judge best, but I have warned you of what you may have to expect,” was the answer.

We parted the next morning with mutual expressions of good will, and while the returning emigrants hurried off eastward, we continued our course to the west, the marks made by their waggon wheels enabling us to proceed rapidly until we reached the spot where they had encamped the previous night. Here the truth of their story was corroborated by the appearance of Indian trails which led away westward. We encamped a little further on, and of course kept a careful watch at night, but no enemy appeared.

Next afternoon Mr Tidey and I were riding ahead followed by Boxer and another of our dogs—without whom indeed, we never left the camp, as they were sure to give us timely warning should any Indians be lurking around. We knew, however, that they would not attack the red-men, of whom they seemed to have an instinctive dread, but would silently slink close to us, should any enemies be near. We were looking out, as may be supposed, for Indian trails, as well as for those of the other emigrant train of which we had heard, when we saw signs on the ground which at first puzzled us. We dismounted to examine them more carefully.

“If we had an Indian guide, he would quickly tell us what they mean,” observed the Dominie. “See, here are oxen and wheel tracks, and these are the marks of moccasins. I suspect that a party of Indians out on the war-path have followed the waggons, and I fear after all that the emigrants were not so far wrong in their conjectures as we supposed. I only hope the people on ahead have kept a careful watch and beaten back their wily foe.”

“Let us push on, and try to overtake the Indians before they attack the train,” I said. “When they see another party of white men approaching, they may judge it prudent to give up their enterprise; and if they pursue us, our fast horses will enable us easily to keep out of their way.”

The Dominie, though not blind to the risk we might run, agreed to my proposal; the ground was open and level, and there was no brushwood either to the right or left which might conceal a lurking foe. We accordingly put our horses into a gallop, believing that we should soon come up with the train, or get sight of the Indians, should they still be following it. “The redskins will be looking ahead, and will not discover us until we have seen them,” I observed.

Suddenly the dogs, which had been keeping alongside us, dashed forward, just at the moment that we, from the unevenness of the ground, were compelled to pull up. On reaching the summit of one of the undulations rather than hills, which rise in different parts of the prairie, we saw some objects in the distance which we both agreed must be waggons. As we got nearer we saw that two were upset, and that from a third smoke was ascending, while from another the tilt had been torn off, one only remaining intact.

“That must be the train we are in search of,” observed the Dominie; “it has too evidently been attacked by the Indians; but I see no one moving about. Perhaps the savages caught sight of us, and supposing that we were at the head of a large party, have gone off. We may be in time to help some of the poor people, if any have escaped with their lives, though I fear the worst, as the redskins seldom leave their work half finished, and the chances are that all the white men have been killed.”

We rode forward as fast as the rugged nature of the ground would allow, prepared at any moment to wheel round and gallop back should we catch sight of the savages.

We hoped, however, as the dogs did not return, that we should have no trouble on that account. We were still at some distance from the waggons, when we heard a loud yelping and barking.

“Those sounds came from a pack of wolves,” exclaimed Mr Tidey; “I see the brutes, they are calling to each other, expecting to enjoy a banquet on the dead bodies of the slain.”

Directly afterwards we caught sight of the animals making their way through the brushwood and trees which surrounded the waggons. Above their hideous yelps we could distinguish the deep honest bark of our own dogs. Forgetting for the moment the risk we ran of being surprised, we put spurs to our horses, and galloping over the uneven ground soon got up to the spot. Neither cattle nor horses were visible, they had evidently been carried off. The scene which soon met our eyes filled us with horror.

On the ground lay half-a-dozen men, each of whom had been scalped and their bodies partly stripped. Farther on were two or three more, who had fallen between the waggons. Some of the wolves, more daring than their companions, had advanced at the head of the pack, and would already have commenced the horrible repast had not our two noble dogs, barking furiously, kept them at bay.

“I am afraid we are too late here to be of any use except to bury the dead,” observed Mr Tidey as we surveyed the melancholy scene. “But holloa! what is that among the bushes? A woman,—I see her moving. Perhaps we may be in time to save her.”

Forgetting that the Indians might still be at hand, we dismounted, and fastening our horses to the wheels of one of the waggons, made our way through the brushwood. As we did so, a couple of wolves approached from an opposite direction, and were on the point of seizing the woman’s body, when Boxer and his companion springing forward, they took to flight. We hurried to the assistance of the poor woman. We now saw that it was not she who had moved, but a little girl whose arms were thrown round her.

“Oh! come help Lily!” exclaimed the child, at once recognising us as white men: “look up mother! oh, mother, mother! speak to Lily, one word. White man come to help you, no fear now.”

In vain, however, Lily called to her mother. While I took the child in my arms, Mr Tidey knelt down by the side of the poor lady. The blood which flowed from her breast, and dyed the ground on which she lay, too plainly told that she had received a mortal wound.

“She is beyond our help,” he said; “but I would prevent her body being devoured by these abominable brutes. Do you carry the child, and I will convey the poor mother into the nearest waggon. We can cover her up sufficiently to prevent the wolves getting at her until we return, when we can bury her decently, as well as the rest of the murdered people.”

I did as he advised, and was making my way to where we had left the horses, when I heard a loud explosion, and fragments of all sorts came whizzing through the air: mercifully none of them struck me. I looked round, and was thankful to see Mr Tidey safe. I had forgotten the waggon which we had seen burning. The horses, terrified by the sound, reared and plunged, and broke their bridles. The Dominie, letting the body fall, rushed after his horse; fortunately catching it, he galloped after mine in the direction from which we had come, and I found myself standing alone in the midst of the blackened train, with the little girl clinging to my neck and crying bitterly for her mother to speak to her, while the wolves, driven to a distance by the explosion, howled and yelped around me, though kept from again approaching by the gallant dogs and the shouts I raised for the purpose of keeping them at bay.

I felt that I was in a fearful position. At any moment the savages might return, in the hopes of obtaining more plunder. I had my rifle, and I determined to defend the little girl and myself to the last. A new danger arose: the waggon was burning furiously; the flames might ignite the others, which in all probability also contained kegs of powder, and it was more than likely that the grass would be set on fire and the whole prairie would be in a blaze. Not only should I and my young companion lose our lives, but my friends would be exposed to the most fearful danger. I must endeavour, I saw, to make some effort to prevent the catastrophe; but I had not the heart to force the little girl’s arms from around my neck, and to place her on the ground. I endeavoured to tranquillise her by every means I could think of. At last I bethought me of placing her in the only waggon which remained upright.

“Stay quiet there, Lily,” I observed; “no one will hurt you, and I will come back as soon as possible. I want to try and put out that fire, or it will do us harm.”

“Don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” cried Lily; but as she did not resist. I placed her in the waggon, and begged her to be quiet, while I seized a long stick which lay on the ground, and rushing up to the fire, beat out the flames which already rose from the grass. Mercifully it was not so thick there as in other places a short distance off. I rushed round and round the burning mass, now and then being just in time to reach a snake-like line of flame which was extending towards the brushwood or in the direction of the tall grass, which, had it gained, nothing could have stopped the dreaded catastrophe. I was thus engaged when I heard a loud holloa! For a moment I thought the Indians were upon me, but on looking up, I saw Mr Tidey, leading my horse and followed by Uncle Denis. They were soon up to me, and leaping from their steeds, without stopping to ask questions, commenced stamping out the smouldering fire, which a sudden puff of wind might soon have raised again into a flame. Not until they had succeeded in overcoming the threatened danger did they speak a word. Uncle Denis then told me that they had heard the report; and fearing that we might be exposed to danger, he had galloped forward to ascertain the cause, leaving the waggons under the command of my father, who had made every preparation for resistance in case they should be attacked by the Indians. He had seen Mr Tidey catch my horse, and had been very anxious lest some accident should have befallen me. A few words served to explain what had happened, and I then hurried back to poor little Lily.

“We are safe now, Lily,” I said, “and you must come with me. Do you think you could sit on my horse, while we gallop over the ground?”

“Oh yes, Lily often used to sit on Uncle John’s horse. I not afraid,” she answered. “But mother, where is mother?”

“That other man will take care of her,” I answered evasively. “Come, I want to carry you to friends; I’ve got a little sister, who would be so glad to see you, and so will my mother. She, I know, will take care of you.”

“Lily will go with you,” she answered.

Mounting my horse, I called to Uncle Denis to place Lily in front of me on the saddle.

“Go on, Mike,” he said; “we will do as Mr Tidey proposed with the poor lady, and follow close behind you. The sooner we rejoin the waggons the better, for one can never tell what tricks the redskins may play us. Tell your father that I think he had better camp as soon as he can find a suitable spot.”

I did not stop for further directions, but rode off as fast as I could venture to go, holding Lily tightly with my right arm round her waist before me. I very naturally, as I rode along, kept a look-out on either side, half expecting to see a party of Indians creeping forward to cut me off. I was thankful when I caught sight of the waggons approaching with my father at their head. His astonishment at beholding my young companion was very great. I stopped but for a moment to tell him what had occurred. He ordered the waggons to halt, that I might give Lily over to my mother. She and Kathleen uttered exclamations of surprise at seeing the little girl, while Dio, who was on foot, ran forward and lifted her into the waggon.

“This is my mother, Lily,” I said, “and my little sister Kathleen; I am sure they will be kind and love you very much.”

“That we will,” said my mother, as Lily, looking up in her face, smiled faintly; but she had been too much frightened to speak. As I left her in my mother’s arms I whispered—

“I will tell you by-and-by how I found her, but don’t ask her any questions now, mother.” I made a sign, which I think she understood, to show her that something very dreadful had occurred.

Without stopping further, I returned to my father, to whom I gave my uncle’s message, and as we rode along I told him what had happened. We had not got far when Mr Tidey and Uncle Denis arrived. I saw that both my uncle and the Dominie looked unusually anxious. Just as they were starting they had caught sight of two figures in the distance, which they had no doubt were Indians who had been watching them; they were convinced, moreover, that should an opportunity occur, the savages would attack our camp.

We pushed on accordingly as fast as we could move, until we got within about a mile of the place where the emigrants’ train had been destroyed. It was the first spot suitable for camping. Situated in a slight hollow, four or five hundred yards wide, a deep and pretty broad stream flowing on the north side, with a small wood or copse to the east, while to the west and south the ground sloped upwards and then fell again down to the scene of the catastrophe. We lost no time in unyoking the oxen and placing the waggons in a square, taking even more than usual precautions against an attack. As there was plenty of grass round, we tethered both the cattle and horses close outside the waggons, while three men were told off to keep watch on the top of the ridge, whence we could obtain a wide view over the country. We swept it again and again with our telescopes but could discover no persons moving in the distance. We both saw and heard, however, the horrible wolves, who only waited for nightfall to rush in again on the emigrants’ camp.

“I don’t like the thought of allowing those poor fellows to be devoured by the brutes,” said Uncle Denis. “What do you say, Tidey? Will you accompany me, and try to bury them decently? We will go on horseback, and by keeping a bright look-out, there will be no risk of being surprised by the redskins, should they venture to return. I should like especially to pay all the respect we can to that poor lady.”

“With all my heart,” answered the Dominie, “and if the captain agrees, we will take Martin and Dio.”

“And I’ll go too,” I said, “if my father will allow me.”

As he did not object, we immediately mounted our horses, Uncle Denis and the Dominie each carrying a spade, and the two men a pickaxe a-piece, while Boxer and Toby followed at our heels. As we galloped over the ground, we were not long in reaching the scene of the massacre. Dio, who had the sharpest eyes amongst us, was stationed to keep a look-out, while we, securing our horses, at once set about our melancholy task. We selected a spot under the branches of a wide-spreading oak for the grave of the poor lady. As the ground was soft it was soon dug. We then carried the body to it. We were on the point of placing it in, when the Dominie suggested that we should take off her wedding-ring and any ornament about her, that they might be given to her daughter, and that they might also serve to identify her, so that should we have an opportunity we might inform her relatives and friends of her fate. Besides the plain gold ring, was another of curious workmanship with an amethyst set in it, while secured round her neck by a silk ribbon Uncle Denis discovered a gold locket. Without stopping to examine it he placed it in his pouch. In the waggon were a few articles for family use, but we found nothing of value. No letters; no pocket-book which might serve to tell us who she was; everything had been carried off by the savages. Her husband, probably, was among the murdered men; and if we could find his body, we would, we agreed, place it in the grave of his wife.

“That’s more than we are likely to do,” answered Uncle Denis; “let the poor lady rest alone.”

Accordingly, lifting her up, we placed her in the narrow grave, and although she was a stranger to me, I confess that I burst into tears as we hurriedly threw the earth over her. Martin had in the meantime commenced a larger grave for the men. Had they been our most intimate friends, we should have been unable to recognise them, so fearfully had their countenances been disfigured by the savages. The bodies too had been partly stripped, so that there was little difference in their dress to help us. In vain we endeavoured to ascertain which was the husband of the poor lady, and we had no time to devote to a close examination. We were not long in digging a shallow grave and burying the murdered men side by side.

“We must place some logs over the poor lady’s grave,” said Uncle Denis, “so that we may know it again.”

Mr Tidey agreed, and all of us plying our axes, we managed to pile up a number of logs over the spot. Three fallen trees lay near the larger grave and these we dragged over it, so as to prevent the wolves from disturbing the dead. Dio had in the meantime been riding backward and forwards, shouting out whenever he saw any of the brutes approaching: he was assisted by our two brave dogs, who kept up a constant barking, showing that they understood the duty required of them.

The sun had already set, and as the Indians, should they have been watching us in the distance, might creep up during the darkness, we mounted our horses and rode back as quickly as we could to the camp. My first inquiry was for Lily. She had been crying bitterly for her mother, asking when she would come to her, but had at length fallen asleep, and was now resting inside the tent in Kathleen’s bed.

While seated round the camp-fire an idea came into my head, I procured a piece of board, and with my knife commenced carving an inscription. This I intended fixing the next morning on to the logs above the lady’s grave. It was a question whether I should have an opportunity of erecting it. We might possibly be attacked by an overwhelming body of Indians and have to retreat, or perchance share the fate of the unfortunate people we had buried. As may be supposed, we kept an anxious watch, although there was less chance of our being attacked in the camp than while moving on, as the redskins, in spite of their vaunted bravery, always watch for an opportunity of taking their enemies by surprise, and finding us prepared for them, would probably keep at a distance. Having stood my watch during the early part of the night, I turned in and lay down with my buffalo robe by the side of Dan. I was awakened by my father’s voice arousing the camp. In an instant every one was on foot, fires were made up, and a hurried breakfast taken. We then caught and yoked the oxen, and in the grey of morning recommenced our march. Uncle Denis and the Dominie, acting as scouts, rode a little way in advance on either side, so as to avoid the risk of a surprise. My mother kept little Lily in her arms inside the waggons, so that she could not see the wrecked train. As we approached it Uncle Denis and I galloped forward to the grave of the poor lady, I carrying the board on which I had worked the previous evening. Throwing ourselves from our horses, we nailed it to the large log placed over the head. On the board I had carved, with the date of her death, “Lily’s mother sleeps here.”

Chapter Seven.

Across the plains—The march of civilisation—A halt—The trail discovered—On the war-path—An obstacle—Arrival at the river—Examining the camping-ground—An inaccessible point—Erecting fortifications—The way trees are felled in Kentucky—Strengthening our position—Mr Tidey puts us on the alert—Red-skin daring—Round the camp-fire—Evident anxiety of my father and the Dominie—Our strong point—Setting the watch—Driving in the cattle—The lull before the storm.

The next day’s journey was an anxious one. We had no doubt that the Indians were watching us, lurking behind trees or shrubs, although they did not show themselves. My father directed that all the horses should be mounted, the men only required to conduct the waggons remaining on foot. The formidable appearance we thus presented undoubtedly prevented our enemies from approaching, still we felt sure that should they find an opportunity of attacking us with advantage, they would be down upon us. In a few days we hoped to reach one of the numerous forts scattered over the continent for the protection of the white men, advancing in constant streams to take possession of the fertile lands to the westward, which had hitherto served only as the hunting-grounds of the red-men. It is not surprising that the so-called savages looked with no friendly eye on the intruders, or should have taken every opportunity of destroying them, in the vain hope of preventing other following in the same direction. The idea, however, that we were intruders did not occur to my father, or to the thousands of other emigrants who were leaving the Eastern States with the object of forming homes for themselves and families in the desert. They saw unlimited tracks of a fertile country stretched out before them without an inhabitant, and they looked upon the savage red man much in the same light as they looked upon the herds of buffalo which roam over the prairies. We had halted for our mid-day rest, without having seen any Indians, though we kept a vigilant look-out on every side. We began to hope therefore, that, content with the plunder they had obtained, they had returned with it to their villages, and that we should reach the fort without being molested. Still my father was too good a soldier not to keep as constant a watch as before. As we expected when we arrived at the fort to remain some days, there would be time for our cattle and horses to rest; we therefore agreed to push on across the prairie faster than we had hitherto done, though of course we should be guided as to our camping-places by the necessary requirements of water, grass, and wood for fuel. We might thus have to halt earlier in the day than we wished, or continue on later in the evening. The latter alternative it was important, if possible, to avoid, as should any Indians be in the neighbourhood they might attack us. The only means of averting the danger of being surprised while on the move, was to scout at a greater range than usual, so as to discover any lurking foes. While travelling I was seldom able to exchange a word with my mother and Kathleen, but as soon as we halted, I went to the waggon to inquire how little Lily was getting on. She at once recognised me.

“Have you found mother? is she coming back to Lily soon?” she asked. I pointed to my mother and then to Kathleen.

“She will be your mother, and Kathleen will be your sister,” I answered; “they will love you very much, as I told you.”

“Yes, they are very kind to Lily, they love Lily I know,” she said, giving Kathleen a kiss.

“You shall be my new sister; I am so glad to have one,” said Kathleen, returning her embrace.

Lily smiled, and I knew that though she might not forget her own mother, she would soon be happy with those who were so anxious to treat her kindly. Still I observed that she every now and then gave a startled look around, showing that she had not forgotten the scene she had witnessed on the previous day. I hoped for her sake as well as for that of all of us, that she would never again be exposed to so fearful a danger.

I should have said that Uncle Denis had given my mother the locket and rings belonging to the murdered lady.

“You will take better care of them than I can,” he said, a he drew them out of his pouch wrapped in a piece of buck skin, and handed them to her without looking at them. “When the little girl is old enough you can give them to her, and tell her how they were obtained: she will long before that have forgotten all about the circumstances.”

My mother, not having time to examine them, put them carefully in a bag containing cherished treasures of her own.

We had scarcely halted two hours, when my father’s voice was heard, ordering the men to prepare for moving on. The oxen were soon yoked to, the horses saddled, and we continued our journey across the boundless plain.

It was my turn to scout ahead with Mr Tidey. My father had charged us not to go so far as to run the risk of being cut off from the train. We therefore frequently halted, especially when we gained the summit of any of the slight elevations which are frequently met with on the prairie. I was a short distance ahead when I saw some marks on the ground which I fancied must be the trail of buffaloes. I waited until my companion came up, when I pointed them out to him.

“That’s an Indian trail,” he said, as he carefully examined the marks. “See, there are three paths close together at fixed distances apart. I will tell you how they are produced. The framework of their lodges are made, as you know, of long poles. These on a journey are tied to each side of a pony, the ends trailing on the ground. It is very evident from the way the grass is trampled down, that a long line of ponies has passed this way, one following the other. The centre line, which is deepest, you see, is caused by the feet of the ponies and the two outer lines by the trailing of the poles over the ground. There must have been women and children with them, which is satisfactory, as it shows that although the party was a large one, they were not out on the war-path. They were going northward, crossing our course; whether the men who attacked the emigrant train belong to them or not, it is hard to say; perhaps they were the braves of another tribe, and those whose trail we see were escaping from them.”

“You read the marks as well as an Indian could do,” I observed; “and I have no doubt that you are right.”

“I have given my mind to the subject, and the man who improves his opportunities in these wilds can soon attain the knowledge possessed by the redskins. I have met with many white trappers and hunters who were fully equal to the most sagacious Indian scouts.”

“What do you advise then?” I asked.

“That we should proceed straight on, as we are going, and keep as strict a watch at night and as bright a look-out during the day as heretofore. The poor fellows who have been massacred must have been very careless, and allowed themselves to be deceived by the Indians. It was evidently an act of treachery, and I should say that a party of the Indians made their way into the camp on some pretence or other, probably of trading, and suddenly attacked their too confiding hosts. I observed that none of the white men had been killed by bullets or arrows, and it is likely that the poor lady lost her life by a stray shot from one of her own party.”

“We had better let my father and Uncle Denis know that we have seen the trails, and they will judge what is best to be done,” I observed.

“Ride back then, Mike, and tell them what I advise,” answered Mr Tidey; “I will continue to look out ahead. Just say that I think it possible that another war-party may be pursuing the tribe whose trail we have seen, and disappointed at not overtaking them, that they may make an attempt on our camp, or venture to attack us on the march.”

I accordingly galloped back, looking as I did so to the southward, as it was from that direction the war-party might, I thought, appear. I however saw no human beings moving in the distance, but I caught sight of a herd of deer, and greatly longed to be able to go in chase, as we were much in want of fresh provisions. We had intended to halt for the purpose of hunting, but the risk of falling in with enemies made my father deem it prudent not to allow any one to go to a distance from the camp. I soon got back to the waggons, and reported what Mr Tidey had said.

“We will follow his advice,” said my father, “and if Indians appear, we may, I hope, send them to the right-about. We will at all events take good care not to allow any strangers to enter our camp, or to come within range of our rifles while we are on the march. Now go, Mike, to the support of Mr Tidey; but keep in sight, and fall back should you see any Indians approaching.”

I was soon up with the Dominie. “If all travellers were as cautious as your father, the redskins would not so often succeed,” he observed.

We were now crossing an elevated plateau with slightly undulating ground in the far distance. By standing up in our stirrups we could obtain a wide view over the country on every side. We had not proceeded far when I saw, away to the southward, what seemed like a huge serpent moving through the grass, although I knew very well that a serpent it could not be. I pointed it out to my companion, who carried a telescope at his back, telling him what I at first thought it like.

He took a glance through the glass. “The distance deceives you,” he answered, as calmly as if it was a matter of very little consequence, “that is a band of Indians on the war-path. I am certain of it. They are moving eastward; probably they are scouts, and long ago have discovered our waggons. What their intention is, I cannot say, but possibly it is to get into our rear, without, as they suppose, being seen. We must keep an eye upon them, but not on any account alter our course.”

As before, I rode back to tell my father what we had seen. He also had discovered the war-party, and had determined what to do. The rough map we possessed showed us that there was a river ahead, but its character and the position of the fords were indistinctly marked. His object was, if possible, to cross before nightfall, so as to place it between our camp and the enemy. From thence a horseman could reach Fort Hamilton by galloping hard, in three or four days, we calculated, and should the Indians appear in overwhelming numbers, we might send forward for assistance. Either Mr Tidey or Uncle Denis would be ready to undertake the expedition. Just as I was about to rejoin him, Mr Tidey fell back to consult with my father and uncle. At that moment too Dio came up from the rear, where he had been stationed; to tell us that he had made out another numerous party of Indians following our trail, but that they were still so far off that some time must elapse before they could overtake us. On hearing this my father hurried to the rear, to take a look at the strangers through his telescope. He immediately sent back Dio, who had accompanied him, to tell the drivers to push forward, with the utmost speed of which the oxen were capable, while Mr Tidey and I once more rode ahead to ascertain the best ground for the train to pass over. We could no longer make out the Indians we had before seen to the southward. We conjectured therefore that they had concealed themselves, and intended joining the party following our trail.

“They must have halted, or we should by this time have seen them nearer,” observed Mr Tidey. “My idea is that they are waiting for the chance of our train being stopped by a break-down, and fancy that they shall take us by surprise while we are off our guard. They are evidently under the impression that we have not discovered them, for though they are well aware that our rifles can shoot further than their bows and arrows, they are fortunately ignorant of the power of the telescope, and that we can see them much further than they can see us, keen as is their eyesight.”

Whatever might have been the intention of the savages, they did not approach. We rode on, without having to deviate from our course, the ground being sufficiently level for the transit of the waggons. In a short time we saw extended before us an undulating region, though we had little doubt that we should be able to proceed along the hollows, without having to make any great détour. Already the evening was approaching, and as we had not found water during the day, we were eagerly looking out for a stream or pond at which we and our animals might quench our thirst. The sun was shining brightly, and, late in the day as it was, the heat was considerable. Presently I caught the sheen of water, but it appeared to be much below the level on which we were riding. I pointed it out to Mr Tidey, and as we galloped on we saw the summit of a line of cliffs.

“There is a river between us and the ground we wish to reach,” observed Mr Tidey, “and I very much fear it is one we shall find it difficult to cross.”

“If you will hold my horse, I will go ahead and ascertain the nature of the ground,” I said.

“Be careful then, for I should not be surprised if you found yourself suddenly on the brink of a precipice,” replied Mr Tidey, as I dismounted carrying my rifle.

“Never fear,” I answered as I ran forward. I had not gone fifty yards when I saw a deep gully on my right hand, and in another minute discovered a river a hundred feet below me fringed by trees, beyond which rose a line of perpendicular cliffs, the tops of which we had seen in the distance. Gazing up and down the stream I could perceive no place by which the waggons could pass. I returned to my companion, and we rode together for some distance to the south-west, in the hopes of finding the ground slope down to a level with the water. We were, however, disappointed. It was therefore necessary to return to the train and to inform my father of our discovery, that he might decide what course to take. This then was the point towards which the wily Indians had seen us proceeding and had hoped that we should not perceive our danger until the leading waggon had gone over the cliff, when they would have taken the opportunity, so we fancied, of setting on us and gaining an easy victory.

They would, however, be disappointed, though we might find it difficult to select a suitable spot for camping, where we could obtain water and fuel, and at the same time defend ourselves should we be attacked.

On getting back to the train, we learned that the Indians had not again been seen. My father, on hearing our report, directed our course as Mr Tidey advised, to the south-west.

We had still more than an hour of daylight, and we calculated that we should have time before dark to reach the river, though it was doubtful whether we should find a practicable way down to the water.

Never before had the poor oxen been made to go so fast, for our safety might depend on our reaching the river before Mr Tidey and I once more rode forward. At length we found the ground decline slightly in the direction we were going. “As we are still evidently at a considerable height above the level of the stream, though perhaps we shall be unable to cross, we may camp near the edge of the cliffs, so that, at all events, we shall be safe from attack on that side,” I observed.

“Not so sure of that,” said Mr Tidey. “The Indians may know of a path up them which we may fail to discover, and if so, the cunning rascals will be sure to take advantage of it and endeavour to surprise us, besides which, some of our cattle and horses may chance to tumble over it and break their necks. However, as we are aware of the dangers, we may guard against them.”

A few minutes after this, we found ourselves once more close to the river.

“If you will hold my horse I will run along the brink of the precipice and try to discover a way down to the water,” I said; “there is no lack of wood near the margin of the river, so if we can get down the cliffs we shall be able to obtain both those necessary articles.” Still the cliffs were so steep, that I was almost in despair when I saw another gully, similar to the one I had before passed. On examining it, greatly to my satisfaction I found that it formed a deep notch as it were in the precipice, and that not only could a person on foot descend by it with the greatest ease to the river, but that even horses and cattle might make their way to the water. I shouted to Mr Tidey, who, coming up, agreed with me that we could not hope for a better place for camping. We accordingly galloped back to the train, and soon brought the waggons up to the spot, with which my father was perfectly satisfied. While the rest of the party were employed in placing the waggons so as to form the sides of a square, the cliffs and the gully serving as the two other sides to our camp, Mr Tidey, Dan, and I set off to explore the gully, for which purpose but little light now remained.

“Be cautious, boys, for that brushwood may conceal a lurking foe, though I don’t think a red-skin is likely to show himself when he sees three rifles which may shoot him down if he does so,” said the Dominie, as we commenced our descent. We found that by cutting away the brushwood and the trunks of a few trees we might form a road down to the level of the river, and that we might at once lead the horses and oxen to water. It was necessary, however, first to examine the foot of the cliff above which we were encamped, that we might ascertain what security it would afford us against a surprise from Indians on that side. On looking up it appeared to me to be perfectly precipitous, a few shrubs, however, projected here and there from the crevices of the rock, but they would not, I fancied, enable the most active savage to climb up, though by dropping from one to the other, a person might reach the bottom without breaking his neck. We examined the cliffs for some distance to the northward, of our camp. They retained the same character all the way.

“No savages can get up there, at all events,” I observed, as we were returning.

“Not quite so sure of that,” answered Mr Tidey. “We will not trust entirely to them. I will advise your father to post a sentinel on that side as well as the others.” We hurried back, and were in time to assist in leading the horses and cattle down to the river. It would have been a fine opportunity for any lurking foes to have carried them off; probably, however, no Indians were in the neighbourhood, or if they were, they were deterred from approaching by seeing our rifles in our hands ready for action. My father was fully alive to the importance of guarding the two sides formed by the gully and the cliff, and he ordered all hands not required to keep guard on the outside of the camp, to employ their axes in cutting down enough timber for forming a breastwork,—by so doing we should, he remarked, lay bare the side of the gully and deprive our assailants of the protection the brushwood might afford them.

“If we are only to spend one night here, I wonder father thinks it necessary to take so much trouble,” observed Dan.

“If the trouble is not taken, it might prove our last night, my boy,” answered the Dominie, who overheard him: “if we cannot manage to keep the Indians out of the camp, we may find our scalps off our heads before the morning.”

Two or three of the men, who were somewhat discontented with the last few days’ hard travelling and short commons, though they had hitherto gone on without grumbling, began to express themselves much as Dan had done. Dio, who had been engaged in arranging the camp, and who had just come up axe in hand, overheard them.

“What you say, you boys?” he exclaimed; “dis niggar show you how to chop de trees,” and, raising his axe, he began to strike away with a vigour which quickly cut through half a stout trunk. “Dare, dat de way dey chop in Kentucky!” he again exclaimed, as the tree came down with a crash. Tree after tree quickly fell beneath his axe. The rest of the men, put to shame by his zeal, followed his example, and we soon had timber sufficient for our purpose.

Our next business was to drag it into the required position.

This we did with the help of the oxen, for without them we should have been unable to accomplish the undertaking.

At length we got up a rough breastwork on two sides of the camp, while our waggons and their cargoes, with the aid of a few additional posts, served to strengthen our position.

We surveyed our fort with considerable satisfaction. One side we might consider impregnable; the second, that along the edge of the ravine, was not likely to be attacked, and we had a sufficient force of rifles to defend the other two against a whole horde of savages without fire-arms.

“Yes, our fort is a strong one,” observed the Dominie, “but many a stronger has been captured when the garrison thought themselves secure. We must still be on the watch against surprise or treachery. Depend upon it, the red-skins will employ their usual cunning rather than run the risk of losing their lives by an open assault on our position. Your father is too old a soldier not to think of that, but I want to impress the importance of the matter on your uncle and the rest of the men, who appear to fancy that all we shall have to do is to remain here quietly, until the captain thinks fit to move on again.”

“I’ll promise you to keep my eyes open, and to impress the same duty on the other men,” I answered.

“Especially keep them open towards the very point which you fancy so secure, down that cliff. You or I might find it a tough job to climb up it with our boots and gaiters, and heavy coats, but a half-naked savage, with his scalping-knife in his teeth, would not think it so hard a matter, and hard or not hard, if mortal man can do it, he’ll try, if he hopes to catch us napping when he gets to the top.”

We were now summoned to the supper which had been in the meantime preparing, and my mother, with Kathleen and Lily, followed by Biddy and the nurse Rose, joined us round the camp-fire. The security which we now enjoyed made us forget the dangers we had passed, and those we might anticipate, and put us all into good spirits.

Of course the usual number of men were on the watch, but I observed that my father was constantly in the attitude of listening; and both he and the Dominie frequently got up and walked round the camp, the Dominie especially taking many a peep over the breastwork above the cliff.

“In my opinion, that part should not be left unguarded for a moment,” he said. “The rush of the water below prevents us from hearing anyone moving beneath, and we can hardly see ten feet down, while an Indian would not take half as many seconds to spring to the top and be in our midst.”

As it was important that the men should obtain some rest after the fatigues they had gone through, those not required to be on guard were ordered to lie down. Before doing so, however, the horses and cattle were brought inside the camp, where they might be in security should the Indians suddenly come upon us during the hours of darkness.

My father, Uncle Denis, and the Dominie divided the watch between them, so that one was always on duty. I was appointed to act under Mr Tidey, and it fell to his lot to keep the morning watch. I don’t think I ever slept more soundly in my life, for I had been on horseback, or in active exercise since sunrise. I rubbed my eyes when called by Uncle Denis.

“We have had a quiet night, not a sign of the redskins, and I suspect, should they have reconnoitred our camp from a distance, they have thought it wise to let it alone,” he said.

“You may be right, Mr O’Dwyer; but, notwithstanding, the night is not over, and until I see the sun rise I shall not be satisfied that we are to move on without a skirmish,” observed the Dominie.

“Well, well! I hope to get my night’s rest out without interruption,” answered Uncle Denis, as he stretched himself on the ground, and turned on his side to go to sleep.

Chapter Eight.

Ready for the foe—Dio’s master-stroke—The battle—Defeat of the redskins—Watching through the night—A reconnoitring party—A perilous duty—The coast clear—Exploring the woods—The rustling in the leaves—An American lion—Fight between a puma and boar—Fresh provisions—No enemy near—Tim Casey’s redskins—The start—Seeking a ford—Crossing discovered by Dio—A cavalry engagement—Death of an Indian chief—A strange colony—Prairie dogs—Scarcity of water—Sufferings of the party—Set out to procure relief—Make for Fort Hamilton—Horses bitten by rattle-snake—A welcome sign—Friends or foes—The sergeant of the guard—The challenge after the shot—The fort reached—Our reception—The doctor’s treatment of my horse—A visit to the fortifications.

Kept on the alert by Mr Tidey’s warnings, I continued racing up and down the portion of the camp which had been allotted to me to guard. It was the north-west angle, contained by the line of breastwork which ran along the edge of the ravine and half of that by the brink of the cliff. I frequently stopped to listen, stretching over as far as I could to look down into the depths of the gorge below, I had been on watch about an hour and had just reached the eastern end of my beat, where it joined that of Dio, who was posted at the northern angle, when I saw the black come creeping towards me.

“Hist! Massa Mike,” he whispered, “me tink me hear someting down below, may be bear or painter, or may be red-skin comin’ to try and cut our t’roats. He no get in so easy ’dough. Jes’ come an’ say what you t’ink it is, Massa Mike, but not show yourself, or if red-skin savage him shoot his arrow.”

Following Dio’s example, I stooped down and crept cautiously on to the point to which he conducted me. We listened attentively. The sound of the cattle cropping the grass, or the cry of some night-bird, and now and then the snore of a sleeper, alone broke the silence of night.

“I can hear no sounds, Dio,” I whispered.

“Dat show me dat he no bear, painter, or wolf, for dey rush about de brushwood. Red-skin too clever for dat.”

“Keep watch then, Dio,” I said, “while I call Mr Tidey. You very likely are right; and if he thinks so, we must rouse up the rest of the camp. You must keep an eye to my post, which I ought not to quit except on an emergency.”

I ran to the opposite angle, where the Dominie had stationed himself, and told him that Dio had heard a movement below us.

“Just what I expected,” he answered; “go back to your post, and I will call up your father and uncle, and the rest of the men if necessary.”

I hurried back and had scarcely got half-way across the camp, though it was not many paces wide, when I saw Dio lift up his double-handed axe, and strike a blow with it at some object which was to me invisible. The Dominie, who had seen the occurrence, rushed back to the breastwork. We were just in time to catch sight of the feather-bedecked heads of two Indians rising above the bank, on which they were about to place their knees. The next moment Dio’s axe came down on one of them, while the Dominie struck a blow at the other which hurled him backwards.

“Give a look to the side of the gully, they will be attempting to get in there presently. The Indians expect to surprise us, but we will turn the tables on them,” whispered Mr Tidey.

I followed his directions, but on looking over the breastwork could see no one. My father and the other men were on their feet in a moment. Hitherto not a word had been spoken above a whisper, so that should any redskins be making their way up the gully they would not discover that we were on the alert, unless the sound of the falling bodies of those who had been killed had reached their ears. I was quickly joined by Uncle Denis and Dan, who had crept along so as not to show their heads over the fortifications. We had thrown a quantity of brushwood on the logs, which served more effectually to conceal us, with here and there an opening through which we could look. We each of us stationed ourselves at one of these loop-holes. Several minutes had passed, I listened, expecting that some sound would indicate the approach of the enemy, but I could neither hear nor see anything, and I began to fancy that the three Indians we had disposed of were alone engaged in the attempt to surprise us, or that their companions, if they had any, on their being killed, had taken to flight. What was going on, on the other side of the camp, I could not tell, but I felt very sure that my father was keeping a vigilant watch, and was prepared for whatever might occur. The camp was wrapped in as perfect silence as if we had all been asleep. Presently it was broken by the reports of rifles fired almost simultaneously, succeeded by a chorus of the most fearful yells and whoops I had ever heard, proceeding from the throats it seemed of a whole legion of savages. The horses and terrified cattle tugged at their tether ropes, two or three breaking loose and rushing up to the side I was on for protection, being the furthest from the dreaded sounds. Others stood trembling, too paralysed with fear to move. Had it not been for the breastwork, I suspect we should have lost many of them over the cliff. My first impulse was to hasten to the side attacked, but in the interval between the war-whoops, I heard my father’s voice shouting, “Stay all of you at your posts, we don’t know on which side we may next be attacked.”

Our men continued firing as rapidly as they could load, and as far as I could judge were successfully keeping the foe at bay; though showers of arrows kept falling into the camp, and we on the opposite side ran no slight risk of being wounded. I was looking through my loophole, when I saw some dark objects creeping out from amid the brushwood on the opposite side of the ravine. Under other circumstances I should have supposed that they were four-footed animals, wolves, or wild hogs, but as it was, I was very certain that they were men. They advanced but a few paces, then stopped as if surveying the side of the fort in front of them. Once more they began to creep on slowly. Hurrying up to Dan, I despatched him to tell our father what I had seen, and that within a minute probably we should be attacked.

“I see them,” whispered Uncle Denis, “we must hold them in check until assistance arrives.”

We were not long kept in a state of suspense. In a shorter space of time than I had expected another fearful shriek rent the air, and a host of dark forms sprang into view; at the same moment a flight of arrows came whistling above our heads. The brushwood, however, deceived them, and the missiles flew over us, though we feared that some of the cattle would be wounded.

“Now give it them!” cried my uncle, and we both fired, bringing down two of our assailants. For a moment they were checked, but once again moving on, they began scrambling up the side of the breastwork, and would in another instant have been over it, when we were joined by my father, Mr Tidey, and most of the men, who, having poured a volley full in the faces of the foe, seized their axes and soon cleared the breastwork. We quickly reloaded again, and fired on our retreating enemies, who sprang down the sides of the gully, to shelter themselves in the brushwood from which I had seen them emerge. Scarcely was this done, than a shout from Martin Prentis, who was in charge of the opposite side, summoned back the party to defend it. They reloaded as they went, and were just in time to fire a volley on the savages who had rallied and charged almost close up to the waggons; but meeting unexpectedly so determined a resistance, they once more scampered off, much faster than they had approached.

We still kept, however, a vigilant watch on the cliff side, lest the cunning savages, fancying that we should be off our guard, might again attempt to surprise us. As may be supposed none of us turned in. Some of the men were employed in examining the wounds the cattle had received. Fortunately two of the people only had been slightly hurt by the arrows, several of which, however, were found sticking in the waggons, or had gone through the tilts.

Mr Tidey, Dio, and I continued pacing up and down above the cliff, over which we constantly looked, our eyes endeavouring to detect any movement in the bushes, which might indicate the presence of Indians.

As far as we could see through the gloom, all was perfectly quiet. At length some bright streaks appeared in the eastern sky. Slowly the light increased, and we could see and hear the water as it flowed far down below us, the cliffs on the opposite side of the river coming into view; still a part of the trees across the gully were shrouded in gloom, and might, for what we could tell, conceal our foes.

It was with a feeling of thankfulness that I at length saw the sun himself rising above the prairie, over which we had passed on the previous day, and soon the whole country was lighted up by his bright rays. From the elevated position of our camp, we could obtain an extensive view to the eastward and south, though the rising ground across the river to the north prevented us from seeing far in that direction, while the wood which clothed the side of the ravine continued on some way to the westward, and shut out the prospect.

“We must manage to ascertain whether any of the red-skins are lurking in that wood,” observed Mr Tidey; “they are very likely to have stowed themselves away, ready to rush out upon us, while they fancy that most of the men are engaged with the cattle outside, or have gone down to the river to draw water. It won’t do to trust those fellows, notwithstanding the defeat they have received.”

I agreed with him, and arranged, if my father did not object, to make an excursion into the wood as soon as we had had breakfast, taking care not to be surprised ourselves by those whose presence it was our object to discover. As soon as I was off my watch, I went to ascertain how it fared with my mother and her young charges. She had remained in her tent, under the shelter of the waggons, during the whole time, and had been less alarmed, she assured me, than I had expected. “I knew that your father had taken all possible means to defend the camp, and that the men would do their duty; and I trusted that God in His mercy would protect us,” she said. Kathleen and Lily, who were awakened by the firing, threw their arms round my neck. Kathleen asked when the redskins would be driven away, but poor Lily was naturally far more frightened, believing that the savages would kill us all as they had lately killed her friends. Rose was almost as much alarmed, but Biddy was ready to stand up and fight with the men, had her services been required.

My father, I found, had determined to remain a couple of days in our present camp, for the purpose of resting the cattle, and in the hopes that the Indians, finding that we were well prepared to resist their attacks, would move to a distance, so that we might proceed without further molestation to Fort Hamilton. My father, calling the men together, praised them for their conduct.

“If you all are as watchful as heretofore, and behave with the same cool courage, I feel very sure that we shall make our way through and defeat the redskins, should any come near us,” he observed: “we must now find out whether any savages are lurking in yonder wood, that we may not run the risk of being attacked while we are taking our cattle down to the river.”

On hearing this remark, I told him what Mr Tidey proposed, and begged leave to accompany the Dominie.

“I cannot forbid my own son to perform a duty which I would impose on others,” he answered. “You may go, Mike, and I must charge you as I should anybody else, to be cautious; you have a wily foe to deal with, and you must take care not to let any of the Indians get between you and the camp.”

I of course promised to use all due precaution. Dio, who had been attentively listening to what my father said, offered at once to go down to the bottom of the cliff and ascertain if any of our enemies were concealed in the brushwood which skirted the borders of the river.

“It still dark down dare, an’ dey not see me,” he observed. Though the rays of the rising sun glanced across the higher ground, the light had scarcely yet penetrated into the depths below; still it was doubtful if even Dio would escape the sharp eyes of the Indians, should any be concealed and lurking near. However, as it was important to ascertain whether any remained, my father did not prohibit him from carrying out his intention. Slipping over the breastwork, he disappeared among the trees in the ravine. We listened somewhat anxiously for any sound which might indicate that he had discovered a foe, or rather that a foe had discovered him, but as we looked down over the cliff, we could neither see nor hear anyone moving among the dense brushwood. In a few minutes, greatly to our relief, he returned, reporting that although he had found some marks of blood on the rocks where the Indians had fallen, that their bodies had been removed, proving that a number of the enemy must have collected there with the intention of climbing up the cliff, but had been deterred by the death of their companions. We had now to ascertain if the wood itself was clear of them.

As soon as we had taken a hasty breakfast, the Dominie and I set off; Martin Prentis and Dio accompanying us a short distance. It was intended that they should return if no enemies were discovered, so that the horses and cattle might be led down to the river without delay. As we made our way along, we examined every bush or rock which might conceal a foe, but minute as was our search we could, discover no one. We therefore sent back our companions, saying that we were sure there could be no risk in letting the thirsty animals go down to the river. As there were only two of us, we had now to proceed more cautiously. It thus took us a considerable time to cover but a small space of ground. As the sun was still low, many parts of the forest were shrouded in gloom, though here and there the light penetrated amid the trunks of the trees and enabled us to see far ahead. We kept ourselves concealed as we advanced, waiting occasionally to listen, but no sounds reached our ears. If we spoke, it was in low whispers, when we were close together.

“I am pretty well satisfied that no Indians are here,” observed Mr Tidey, “still we must be prudent, and run no unnecessary risk.”

Again we advanced, when suddenly he made a sign for me to stop. A rustling in the brushwood had reached his ear. I heard it also; it came from a spot some way ahead. Directly before us appeared a huge tree which had been partially uprooted, the trunk being at a sharp angle with the ground, while the boughs resting against those of its neighbours had prevented it from falling prostrate. We crept towards it, and finding that I could easily clamber up I did so, followed by Mr Tidey. We could thus see much further ahead than from the ground below. We had been there about a minute, the rustling sound still continuing.

“If the Indians are making their way through the wood, they cannot suppose that anyone is near, or they would be more cautious,” I observed.

“No Indians would make a noise like that,” whispered Mr Tidey; “see!”

Just then a wild boar broke through the brushwood, making its way among the tall grass, which he dug up with his tusks as if in search of roots. Presently he lay down to enjoy at his ease the repast he had thus procured. Instinctively I raised my rifle to my shoulder, when my companion made a sign.

“Don’t fire,” he said; “for should the Indians be in the neighbourhood, the sound will attract them towards us.”

“But the boar will escape, and we shall lose the pork, which will be so acceptable in camp,” I remarked.

“Better to lose the pork than be scalped,” answered the Dominie, though he gazed at the boar with a wistful eye.

We were still undecided what to do, when we caught sight of another large animal creeping along from an opposite direction towards the boar. So stealthily did it advance, that the boar appeared to be unconscious of its approach.

The newcomer was the creature commonly known among the western settlers as the “painter,” but more properly called the puma or American lion. It is a powerful animal with a tawny hide, larger than the largest dog, and more like a tiger than a lion. It will seldom attack man, unless it can take him at a disadvantage, and if boldly met will run off rather than fight. When pressed by hunger, however, it is very savage, and with its sharp claws and teeth proves a formidable antagonist. It was not likely to attack us while expecting to enjoy a feast of pork. We were both afraid of speaking, lest we should attract its attention, and the boar, being alarmed, might effect its escape.

On crept the “painter” in the attitude of a cat about to seize some helpless bird. The moment it came within a few paces it made a tremendous spring and alighted with its four paws on the body of the boar. Whether or not the latter had seen it coming out of the corner of one of its eyes I could not tell, but as the “painter” made its bound, it rose to its feet and with its sharp tusks inflicted a severe wound in the breast of its antagonist. A fearful struggle now commenced between the two animals, the “painter” endeavouring to seize the neck of the boar with its teeth, while the boar drove its tusks again and again into the breast and shoulders of the puma, giving vent, at the same time, to its rage and fear in angry grunts, shrieks, and squeaks, sufficient to attract the attention of any hungry redskins, who would guess what was going forward, within a mile of us. Still, in spite of the wounds it had received, there was every probability that the puma, from its greater agility, would gain the victory. The boar’s thick skin was torn off in several places by the claws and teeth of its antagonist. Its movements became slower and slower, till the puma, having learned to avoid its tusks, sprang on its back, and then rolling it over with one blow of its paw, tore out its inside. The “painter” having thus gained the victory, began forthwith to feast on pork.

“Come, that’s more than I bargained for,” exclaimed Mr Tidey, and forgetting the caution he had given me, he lifted his rifle and fired. His bullet went through the head of the puma, which rolled over by the side of its late antagonist.

“You told me not to fire for fear of attracting the Indians,” I observed.

“So I did, but I am satisfied that the uproar made by the boar would have brought them to the spot had there been any in the neighbourhood,” he answered. “I don’t think we have cause to fear them. Keep watch, however, where you are, while I go down and cut up the porker. Should you hear or see any Indians coming this way give me timely notice, and I will rejoin you. We shall be able to hold our own against them, but I do not expect that we shall be interfered with.”

Saying this, he scrambled down the trunk of the tree, and cautiously approached the puma. His bullet, however, had effectually deprived it of life. Accordingly, placing his rifle on the ground, so that he might seize it in a moment, he began to cut up the boar. The operation did not take his practised hand long to perform. I was too much occupied, however, in watching the approaches from all directions to perceive what he was about, for every instant I expected to see the painted face of an Indian brave emerging from among the trees. No one appeared, and at length I heard Mr Tidey shout out:—

“The pork is ready for transport, we will make the best of our way back to camp, so come down and help me, Mike. We may report that there are no Indians in the wood, or we should have made their acquaintance long ago.”

I found that Mr Tidey had not only cut up the boar, but had flayed the puma, from the skin of which he had formed a number of thongs. Some of them served to secure to our backs as much of the pork as we could carry, while with others we fastened up the remainder of the boar to the boughs of a tree, to prevent either wolves or other animals from reaching it until we could return with one of the horses to carry it into camp. Our task being completed, we set off, taking a direct line back, keeping well in the centre of the wood, that we might run no risk of being seen by any Indians outside it.

The pork we had brought was extremely welcome, as we had had no fresh provisions for some days. Dio, with one of the other men immediately volunteered to go out and bring in the remainder, our trail being sufficiently distinct to enable them without difficulty to reach the spot. As the Indians had not reappeared during our absence, it was hoped that they would not incur any danger in the expedition. Mr Tidey, however, though pretty well tired, insisted on accompanying them as soon as he had taken some food. The two wounded men were going on well, and the cattle which had been hurt by the Indians’ arrows did not appear to be much the worse from the injuries they had received. None of the people were idle, those not on watch being employed in repairing the waggons and harness, cleaning their arms, filling the water-skins, mending their clothes, or in cutting wood for our fires or cooking. Late in the day Mr Tidey and his companions appeared with the remainder of the boar’s flesh, which they had found untouched, though the carcase of the puma had been eaten up by a pack of coyotes, the traces of whose feet they discovered under the bough to which the meat had been suspended.

We now prepared for another night, every one being aware that before it was over we might be engaged in a deadly struggle for our lives, for it was more than probable that the Indians, though defeated, might make another attempt to surprise us. As all the grass within the camp had been consumed, it was necessary to allow the cattle and horses to remain outside, three men being stationed to watch them. I felt very thankful when I was able to wrap myself up in my buffalo robe, and go to sleep, and so I am sure were all hands to lie down and rest. Some time after midnight my ears caught the sound of firing. I started to my feet, and seized my rifle, expecting to find that the camp was attacked, every one else also was aroused. The reports had come from the direction where the cattle we feeding, and presently Uncle Denis and I, who hurried out to ascertain the cause of the alarm, met them, urged on by the voices of their drovers, moving leisurely towards the camp. On coming up to one of the men, Tim Casey by name, we inquired where the enemy had been seen, for we could perceive no objects moving anywhere.

“Sure, didn’t I catch sight of a whole tribe of the murtherin’ villins creepin’ up on all fours, loike so minny big rats towards us, and didn’t they turn tail an’ scamper off when I fired at thim.”

The other men had not even seen the enemy.

“Depend on it, Tim, that your tribe of redskins were a tribe of coyotes, who might, however, have pulled down one of the oxen had you not driven them off,” said Uncle Denis. “You may let the cattle rest without any fear of an attack for the present, for the appearance of the wolves is a pretty sure sign that no redskins are in the neighbourhood.”

Uncle Denis was right in his conjectures, the night passed away without any further alarm. We had hopes of enjoying a complete rest during the day, but the forest to the westward and the dense wood below us, caused my father some anxiety, as they might afford concealment to an approaching enemy, and we were compelled therefore to keep a constant watch against surprise. As evening approached and it was necessary again to water the cattle, two parties were sent out, one along the bank of the river, and the other to examine the forest some distance from the camp. Both returned reporting that they had met with neither human beings nor animals, and the cattle were accordingly led down as before to the river side. It was somewhat difficult to account for our being allowed to remain in quiet. The only way we could do so was from supposing that the Indians had lost so many men that they thought it prudent not to molest us while we remained in camp. The question was whether they would venture to attack the train when we were once more moving on. Still, move we must, and preparations were made for starting at daybreak the following morning.

The weather was beautifully fine, and we were all in good health and in excellent spirits, considering the dangers by which we were surrounded. Another night went tranquilly by, and the instant the first faint streaks of light appeared in the eastern sky my father roused up all hands. In an instant we were engaged in our respective duties, reloading the waggons, harnessing the cattle, and saddling the horses. We were quickly in order, the word was given to move on. My father, on his stout horse, led the way, keeping at some distance from the wood, on which he directed us to maintain a vigilant watch lest a party of Indians, expecting to find us off our guard, might be in ambush beneath its shelter, and pounce out upon us. Mr Tidey and I rode one on either flank, sometimes pushing on ahead, with our rifles ready to fire at any foe who might appear, and to retreat to the main body according to my father’s directions. The wood was at length passed, and we obtained an extensive view over the country, on every side. Our object was now to find a ford by which we might cross the river. In case of not discovering one, we intended to form rafts to ferry over the waggons, while the horses and oxen would have to swim across. To do this; however, would be a work of great labour and involve the loss of much time, besides the risk of having the waggons upset. They would have, we foresaw, to be floated down to a convenient landing-place, should one not be found opposite to the spot where we might embark. Above the river rose a number of high bluffs one beyond the other. While Dio, who now accompanied Mr Tidey and me, held our horses, we climbed to the summits of several of them, hoping to discover the anxiously desired ford.

Time after time we had been disappointed as we had seen the river still flowing on through a narrow and deep channel, across which it would have been impossible for our waggons to pass.

The day was drawing to a close.

“If we do not discover the ford soon, we shall have to camp again on this side,” observed my companion. “There is another height, perhaps we shall be more fortunate this time!”

We dismounted, and Dio took our reins, while we made our way to the top of the bluff. Looking back we could see the train about half a mile off, slowly following in our tracks. Beyond us, to the southward, the country appeared much more level than that we had lately passed over, while, greatly to our satisfaction, the river widened out considerably, the ground sloping down gradually on both sides to the water.

“That part looks fordable at all events,” said the Dominie, pointing it out to me. “If we cannot get across in any other way, we must make rafts of the waggons and send a small part of their cargoes over at a time. The undertaking can be easily performed, provided the Indians keep at a distance, but it would be awkward to be attacked while engaged in the operation.”

“We will hope for the best,” I answered; “but we will take a look round the country, and we may perhaps discover them, should any be moving about in the distance.”

We swept our glasses round and round the horizon several times. Once I thought that I caught sight of a party of Indians moving rapidly over the ground, but what I saw proved to be a herd of antelopes. We observed also several buffaloes, which made us wish that we had time to go and hunt them, for a fat cow would have been welcome. The idea however of going in chase of them was not to be thought of, considering the risk we should run of falling in with Indians who might be on the watch for us. Still tolerably satisfied that no enemies were within a distance of several miles, we descended the hill and pushed on to that part of the river which appeared likely to afford us a passage. On reaching it, Dio exclaimed—

“Me tink me get ’cross, me go in an’ try; if too deep, me swim like one fish!”

Without waiting for permission, he dashed forward. We watched him anxiously: at first the water reached scarcely above his horse’s knees, but as he advanced it grew deeper and deeper, and presently, to our disappointment, we saw the animal swimming, while Dio, who threw himself from its back, struck out with one hand, while he guided it across with the other. The horse quickly regained its feet, and after wading for forty or fifty yards, stepped again on dry ground. Dio immediately mounted, and pointing down the stream, made signs to us that he would recross in that direction; we rode along the bank, very doubtful, however, whether a fordable spot could be found. Once more Dio rode into the stream, and we watched him anxiously as the water rose higher and higher up his horse’s legs. Still the animal walked on, though in the centre the water reached nearly to the girths, soon after however gradually diminishing in depth. There could be no doubt, if the ground was hard, that the waggons could be got over. On this point Dio gave a favourable report, and we, both riding in, crossed at some distance from each other over even ground. Mr Tidey sent Dio back to report our discovery to my father, while we rode backwards and forwards several times to assure ourselves that the ford was of ample width to allow not only one waggon but two or three to cross abreast if necessary; by the time the leading waggon arrived we had thoroughly surveyed the ford, and it at once began to descend the slope to the water’s edge. Scarcely had the oxens’ feet entered the stream, when Tim Casey came riding up, sent by Uncle Denis from the rear, to say that he made out some horsemen in the far distance, who, he much feared, were Indians.

“We shall have time to cross and form our camp on the opposite side, before they can reach us,” answered my father. “Tell Mr O’Dwyer to hurry on the rearmost waggons; but keep cool, my lads; there is no cause for alarm; for should there be no other ford in the neighbourhood, the savages cannot cross to attack us on the other side, and we can easily defend ourselves against any number of assailants.”

While Mr Tidey and Dio forded the river, to form the waggons as they got over, my father and I remained to direct the passage. As they arrived one after the other, he ordered them to push across without a moment’s delay. I saw that he frequently cast a glance in the direction in which, from the report sent by Uncle Denis, we expected the Indians to appear. He retained several of the men not absolutely required to attend the waggons. The two last had got down to the brink of the river, when Uncle Denis, who had remained some distance in the rear, came galloping up.

“The Indians are approaching,” he exclaimed; “they will be here before the waggons are across.”

“Push on then, my lads,” said my father to the drivers; “we are ready for them, and if they venture near, they will have to mourn the loss of some of their braves.”

The waggon wheels were in the water, the oxen tugged away, urged on by their drivers. My father, Uncle Denis and I, with Martin and two other men, remained behind to protect them until they were safe across. A little on one side, the bank was somewhat of a cliff-like form of sufficient height to conceal us when we stooped down from the foe. We could hear the tramp of the Indians’ horses as they galloped on, doubtlessly supposing that they should soon come on the unprotected rear of the train, and easily carry off two or three waggons.

We remained motionless until we caught sight of the heads of the leading horses of the enemy, the chiefs shouting and shrieking as they were about to dash forward into the stream.

“Now, fire!” cried my father, and half a dozen redskins toppled over from their saddles.

“Wallop, a-hoo, a-boo, Erin-go-bragh!” shouted Uncle Denis.

We echoed his cries, as, digging spurs into our steeds without stopping to reload, we threw ourselves on the advancing foe, pistolling some and cutting down others.

Those who were still on the level ground, and had command of their horses, seeing the fall of their companions, wheeled round and retreated to a distance, while some, who had got too far to stop themselves, leapt into the river beyond the ford where their small steeds were soon carried off their legs and together with their riders swept down the current.

“Now let us cross while we can, before those fellows charge again,” cried my father, and urging our horses into the water we followed the waggons, the rearmost of which were by this time more than half-way over.

What I have described occupied scarcely a minute. Our chief object was now to get the waggons across, and to place them in position, before the Indians, recovering from the panic, should perceive the smallness of our covering party and again swoop down upon us. To be prepared for them, we reloaded as we crossed the stream, trusting to the sure-footedness of our horses not to stumble.

The drivers exerted themselves to the utmost, encouraged by Dio, who rushed again and again into the water to urge on the oxen, most of whom tried to drink as they found their noses close to the refreshing liquid.

There was just time for the waggons to reach the bank, and to be placed with their broadsides towards the ford, when we saw the enemy again approaching.

“Let no one fire until they are half-way across, and then don’t throw a shot away,” cried my father, as the rest of the men joined us.

The leading waggons formed in line along the bank. The savages, unwilling to lose so rich a prize as they hoped to obtain by the capture of our train, came galloping forward, shouting and shrieking as before.

“Let them whoop again as loud as they like, but they’ll not frighten us,” cried Martin Prentis; “we’ll give them a British cheer in return,” and raising his voice, every person joining, a cheer was uttered which must have astonished the redskins: their pace slackened, but still they advanced, encouraged by a chief, who, waving a spear, rode on ahead. He was not aware how far our bullets could reach.

Uncle Denis, raising his rifle, took a steady aim. The steed galloped on a few yards, when the chief, waving his spear and shouting to the last, fell dead to the ground. His followers, coming up, reined in their horses, uttering loud wails, and then, wheeling round, bore him away with them, nor stopped until they were out of sight. As they made no further attempt to recover the bodies of those who had before fallen, it was an acknowledgment of their complete defeat, and we had reason to hope that we should not be further molested. We now set busily to work to form our camp, to cut wood for our fire, keeping, notwithstanding our success, a vigilant watch on all sides. It was possible that other bands of Indians might be on the western bank of the river and that we should still have to fight our way to the fort.

The night passed tranquilly by, and the next morning we proceeded as before. The apparently boundless prairie stretched out ahead, covered chiefly with long grass and here and there small bushes, which the buffalo and deer had allowed to struggle into existence. We advanced as rapidly as we could, steering by the compass, the scenery monotonous in the extreme, not a hill to be seen to break the wide circle of the horizon. One advantage was that we could not be taken by surprise, as we could see for a long distance any enemy which might approach us. We found numberless skeletons of buffaloes as well as their wallows, though we had not hitherto fallen in with any to which we might give chase.

Mr Tidey and I were, as usual, leading ahead, taking care always to keep the train in view. Every now and then he stood up in his stirrups, in the hopes of seeing buffalo, but no buffalo appeared. We, however, after proceeding about a dozen miles from the river, saw away to the left, over a wide extent of ground, a number of small hillocks, which, had I been on foot, I might have mistaken for a range of hills in the distance. As it would not take us much out of our way, we rode towards them, when, as we approached we saw to our surprise that the top of every mound was occupied either by a small animal or a bird of an owl-like appearance, which appeared to be watching the rest of the community, employed in cropping the grass or running about in the immediate neighbourhood.

As the little creatures perceived us, they rushed to their look-out station at the top of the mounds, while at the same moment a number of small heads popped up from holes in the ground, and we were saluted by a chorus of sharp, angry barks, while the animals shook their sides and wagged their tails at every bark, as if they would wag them off; then, having thus exhibited either their pleasure or fear—it was difficult to say which—uttering a fresh volley of barks, they rushed headlong into their burrows, wagging their tails to the last as they disappeared beneath the surface. The little owls, however, kept their posts and regarded us with their round eyes, utterly destitute of fear.

I burst into a fit of laughter. “What are these funny creatures, I wonder?” I asked.

“They are prairie dogs, and we have fallen in with a prairie dog town, though I little expected to find one so far north,” answered the Dominie; “we should farther away find them covering acres of ground. It is said that an owl and a rattle-snake are invariably to be found in each hole, living in perfect amity with its inmates, but I suspect that although rattlesnakes are often to be found in the abodes of the small rodents, their object in going there is rather to devour the young prairie dogs than for any friendly purpose, though it is possible that the owls take up their residence among them for the sake of society.”

The animals we were watching were of the size of a rabbit, with hair like that of a rat, the colour being of a light red, resembling the squirrel. Their tails, however, instead of curling over, stood straight up over their backs and seemed formed for the express purpose of wagging, which they did to a prodigious amount. They are of the most sociable disposition, and are generally found living in large colonies on the prairies. We watched for a minute or two, but they did not again show their noses above the ground. No sooner, however, had we turned our horses’ heads, and begun to ride off, than we were saluted by a chorus of barks, which was kept up until we were out of hearing.

We should have halted at noon, but as no water could be found, we pushed on, in the hopes of coming to a pool at which the cattle could drink. We carried, however, enough in our water-bottles to slake our own thirst. The sun beat down on our heads with greater force than we had yet experienced, and compelled us frequently to apply to them. The poor animals, we knew, must be suffering greatly, but the small portion of the precious liquid we could have spared would have afforded them no relief. In vain we rode sometimes to the north, sometimes to the south, in the hopes of discovering the smallest puddle. At last we had to halt to rest the weary cattle, though we could find no water, and without it they showed no inclination to crop the hard, wiry grass. We therefore remained but a short time, and once more pushed forward. As evening approached we began to feel very anxious, for without water the oxen ould scarcely perform their next day’s journey. The sun, verging towards the west, was shining in our eyes and prevented us from discerning objects in that direction. At length Mr Tidey, who was on ahead, shouted to me that he saw a hollow, with shrubs growing round it, and that in all probability water would be found at the bottom; I got up alongside him, and we rode forward together. As we drew nearer the hollow appeared to increase in size, but still we could see no water.

“Surely there must be some there!” exclaimed Mr Tidey; “it cannot all have dried up.”

I felt rather doubtful about that, but when we reached the brink of the hollow our anxiety was relieved by seeing a pool, though of small dimensions and covered over with a thick coat of green, broken here and there by some water-fowl which had dipped into it. Such as it was, it was better than no water, and we rode back to guide the waggons to it. As we drew up on the bank we could scarcely restrain the oxen from rushing down quench their burning thirst. It was necessary, however, to water the horses first, though we could not allow them to take their fill, for fear of exhausting the supply. As soon as the oxen were unyoked, some nearly rolled over on their noses in their eagerness to drink the stagnant water. After they had been led back it was with difficulty we could prevent their returning, but it was necessary to preserve some of the water for the following morning. Though we kept a watch as usual all night, we had not much fear of being attacked, as the want of water, would, we hoped, prevent the Indians from approaching us.

Some time before the streak of pink and gold which announces the coming dawn appeared in the sky, we were all on foot and the horses were led down to be watered, but instead of the liquid we expected to find, a mass of soft mud, through which it had sunk, was alone to be discovered. Without stopping therefore for breakfast, we immediately yoked in the oxen and pushed forward, hoping that before noon we might reach some stream or another water-hole. Our own supply of the necessary liquid was almost exhausted, and we ourselves might suffer severely if none could be found. Usually the men, as they trudged forward, amused themselves by singing songs or cutting jokes, but even the merriest were now silent and their countenances grew longer and longer as the day advanced and no water appeared. My father and uncle held a consultation. We might have to travel on, not only for one day, but for two or three days, without finding water, and the fort, from whence alone we were certain of obtaining relief, was still far distant. To turn back, however, and afterwards take a different route, would be as dangerous as to advance, as we should probably have to encounter the band of Indians with whom we had had the fight, and who would be certain to try and revenge the death of their warriors. At last it was decided that the train should continue to advance, and that Mr Tidey, Dio, and I should push forward on horseback to the fort. We there hoped to obtain a guide who would conduct us to where water was to be found. Our horses were in better condition than the rest of the animals with the exception of those my father and Uncle Denis usually rode. They however considered it necessary to remain with the train, and to keep their horses in case of requiring them on an emergency.

Carrying such provisions as we might require on our backs, with a good store of ammunition and our rifles slung across our shoulders, we set out, Mr Tidey having a pocket compass by which we could direct our course. We hoped to reach the fort in two or three days at furthest, and we might do so sooner could we find water to refresh our steeds. Our own water-bottles contained but a small supply, but it was all that could be spared. My father charged us to keep a watchful look-out for Indians, and should we see any in the distance, either to hide ourselves or to trust to the fleetness of our steeds, rather than risk an encounter. Having bid farewell to my mother, Kathleen, Lily, and Dan, who was disappointed at not being allowed to accompany us, I joined Mr Tidey and Dio, and we pushed on ahead of the train.

The heat was as great as on the previous day, but, as the Dominie observed, “We must not care for a slight inconvenience of that sort.” I however twisted a white handkerchief round my hat, to keep off the rays of the sun, and he followed my example. Dio seemed very indifferent to them, his woolly pate protecting him better than all the artificial contrivances we could adopt. The only living creatures we saw were several deer passing in the far distance to the westward. Of course we could not venture out of our course to chase them. Neither streams nor water-holes could we discover, and we were obliged at length to encamp on the open prairie. Having tethered our horses a short distance from us, where they could crop the grass, wet with the dew of night, and having eaten our scanty supper, we lay down with our saddles for pillows, taking it by turns to keep watch. The stars shone brightly out overhead, enabling us to see a considerable way from our camp, but as I walked up and down during my watch, I could discern no objects besides our three horses, though I continually cast my eyes round the horizon. I occasionally heard the distant yelp of a pack of coyotes, though they were too far off to be perceived and did not come near enough otherwise to annoy us.

I was thankful when Mr Tidey roused me up. Without waiting for daylight, as we could see our way without difficulty over the prairie and guide ourselves by the stars, having strapped on our packs and slung our rifles over our shoulders, we mounted and rode forward, our animals going much more briskly than they had done on the previous evening. When the sun rose the heat became as great as ever and the poor beasts began to slacken their speed, but eager to get on, we urged them forward with spur and rein until we began to fear that they would break down altogether. Suddenly, however, pricking up their ears and stretching out their necks, they broke into a gallop.

“They smell water, though we can see no signs of it,” observed Mr Tidey.

“Yes! dare, dare some trees!” cried Dio.

In a short time we perceived what his sharp sight had previously discovered. It was the bed of a stream. The horses, turning on one side, made their way down the bank to a small hole which as yet contained water, though had we gone straight forward we should not have discovered it, for the greater portion of the bed was perfectly dry. Almost stagnant as the water was, we thankfully quenched our thirst with it, and the horses having drank their fill, we led them again up the bank, where some coarse herbage grew, sufficient to satisfy their hunger. Having tethered them, we sat down to eat the first food we had taken that day. As it was important that the train should obtain water, long before they could reach this supply, we settled to continue our course to the fort.

We had just risen to our feet and were lifting up our saddles to put on our horses’ backs, when we saw Dio’s animal give a start and almost break its tether; directly afterwards mine, which was feeding near, also started back, and I caught a glimpse of the head and neck of a snake. At the same moment the peculiar sound caused by the tail of the rattle-snake reached our ears. We ran forward, fearing that Mr Tidey’s horse might also be bitten, and holding our rifles ready to shoot the creature, but it glided away through the grass, and though we heard its rattle, we could not catch sight of it. We anxiously examined the horses’ heads, and found that they had both been bitten on the lip; as, however, they did not appear to suffer, we mounted, hoping that no evil consequences would ensue.

“At all events we must gallop on and get to the fort as soon as possible,” said Mr Tidey, “and if we reach it soon, we may be able to apply some remedies to counteract the poison.”

For some time our spirited little animals went willingly enough, but at length they both began to flag, and on looking down I saw that their heads and necks had begun to swell. The swelling increased until they were fearfully disfigured, while their nostrils and gums became swollen, and discharged a clear mucus. Still on they went, though their pace became slower and slower, and it was evident that they could only walk with the greatest difficulty. At last we were obliged to dismount, lest they should roll over with us on the ground. On looking at them we found that their eyes were glassy, the pupils greatly dilated, while the hair on their backs seemed literally to stand on end. To mount again would have been useless, but unwilling to abandon them, we led them forward as fast as they could move. Mr Tidey constantly stood up looking out more anxiously than ever for the fort, but no object broke the line of the horizon to the westward. Sometimes we thought that we might possibly have passed it, and then we hoped against hope that we should reach it even now before dark. Still the day wore on, and our poor horses followed us with feeble steps, and it was pitiable to look at them, so swollen and disfigured had they become, their faces resembling hippopotami rather than terrestrial steeds. At last Dio’s stumbled and fell; nothing which we could do would induce the poor creature to rise, so we were obliged to leave him to become ere long the prey of the coyotes, should they venture to devour a poisoned animal. Mine, which had perhaps not received so much of the venom in its system as the other, still followed me, but it moved so slowly that I was compelled to lag behind my companions. The sun set and still nowhere could we discover the fort; there seemed every probability that we should have to spend another night on the open prairie, without fire, food, or shelter, or a drop of water to quench our thirst. That my poor animal could survive appeared impossible, and even Mr Tidey’s horse suffered greatly.

“It seems doubtful whether my poor brute will be able to move a leg to-morrow, and if so, we shall all three have to trudge forward on foot,” he observed.

“Then I would advise you to gallop on at once while there is any daylight, and perhaps you may reach the fort and be able to send us help,” I answered.

“No, no, I cannot leave you and Dio alone on the prairie. Should any harm happen to you I should never forgive myself,” he answered.

“But by going on alone you may obtain assistance, and in reality serve us more than by remaining behind,” I replied. Still I could not persuade the Dominie to desert us, and we trudged on as before.

Mr Tidey had called Dio to his side and they were some way before me, when I saw them both stop. Dio pointed ahead, while Mr Tidey leaned eagerly forward. Presently a large animal came out of a hollow in which it had previously been concealed. Moving on I saw to my satisfaction that it was one of a herd of tame cattle feeding at the bottom of the hollow. Instead of running away when we approached, they came lowing up, as if well accustomed to the sight of white men.

“Hurrah! the fort cannot be far off unless the herd has strayed away from it,” exclaimed Mr Tidey; “at all events it is some encouragement to move forward, and perhaps before long we shall find ourselves among friends.”

“It is not likely that we should be able to distinguish the fort at any great distance, but I see a hill rising up against the sky, and perhaps we shall find it in that direction,” I observed.

While I was speaking, Mr Tidey’s horse made a bolt down the slope, and presently, as the cattle moved aside, I saw a pool of water which, though muddy from the animals having trod in it, afforded a refreshing draught to his poor steed. Mine was too weak even to drink, and I feared that if it once got into the pool it would not have strength to get out again. We now advanced in somewhat better spirits than before. The condition of my horse, however, delayed me; but, in the hopes of obtaining some remedies to save its life, I still led it on. We had not got far when Mr Tidey, who, as usual, was looking about in every direction, exclaimed—

“I see a party of horsemen in the distance. If they are Indians and come near us, we must stop and drive them off. I can count but six; two a-piece, and we each of us must settle one of those as soon as they come within range of our bullets. In the meantime we will keep on as we are going, and if the fort is at hand, it may be that they will think it wise to keep at a distance.”

Looking steadily in the direction the Dominie pointed, I could but just discern some figures appearing against the sky above the horizon, but whether Indians or white men I was unable to determine. I kept watching them anxiously. In a short time Dio cried out—

“Dey come dis way! dey come dis way!”

“Never mind, if they come nearer than we like, we must send them to the right-about,” observed Mr Tidey calmly.

I could, however, see that the strangers were approaching at a rapid rate, and it would soon be necessary for us to get ready to receive them.

Mr Tidey frequently turned his head over his left shoulder, but still rode on.

“Had we not better stop?” I asked, “they will be down upon us presently.”

The Dominie pulled up, and attentively regarded the approaching strangers. “All right!” he exclaimed, “they are friends; I see their uniforms, we shall not have to fight for our lives this time.”

In a few minutes the strangers were up to us. They proved to be a scouting party led by a sergeant, and had come out from the fort on learning that a band of Indians on the war-path had been seen in the neighbourhood, but on discovering us they had ridden up to ascertain who we were. The sergeant gave us the satisfactory intelligence that the fort was not half a mile ahead. “You cannot miss it,” he observed, “if you keep straight on as you are going, but we must ride round and drive in some cattle which have strayed away, or we shall have them carried off by those thieves of redskins.”

We followed the advice of the sergeant; still, though according to our calculation we had gone the distance he had mentioned, we could not in the gloom distinguish the fort. Presently, however, a shot whistled past Mr Tidey’s ears, which made him suddenly bob his head, and a voice was heard crying out in an Irish accent—

“Who goes there?”

“Friends, who would be obliged to you to challenge first and shoot if they prove to be enemies,” answered the Dominie.

The next instant we found ourselves in front of a stockade above which appeared the roofs of some low buildings, while in front we could distinguish some mounds only a few feet above the level of the plain. On reaching a gate between the mounds, guarded by two stone towers of little more elevation than the stockades, it was opened, and on entering we found several soldiers.

One of them took Mr Tidey’s horse, and another was about to take the rein of mine, when he exclaimed—

“What creature have we here? never saw an animal with such a face as this!”

I was explaining what had happened, when a sergeant appeared from the guard-room.

“We will get the doctor to have a look at him, and see if anything can be done for the poor brute,” he said in a compassionate tone.

I thanked him. Mr Tidey gave the message from my father, entreating that assistance might be sent to the relief of our train.

“You had better see the commandant, who will judge what is best to be done,” was the answer; and leaving our sorry steeds in charge of the soldiers, we accompanied the sergeant. The commanding officer received us kindly, and told us that if the report of Indians being in the neighbourhood should prove true, it was too probable that our train would be attacked.

“I will, however, at dawn to-morrow, send out a party to their assistance,” he added, “and I hope that they may arrive in time to drive off the redskins, should any have fallen in with your friends.”

We both urged that they might be sent off at once, but the commandant replied that it would be impossible to do so until the party we had met returned with the cattle, as he could not weaken the garrison, already scarcely sufficient for the defence of the place.

With this promise we were obliged to be content, he offering also to supply Dio and me with horses that we might accompany the party, which I hoped to be able to do after some rest, though just then, overcome by hunger and fatigue, I was scarcely able to move. I felt much revived by the supper which the commandant ordered at once to be placed on the table. He afterwards accompanied us out to see how it fared with my poor horse. I found that the doctor had been fomenting its wounded lip with a strong infusion of tobacco, and afterwards poulticing it with the chopped leaves of the same plant. He had also given the animal half a pint of whisky slightly diluted, and half an ounce of ammonia.

“If that doesn’t cure it, I don’t know what will,” he remarked.

I regretted that Dio’s horse was too far off to receive assistance—indeed, probably by that time the poor animal was dead. The commandant afterwards took us round the fort, remarking—

“Perhaps before the night is over we may be attacked, and it is as well that you should know the localities.”

In the centre were the barracks with the officers’ quarters’ on one side, the stables on the other, and a barn for the stowage of hay and other stores. Behind us was a yard in which the horses could be turned loose.

From these buildings, four subterranean passages, about three feet wide and five high, led each to a rifle-pit beyond the stockades, about twelve feet long and ten wide, roofed over with stone supported by wood-work.

Just on a level with the ground, below the roof, were loop-holes opening on all sides. In racks round the walls of these pits were placed a number of rifles, all loaded and ready for immediate use; so that, as the commandant explained, should a whole army of redskins approach, the garrison would be at once prepared to give them a warm reception.

The account he gave us of trains stopped and emigrants massacred increased my eagerness to set out to the assistance of our friends. By his advice, therefore, we turned in to try and get some rest. I could not sleep, however, but lay awake listening for the return of the soldiers who had been sent to bring in the cattle; for as the distance was not great, I calculated that they ought to have arrived not long after us, and I began to fear that they must have encountered the Indians, and perhaps themselves have been cut off. Overcome, however, with fatigue, I at length dropped off into a troubled slumber.

Chapter Nine.

The relief party set off—On the prairie—Indians discovered attacking the train—Our charge—No quarter asked nor given—My father and uncle wounded—The train delayed at Fort Hamilton—Provisions run short—A hunting-party arranged—A herd of wapiti—Dog Toby on the sick-list—Chasing the deer—A game at follow my leader—A fight between stags—The mysterious shot—The solitary hunter.

I was aroused by feeling a hand on my shoulder, and looking up, I saw Mr Tidey by the light of a lamp which burned on the table.

“It will soon be dawn,” he said; “the troopers are preparing to set off. But you are knocked up, Mike, and had better sleep on. I should have let you do so, but I did not like to set off without telling you that I was going. I hope, however, that we shall soon meet our friends, and find them all safe and sound.”

“I must go!” I cried, jumping up; “the commandant will lend me a horse, as my own is not likely to be of much use, even if the poor brute is still alive.”

Notwithstanding the Dominie’s expostulations, I was quickly ready. The commandant was on foot. Sympathising with my anxiety, he at once ordered a horse to be saddled for me. The eight troopers who were to accompany us mounted, and directly afterwards a half-breed guide made his appearance.

“He will conduct your train, wherever you may fall in with it, to the nearest stream or water-hole,” observed the commandant. “I cannot promise you that your friends have not been attacked, as the Indians are certainly in the neighbourhood, and have carried off some of our cattle; but I trust that, should such be the case, they will hold out until you arrive.”

This remark increased my anxiety, and made me more eager than ever to be off. I was looking out for Dio, and was inquiring for him, when he appeared mounted on a little mustang, with a brace of pistols in his belt, a soldier’s carbine slung over his back, and a sword by his side.

“Dey no want me to go,” he said, “but I say I fight as well as dey.”

I said I was very glad he had come, and inquired for my horse, which, to my satisfaction, he informed me was still alive, and that the doctor thought it would recover. I was thankful to have Dio with us, for he was as brave as man could be, and I could rely on him in any emergency. We thus formed a party of twelve, and the troopers considered themselves capable of coping with any Indians we were likely to encounter. The sergeant in command of the party was a cautious man, and, afraid of knocking up the horses, would not move as fast as I in my impatience desired. We had, however, made good about four or five miles when day dawned. As we moved on, we kept a look-out for Indians on both sides, not knowing in what direction they might appear; but even should they have crossed our course, we could not in the darkness discover their trail. As the light increased, our guide searched diligently for it, but he declared that he could perceive no signs of Indians having recently passed that way, though he observed the trail which we had made on the previous evening. At length I saw some way ahead the wings of several large birds flapping just above the ground. As we drew nearer, six or seven turkey buzzards rose into the air, and circling round flew to a short distance, where they remained watching us. They had been feeding on the body of Dio’s horse, utterly indifferent to the venom with which the flesh was impregnated. We kept to windward of it, and directly we had passed the foul birds flew back to their banquet. This showed us that the guide had led us aright, and that we could trust him. Losing patience, I entreated the sergeant to move on faster, reminding him that even should our friends not be attacked by the Indians, they were certainly suffering from want of water. He inquired how far off I calculated we should find the train.

“From fourteen to twenty miles,” I answered, “though, as I hope that they may have been able to move on, perhaps they may be still nearer.”

He still hesitated, but Mr Tidey joining his entreaties to mine, he put his horse into a gallop, ordering his men to advance. We now moved forward at as fast a rate as I could desire, the guide keeping his eye on the ground. Mile after mile of the level prairie was quickly covered, we in the mean time looking out for the plumed heads of any redskins which might show themselves above the horizon. Noon was approaching. I saw the guide attentively examining the ground.

“Indians have passed this way, but they have swept round again, off to the southward. It would take us much out of our way to follow up their trail, and I think it likely that we shall fall in with it again.”

“I hope not,” I remarked; “for if so, they may discover our train.”

He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. The ground had now become more uneven than heretofore. Before us rose an undulating hill of no great elevation, but of sufficient height to prevent us from seeing any distance to the eastward, and we had to rein in our horses as we mounted it. On reaching the top, the sergeant gave the order to halt, unslung his telescope, and swept the horizon from north to south.

“There’s the train,” he exclaimed, “coming this way, about three miles off.” Directly afterwards he added, “and there to the southward I see a troop of mounted Indians; there must be a hundred or more of them. They have discovered the train, and are galloping towards it as fast as their horses can go, hoping, I doubt not, to gain an easy victory.”

Borrowing the Dominie’s glass, I took a look through it, when to my dismay I perceived that the Indians were much nearer the train than we were, and might have time to swoop down upon it and be off again before we could arrive. My father apparently had not discovered them. While, however, I was still looking through the telescope, I saw the leading waggons stop and the others move up. I had no doubt that my father, having discovered the approaching foe, as preparing to meet them by forming a square. Just then the sergeant cried out—

“We must ride direct for the train, as we shall not be in time to cut off the redskins before they reach it. Forward!”

On we dashed at headlong speed. We had far to go, and in some places the ground was uneven; but if we were to save our friends from being cut to pieces, we must not pull rein until we were up to them. On and on we pressed. The train, formed in square, came in sight to the naked eye, as did the body of Indians who appeared close to it. Except the tramp of our horses over the yielding ground, not a sound was heard, until suddenly some puffs of smoke were seen and the rattle of musketry reached our ears. The Indians halted for an instant, but they were too far off to enable us to see whether or not they shot their arrows at the camp. Again and again the sound of fire-arms was heard, followed by war-whoops which, even at that distance, had a fearful sound. A belt of trees by the side of a dry water-course concealed the Indians from view, and, their eyes being fixed on their expected prey, they had hitherto probably not seen us. Louder and louder grew the noise of fighting, showing us that our friends were still holding out. I knew full well indeed that my father and uncle would fight to the last. Whether they had discovered that succour was at hand, we could not tell. It would not have prevented them from fighting hard, but it would have encouraged the men to hold out till we had reached them.

The sergeant, when he heard the sounds of battle was as eager to press forward as we were. The combatants at length saw us coming. Our own people raised a lusty cheer, while the Indians reined in their steeds, probably supposing, as we galloped on surrounded by clouds of dust, that a large body of cavalry were upon them. Some of the chiefs turned their horses’ heads to meet us, but we, charging furiously at them, pistolled some and cut down others, while the rest wheeling round galloped off, hoping to get beyond the reach of our shot. Before, however, they could do so, we pulled up and fired a volley at them, which emptied several saddles. While we were reloading they got out of our reach. The troopers then sweeping over the ground sabred all who had fallen and still showed signs of life. Not a prisoner was taken.

“You came in the nick of time,” said my father; “for we were fearfully overmatched, and many had been wounded,—your uncle, I fear, very badly.”

I saw to my dismay, as he spoke, that an arrow was sticking in his own side, while Uncle Denis lay under a waggon where he had crawled, his head bleeding, and with two severe wounds in the leg and shoulder. Martin Prentis and three of the other men were also badly hurt. They were all crying out for water, as not a drop remained, and the cattle, they said, could scarcely proceed. My mother, as may be supposed, was fearfully agitated and alarmed, as were the two little girls; but they were cheered by hearing from the guide that a stream existed about two miles on, nearer the fort.

The wearied oxen were therefore at once again yoked up, and we knew that they would eagerly press on the moment they scented the water.

The Dominie and I, aided by my mother, lost no time in attending to the wounded. My father insisted on waiting until Uncle Denis had been looked to, while Dio and Dan gave their aid to the other wounded men.

We first sawed off the head of the arrow sticking in my uncle’s shoulder. This done, the shaft was extracted; and his other wounds being bound up, we placed him in one of the waggons.

We had next to perform the same operation on my father, who bore the pain without flinching. He then consented to lie down in the waggon, when, the train being ready, we moved forward, led by the guide.

Soon after we had started, I saw Dio galloping off with a couple of skin bottles over his saddle. My fear was that the Indians would discover him, and cut him off, but he was quickly out of sight. In a wonderfully short time he came galloping back again with both the bottles full.

His arrival was hailed with gratitude by the wounded men. The fresh water he had brought greatly revived them. Even those who had not been hurt were complaining bitterly of thirst. We could scarcely restrain the eagerness of the cattle as they reached the water. The sergeant, however, would not allow us to remain longer than was absolutely necessary to enable the cattle to quench their thirst, stating that his orders were to return as soon as possible to the fort. This indeed, for the sake of my father and uncle and the other wounded men, we were anxious to do.

We kept, as may be supposed, a look-out for the Indians. The lesson they had received, however, had taught them that we were not to be attacked with impunity, but we saw them from time to time hovering in the distance.

Night set in while we were still far from the fort, but the sergeant advising us to keep on, we did so, but it was nearly midnight when we arrived. The commandant received us most kindly, giving up his own room to my mother and her young charges, while my father and Uncle Denis were skilfully treated by the surgeon of the garrison, as were the other wounded men. His opinion was, however, that they would be utterly unfit to continue their journey for some time to come. This was a severe trial to them, as they were anxious to proceed in spite of the dangers we were likely to encounter. The commandant, however, kindly invited us to remain until they were in a fit state to travel.

So effectually had the surgeon treated my horse, that the animal recovered rapidly, and in a couple of weeks, though somewhat thin, was fit for work.

Scouts were daily sent out to watch the movements of the Indians, but the lesson they had received when attacking our train appeared to have produced a good effect, as none were discovered in the neighbourhood. It was hoped, therefore, that they had taken their departure to the southward, and that we might not be molested. The fort was, however, provisioned only for its proper garrison, and as the stores we had brought were nearly exhausted, a difficulty arose about feeding so many additional mouths. Anxious as was the commanding officer to be hospitable, he could not use the provisions required for his own men. He therefore inquired whether any of our party were hunters, as he could not venture to allow any of his own officers or men to go out in search of game.

“We will start off at once, then, Mike!” said Mr Tidey to me when he heard this, “and soon prove, I hope, that we do not wish to eat the bread of idleness.”

Dio begged that he might accompany us, and Dan wished that he might come also; but our mother, fearing the dangers to which we might be exposed, was unwilling to let him go, and he without a word of complaint gave up the idea. The commandant supplied Dio and me with two good horses, and the Dominie had his own, which after a few days’ rest was perfectly fit for work.

Taking with us four horses to bring home the game we expected to kill, and followed by Boxer and Toby, we started off. A river, I should have said, flowing from the northward, swept near the fort, and then ran south-west. Although the country immediately round was open, about five or six miles off was, we were told, a forest about ten miles long and several deep, with open glades, in which, as there existed abundance of grass, deer were sure to be found, as well as other animals. We had no difficulty in finding our way, and in a short time came in sight of the borders of the wood.

We of course kept a look-out for Indian trails, but we could discover none. We rode on in full expectation of having good sport. We had not got more than half a mile into the wood, when we caught sight of a dozen or more wapiti feeding in a large glade. To approach them on horseback would be impossible; we therefore dismounted and crept round under shelter of the brushwood, hoping to get within easy shot of them. After going some distance, the glade sweeping round to the left more than we had expected, we found to our disappointment that we could not approach within three hundred yards without being discovered.

“We must return to our horses, and try to reach them from the other side,” whispered Mr Tidey. “Do you stay here, Dio, and if they come in this direction you may bring one of them down, but keep back the dogs, unless you see that you with them can turn the herd back towards us.”

By keeping on our hands and knees until we ran no risk of being seen by the deer, we regained our steeds, and then rode to the westward for nearly half a mile, when we once more tied them up and made our way in the same fashion as before towards the herd. By looking through the brushwood we could see them feeding unsuspicious of danger, when just as we expected to be able to bring down a couple, greatly to our disappointment a fine antlered fellow, the watchman of the band, lifted up his head with a startled look, and the whole herd following him moved off. At first we thought that they were going up the glade, but instead of so doing they approached the spot where Dio was concealed. The next instant we heard a shot, and the affrighted herd bounded off at full speed. We saw, however, that one, a fine stag, by the way he moved was wounded, and presently the dogs, let loose by Dio, turned him from the course he was pursuing, and once more he approached us; suddenly he stopped, and, lowering his head, rushed at the dogs, and lifting one in the air threw it on its back. Immediately afterwards, while attempting to treat the other in the same way, down he came on his knees. He was still, however, a formidable antagonist, and might make poor Boxer pay dearly for his boldness. The Dominie rushed forward to the dog’s rescue, but as there was a risk of wounding him, as well as the stag, I refrained from firing. The Dominie, more confident, lifted his rifle, and the stag rolled over dead. We ran forward to seize our prize. Dio did not appear.

“He perhaps has gone round to bring up the other horses, or he may hope to get another shot at the herd,” observed the Dominie, as he drew out his knife and commenced flaying the deer.

My first impulse was to see how it fared with poor Toby. He licked my hand, and struggled to get on his feet. I was at first afraid that his ribs were broken, but I could discover no wound, and after a few minutes he began to revive, and tried to crawl up to share in the feast Boxer was enjoying. We had nearly completed our task, when we heard another shot, and after a short time Dio appeared at the end of the glade, leading the two horses. He brought the satisfactory intelligence that he had killed another deer. We accordingly packed up the meat, and having placed Toby, who was still unable to walk, on the top of the cargo, guided by Dio we mounted and proceeded to the spot where the animal had fallen. Hitherto the black had been the most successful of the party, but we did not grudge him the honour. We afterwards killed two more deer; the Dominie shot one, and I the other. Our horses laden with the welcome supply, we turned our faces towards the fort.

It was one of several equally successful expeditions we undertook, and so pleased was the commandant with the amount of meat we brought in, that he begged we would remain as long as we pleased, assuring us that we paid amply for whatever other stores we consumed. My father and uncle were now almost recovered, and proposed that we should continue our journey in a few days. Mr Tidey and I agreed in the mean time to make another expedition in search of game, hoping to catch enough to take a supply with us, and leave the remainder with our friends. On this occasion Dan got leave to accompany us, and he, with Dio and Martin Prentis, formed our party. We had three pack-horses, and followed by our two dogs, we set off.

Dan was in high spirits.

“Even if we do fall in with any Indians, we shall be able to give a good account of them, I hope,” he said, laughing; “they would be bold fellows to attempt attacking five well-mounted men.”

Dan stood up in his stirrups, and looked as big as he could.

Mr Tidey smiled, and observed, “You have the heart of a giant, Dan, though I don’t know that a red warrior would reckon you as a man.”

“But I can fire a rifle and pistol, and my bullets may tell as well as those of bigger people,” answered Dan, a little indignant at the remark.

We had determined to go farther from the fort than we had hitherto done, as the game in the wood we had before hunted in had become scarce, frightened away by the report of our fire-arms. As we proceeded, we found the traces of deer become more and more abundant. Frequently we came suddenly upon one, which started off before we could get a shot. Now and then we caught sight of a long file of antelopes, who, however, took care to keep out of our way, and we might as well have chased the wind as have attempted to overtake them on horseback. It was curious to observe the manner they imitated the movements of their leader. Sometimes he would turn round his white breast, and then exhibit his red flank, when at the same moment a whole line of white breasts or red flanks were to be seen. Then he would stop, when they would all stop at once; then he would stamp and advance a step, they all, obedient to the signal, doing the same. The Dominie remarked that it reminded him of when he was at school and he and his companions played follow my leader. Again the headmost animal would wheel to the right, as did his followers. At last, carrying on this game for some time, they suddenly winded us and away they all scampered as fast as their agile legs would carry them, like clouds before the gale.

Although game was thus abundant on the open prairie, we were as well aware that we should not load our horses, unless we took proper measures to get near the deer; as the angler is, who sees the fish leap through the calm surface of a lake in the bright sunshine, that he will not fill his basket if he does not use the right bait.

There was a wood away to the right, which would, we hoped, afford us an ambush and enable us to conceal our steeds. We accordingly rode towards it. As we were moving along the Dominie suddenly pulled up.

“Look at that trail,” he said; “that is not the foot-mark of a deer, or buffalo, or a wolf. If ever I saw the print of a moccasin, that is one. See, however, the toes are pointing from the wood, though the red-skin, when he found that he was stepping on soft ground, sprang back, but probably did not think it worth while to obliterate the mark.”

“Possibly there was only a single hunter, and he can do us no harm, even if he should desire it,” I observed; “perhaps indeed, that is the print of a white man’s foot, for many wear moccasins, even in summer.”

We searched about, but although we discovered several marks which we believed were produced by human feet, we could not be certain. Had an Indian been with us he would have solved the question in a minute. We therefore remounted, and believing that we were not likely to fall in with enemies, continued our course.

We soon reached the wood, which was very similar in character to the one we had before hunted in, with an undergrowth of willows near a stream, while in other places were clumps of wild rose trees, still covered with bloom. Penetrating into the wood, we selected a spot for our camp, where we could leave our horses under charge of Martin and Dan while we went in search of game. In a short time we reached the borders of a glade, in which, from the appearance of the grass, we hoped to see some deer browsing.

After proceeding some distance we caught sight of a herd at the farther end coming leisurely own towards us, cropping the grass on their way. The wind blowing from them to us, we settled to remain concealed behind some thick bushes until they should come within range of our rifles. Presently a fine stag advanced ahead of the herd. He halted when still too far off to give us a hope of killing him. His movements were singular, as he pawed the ground and butted with his horns. The reason of this was soon apparent, for from the opposite side another stag issued forth from among the trees, and advanced rapidly towards him. On seeing his antagonist, the first rushed to meet him, and the two stags engaged in a fierce combat. We might possibly have got close enough to shoot both, but by so doing we should have lost our chance of killing any of the rest of the herd, whose flesh was of more value than that of the old stags.

We were waiting the issue of the battle, supposing that the deer would then approach, when we heard a shot and caught sight of a number of animals scampering across the glade. The report of the gun came from an opposite direction to that of our camp. For an instant I thought that Dio must have crept away, but looking round I saw that he was close to us, the shot must therefore have been fired by a stranger, who could not have been aware of our vicinity. Fearing to lose the stags, we sprang forward; at the same time our two dogs dashed out. Mr Tidey aimed at one of the animals and I at the other. Though both fell, each creature, under the belief that his hurt had been received from his antagonist, though brought to the ground, continued to butt furiously at the other, until the dogs came up, and they turned their rage towards them. We stopped to reload and call off the dogs, for fear of their being injured. But the stags were fast succumbing from loss of blood; and getting up to them, we put an end to their struggles.

We were still standing over their bodies, forgetting for a moment the shot we had heard, when Dio shouted out—

“See dare, see dare!”

Looking up the glade, we saw a man in hunter’s garb, who, having sprang out of the wood, had seized by the horns a wounded deer which was endeavouring to escape. The animal was making violent efforts to release itself, throwing back its head in a way which made it difficult for him to hold on. To protect himself he lifted up his rifle; one of the deer’s hoofs missed him, but the other struck his weapon, and breaking his ramrod, brought him down on his knees. The creature was now about to renew the attack and a blow from his hoof might have shattered his skull, or at least have seriously injured him. Not a moment was to be lost. Scarcely thinking of the danger I ran of wounding the stranger, I lifted my rifle and fired, when the deer bounding up fell lifeless on its back. The stranger, rising from his knees, advanced towards us. He was a good-looking youngish man, though his face, naturally fair, was bronzed by summer suns and winter blasts. He was dressed in a blue blanket coat trimmed with red, a cloth cap of the same colour, with a broad peak, and ornamented moccasins. An axe and long knife were stuck in his belt; he had a serviceable-looking rifle in his hand, and behind his shoulders was strapped a pack, containing his buffalo robe and blanket, some provisions apparently; and several other requisite articles. He put out his hand in a frank manner as he walked up to Mr Tidey.

“You have done me a service, friend; for that animal showed more fight than I expected, and might have injured me severely had not your shot taken effect, though it narrowly missed my head, I suspect.”

“Very glad to have been of use to you, but here’s the person you should thank,” said the Dominie, pointing to me.

“I confess that it would have been more prudent not to have fired, for fear of hitting you,” I answered as he shook me by the hand.

“Though it was a risk, I am equally thankful. The shot was well aimed, and you have the right to the venison, my young friend,” he said, looking at me.

We told him that we had no wish to deprive him of it, but he insisted that the deer should be ours. We settled the point, however, by making him take a haunch, which was all he would accept.

We now sent off Dio to bring up the horses, that we might load them with the meat: we in the meantime set to work to flay and cut up the animals, assisted by the stranger.

“You will come to our camp and pass the night with us,” said the Dominie as we were thus engaged.

To our surprise the stranger declined our invitation.

“I should prove but a poor companion, for I have been too long accustomed to live by myself to have any desire to join the society of my fellows,” he answered, turning aside; “if I find that you are exposed to danger from the redskins, I will give you warning, and may be of assistance in enabling you to escape from them.”

We in vain pressed him to alter his decision. He waited until the horses arrived, and having assisted us in packing the meat, took his own share, put up in a piece of skin, and after bidding us farewell went off in an opposite direction to our camp. We had forgotten to mention the mark of the moccasin we had seen in the morning, but we had little doubt that the stranger had gone over the ground, and our apprehensions of Indians being in the neighbourhood were dispelled. We, however, kept as usual a strict watch at night. As our camp was placed in the recesses of the wood, we knew that our fire could not be perceived at any distance beyond it.

As we sat round the cheerful blaze of the fire, we naturally talked of the stranger, wondering who he could be. His dress was that of a Canadian trapper, but he spoke without any French accent, and the Dominie remarked that he recognised a touch of the Irish brogue on his tongue.

“It is odd that he should prefer camping out by himself, to joining us, when he might sleep in much greater security than he can all alone,” I observed.

“Tastes differ, and although it is not complimentary to us, he may prefer his own society to ours,” answered the Dominie, laughing.

“Perhaps he is on bad terms with the garrison of the fort, and consequently does not wish to associate with us, because we have been staying there,” remarked Dan.

“It may be that he has shot one of them, or sided with the Indians, or has committed some offence against the Government,” said Martin.

“We might talk all night, and yet come to no satisfactory conclusion,” replied the Dominie, “and now, it’s time to turn in, to be ready for our work to-morrow morning.”

We accordingly lay down wrapped in our blankets round the fire, Martin taking the first watch.

Chapter Ten.

A timely warning—The pursuit—Indian horsemen—The cavalry engagement—A sharp skirmish—Dio saves my father’s life—Preparations for continuing our journey—I encounter the solitary hunter—Useful information—Rejoin the train—First sight of the mountains—The “grosse corne”—Looking out for a pass—Mouth of the cañon discovered—A gloomy passage—Overtaken by darkness in the gorge—First glimpse of “Smiling Valley”—Selection of the site of our future home—Bringing the waggons over the mountains.

The stars were shining brightly in the sky, the fire casting a glare on the trunks and branches of the surrounding trees beyond which was darkest gloom, when having been aroused by the Dominie, I took the morning watch.

No sound broke the stillness which reigned through the forest at that period of the night. Feeling still drowsy, and afraid of dropping off to sleep again should I sit down, I continued pacing backwards and forwards, now approaching one side of the glade, now the other, occasionally giving the fire a poke, or throwing on a few sticks. Though I had no fear of Indians, a bear or panther, or a pack of hungry wolves, might pay us a visit, attracted by the smell of the venison which was packed and ready for transport. As the trees shut out the view to the eastward, I could only judge when day was approaching by observing the stars beginning to grow dim. I had gone farther than usual from the camp-fire, towards the west, when, as I stopped for a moment, I thought I heard a sound among the underwood in that direction, as of branches pushed aside and feet pressed on dry leaves.

Expecting to see some animal break through, I brought my gun ready to shoot, when much to my surprise a man stepped forth from out of the darkness.

Supposing him to be an Indian and that he might be followed by a number of others with scalping-knives in their hands, I slowly retreated, holding my gun ready for action.

“Do not fire, my friend,” said a voice which I recognised as that of the stranger we had met the previous day. “I come as I promised, to give you warning should you be in danger. I have discovered that a party of redskins are out on the war-path, and that you are certain to fall in with them should you continue hunting. I would advise you forthwith to saddle your horses and return to the fort.”

I thanked the stranger for his information and instantly aroused my companions; he repeated what he had said to Mr Tidey, advising him to lose no time in starting.

“I will guide you by the shortest cut out of the wood,” he said; “after that you must push on as fast as your horses can go, and you may keep ahead of the savages, who are now away to the westward, but will soon discover your trail, and seeing that you are a small party, will be certain to follow you up.” The idea for a moment glanced across my mind that perhaps the stranger wished to get rid of us, for the sake of having all the sport to himself, but his frank air and the earnest tone in which he spoke made me banish the suspicion. Without a moment’s delay all hands set to work to get ready for starting, our friend energetically assisting us. Our pack-animals were soon ready and our steeds saddled.

“Now we will be off,” said the stranger, and going ahead he led the way, winding in and out among the trees at so rapid a rate, that we could with difficulty keep him in sight. Every now and then he turned, however, to ascertain that we were following. He evidently seemed to consider that not a moment was to be lost. At length the border of the wood was gained.

“You can make your way now by yourselves,” he said; “the dawn will soon break, and the rising sun will serve to guide you. Keep slightly to the right, and you will pass the confines of the next wood. The ground is even for some miles, and if you press forward as fast as your horses can go, I trust that you may keep ahead of your enemies. They are sure to discover your trail, and therefore, although you may not see them, when looking behind, you must not venture to halt. Whether they intend to attack the fort, I cannot say, but it is as well that the garrison should be on the alert.”

We thanked him heartily for the important service he had rendered us.

“But will you not come with us,” said Mr Tidey; “you yourself may be exposed to danger from the Indians.”

“I have been too long in their territory to have any fear on that score, and know their ways well enough to avoid them,” he answered; “but time is precious; give your horses the rein. On, on!”

Waving his hand as a farewell, he retreated again into the wood: when I again looked round he was not to be seen. We galloped forward, the Dominie, Martin, and Dio leading the pack-animals, which as they were lightly laden, kept up with us; Dan and I rode alongside each other ahead of the rest.

“This is capital fun!” cried my young brother; “I would not have missed it on any account. I only wish that fine fellow had been with us, and should we be overtaken by the Indians; we might face about and drive them back.”

“If we are overtaken, we shall have to do that at all events,” I replied; “but I hope that we may not be compelled to fight them, and I have no wish to hear their war-whoops in our rear.”

I was not at all certain, however, that those unpleasant sounds would not reach our ears before we gained the fort. I knew the rate at which the half-naked savages could scour across the prairie, and when once they got on our trail, they would, I was convinced, press on at their utmost speed. But darkness favoured us for some time, though we ran the risk of one of our horses stepping into a hole or stumbling over the skeleton of a buffalo or deer, numbers of which strewed the plain. At length the first streaks of dawn appeared ahead; the light rapidly increased and the sun which was to guide us rose above the horizon.

Our horses kept up their speed, seeming to be well aware that an enemy was behind them. My eyes being dazzled by the bright beams of the sun, I could scarcely see the way, and had to shade them with my hand, while I bent forward towards my horse’s neck.

After a few seconds I made out the wood on our left, and knew that we were pursuing a right course.

Few words were exchanged by any of the party: at last Dan cried out that he was getting very hungry, and proposed to stop for breakfast.

“Our scalps are of more value than the refreshing of our inward man,” answered the Dominie. “We must not think of breakfast, dinner, or supper, until we get inside the fort, and then we will take all three in one. Go on, lads, go on.”

Urging on our horses, we had already reached the ground over which we had previously hunted on our first expedition, and knew the way perfectly, but still the fort was far distant, and we could not yet distinguish the flag which waved above it.

“We shall get in safe enough now, and perhaps be laughed at for running away from an imaginary foe,” cried Dan.

I was about to answer, when Dio, who had turned in his saddle to look behind him, exclaimed—

“Dare am de Indians. I see de heads of dem an’ de horses ’bove de green grass far ’way.”

We all looked, to be certain that the black was right. There could be no doubt about the matter. To escape them by concealing ourselves was impossible, even though the sun might have prevented them as yet from seeing us.

They had got hold of our trail and were following that up. All we could do was to trust to the fleetness of our steeds and endeavour to reach the fort before they should overtake us. Martin proposed that we should let go the laden animals as they detained us considerably.

“We will not do that until the enemy are much nearer than they are now,” answered the Dominie. “On, boys, on! we will still keep ahead of them.”

We used our spurs and whips to encourage our poor beasts, which were already showing signs of “knocking-up.”

From a glance I took of the pursuing foe, I saw that they were a large band, against whom it would be useless to make a stand. If overtaken they would to a certainty kill us for the sake of our scalps. They were getting nearer and nearer; I looked out anxiously for the fort. At length the flag appeared in sight; it was a cheering spectacle.

“Oh, massa, massa, go on!” I heard Dio cry out in an anxious tone. I turned round; it seemed to me that already the savages were almost near enough to reach us with their arrows. None of us required urging, but our panting beasts could scarcely keep their legs. A few moments more and we might have a shower of missiles whizzing about our heads. On we went until we could see the top of the stockades and the buildings in the fort. Still the Indians followed, their dreadful war-whoop burst on our ears, making our horses tremble. It was enough to do so, for no more terrific sound had I ever heard. At length, when it seemed that we had no chance of escaping, I saw the gate of the fort open, and a party of horsemen streaming forth came galloping towards us: the Indians saw them too. They approached, and as they did so opened their ranks to let us pass through them, and then with a loud cheer, dashing forward, they charged the enemy. The savages wheeled and fled, but before the troopers could get up to them the recall was sounded. The commandant evidently well knew the danger of pursuing so wily a foe, who only fled that they might turn round at a favourable moment, or that they might lead their pursuers into an ambush. Soon after the trumpet-call had been heard and the cavalry had begun to retire, a far larger band than those who had followed us appeared on the brow of a hill about half a mile to the southward.

One of the men cried out that, from their dress and appearance, they were Cheyennes and Arapahoes, first-rate horsemen. We could see them clearly against the sky flourishing their spears, their chiefs riding backwards and forwards in front of their ranks, evidently encouraging them to come on and attack us. These “buffalo Indians,” as they are called, from spending their time in chase of the shaggy monsters of the prairie, are accustomed to the saddle from their childhood. They use no reins, but guide their horses by pressing their heels on whichever side they wish them to turn, consequently both hands and arms are free to use their weapons as may be requisite. They carry long spears and powerful bows, which can shoot their arrows to a great distance, and in their belts tomahawks, with which they can deal the most deadly blows in a hand to hand combat. In battle they secure themselves to their saddles, so that they can bend down on their horses’ sides, and thus entirely hide themselves from the view of their enemies, as they dash forward in the fight, thus also avoiding the bullets aimed at them. Even when wounded they are carried away off the field, unless their steeds are shot down. Our small party of retreating cavalry did not at first perceive the enemy gathering in their rear, until the trumpet again sounded, when they halted and faced about. It was not a moment too soon. Scarcely had they done so, than down swept the savages like a whirlwind towards them, led by a tall chief with a plume of dark feathers waving above his head, on a white horse, whooping and shrieking in the most diabolical manner. We could see their faces through our glasses, and fierce and terrible they looked, as they held their lances poised, or their bows bent ready to shoot as they got within range. Our rear-guard, who were acting as skirmishers, fired, and then fell back on the main body, with the exception of two or three, who as they were retreating fell pierced by arrows shot at them from the ranks of the approaching enemy. Our cavalry were far outnumbered.

On came the savages, a flight of arrows filled the air, and then, with reiterated whoops and shrieks, the Indians swooped down upon us. With sorrow, not unallied with dismay, we saw several of our friends fall from their saddles, while every trooper was engaged in a deadly struggle with a dozen foes. Amid the smoke of the fire-arms, we could see the spears thrusting, sabres and tomahawks gleaming, pistols flashing, horses plunging and rearing, while shouts and cries rent the air. It was too evident that our party were getting the worst of it and were being forced back, over the ground towards the fort. Fresh hordes were seen coming on, probably those who had before retreated. Again the trumpet sounded the recall. The commandant now summoned every available man in the fort; some to garrison the pits, others to advance to the support of the cavalry.

We had dismounted and were soon joined by my father and Uncle Denis, with about twenty men led by the commandant himself. We advanced rapidly in two parties, so as to allow the troopers to pass between us. My father took command of one of the parties. As we advanced we could see horses and men struggling on the ground, many pierced through and through with arrows; the tall chief stooping down from his horse, seized one poor fellow and lifting him up, struck him a deadly blow with his tomahawk and then hurled him back lifeless.

Some of the troopers, unable to extricate themselves, were still fighting bravely and dearly selling their lives, while those who could, obeying the recall, came galloping back. The Indians, now seeing us advance, the tall chief, dashing forward, with poised spear, was about to pierce my father, when Dio lifted his rifle and fired. The warrior bent forward, the blood gushing from his mouth, but still coming on, when the black, seizing the sabre of a fallen soldier, struck him on the side and his body fell, his hands touching the ground, while his legs remained lashed to the saddle. The cross-fire, which, at the word of command, was poured in on the ranks of the savages, stopped their onward course. A successful attempt was made, however, to recover the body of their chief, and his horse though wounded, wheeling round, was seized by one of the band and carried off, in spite of the bullets aimed at him. We continued pouring in volley after volley, until the Indians were beyond our range, but our men fired too high and but few saddles were emptied after the retreat began.

The battle had been terribly severe, and we had to mourn the loss of nearly a dozen men killed and as many wounded. Those who had fallen were dreadfully mutilated by the savages. Horses and riders had been stripped of their trappings and clothes, most of the men scalped, with terrible gashes on their bodies, while all around, the trampled blood-stained ground showed the fierce struggle which had taken place before our brave fellows had succumbed. Severe as had been our loss, a still greater number of the Indians must have been killed, although the majority had been carried out. None of our party who had gone out on foot had suffered, shewing how much wiser it would have been had the garrison remained in the fort, without attempting to pursue the enemy. The object of the commandant, however, had been to drive the savages to a distance, and to show them that the white men were as ready to meet them in the open, as within the protection of the stockades.

We watched the enemy as they rode slowly back over the hill, carrying their dead and wounded. Though defeated, we could not be at all certain that they would not renew the attack during the night. The belief, however, was, that dispirited by the loss of their chief, they would, with blackened faces, be mourning for his death and that of the rest of the warriors who had fallen, instead of thinking of more fighting.

“It is sad work,” observed my father, as we returned from burying our poor fellows; “the Indians act, of course, according to their instinct, and consider themselves justified in attacking the forts and trains of the white men, whom they see advancing to take possession of their hunting-grounds. I wish that means could be found to induce them to remain at peace with us, but though over and over again they have signed treaties they have broken through them whenever they have fancied that they could gain an advantage by so doing. I do not mean to say for one moment that the white men are not to blame; they have too often deceived the Indians and have driven them without compunction from the region they once called their own. If I could discover a tribe whose confidence in the pale-faces, as they call us, has not been abused, I would settle down among them and endeavour by kindness and justice to work upon their better feelings and induce them to become friends.”

The garrison remained under arms during the night, but it passed off in quietness, and the next day the scouts who went out reported that the enemy had moved off to a distance. It was hoped that their chief, who had instigated them to attack the fort, being dead, they would be inclined in the future to leave it unmolested.

We were now all fully prepared to continue our journey, still, anxious as was my father to proceed, he was unwilling to expose my mother and the rest of us to the dangers we might have to encounter. On finding that the country to the westward was at present free from hostile Indians, we made several hunting expeditions, by which we supplied ourselves and the fort with fresh provisions. While one day in chase of a deer which I had wounded, I got separated from my companions. The animal plunged into a willow brake, and I thought had escaped me. Finding, however, an opening in the wood, I made my way through it, on the chance of coming again upon the deer. Calculating the course it was likely to take, I pushed forward so as to cross it. Coming upon several splashes of blood, which showed me the direction the deer had gone, I was following up the trail, when just before me a person rose suddenly from behind a bush, and to my surprise I recognised the solitary hunter. I rode towards him, putting out my hand: “I am glad to meet you again,” I said; “though I little expected to do so: I wish to thank you for the warning you gave us; had it not been for you, we should probably have been killed by the Indians.”

“I require no thanks,” he answered somewhat coldly.

“We gave the Cheyennes and Arapahoes a lesson they will not forget, and have been able to hunt since without fear of interruption,” I observed.

I asked him whether he considered that our train could pass on towards the Rocky Mountains without the risk of being attacked.

“If you make haste, you may get through; but you must not idle on the way,” he answered; “the savages have united in a grand expedition against the forts to the southward, and although they will probably be defeated, it will give them employment for some time to come.”

This was satisfactory intelligence. I thanked him for it. I then asked him if he had seen a wounded deer pass that way.

“There lies your game,” he answered, leading me forward, where behind a bush I saw the animal I had wounded. “I was employed in cutting it up when you appeared,” he added; “although I brought it to the ground, your shot enabled me to kill it, and it is therefore yours. I will help you to load your horse with the meat.”

I in vain attempted to induce him to take the whole or a portion. “No, no,” he answered, “I have but one mouth to feed, while you have a garrison to support,” and he continued his task.

“You may have some difficulty in finding your companions,” he observed, when my horse was loaded; “I will lead you to them.”

We set off together. After going some distance he stopped, and, shaking me by the hand, said—

“Go on there, you will soon find your friends; but you need not mention having met with me.”

This remark convinced me more than ever that the stranger had some reason for not wishing to have any intercourse with the garrison. I wished him “good-bye,” and he plunging into the forest, I soon rejoined my companions.

We returned with a large supply of venison. My father, to whom I privately communicated the information I had received from the stranger, announced his intention of setting out next morning.

The harness during our stay had been put in good order. My horse, thanks to the remedies applied by the surgeon, had completely recovered, and we purchased another for Dio.

Everything being ready at the time appointed, we recommenced our journey, saluted by the cheers of the garrison. Our course was now towards the north-west, which would lead us across the Laramie plains, over a range of the Rocky Mountains, beyond which my father expected from the report of hunters and trappers to find a fertile region, in which he would be content to establish himself. We had added, I should have said, two light carts, in which we intended to transport the cargoes of the waggons, should we find it impossible to drag them when laden over the heights. As we travelled on I fully expected to fall in with the stranger, but day after day went by and he did not make his appearance. Following the advice given, we halted only to rest our animals. On such occasions we employed the time in hunting, and seldom returned without a supply of either buffalo meat or venison. The Indians we met with appeared disposed to be friendly, or at all events, seeing our large well-armed party, and the vigilant watch we kept, they did not venture to interfere with us. We were approaching the range it was our purpose to cross. We had heard that many of the heights were of great elevation, but that there were passages or cañons between them, through which we might make our way, provided no enemy should appear to impede our progress. We had during the last day caught sight of what appeared a bank of white clouds, their outer edges lighted up by the rays of the sun. During, however, the next couple of days’ journey a light mist hung over the country, which prevented us from seeing objects at a distance. Having no longer the fear of Indians, the Dominie, Dan, and I frequently went ahead, sometimes on horseback and sometimes on foot, for the purpose of killing game or exploring the way. Thus one day, the ground being rugged and the waggons making but slow progress, we had proceeded some distance further than usual when we caught sight, on the top of a rock, of an animal with long horns, which Dan declared was a sheep, and which I thought was a deer.

“Dan is more nearly right, for it is the sheep of these mountains, but in its habits it is very like the chamois of Switzerland,” observed the Dominie; “we have very little chance of getting that fellow, but we may kill others if we are on the watch for them. It is the big-horn, or ‘grosse corne,’ as the French call it, of the Rocky Mountains. It has already seen us, and away it goes to some place where it knows we cannot reach it.”

I may as well say that this wild sheep is of stout build, and has feet stronger and larger than those of the deer. Its light dusky brown colour is similar to the tint of the rocks among which it lives. About its ears and neck and legs it carries a small quantity of wool, the rest of its coat consisting of coarse hair, white on the rump, while the tail is tipped with black. Both the male and female have horns, those of the former being remarkable for their enormous size, while those of the latter somewhat resemble the horns of the ordinary goat. The horns of some of the sheep we afterwards killed measured upwards of two feet six inches in length. The head is provided with cartilaginous processes of great strength, and they with the frontal bone form one strong mass of so solid a nature that the animal can, when making his escape, fling himself on his head from considerable heights without injury.

We watched the big-horn as it bounded away, until it speedily disappeared.

Almost immediately afterwards the mist lifted, and we saw before us a range of mountains with a snow-capped peak, apparently of great elevation, rising beyond them, while at their foot slept a lake of clear water, shining like a polished mirror in the rays of the sun.

“What! shall we have to cross all those mountains?” exclaimed Dan, “we shall be brought to a stand-still, I fear.”

“We shall have to get through them somehow or other, but I hope that a passage may be found up a cañon, between the rocky heights, so that we shall not be compelled to climb over their tops,” answered Mr Tidey. “The sooner, however, we get back to camp and look out for the required pass the better. It may take us some days, and as the season is advancing there is no time to be lost.”

We accordingly turned back, and on reaching the train found that the mountains were as clearly visible as from where we had first seen them. Near at hand was a rocky height, to the top of which my father and uncle climbed with us, carrying their spy-glasses that they might take a view of the range, and endeavour to discover some opening through which we might hope to make our way.

“Others have gone through yonder rocky barrier, and so may we,” said my father, sweeping the range from north to south with his telescope. After surveying the mountain for some time, he exclaimed, “I see what looks like a cañon where the cliffs appear to rise almost perpendicularly out of the plain. We will direct our course towards it. We shall not reach it to-night, but we will explore it with our carts to-morrow morning, while we leave the waggons in a safe position, so that they may be effectually defended should any Indians venture to attack them, though I have no apprehensions on that score.”

The plan being arranged, we returned to the train, and, verging to the right, moved towards the gap my father had discovered. We reached one end of the lake which we had seen in the morning, and as the sun had already disappeared over the mountains, a halt was called, and we encamped in our usual fashion. We chose a spot with the lake to the south; on one side a rocky height rose precipitously out of the water, on the other was a thick wood; we had thus two sides of the camp strongly defended by nature, and by throwing up a breastwork round the other two sides the camp might be made as strong as could be required. Although an enemy might climb to the top of the rock, yet by posting a couple of men there with rifles, it might be defended against a whole host of foes. The wood being but a short distance off from which the timber required could be obtained, all hands setting to work, before dark the camp was as strongly fortified as we thought requisite.

It was the first time for many days that we had enjoyed a feeling of perfect security. Dio had lighted a fire a little apart from that of the men, that its smoke might keep off the flies, which were inclined to be troublesome. To utilise it, he had hung up one of our pots to boil. Kathleen, being somewhat tired, was asleep in our waggon, while my mother and Lily were seated on the ground near it. Boxer and Toby lay a short distance off, as Lily said, looking at themselves in the lake, into which the oxen, having taken their fill of the luscious grass growing on the bank, had come down to drink.

My father, accompanied by Dan and me, having made a circuit of the camp, to see that all was right, had just joined my mother. Dio, who had been attending to the pot, drew my father aside, to propound some knotty point with regard to the waggon which was under his especial charge, while Dan threw himself down by our mother, to have a game of play with Lily, Rose and Biddy being at a little distance off, busily washing clothes in the lake and singing at the top of their voices, the one a negro, the other an Irish melody, the result, as may be supposed, far from melodious, each stopping, however, every now and then to exchange jokes with the men who happened to be passing near them.

That evening-scene in our camp near the mountains made an impression on me, which is as vivid at the present day as then, and I describe it more perhaps for my own gratification than for any it may afford the readers of my journal.

The next morning we set off on our expedition, Martin Prentis being left in charge of the camp. Our exploring party consisted of my father, Uncle Denis, Mr Tidey, Dan, and I, Dio, and two of the men. My mother begged that she might go with us, and as she would not leave the two little girls behind, Biddy came to assist in taking care of them. We carried one tent, with provisions and everything requisite for forming a camp, so that we might send the empty carts back to bring on more stores, should we find that we could not get the heavy waggons through. Though the ground at a distance appeared to be level, we had a considerable ascent to make before we reached the foot of the cliffs. As we looked ahead, it seemed impossible that we should ever get through the massive rocks piled up before us, but my father, confident that an opening would be found, persevered, and at length we saw some way off, what looked a mere cleft in the rock.

“That’s the mouth of the cañon,” he exclaimed, “though it seems so narrow, it is wide enough for our cart-wheels and that is all we require.”

We eagerly pressed forward and in a short time entered a gloomy defile where the rocks towered up on either side, and in some places hung completely over our heads, but as they had stood for centuries, we had no fear of their tumbling down while we were passing beneath them.

On and on we went, the rocks becoming higher and higher, and forming precipitous cliffs, their summits many hundred feet above us. It was evident that the mountain had been rent asunder by some mighty earthquake without the assistance of water.

The ground on which we travelled rose but slightly. As we continued our course the scenery became more gloomy and barren, and, except on the ground beneath our feet, scarcely a blade of grass or plant of any description was to be seen growing in the clefts of the dark and sombre rocks. The atmosphere, seldom warmed by the rays of the sun, felt chilly in the extreme, and depressed our spirits, and had it not been for the assurance of my father, that we should discover an outlet on the other side, some of the party would, I think, have turned back, under the belief that we should only arrive at last before some vast cavern, or towering cliff, beyond which all further progress would be barred. Even the Dominie, I saw, did not half like it, but he was too much attached to my father to hesitate about proceeding. Our chief anxiety was about water, as yet not a single cascade had we met with, nor the smallest rivulet trickling down the sides of the mountains. So lofty were the rocks, that we could nowhere see even the tops of the mountains above us. We concluded that we were at some distance from the snowy peak we had discovered the day before, which would probably have sent down a stream to afford us the water we required. We stopped to rest at noon, where the gorge opened out slightly and the ground bore a sufficient amount of grass to enable our horses to crop a scanty meal. As we were anxious to get into a more fertile region before nightfall, we did not remain longer than was necessary. The shades of evening came on far sooner than would have been the case in the plain. The cliffs rose on every hand, towering as high, or even higher, than at the entrance of the gorge. Unwilling to encamp in a place where we could get neither fire nor water, Mr Tidey and I volunteered to push on ahead, hoping that we might find a pleasanter spot for camping than in the narrow defile, even though we might not succeed in altogether emerging from the pass. We hurried on as long as a ray of light penetrated into the gorge, but at length it became so dark that we could scarcely see a yard before us. Were we to proceed further we might knock our heads against a rock or fall into some yawning chasm.

“Stop, Mike!” said my companion, “better to suffer present evil, than to rush into greater we know not of. We must return to our friends, if we don’t break our heads in the meantime, and advise them forthwith to come to a halt.”

So pitchy was the darkness, that we could not see the rocks on either hand, and we were afraid, should we stumble or turn round by any chance, that we might be going away from, instead of nearing our friends. In vain we looked up to catch sight of a star by which we might have guided ourselves, but not a single one could we see.

“It won’t do to halt here,” observed the Dominie; “depend upon it, the captain has come to a stand-still long ago.”

Every now and then we stopped and shouted as we groped our way forward, but no answer came, and at last I began to picture to myself all sorts of accidents which might have happened to my family. Perhaps their footsteps had been dogged by the Indians, or a rock had fallen and crushed them, or the horses, suffering from want of water, had sunk down exhausted.

When I mentioned my apprehensions to Mr Tidey, he laughed at me, and tried to dispel them. “The thing is, Mike, we came over the road in daylight, and we are now going back in the dark, and whereas we were walking four miles an hour, we are now progressing at a quarter that speed.”

Still, I was not convinced, and dreaded that at any instant we might come upon the dead bodies of our friends.

Again and again I shouted out. How my heart bounded when I at length heard my father’s cheery voice replying to our hail. Turning an angle of the pass I saw the light of a fire, by the side of which I could distinguish the carts, the white tent, and the figures of our friends. Guided by the blaze, we soon reached the little encampment. My father and Uncle Denis were as glad to get us back as we were to return, though we had no satisfactory intelligence to communicate. Dio had found some bushes, from which the fuel for our fire had been procured and what was of of equal consequence, a small pool of water, to which our thirsty cattle had been led to drink.

“Had we pushed on we should have missed it, so that we must not grumble at being detained in the pass,” observed my father.

“Provided no storm comes on until we are clear of it,” remarked Uncle Denis; “however, we will not anticipate evils.”

So soundly did I sleep, after the fatigues of the evening, that Uncle Denis had to give me a pretty rough shake, and then looking up, I saw that it was daylight overhead, though it was still almost dark in the depths of the pass.

We lost no time, as soon as breakfast was over, in moving on, hoping that before long we should emerge into the open country. For hours we trudged on, ascending but slightly, and the horses had no difficulty in dragging up the carts, when suddenly the bright glare of daylight appeared before us and we found ourselves looking down on a broad valley bathed in sunlight, but with another range of mountains beyond. The sides sloped gradually towards a sparkling stream which flowed at the bottom, clothed with rich vegetation. Was this valley to be our home, or were we to cross the second range, into a still more fertile region?

“This is just the sort of spot we have been looking for, and I hope my father will stop here!” I exclaimed to Mr Tidey, with whom I was walking.

“Very good possibly, but where are we to find a market for our produce? Unless there is a pass through the second range, no emigrant trains are likely to come this way, and I do not think your father or any other sensible man would wish to exclude himself from the rest of the world, though undoubtedly we might manage to exist if big-horns, and deer, and buffalo are to be found in the neighbourhood.”

When my father came up, he stopped and surveyed the valley.

“Its beauty consists in its contrast to the dark gorge we have passed through,” he remarked; “see those black rocks cropping up in all directions through the grass: the soil is of but little depth, and we could nowhere find an acre of arable land.”

Uncle Denis agreed with him, but observed that it would be as well to camp in the valley, for the sake of giving the horses a good feed, while we searched a passage either through or over the next range.

I should occupy too much space, were I minutely to describe the next few days’ journey, the steeps we climbed up, the descents we made, now keeping along the edge of a roaring torrent, now ascending by the brink of precipices, over which there appeared a great risk of the carts and horses falling to the bottom.

Still we worked our onward way, my father being confident that we should encounter no insuperable obstacles. We had climbed to a height early in the day, from which, through his glass, he had obtained a view over the region we had to pass. Though wild and rugged in the extreme, it was of no great elevation.

“If we cannot get through in one direction, we may in another,” he remarked.

Twice we had to return for some distance the way we had come, but perseverance conquered all difficulties, and at length we gained a ridge, far away beyond which we saw stretching a magnificent country, a stream flowing down from the mountains, a wide extent of prairie, a shining lake, and an extensive forest, with trees of giant growth. We had only to descend to take possession of any spot on which we might fix for our future residence. The stream and lake would afford us fish, herds of deer browsed on the rich grass, and far away we caught sight of some buffaloes, while numerous “big-horns” were seen bounding amid the crags on either side.

Another day was spent before we were fairly in the valley, but my father and Uncle Denis agreed that we were well repaid for the toil we had gone through. They selected a spot for our habitation on the side of a hill, sloping gradually up from the stream, where we might be out of the reach of its swelling waters and yet make use of it for irrigating the land. We at once pitched my mother’s tent, and set to work to cut down timber for a log hut for ourselves. As soon as this was done, I and two of the men were despatched by my father to fetch more of our stores, or to bring on the waggons, should we find a more practicable road than the one by which we had come. I felt duly proud of the important charge committed to me, and set off in high spirits.

By keeping more to the left than we had done, I was fortunate enough to discover a road over which I felt sure that the waggons could make their way, and once more, after three days’ journey, we entered the valley which had at first so enchanted me. It now wore a very different aspect to my eyes. The sky was cloudy, and we had come from so far superior a region that I was very thankful we had not selected it for our location. As we passed through the gorge, the light of the sun being shut out from us, my spirits sank, and I began to dread lest our camp might have been attacked, and we should find it in the same condition as that from which we had rescued Lily. I forgot how confident my father was that it would be safe, and that I ought not to be doubtful of his judgment.

Emerging at last from the pass, I caught sight of the white tilts of the waggons, arranged in perfect order. A cheer rose as we approached, and Martin hurried out to greet us, and to report “all well.”

The journey across the mountain with the heavy waggons, was a far more difficult undertaking than with the carts, but by caution, perseverance, and judgment, we succeeded in getting through without any accident, and I was rewarded on my arrival by the approbation of my father.

For some time after this, we were busily engaged in putting up a house and outbuildings, with cottages for the men, and in fencing in land for a garden, and fields, so that during that period we met with no adventures worth narrating.

Chapter Eleven.

Our new home—Fortifications—Snake-fencing—Education of my sister and Lily—Dio means to catch a bear—Depredations on our poultry-yard—Capture of Dame Bruin—A contribution to Uncle Denis’s menagerie—Training the cubs—Hunting expeditions—A colony of beavers—How the dams are built—Dio’s magic sticks—We turn trappers—Fight with a grizzly—Visit of a wolverine to our hut—Traps set—Our success—Left in charge—An Indian takes me by surprise—Kluko’s warning to the pale-faces—Commence our return journey.

The grand point had to be settled, the name we should give to our new home in the wilderness. Kathleen and Lily begged that it might be called “Smiling Valley Farm,” and all voices were unanimous in deciding as they wished. A dwelling-house was constructed of rough logs, like an ordinary log hut but larger, the trunks being placed above each other horizontally, with a groove in the lower to receive the upper one and the ends fitting into each other, while the interstices were plastered with clay and the interior lined with shingles or planks split by wedges and afterwards shaped and planed down smooth. A broad veranda ran round it, which afforded shade during the summer, and prevented the snow from beating into the windows in winter. Surrounding it was a strong palisade which it was considered necessary to put up, in case we should be attacked by the Indians, who, although at present we understood were peaceably disposed, might at any time take it into their heads to attempt our destruction. Still my father hoped, by treating the tribes in the neighbourhood fairly and kindly, to win their friendship. Outside the palisade we dug a deep ditch which served both to drain the house and strengthen the fortifications. Over it was a drawbridge, which was raised by tackles and so constructed as greatly to strengthen the gate. We calculated, should it ever become necessary, that we should be able to maintain a lengthened siege in our stronghold, though my father, old soldier as he was, said he earnestly hoped that we should never be compelled to resort to our means of defence. “It is wise however to be prepared, and the redskins, seeing that we are ready for them, will not, I trust, venture to molest us,” he added.

Up to the present time, indeed, no Indians had come near the farm, and the scattered families we occasionally met in our more distant hunting expeditions seemed unaware of its existence. The huts of the men, also surrounded by stockades, were so placed on either side of the dwelling-house that they could sweep the front by a cross-fire should an enemy ever attempt to escalade our walls.

As we brought the ground under cultivation, we surrounded the garden and fields with snake fences, which are made in a rough fashion, the rails being placed one upon another in a zigzag form, and secured at the angles by stakes driven into the ground. They were formed by splitting trees into four or five portions, according to their girth, an operation carried on by means of wedges driven in with sledge-hammers.

When once the rails were split, the fence was very quickly put up. As in a short time creepers grew over them, they had a very picturesque appearance.

When we were fairly settled, Mr Tidey resumed his duties as our Tutor.

A large portion of our time, however, was still passed in outdoor occupations. We had indeed to make frequent hunting excursions to supply ourselves with meat until our stock of cattle, pigs, and poultry, had increased sufficiently to allow us to kill any of them for food.

The winter, which rapidly came on, though severe, was shorter than in more northern latitudes, but by that time our house was in a sufficiently forward condition to resist the cold, and our stoves were kept well supplied with logs. I must pass over the events of that period.

Our evenings, and a portion of every day, when the Dominie was at home, were spent in receiving instruction from him; my sister and Lily being also his pupils. He at all events, stored their minds with useful knowledge, although unable to instruct them in those feminine accomplishments which young ladies in eastern cities consider of so much importance. A piano they had never seen, but they knew what it was like from pictures. They, however, had guitars, which Uncle Denis purchased from some Mexicans, and they became very fair musicians, being able to accompany their voices on the instruments with taste and skill. My father taught them drawing, albeit their lessons were few and far between; but they showed an aptitude for the art, and made good use of their pencils. They were, notwithstanding this, accomplished in all household matters, while they diligently plied their needles and made puddings and cakes of unsurpassed excellence.

I have mentioned this merely to show that young ladies in the wilderness may, if they have the will, obtain as fair an amount of useful knowledge and elegant accomplishments as those who are generally supposed to be their sole possessors. I am, however, describing them as they were in subsequent years. At present they were but young girls, though improving daily in mind and person.

Uncle Denis had long wished to carry out his cherished plan of forming a menagerie by taming the wild animals of the country, which he averred he could do by proper treatment.

The difficulty, however, was to take them alive when young enough to benefit by his proposed training.

“I should like to have a fine young grizzly, though I suspect he would prove rather an obstinate pupil,” remarked Uncle Denis in Dio’s hearing.

Some time after this Dio came to me and said, “Me tinkee me get b’ar ’fore long for Massa Denis an’ gib him pleasant surprise.”

On inquiring how he expected to do this, he told me that he had discovered a nest of honey-bees in a wood a short distance from the house, and that twice on returning home late in the evening he had seen a shaggy beast, which he was sure was a bear, going in that direction, but that having no bullets in his pouch at the time, he did not wish to become better acquainted with it. After each occasion he had found that the nest had been robbed of a portion of its contents, and that from its position the plunderer had been unable to carry off the remainder. He was sure that the bear was the thief, and he had formed a plan for catching it; he would then, he said, bring Uncle Denis to the spot, and exhibit his captive. I asked him how he intended to proceed.

“Come an’ see, Massa Mike. I will show you,” he replied.

We accordingly went together into the wood, when he showed me a large tree, the lower part of the trunk being hollow from age. At the higher part of the cavity, which had an opening outside, was the bees’ nest; up this it was very evident that the bear had put his paw, but, unable to reach higher, had to content himself with the lower portion of the comb, which the industrious inhabitants had set to work immediately afterwards to restore.

“But, Dio,” I observed, “though the bear may possibly go into the hollow to obtain more honey, how are you to make him stay there. As soon as he hears your footstep he will be off, unless he is in fighting humour, in which case we shall be compelled to shoot him to prevent him injuring us.”

“Wait ’bit, massa, you see some day,” answered Dio.

Whether the bear was fond of honey, we had soon evidence that he or some other animal was of our pigs and poultry. One night a tremendous cackling was heard in the poultry-yard. The next morning it was discovered that a fat turkey, captured by Uncle Denis, and a couple of ducks, were carried off, and during the next night we were aroused by several piercing squeaks, and afterwards found that one of our porkers had disappeared.

We watched for several following nights, but if Master Bruin had been the depredator, he was too wary to repeat his visits. As he would not come to us to be shot, we searched for him in all directions among the neighbouring rocks, where, in some hitherto undiscovered cave, it was thought probable he had his abode. No traces of him, however, could we discover. Dio during this time was not idle. I inquired whether the bear had again robbed the bees.

“No, he not come back yet, but he soon come, an’ den you see,” he answered, looking very mysterious.

At length, one evening, I met him running towards the house in a state of great excitement.

“Wha’r Massa Denis?” he asked; “me tinkee me got b’ar for him now. Wha’r is he?”

For a wonder, he was in the house, as was Dan; so I called them both.

“We must get some cords to bind our prisoner, or otherwise he may not be quite ready to accompany us,” said my uncle.

Having procured some pieces of strong rope, we set off. We overtook Dio, and asked him how he knew that the bear had got into the hollow trunk. He then described his plan of proceeding. He had filled the lower part of the cavity with dry leaves, branches, and twigs, and had laid a train so that he could fire it in an instant. He had also blocked up a portion of the entrance, and had placed some stout sticks, sharply pointed, directed inwards, so that although the bear could squeeze through one way, he would find it a difficult task to back out again.

As we approached the tree described by Dio, he advised us to get our rifles ready, and to have our lashings prepared to bind Bruin’s legs when he tried to come out, as he probably would, tail first. Still the animal did not make his appearance.

“Perhaps he is afraid of descending for fear of burning himself, as you have lighted a fire at the bottom of the hollow, and he would have to go through it,” observed Uncle Denis.

Dio asserted that it was because the dogs kept up a barking, and he advised that we should retire to a short distance, while he remained near to listen when the bear was descending. We kept the dogs back and held our guns in readiness, should Bruin come forth, indignant at having his hide singed, and make a rush at us.

We waited several minutes, but with the exception of some low growls, which grew fainter and fainter, no sounds reached our ears. Dio every now and then popped his woolly pate out from behind the tree where he was hiding himself, showing his white teeth, evidently wondering what was going to happen. Presently a loud crashing noise was heard, and the sticks which Dio had placed at the entrance of the hollow giving way, out fell a huge bear headlong to the ground. Dio rushed forward.

“Come here, Massa Denis; come here, make fast de bear!” he shouted. Then he looked at the animal as Uncle Denis advanced, adding, “Me tink him dead.”

The two dogs also, which now ran forward, seemed to be very much of the same opinion, for without hesitation they ran up and placed their paws on the monster, sniffing fearlessly round him. The smoke from Dio’s fire had effectually suffocated him.

“I am afraid that he will not become an inhabitant of my menagerie,” said Uncle Denis, laughing, “and I doubt, if we had caught him alive, that he would have proved amenable to my instruction.”

Lest the bear should recover at an inconvenient moment, we put a shot through his head, and then proceeded to cut him up, that we might carry home the flesh, which was likely to prove very acceptable at the farm.

It was one of the largest of the she-bears of the brown species I ever met with, and, though not so fierce as the grizzly, would have proved a formidable antagonist had it been encountered when hard pressed by hunger.

The smoke which had killed the bear had also suffocated the bees, and Dan and I, climbing up, secured the remainder of the comb which Bruin had left.

“We shall probably find Dame Bruin’s cubs somewhere or other, if we follow up her trail,” observed Uncle Denis, as we were employed in cutting up the bear. “Though she would have proved a difficult subject to tame, we may have more hope of succeeding with them.” As soon as the operation was performed, and we had hung up the meat to the bough of a tree—a necessary precaution in that region—we set off to look for the cubs. The animal, not having the instinct of the red man, had left a clearly marked trail as she made her way through the forest. Guided by the marks of the grass trampled down, boughs bent aside, and twigs broken off, we had no difficulty in following it up, though it continued for a far greater distance than we had expected. It led us towards a rocky spur of the mountain, mostly covered with trees and thick brushwood, so that we could see but a short distance ahead.

“Take care, massa, p’r’aps he b’ar dare lookin’ after de pickaninnies, so, if he come out, better be ready to shoot him,” observed Dio.

“We’ll soon make him show himself,” answered Uncle Denis, and he called to our dogs, who had obediently followed at our heels, to range ahead. Off they started, delighted with the duty entrusted to them. After ranging backwards and forwards, occasionally showing themselves amid the brushwood, their loud barks and yelps convinced us that they had found either the young bears or some other animal. We made our way towards the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, with our guns ready should we discover any formidable antagonist. As we got up we saw the shaggy tails of our dogs wagging vehemently outside a cavern, within which it did not seem possible that any large animal could be hidden. Now Boxer would rush further in, now Toby, while a whimpering sound, mingled with an occasional infantine growl, showed us that the cave was alone occupied by the cubs of which we were in search. Fearing that the animals would be injured, we called off the dogs, when their bloody mouths and the brown hair sticking to their jaws, proved that they had had a battle with the occupants of the cave. The difficulty was now to get the creatures out without further injuring them. Though I might easily have crawled in, yet it would be at the risk of being bitten by the young bears, who would, should I do so, naturally mistake me for one of the dogs about to renew the fight.

“Stay, massa,” said Dio at length; “I do it!” Without delay he cut down a young sapling, which he quickly stripped of its branches. He had still tied round his waist a piece of the rope we had brought to secure the bear. With this we formed a noose at the end of the pole. “Now I get him out,” he observed creeping into the mouth of the cavern and pushing the pole before him. After moving it about for a few seconds, he shouted—

“Pull ’way, massa, got one of dem!” and, he quickly backing out, we hauled away on the rope. The resistance we found told us of Dio’s success, and presently we hauled out a good-sized cub, but it was bleeding from its mouth and shoulders, an evidence of the severe way in which the dogs had worried it. Though it struggled and tried to bite, it was so much hurt, that Uncle Denis, believing that it would not live, at once put it out of its misery.

“Dere is ’nodder inside,” observed Dio, listening at the mouth of the cave; “git him next.”

Once more he shoved in the pole. Some time elapsed before he again shouted out to us to haul away, when we pulled forth by the front paws another cub, which, although it had some blood-stains about it, seemed to be unharmed. The smaller one did not struggle so violently as his companion had done.

“Just the creature I wanted,” exclaimed Uncle Denis, delighted. “I must muzzle Master Bruin at present, to prevent him from biting our favourites, but he’ll soon become as gentle as a lamb.”

The little bear made violent efforts to retaliate, but a piece of rope put round his nose, prevented him from opening his mouth, while we fastened his fore-legs together; we then, taking two sticks, placed them under his body and Uncle Denis and I carried him along, while Dio brought the little dead bear on his back. The bear’s flesh we carried home was very acceptable, but our hunting expeditions had of late not been so successful as before, many of the animals having migrated southwards to escape the approaching winter.

At first Master Bruin was very snappish, but as he grew hungry, he was glad to take a sup of goat’s milk, which Uncle Denis gave him from a bottle, and in a short time he gratefully received food from the hands of anyone of us. He showed from the first great fondness for honey, to which his mamma had probably accustomed him, or he may have inherited the taste from her. Uncle Denis taking him in hand, taught him all sorts of tricks, and before long he became a most tractable and well-behaved bear.

A few days after we had captured “Bruno,” Dan and I, with Uncle Denis, accompanied by Dio, set off on a hunting expedition down the valley, towards a broad river, which after feeding a large lake found its way into the Missouri. It was itself fed by other streams which came down from the mountain ranges, but varied greatly, according to the season of the year. Sometimes they were mere rivulets; at others, they were swelled by the melting snows. In case of becoming separated, we always fixed on some well-marked spot, where we could assemble at an hour agreed on, or at the end of the day’s sport, either to camp or return home. Dan and I always kept together. On this occasion we had lost sight of Uncle Denis and Dio, though we heard their shots in the distance.

We had found no deer, though we had killed some wild fowl on the banks of the stream, when we heard, as we supposed, the report of our uncle’s gun, some way up it. We set off to try and rejoin him; twice again we heard a shot in the same direction, but apparently further off. Still we persevered, making our way as well as we could through the thick wood.

Near the stream, willow, lime, and other water-loving trees grew to a large size, with a fringe of thick reeds through which it was difficult to penetrate.

After going some distance, we struck a trail, which we guessed was our uncle’s, certainly not that of an Indian, who would have been careful where he trod, so as not to have crushed the grass, or broken off leaves and twigs in his way. The trail, as we advanced, became more and more clear, and we expected every moment to catch sight of our uncle. Though we had not heard a shot for some time, we suddenly came upon him, when he put up his hand as a signal to us not to speak, and crept forward through the reeds. We followed him, until he stopped behind a tree, and leaning forward looked up the stream, which flowed over a rocky bed close to us, while a short distance off a dam, which seemed to have been constructed by human hands—so considerable was its extent—was thrown across from side to side, the water beyond it being perfectly smooth. Out of it rose a number of round-topped artificial structures, some two feet or more above the surface, while a large community of animals, which we knew at once were beavers, were busily moving about, some employed in either repairing or increasing their dam, others in dragging pieces of willow across their lake, either to form new abodes, to mend any fractures in the old ones, or to serve as food, the fresh bark being their chief article of diet. Some again were on shore gnawing away at young trees with their sharp teeth, and two fell directly over the stream while we were watching them. Instantly the whole community hurried forward to assist in cutting off the branches and reducing the log to a more manageable size.

Unwilling to disturb them, we remained perfectly silent.

Of course we might have shot several; but had we done so, it would have been difficult afterwards to obtain them, and possibly the community might have moved off to some other locality. Having, therefore, satisfied our curiosity, we retired, and made our way back to the spot where we intended to camp, and where we hoped Dio would join us.

It is seldom that beavers can be seen at work in the day-time, as they usually perform their various tasks during the hours of darkness. I may as well here describe the beaver. It is about three and a half feet long, including the tail, which is flat, covered with scales, and shaped like a paddle, being about a foot in length. Its back is covered with long thin hair of a light chestnut colour, beneath which lies a fine wool of soft greyish brown. The head is rather round than pointed, the jaws of extraordinary strength, its teeth being also of great power and extreme sharpness, to enable it to gnaw through wood as well as to bite off the bark from the trees on which it chiefly lives. The object of the animals in building the wonderful dams they often construct, is that they may form ponds in which a sufficient depth of water can be maintained at all seasons of the year. Instinct rather than reason prompts them to do this; still, on examining the dams, it is difficult to suppose that they have been formed by animals. They are composed of young trees, or of branches cut into lengths, each of about three feet, and laid horizontally, one upon the other. While one party brings the log, another follows with mud and stones, which they place upon it to keep it from rising. At the bottom they are actually twelve feet thick, though as they rise towards the top they diminish to the width of two feet. When it is understood that some of these dams are between two and three hundred yards long, it may be supposed what an enormous number of small logs are required to make one.

What appears still more extraordinary is that when the stream runs slowly, the dam is built directly across it, but should the current be strong it is curved, with the convex side pointing up the stream, so that it should the better withstand the force of the water. I frequently found these dams with small trees growing out of them, showing that they must have existed a number of years. In the lake thus formed by the dam the beavers build their houses, or lodges, as they are called by trappers. They are constructed in the same way as the dams, with small logs kept together by clay and lined with moss, the roof being plastered thickly with mud, which in time becomes so perfectly hard, that it is difficult to break through it. It is a task which the cunning wolverine—who is fond of beaver meat—can never accomplish, and he prefers to pounce down on any of the animals which incautiously venture forth, when he is in the neighbourhood.

These “lodges” outside measure as much as seven or eight feet in height, and they are often from sixteen to twenty in circumference, but the walls are so thick that the interior does not exceed three feet in height and from six to eight in circumference. The entrance, which is under water, is at such a depth that they cannot be frozen in.

It is a common idea among trappers, that the beaver uses his tail for a trowel to flatten down the mud, but this is denied by more observing naturalists, who assert that the tail is merely employed for swimming, although when he is at work with his paws, he may flap it about, but not for any other object.

One of the most extraordinary characteristics of the beaver is, that it secretes from certain glands a peculiar odoriferous substance called “castoreum,” or “bark-stone” by the trappers. So strangely are the beavers attracted by this substance, that sniffing it up with their nostrils, they will hurry towards it to enjoy the scent. It is consequently the bait used by trappers. The trap is placed five or six inches below the water, and just above it is stuck a stick dipped in bark-stone. The unwary beaver eagerly swims up to it and is caught by the treacherous trap below. Old beavers are, however, generally too cunning; and it is said that on discovering a trap they will carry mud and stones, and drop them over it until it is completely buried. Such was the account which Uncle Denis gave us as we sat round our camp-fire that evening. Dio had listened attentively; he merely observed—

“Dis niggar know all ’bout it.”

The next morning he invited us to accompany him to the beaver pond, saying, “You shall see what you shall see.” Uncle Denis’s curiosity had been excited by Dio’s mysterious remark, and he accompanied us. Dio produced a bundle of small twigs, which he carried under his arm as we went along. Approaching the pond he begged that we would remain concealed while he went forward. After a little time he summoned us and told us to sit down on the bank of the stream. I had always heard that beavers were the most timid of creatures, and that they would disappear on the approach of human beings, but to our surprise, immediately after Dio had begun to throw in some of his magic twigs, a shoal of beavers popped up from their lodges and rapidly approached, utterly regardless of our presence. So close did they come without perceiving us, that we might have knocked several on the head, but it would probably have been the signal for the disappearance of the whole of them. They appeared to be animated with but one thought, that of carrying off the twigs dipped in their beloved “bark-stone.”

A few old fellows swam off to a distance and began to devour the twigs, which were evidently much to their taste. Beaver-skins were at that time of great value.

“We have here a mine of wealth, if we work it properly,” observed Uncle Denis; “probably no trappers have as yet discovered this beaver-dam, and we must take care not to let anyone else know of it until we have captured the inhabitants. I brought a dozen iron traps among my stores, though I have as yet been too busy to use them. We will go home to-morrow morning, look them out, and return with them at once. Remember that we must keep our discovery a secret. We shall I hope give a pleasant surprise to your father.”

The plan proposed by Uncle Denis was adopted. Laden with the traps and such stores as we required for a week’s residence in the wilderness, we started, accompanied by Mr Tidey. On reaching the spot we built a substantial hut, in which we could store our provisions, and by closing the entrance, we expected to be able to preserve our beaver skins from the attacks of wolverines during our absence from camp. We lost no time in setting the traps under the water in the runs made by the beavers when passing backwards and forwards to the woods from whence they obtained the bark on which they fed. We observed that they had cut down numbers of young trees, for a considerable distance along the banks of the stream above their town. This, Uncle Denis surmised they had done that they might, after they had divided them into proper lengths, allow them to float down to the spot where they were required. By hiding ourselves during a moonlight night we had an opportunity of seeing them engaged in their labours. It was truly wonderful to observe the rapid way in which the industrious creatures nibbled through a tree and reduced it to the dimensions they required.

On examining our traps for the first time, we found each had caught a beaver, some by the legs, others by their noses. The latter were drowned, as even a beaver cannot remain beyond a certain time under water, but I must own I felt compunction when I witnessed the struggles of the other poor creatures to free themselves, though they were put out of their pain as soon as possible by a blow on the head. Resetting the traps, we returned to camp to take off the skins and dress them. We dined on the meat, which we agreed resembled flabby pork. Mr Tidey, however, undertook to provide better fare the next day. I accompanied him while the rest of the party went back to look after the traps. We had killed a deer, and had loaded ourselves with as much venison as we could carry, intending to return for the remainder, when Mr Tidey fired at a turkey, for the sake of having a variety for our dinner. At that instant a huge grizzly she-bear rose up from behind a thicket, and before he could reload, charged right at him. I was too far off to fire with any certainty of hitting the animal. Fortunately, close to Mr Tidey was a large clump of rose bushes, behind which he immediately sprang, when the bear, missing him, rose up on her hind-legs, and, looking about, came towards me. I knelt to receive her, knowing that, were I to run, I should be overtaken and destroyed. She was within thirty yards when Mr Tidey, having reloaded, fired and hit her on the back. She stopped and began to turn round and round, snapping at her side and tearing at the wound with her teeth and claws. Expecting to gain an easy victory I advanced a few paces and fired, but so rapid were her movements, that my bullet missed.

“Quick, quick! reload, Mike!” cried Mr Tidey, who saw what had happened.

The warning did not come too soon, for at that instant the bear rose again on her hind-legs, with a furious growl, preparatory to springing on me. Mr Tidey was still too far off to fire with any certainty of mortally wounding the bear, and, should his bullet miss her, it might hit me. My life depended, therefore, on my next shot; should I miss, one blow from her tremendous paw would bring me to the ground, and the next instant I should be torn to pieces. I loaded as rapidly as I could, while I kept my eye on my antagonist. Scarcely had I time to ram down the ball when she was close up to me. I dared not look to ascertain what help Mr Tidey was likely to afford me. As the bear approached I lifted up my rifle to my shoulder and fired. The bear gave a tremendous growl, but still advanced. With a desperate bound I sprang on one side, when over she rolled, and lay struggling on the ground. She might be up again, however, at any moment, so I ran off to a distance to reload, catching sight, as I did so, of Mr Tidey, who, coming up, fired at the bear’s head, and, greatly to my relief, her struggles ceased. Having thrown some sticks and stones at the creature to ascertain that it was really dead, we approached, and found that she measured no less than seven and a half feet in length, with claws four and a half inches long. I shuddered as I thought of the dreadful wounds she might have inflicted with them. We skinned her, and as we were already heavily loaded, we hung up the hide and part of the flesh to the branches of a neighbouring tree, carrying only a little of the meat for our supper. We had got close to our camp, when Mr Tidey exclaimed—

“Holloa! our hut has been broken into; some rascally wolverine has paid us a visit.”

I ran forward, and just as I got up to the hut, out darted the thief, almost knocking me over; before I could recover myself it had made its way round to the back of the hut. I sprang to one side, hoping to get a shot at him, but he had disappeared. We hurried in, when we found our beaver-skins scattered about, most of them being so gnawed as to be utterly valueless.

“This will be an annoyance to your uncle; but we may congratulate ourselves on having secured a fine bear and deer-skin, which will make some amends for our loss,” he observed.

We had just made up our fire, and stuck the meat on spits to roast before it, when Uncle Denis and his companion arrived, with a dozen more beaver-skins.

As soon as the meat was cooked, we sat down and made a hearty meal, during which we told Uncle Denis of our loss.

“We must take care that the cunning rogue does not play us such a trick again,” he observed; “should it find out your venison and hear’s meat, it will leave us but a small share by the morning.”

“Then we shall be wise to bring both into the camp to-night,” said the Dominie; “if anyone will accompany me, I will go and get them.”

Dan and I at once offered to go, and Dio begged that he might accompany us. We were just in time to catch sight of a wolverine climbing up the tree to which we had secured the bear-skin. Mr Tidey fired, but the animal leaped off a bough from a considerable height, and scampered away, as far as we could see, unwounded.

While Dio and Dan were packing up the meat Mr Tidey and I hastened on to where we had left the venison.

On this occasion the wolverine had been too quick for us. He must have gone direct to the spot, for we saw him busily engaged in devouring our meat. On hearing us approach he decamped, carrying off a joint in his jaws, so that scarcely one load remained. We secured this, and then rejoined the black and my brother; and the former carrying the bear-skin in addition to a huge ham, we returned to the camp. Uncle Denis had been busily employed in forming a trap in which he hoped to catch the depredator. He finished it off by the light of the fire. It consisted of two heavy beams with holes in them, and so placed that the upper would fall down on the bait being touched, and kill the animal. That the wolverine, should he fail to be caught by the trap, might not revenge himself by destroying our skins or carrying off our meat, we constructed a strong framework in the top of our hut, in which we placed everything of value, and, to make it additionally secure, we stuck in some thick stakes round the entrance, intertwining them with branches.

“The brute will be clever enough if he breaks through that,” observed Uncle Denis, as he surveyed our work the following morning before we set out.

We were as successful as on the previous day, and in the evening we returned heavily laden with our spoils.

“Hurrah!” exclaimed Uncle Denis, as he ran forward on seeing the body of an animal sticking out of his well-contrived trap; caught by the head and claws as the robber had seized on the bait.

It was the wolverine which had at length been outwitted: though nearly strangled, it required several heavy blows before it was killed outright. The creature was about the size of a small wolf, of a brownish-black colour, the paws being perfectly black, contrasting with the extreme whiteness of the claws, which were of great size, resembling those of a bear; indeed the animal was not unlike a young bear. We dragged it away from our camp and flayed it, that we might preserve the skin to carry home. Our success had been greater than we expected, and as we could not carry all our skins, Mr Tidey and Dan set off to the farm, to bring back a couple of horses to convey them home. Uncle Denis considering that it would be unwise to leave so much property without protection, asked me to remain in camp, while he and Dio continued trapping. This of course I willingly undertook to do, keeping my gun in readiness to shoot any animal which might approach. It was about noon, and as I was getting hungry I had placed a piece of venison to roast before the fire, and had sat down to watch it, when I was startled by seeing standing at no great distance from me an Indian who had approached so silently that I had not been aware of his presence. I rose to my feet, holding my rifle ready, should he come as a foe. But his bow was at his back and his arrows in the quiver. He spread out his hands to show that he held no weapons in them, and then, coming forward, sat down opposite to me. I imitated his example, keeping my eye fixed on him, for at any moment he might draw his tomahawk or scalping-knife from his belt. I pointed to the meat, and made signs that he should be welcome to some of it as soon as it was sufficiently cooked. He nodded in return, but still did not speak, and I concluded that his ignorance of English prevented him from addressing me. As soon as the venison was sufficiently cooked, I handed him the larger portion with some salt and a piece of corn bread which I had baked in the morning. He ate the food with evident satisfaction.

“Good, good!” he said.

They were the first words he had spoken, and he then made signs that he should like something to drink. We had no spirits; my father had always refused to give the Indians “fire-water,” I therefore brewed some tea, and offered him a tin mug with plenty of sugar in it. He was evidently disappointed at the taste, but drank it off and then held out his cup for more. When he appeared to be satisfied, I asked him if he spoke the language of the “pale-faces.”

He nodded.

“Then perhaps you will say why you come to pay me a visit?”

“I was hungry, and I knew you had meat to give,” he answered. “I have lived long with the ‘pale-faces’ when I was a boy, and know that some are good and kind, and others bad and cruel. I have heard of the white chief up at the farm, and that he is just and generous to all the red-men who go there. It is right, therefore, that he should be preserved from harm. A short time back it came to my knowledge that the Blackfeet, who are jealous of any of the pale-faces coming into their country, have formed a plan to destroy the farm, and to kill all the inhabitants. I was on my way to give them warning, when I discovered traces of white men hunting in this neighbourhood. Following up a recent trail, I was led to your camp. I guessed you belonged to the farm, and would save me from the necessity of going there. I must charge you not to tell any of the red-men you may meet with from whom you obtained the information. I have warned you, be wise. The attack may be immediate, or it may not be made for some moons to come, but one thing is certain, that when the Blackfeet think you are off the watch, they will try to surprise you, and having resolved on a deed they seldom change their minds.”

I, of course, thanked the Indian for his warning, assuring him that my father was too wise a man not to profit by it, and that he would be glad to reward him for the important service he had rendered us.

“Kluko requires no reward. Gratitude prompts him to try and save the lives of his pale-faced friends,” answered the Indian.

I, of course, do not give the exact expressions he used; indeed I had some difficulty in understanding his language. I begged him to remain until the return of my uncle and his companion. This, after some pressing, he consented to do, and to show his confidence in me, having rolled his blanket around him, he lay down before the fire, and was soon fast asleep.

Knowing that he would be very glad of more food on awaking, I spitted a double supply of venison and bear’s flesh. Sooner than I had expected, Uncle Denis and Dan made their appearance.

As they approached the camp Kluko started to his feet, even in his sleep hearing their footsteps. They were much astonished on seeing him, but still more so on learning the object of his visit.

My uncle tried to recollect whether he had ever seen Kluko before, but the Indian asserted that they had never met. He remained with us until the following morning; then, charging us earnestly not to forget his warning, took his departure.

Early in the day the Dominie and two of the men arrived with the horses, which we at once loaded and set off as fast as possible on our return home.

Chapter Twelve.

Our homestead—My sister and Lily lost—Anxiety of the black nurse—We set off to try and find them—Following up the trail—Tracks found—Dio pushes ahead—On the shores of the lake—Appearance of a canoe—We determine to take the occupants prisoners—The capture—Rose acting as guard—The white man secured—I recognise an old acquaintance—The way we treated him—Searching along the lake shore, we come upon an encampment—Overhear the conversation—Our presence discovered—Effects of the war-whoop—Flight of the party with Dio—The midnight pursuit—An unlooked-for reinforcement—Release of the black—Our prisoners—Lynch law—A villainous plot revealed—We arrive at Smiling Valley farm.

We were approaching the farm with our packages of skins and meats; Dio and I had hurried on ahead, as I was anxious to inform my father of the intelligence we had received from the Indian. The house, perched on the side of a hill, was already in sight, and very picturesque it looked, with the stream flowing below it, and backed by ranges of mountains towering one beyond the other, the more distant capped by eternal snows. Evening was approaching, but the sun still tinged the eastern slopes and the summits of the tall trees with a ruddy glow, when we caught sight of a person running towards us.

“Why! dat is Rose?” exclaimed Dio; “what she want?”

As she got near us I saw that her countenance exhibited unusual alarm and anxiety.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Panting from her exertions and the long run she had had, she was at first unable to reply.

“De young ladies! de young ladies! you seen dem? Dey went out long dis path, and have not yet come back. Oh, dear! oh, dear! can anything have happened to dem?”

On hearing this I became alarmed, for as we had not met the girls, it was very certain that they had taken some other path. Rose further said that they had been absent for some hours, though they had promised to return early in the afternoon. She confessed that she had not told my mother or Biddy, and she was the only person in the house who knew of their having intended to go farther than usual.

Grizzlies, wolves, panthers, and prowling Indians instantly flashed across my mind; still I hoped that even before this they might have returned home by some other way.

Dio, who was evidently far more alarmed than I felt, suddenly, without a moment’s warning of his intention, darted away through some thick brushwood to the eastward, exclaiming, “Me find ’em! me find ’em!”

As he disappeared in the wood, I fancied I saw him stoop and wave a handkerchief, but the light was uncertain, and I thought I must have been mistaken. My first impulse was to follow Dio, but on looking back, I saw Mr Tidey coming along the path in the distance, and I reflected that our object was far more likely to be attained by getting him to accompany me, as, should we discover the direction taken by Kathleen and Lily, we might follow up their trail together, and be more likely to rescue them, if they had, a was possible, been captured by Indians. Mr Tidey was naturally very much alarmed at the tidings I gave him.

“We will set off at once and send Rose back to let our friends know the way we have gone,” he observed, as we hurried towards the spot where the black woman was standing. On nearing the place, however, we found that she had gone after Dio, and we accordingly ran on in the same direction. It was some time before we overtook her, and we then in vain endeavoured to persuade her to go back.

“No!” she exclaimed. It was her fault, as she should have accompanied them, and return home without them she would not.

As valuable time would be lost in persuading her to do what we wished, we allowed her to accompany us. We soon had to regret this, as we were frequently compelled to assist her, but we had now gone so far that it would have been cruel to leave her behind. We shouted as we went on, to Dio, but his voice did not reply. That we were on his trail was certain, for we could see the twigs, which he or some one else had broken off, but whether the girls had gone in the same direction, we were doubtful. At length we came to a spot where we discovered the marks of several feet. Mr Tidey stopped, and, stooping down, examined them minutely.

“The marks are those of moccasins!” he exclaimed. “Indians must have been here, and if so, it is too probable that the dear girls may have fallen into their hands. Even the worst savages cannot intend to harm them, but may hope to obtain a ransom, or perhaps when we set off to try and recover them, they may expect to cut us off in detail, or to attack the farm when most of the defenders are away, with a better chance of success. We must be cautious, therefore, as we proceed, but still I hope we can defeat their object.”

“Though Indians may have been here, we have no proof that they have taken Kathleen and Lily prisoners,” I observed.

We had not gone far, perhaps ten paces, after I made this remark, when Rose, darting towards a bush, picked up from beneath it a small piece of ribbon, which she at once pronounced to be part of the tie of Lily’s large straw hat. This settled the question, though how she managed to tear off the string so as to leave it as an indication of the direction they had taken, it was difficult to say. Was it done on purpose, or had it been torn off in a struggle she might have made to escape. One thing was certain. We must continue the pursuit. We hoped every instant to overtake the black, but we were now afraid of shouting, lest the Indians should hear us, and be warned of our approach. On and on we went. The sun had set, and darkness shrouded the lower part of the forest. In a few minutes the moon, still almost at the full, rose and enabled us to see our way as well as in daylight, accustomed as we were to be out at night; at the same time it was difficult to distinguish the trail which had hitherto guided us. We had been going for some time in the direction of the lake, the western edge of which extended along the base of the mountains. It was fed by streams descending from them. Although not a broad lake, it reached a long way to the southward, and I began to fear that should Indians have carried off the girls, they might have embarked on the lake, and if so, our chances of overtaking them were small indeed. I now regretted that I had not waited to communicate with Uncle Denis before we had started. He would probably have gone on to the farm, and, having obtained horses, set off with a strong party, which by proceeding along the eastern side of the lake, might have headed the people, whoever they were, who had committed the outrage. We were satisfied, however, that there were not many of them. They would, however, should we come up with them, have a great advantage over us, for we could not venture to fire at them for fear of wounding their captives, whereas they might blaze away at us with impunity. I said something of this in effect to the Dominie.

“If they are Indians, they are not likely to have fire-arms,” he remarked, “and I cannot fancy that white men would have any object in carrying off the dear girls.”

Fast as we were going, Dio must have gone faster, for still we saw nothing of him. Whenever we slackened our pace, Rose exclaimed—

“Go on, Massa Tidey, go on Massa Mike, no stop for me, I keep up, me got wind now!”

Her eagerness enabled her indeed to exert herself in a way she could not otherwise have done. At length we caught sight of the water between the trees, and in a few minutes we were standing on the shore of the lake. The moon shed her bright light on the calm surface of the beautiful sheet of water, enabling us to see a great distance along it. At one side rose the mountains, on the other the banks were fringed with trees of magnificent growth, except here and there, where grassy glades came down to the edge of the water, or points jutted out, forming sheltered bays and nooks, which might conceal those of whom we were in search. We stood for some minutes straining our eyes, in the expectation of seeing a canoe gliding rapidly away from us, but not a speck could we distinguish on the unruffled bosom of the lake. We searched about to try and discover any signs of a canoe having touched the shore, but we could find nothing to indicate that one had been there. That we had not lost the trail, however, we felt nearly certain. We had now to decide what probable direction the fugitives had taken; it was not likely that they would have gone towards the mountains, and indeed, on further search, we found that the wood in that direction was almost impracticable. Not a single clear track or opening through it could we discover, while to the left, people could easily have made their way either close to the shore, or a short distance from it.

We accordingly advanced in that direction, moving with the greatest possible caution, so that we might have a chance of discovering the marauders before they would be aware of our approach. The Dominie went first, I followed, and Rose brought up the rear, for nothing would induce her to return.

“If you fight, I fight too, so dat we get back de young ladies!” she exclaimed in a determined tone, and possessing herself of a thick stick which lay on the shore of the lake, she trudged on after us.

We trod as carefully as we could, keeping ourselves as much as possible concealed by the trunks of the trees and brushwood. Sometimes we had to get down close to the lake when we could discover no other way through the wood. The Dominie was trying to find a path between the trees when I heard Rose exclaim—

“Hist! Massa Mike, dare come canoe ober de water!”

I called to Mr Tidey, who stopped, and, sheltering ourselves under the shadow of the trees, we looked in the direction Rose pointed. There, sure enough, was a canoe skimming lightly over the moonlit waters. She appeared to be of large size, though I could only see two paddles going. We watched eagerly to know to what part of the bank she was directing her course. Twice it was altered, as if the people in the canoe were uncertain where to land. At length they paddled on towards the very spot where we had first struck the lake.

“There are only two of them, and we shall be able to tackle the fellows, whoever they are,” whispered the Dominie to me; “they are connected with those who carried off the little girls, and have probably come to meet them; there is no time to be lost, follow me,” and he led the way back by the path we had come.

We could occasionally get a glimpse of the canoe, which came slowly on. She was of large size, and there were to a certainty but two paddlers. I could hear poor Rose behind me panting and puffing as we hurried along; still she persevered, prompted by her desire to help us.

We reached a thick clump of bushes, close by the spot towards which the canoe was directing course, and, crouching down, we remained concealed, waiting until the Dominie should give the signal for action. What he intended to do I could only guess, as it would have been imprudent to have spoken, lest our voices should be heard, though the splash of the paddles prevented the sound we made in passing along from reaching the ears of the people in the canoe. Of course we could easily have shot the two men, but as we had no proof of their being enemies, such an act would have been unjust. They shoved in carefully, for fear of knocking the bows against any logs or branches beneath the surface, and then one of them stepped out. As he stood up, with the moonlight pouring full upon him, we saw that he was a white man, with a broad-brimmed hat, a brace of pistols in his belt, and a rifle in his hand. The other person was an Indian, who, after his companion had secured the canoe by a rope to the trunk of a sapling, remained seated, as if waiting his return. The white man looked about him, but did not appear to discover the signs of our having been there. It was a wonder, however, that he did not see us, probably his eyes were dazzled by the bright moonlight. Had the Indian landed, there could be little doubt that he would have perceived us, though we all three sat as motionless as the objects around.

The white man whistled shrilly several times, but receiving no response to his signal, he began to make his way in the direction from whence we had first come, as if he expected to meet his associates. I was doubtful whether the Dominie would follow and attempt to seize him, or would wait until he had got out of hearing and then endeavour to capture the Indian. This would not be a very easy undertaking, unless he was less watchful than is usually the case with his people. At last the Dominie touched my arm as a signal to me to be prepared for instant action; he then began to creep cautiously forward, so as to get round the bush and close to the canoe, before making the rush which would indicate our presence. I imitated his example, and had no doubt that Rose was creeping after us. Should the Indian possess a rifle, he would probably have time to fire it and recall his companion to his assistance, even if he failed to hit either of us; and at all events he would cry out, and we must master him quickly to be in time to deal with the other man, who would not probably stand on ceremony about using his weapons. On we crept: I could hear my own heart beating, and expected every moment that the Indian would discover us. Presently we saw him stand up in the attitude of listening, as if he had heard some suspicious sounds; his eyes were directed towards the very spot where we were concealed, but the thick bushes prevented a gleam of light falling upon us. He was evidently on the alert, and the difficulty of seizing him was increased. He looked round, but appeared to have discovered nothing. It was important to master him without delay, before the return of the white man, when we should have two people to deal with instead of one.

Again the Dominie began to creep forward; careful as he was, the Indian must have heard the noise, for he again stood up with a bow in his hand ready to shoot. Seeing nothing, he drew in the painter and stepped on shore, advancing a few paces and gazing round him, peering towards where we were crouching down. Should he discover us, he would have time to shoot and afterwards bound away out of our reach. Presently we heard a sound as if some creature, if not a human being, was passing through the forest at a short distance on the farther side of where he stood; he turned his head as if satisfied that it had caused the sounds he had heard, and with his arrow on the string he advanced a pace or two, as if searching for the animal. As we could not expect a more favourable moment for our purpose, the Dominie and I simultaneously sprang forward. With one bound we were upon the Indian, before he had time to turn and defend himself. The Dominie seized him by the neck, and striking his legs we brought him to the ground, when Rose, as he opened his mouth to cry out, thrust into it the handkerchief she had torn from her head. He struggled violently to free himself, but as the black woman was also as strong as a man, we were able to hold him down until she had secured my handkerchief round his legs. The Dominie and I then fastened his arms behind him, turning him over with very little ceremony. So effectually had Rose gagged him that he was beginning to grow black in the face from suffocation, but we were unwilling to withdraw it, lest he should shout out and warn his companion of what had happened. Lest the latter should hear us, we also did not speak above a whisper.

“The sooner we place our prisoner at a distance from this the better,” said the Dominie, and with the assistance of Rose, we lifted him up and carried him almost to the point we had reached when we at first saw the canoe.

He allowed himself to be carried unresistingly along, but we were not deceived by this, as we knew perfectly well that he was but waiting an opportunity to get free. We now thought that we could with prudence take the gag out of his mouth, to try and learn from him what object he and his companion had in view, though we had little doubt about the matter. Mr Tidey made signs that if he cried out, it would be the worse for him. Rose then carefully pulled out the handkerchief. Not a word, however, could we elicit from him; he seemed to suppose that we were going to put him to death, and, stoically resigned to his fate, nothing we could say had any effect.

“Perhaps he doesn’t understand English,” observed Mr Tidey; “and as he has not his hands at liberty, he cannot make signs; our only safe course, however, is to treat him as an enemy, and keep him bound. Rose, we will leave him under your charge, while we go back and try and tackle his companion. You will not let him escape?”

“No, massa, no fear ob dat,” answered Rose, stuffing the handkerchief back into the Indian’s mouth, “if he try to move, I soon make him keep quiet.”

As the white man might be returning, we hastened back to be ready for him. I suggested that we should haul up the canoe, and knock a hole in her, to prevent the stranger, should he escape us, from getting off; but Mr Tidey thought that she might be of use to us, and advised instead that we should hide the paddles, which would answer the purpose equally well.

We listened as we drew near the spot where the canoe lay, but we could hear no one approaching. Without hesitation, therefore, drawing her to the bank, I stepped into her, and searched about to ascertain what she contained. I soon discovered several pieces of rope, a basket of provisions, and a bottle of rum. It was possible that the Indian’s apparent stupidity had arisen from his having drunk a portion of the latter. The rope confirmed us in our belief that the men in the canoe had come for the purpose of making a prisoner of some one or other. Bringing the rope and paddles, I returned on shore. Scarcely had we hidden them in the bushes than, hearing footsteps approaching, we hurriedly concealed ourselves. Presently the white man we had before seen emerged from the gloom of the trees. We saw him looking towards the canoe.

“What can have become of the rascals?” he exclaimed with an oath, speaking to himself.

He was advancing towards the canoe, expecting probably to find the Indian asleep within her, when Mr Tidey and I sprang so rapidly on him, that before he had even time to turn round, we had him stretched on the ground, the Dominie holding him tightly with one hand on his throat and the other on his right arm, while I held down his left arm and presented one of his own pistols, which I drew from his belt, at his head.

“You know best if this is loaded; and, if it is, should you make the slightest resistance, I will shoot you,” I said in a firm tone.

“Who are you, villains, who dare thus attack a free and independent citizen?” exclaimed the stranger, following the inquiry with a volley of abuse.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head and answer the questions we put, or you may have to repent it,” said the Dominie. “Why did you come here?”

“I came to look after a rascally black who escaped from his owner, and you will be sorry for having interfered with me in my lawful business.”

“We are ready to take the consequences,” answered Mr Tidey. “Before we set you free, we intend to learn whether your story is true; so submit quietly, or we shall be obliged to resort to more violence than we wish.”

While we were holding down the man, I examined his countenance, and was sure that he was one of those who had so outrageously attacked our house, I therefore felt no compunction at the way we were treating him. Had he shown any courage, he might possibly have freed himself, but we managed—not without some difficulty—to lash his arms behind him, and to bind his legs so that he could move neither hand nor foot.

“The best thing we can do with him is to place him in the canoe, and let him remain there until we have discovered the little girls, for, depend upon it, his companions have carried them off, probably with the intention of holding them as hostages until we deliver up Dio,” observed Mr Tidey.

We had also another reason for keeping him a prisoner, to which, however, Mr Tidey did not allude in his presence. Without loss of time, we partly dragged and partly lifted him up to the canoe, into which we tumbled him without much ceremony.

“If you attempt to struggle, you’ll kick a hole in the canoe and go to the bottom, my friend; so I would advise you to keep quiet,” said the Dominie.

The man only answered with a volley of oaths, but no further information could we draw from him. We therefore left him to his own reflections, while we hastened back to Rose, whom we found seated by her prisoner.

“He stay berry quiet,” she said, “an’ me no tinkee he run ’way.”

“That may be, but we will secure him as we have done his companion,” said Mr Tidey, producing a piece of rope which he had brought with him from the canoe; and, dragging the Indian to a tree, we lashed him so securely to it, that we believed with all his cunning he could not set himself free.

“Now let us continue our search for the little girls and Dio,” said the Dominie; “depend upon it, they cannot be far off. Probably they are somewhere near the shores of the lake, and if we approach their captors cautiously, we may master them as we have the other man.”

I suggested that we should paddle round the shores of the lake in the canoe, and as they were probably expecting her arrival with two men in her, they would not suspect who we were until we got close up to them.

The Dominie, after a little consideration, agreed to my proposal.

“What are we to do with Rose?” he asked.

“She can lie down at the bottom of the canoe, and assist in keeping our prisoner quiet, unless she will consent to remain behind,” I observed.

“No, no, me go with massa!” she exclaimed.

As she might be useful, Mr Tidey agreed to her going. We hurried back once more to the canoe, and, lifting in Rose, placed her in the bows near the head of our prisoner, in a position which would enable her speedily to tighten his gag, should he attempt to cry out. We then, taking the paddles, commenced our voyage, I sitting in the bows, Mr Tidey in the stern. We paddled in towards every opening which was likely to afford a spot for camping, but no object could we see besides the tall trees rising up above the water. We had gone some distance, and I had begun to fear that those we were in search of had moved off from the shores of the lake, and that we might have a long march to come up with them, should we discover the direction they had taken, when I perceived a more ruddy tint on the surface of the lake than that reflected by the silvery moon.

“There must be a fire somewhere near the shore,” I whispered, “people are encamped there, depend upon it; how shall we proceed?”

“We will land close in here, and then try to steal upon them unobserved, so as to reconnoitre them first. If there are too many people to master, we must wait until some of the party fall asleep, and then try to surprise them. One at least is sure to be on guard; we must knock him over and then spring on the rest. We shall be able to judge better when we ascertain how matters stand,” observed the Dominie.

As he spoke he turned the head of the canoe to the shore, which we soon reached. Rose had crammed the handkerchief tight down into the mouth of the prisoner, or he would to a certainty have betrayed us. Even now I was afraid that we might have been seen, but no hail reached us. Making as little noise as possible with our paddles, we soon reached the beach, and, making a sign for Rose not to follow us, we landed, leaving her in charge of the canoe. We both crept forward as cautiously as any Indians could have done. As we approached the fire we heard the sound of voices, and by getting a little nearer we could hear what was said.

“I wonder that fellow Jowl hasn’t found us out yet,” observed one of the speakers; “we shall have a long tramp for it if he doesn’t appear very soon, and the captain and his people will be down upon us. Now that we’ve got the black, I wish that we had let the girls alone, they’ll only cause trouble, for old Bracher won’t know what to do with them.”

“We’d better leave them, then, to shift for themselves, they’ll find their way home somehow or other; it matters little to us if they don’t,” answered another.

“But they’ll betray the whereabouts of our train to the captain, and he’ll be after us with his people and demand satisfaction. If he proves the strongest, he’ll carry off the black, about whom we have had all this trouble, into the bargain,” observed the first.

“If he comes at all, it will give old Bracher an opportunity of shooting him, that’s what they’d like to do better than anything else,” remarked a third.

The men continued talking on the same subject, but they had said enough as to the girls being carried off. From it I gathered that Mr Bracher was travelling eastward with a waggon train, probably having failed in the west, and that, finding himself in the neighbourhood of our new location, he had despatched a party to try and recapture Dio, but that meeting Kathleen and Lily, they had made prisoners of them with the intention of keeping them as hostages until the slave was delivered up. I also ascertained that Dio had fallen into their hands, and that consequently my sister and Lily were of less value in their sight than would otherwise have been the case.

Although we heard but three persons speaking, there might be many more, but this we could only determine by getting nearer to the camp. I made a sign to Mr Tidey to remain quiet while I crept forward. I stopped whenever there was a pause in the conversation, and stole on when the sound of the voices would prevent them from hearing any noise I might make. My fear was that they might have with them some Indians who would be much more likely to discover me than they were. At length a clump of bushes alone intervened between me and their camp-fire. Carefully raising my head, I looked through an opening, when I saw four men seated on the ground, with their rifles by their sides. A short distance off lay Dio, with his arms bound behind him and secured by a rope to a tree. Still farther was a rude hut formed of branches, beneath the shelter of which, I had no doubt, Kathleen and Lily were resting. So far the men had shown some humanity. To recover the “captives” it was evident that we must use stratagem rather than force. We could scarcely expect to overcome four well-armed men, even should we first succeed in setting Dio at liberty. We might, however, easily shoot two of them, and then spring upon the other two, but as I felt that we should not be justified in so doing, I was about to retire and tell Mr Tidey what I had seen when one of the men started up, exclaiming—

“I saw some one watching us through the bushes.”

I was conscious that the glare of the fire had for a moment fallen on my face. All hope of our surprising them was lost. I heard some one approaching behind me.

“Whoop!” whispered Mr Tidey; “we will try what effect terror will produce.”

Raising our voices, we imitated, with some effect, the terrific Indian war-whoop, dropping on the ground as we did so, to avoid a shower of bullets aimed at us.

“Get hold of the black, and let us be off!” cried one of the men; “we must not have had our expedition for nothing.”

Before we could regain our feet, one of the fellows cut the rope which held Dio, and, seizing him by the neck, dragged him along across the glade on the opposite side of which the whole party disappeared, passing close to the hut in which we guessed that Kathleen and Lily were confined. Had we before been inclined to fire, we were less willing to do so now, for fear of wounding either the girls or poor Dio, who was placed as a shield by the man who was dragging him along. Our first impulse was to run and rescue the dear ones who had caused us so much anxiety. They shrieked out, overcome with terror, as they heard us approaching, until my voice reassured them. By the light of the fire which streamed into their hut they saw who we were. A few words served to calm them, and make them understand what had happened, and in another minute Rose came running up, unable to restrain her anxiety, she having heard the firing, and fearing that we might be killed or wounded.

“We must not let Dio be carried off if we can help it!” I exclaimed. “Come on, Mr Tidey; let us pursue the fellows, and perhaps they’ll grow tired of dragging him along, and set him at liberty.”

“Yes, yes, Massa Tidey, you go ’long, me take care ob de little girls. See dar’ is rifle, me fight for dem if anybody comes!” exclaimed Rose.

Sure enough one of the men in his terror had left his rifle behind him. We should thus find only three armed antagonists, unless he had also pistols. At all events, without stopping to consider the risk we ran, we rushed on, again and again uttering a war-whoop. It had only the effect, as far as we could judge, of expediting the movements of the fugitives. Unfortunately the moon became obscured by clouds, and increased the difficulties of our progress.

I began indeed to fear that, after all, we should be baffled, and I knew the sad fate which awaited Dio, should he be carried back to his former master. We had two prisoners, to be sure, but I felt very certain that Mr Bracher would not give up his slave for the sake of recovering them, indeed he would be well aware that we could not keep them in captivity. Several times I thought we were on the point of overtaking the men, but on each occasion they managed to elude us. Whether they still fancied that Indians were following them, we could not tell. Possibly they might have guessed that we were white men, though they could not tell the number of our party, and at all events did not think it worth while to hazard a conflict, now that they had obtained the object of their expedition. How far off Silas Bracher’s train was encamped we were uncertain, but we knew that the men could not possibly reach it, if it was on the usual route, until some hours after noon, indeed they could not get out of the wood bordering the lake, until daylight.

“Can you go on, Mike?” asked Mr Tidey.

“I will until I drop, and I don’t feel at all inclined to do that just yet,” I answered.

“Then let us continue the pursuit, but we’ll not whoop again, so that we may possibly come upon them when they least expect it.”

The forest was tolerably open, and had it been daylight, we should have been able to see to a considerable distance. I several times took a glance towards the east, and at length I saw the dawn breaking through an opening in the trees. Our only fear was that the fugitives might have turned aside, and that we had passed them. This, however, was not likely to be the case. The light increased, and just we got near the edge of the forest, we caught sight of the four men still dragging on poor Dio.

I don’t know what we might have been tempted to do. I saw Mr Tidey more than once raise his rifle, and I confess I was merely waiting for a fair shot at one of the fellows, in spite of the risk of wounding Dio, when my eyes fell on a party of horsemen galloping along from the northward, having apparently skirted the edge of the forest.

The Kentuckians saw them also, and knowing that if the horsemen were in pursuit of them, further flight would be useless, halted and appeared to be consulting what to do. In another minute I recognised my father and Uncle Denis leading the party. Our friends dashed forward at the fellows. My father was just in time to knock down one of them who had presented his pistol at the black’s head, and I fully expected that the four men would be killed on the spot. I saw Dio, however, holding up his hands to protect them, while he explained apparently what had happened. We now showed ourselves, and, hurrying forward, assured my father of the safety of Kathleen and Lily.

“You may go, then!” he exclaimed, turning to the Kentuckians, who now appeared thoroughly cowed, “and tell Silas Bracher, should he again venture to send any of his men to capture this honest negro, they will be more severely dealt with than you have been.”

The fellows, without a word of thanks, moved sulkily away towards the south, at a much slower pace than they had hitherto been going. Three of our men now got off their horses, to allow Mr Tidey, Dio, and me to mount, and we rode on through the forest as fast as we could go, until we reached Rose and her two charges; the little girls, having recovered from their fright, had fallen asleep in their bower, while the black nurse sat watching over them.

I had almost forgotten our prisoners, when Mr Tidey exclaimed, “We mustn’t let the Indian and that fellow in the canoe starve to death, which they certainly will unless we release them.”

“They can do no further harm if set at liberty, though they deserve a pretty severe punishment,” said my father. “Where are they?”

“Not far off, and if some of you will come with me, we will send them about their business, with a warning that, should they again attempt to play such a trick, they will not escape so easily,” observed the Dominie.

Martin Prentis, I, and two of the men, at once set off with Mr Tidey. We first made our way to the canoe, where we found our prisoner groaning with pain, for, by endeavouring to release himself, he had only tightened the cords with which his arms and legs were lashed. We took him out of the canoe, and from the expression of abject terror exhibited in his countenance, I suspected that the fellow believed he was then and there to undergo the penalty of ‘Lynch law,’ for he looked up at the bough of a tree above his head, as if he expected immediately to be triced up to it. I never saw a man so crestfallen.

“Now, my fine fellow, you know what you deserve,” said the Dominie, as Martin and the other men placed him on his feet. “You were employed by a greater rogue than yourself; but as you have failed in your undertaking, we do not want to be hard on you, and if you will tell us the intentions of your master, we will set you at liberty. But, if not—,” and Mr Tidey pointed to the bough overhead.

“I’ll give you all the information you require,” exclaimed the man, trembling. “Bracher had sworn to be revenged on you for sheltering his runaway slave, and was determined to get hold of him if he could. He had heard that you were located in this neighbourhood, and he sent a party with orders to capture the black at all costs.”

“That doesn’t excuse them for carrying off the young ladies, and frightening us well-nigh out of our wits, on their account.”

“I had no hand in that matter,” said our prisoner. “I suppose that by getting hold of them our people thought that they could force you to come to terms about the nigger.”

“Probably,” observed Mr Tidey; “but what were your orders, should you fail to recover the black? Remember, we have your Indian guide in our hands, and if you do not speak the truth, we shall be able to learn what we want from him.”

“I will tell you everything,” answered the man, as the Dominie again glanced up at the overhanging bough. “Silas Bracher has come to grief, and being compelled to sell up, is moving westward with a pretty good-sized party whom he has persuaded to accompany him. We heard on our way that Captain Loraine was located in the neighbourhood. Mr Bracher managed, somehow or other, when we got near this, to make friends with one of the chiefs of the red-skins, who, bribed by the promise of a case of whisky and some fire-arms, undertook to attack Captain Loraine’s farm as soon as a good chance of success should offer. The chief, you’ll understand, was to bide his time and to bring Silas word directly he had done the work.”

“And when is the attack to be made?” asked Mr Tidey.

The man protested that he could not tell, but concluded that it would not long be deferred, probably not more than a week or two, before the train could have got to any great distance, indeed he had an idea that some of their people were to be employed in assisting the Indians.

Mr Tidey, though he cross-questioned the man, could elicit no further information of importance. We therefore conducted him to my father, who, after charging him to keep his own counsel, and not let Silas Bracher know the information he had given, told him that he was at liberty to return to his friends.

Great indeed was his look of astonishment. He not only promised that he would say nothing to Silas Bracher on the subject, but that he would separate himself from him and his party, and join some other emigrant train on the first opportunity. We watched him until he disappeared in the forest, though, judging by the pace he went, we suspected that he was in no great hurry to join his companions.

“We have now to look after the Indian,” said Mr Tidey, “and as we shall pass not far from the spot where we left him, we will learn what he has to say for himself, and send him about his business.”

As we were anxious to get home as soon as possible, to relieve my mother’s mind of anxiety, we lost no time in setting off. My father took up Kathleen and Uncle Denis Lily before them, and, after some persuasion, Rose consented to allow herself to be lifted and placed in front of Dio’s saddle. Mr Tidey and I, with Martin, pushed on ahead, that we might without delay set at liberty the unfortunate Indian, who was less to blame than his white employers. On reaching the spot, however, we could nowhere see him. We searched about in every direction. It was evident that by some means or other, he had been set at liberty. Whether he had himself cast loose the lashings, or whether anybody else had liberated him, we could not discover, for although there were the marks of several feet on the ground, they might have been ours. As there was little probability that the Indian would have remained in the neighbourhood, we soon abandoned the search and rejoined the party.

It was late in the evening when we approached the farm, and recollecting the threatened attack by the Indians, I felt more anxiety than I can express, lest during our absence, they should have carried out their project. Great therefore, was the relief to my mind when I saw Biddy running down the hill to welcome us, followed by my mother to whose charge we soon committed Kathleen and Lily.

Chapter Thirteen.

An uncomfortable state of things—Kluko pays us a visit—Startling intelligence—The fate of Silas Bracher—Return to the farm—The Indian’s friendship for Dio—The red man’s opinion of slavery—Uncle Denis’s menagerie—Winter at the farm—We have an adventure—Fight between a sable and porcupine—We capture the combatants—Their appearance—Treatment in the cage—Taming of the sable and urson—Loss of poultry—Imprisonment for life—Something about ourselves.

The warning we had received of a projected attack on the farm by the Indians compelled us to be on our guard. We kept a strict watch at night, and two or three of us were constantly employed in scouting in the neighbourhood, so as in good time to discover any red-skins who might be approaching with hostile intent. Cunning as they may fancy themselves, they are in reality easily outwitted by the superior intelligence of white men.

We had got so accustomed to this state of things that we took them as a matter of course. Even my mother, Kathleen, and Lily, were not in the slightest degree alarmed, though they became somewhat anxious when my father and uncle, or Dan and I did not return at the hour they expected. We were annoyed chiefly by the interruption to our usual avocations, as, when we had been out all day, neither our worthy Dominie, Dan, nor I were much inclined for lessons. We, however, managed to hunt as usual, as we could at the same time act as scouts, though we ran, it must be confessed, some risk of being caught by any hostile Indians who might be in the neighbourhood. Impunity, however, made us bold, and we were inclined to think that the threatened attack would never take place. The men continued cutting down trees, putting up fences, ploughing, and sowing, as regularly as before, though, by my father’s orders, they always carried their arms with them, and piled them close at hand, so as to be ready for instant use.

Mr Tidey, Dan, and I had started on horseback one morning just before daybreak, agreeing to meet at noon at a certain spot about ten miles from the farm, by the side of a stream near a wood, where we could light our fire and cook any game we might have shot. I had had a successful morning’s sport, having shot a fawn, a couple of turkeys, and several small birds; and at the hour agreed on I arrived with my horse well loaded at our proposed camp. Finding that the Dominie and my brother had not yet reached it, I collected sticks and lighted a fire, so that I might have dinner ready for them.

While I was so employed, occasionally taking a look round in the expectation of seeing either the Dominie or Dan approaching, I was startled by discovering an Indian who had suddenly emerged from the wood about twenty paces off. My first impulse was to seize my rifle which lay on the ground near me, but a second glance showed me that although he had a bow in his hand, there was no arrow in the string.

“You are not as cautious as you should be, young pale-face,” he observed, as he came up to me. “This is the second time I have caught you off your guard; an enemy approaching as I did might have shot you before you had discovered him.”

As he spoke I recognised our friend Kluko. We shook hands, and he seated himself by the fire, when I offered him some of the food I was cooking, which would, I knew, suit his taste, though not sufficiently roasted to please our palates.

“I heard the sound of your rifle several times, and I tracked you here, as I wanted to bring you good news,” he said.

“I thank you, pray speak on,” I answered; “I know that it will give Kluko as much pleasure to tell good news as it will afford me to hear it.”

“When I saw you last, I warned you that a party of Blackfeet, instigated by a white man, had undertaken the destruction of your farm: I have now to tell you that they quarrelled with their white friend, and, following his trail as he journeyed westward, they have attacked his camp, and cut him and his people to pieces, carrying off their scalps as trophies.”

“Do you speak of Silas Bracher?” I asked.

“That was the name of the white chief; I have no doubt about the matter, although I could not remember it,” answered Kluko. “As the red-men obtained all the booty they could carry off, many times more than the amount of the reward they expected to receive, they are not likely to attack your farm, indeed they are already on their road back to their own hunting-grounds, so you may now rest in peace for some time to come. Should I again hear that they are out on the war-path, I will give you timely notice. You know Kluko is your friend, and that you can trust him.”

I assured the Indian that I put full confidence in the information he had brought, and invited him to accompany us to the farm, as I was sure my father would be glad to see him and thank him for the service he had rendered us. He was evidently pleased, and said he would come and see his pale-faced brothers. In a short time Dan and Mr Tidey arrived, and after they had saluted our Indian friend in the usual fashion, I told them of the news he had brought.

“I was very sure that that wretched man would come to a violent end,” observed Mr Tidey; “although he intended evil against us, we are bound not to rejoice over his fate; we have been protected by a higher power.”

“The great Spirit takes care of those who trust him,” observed Kluko reverently.

Having as much game as our horses could carry, we set off to return home. The Indian, although on foot, easily kept up with us, and I could not but admire his firm step and graceful carriage as he moved over the ground, whether rough or smooth. The information he brought, relieved my mother’s mind of a constant source of care, but though my father believed it to be true, he still considered it possible that the farm might some day or other be attacked, and insisted that we should continue the precautions we had hitherto adopted to escape being surprised.

Kluko remained with us nearly a month, and won our regard by his quiet, intelligent, and unobtrusive manners. Although dressed in skins, he was perfectly the gentleman, moreover an enlightened and sincere Christian, for he had thrown aside all heathen customs and superstitions. His great object appeared to be to benefit his fellow-creatures. He became strongly attached to Dio, whose history he had heard, and expressed himself highly indignant that any people should reduce another race to slavery.

“They speak with contempt of the red-men, but no red-men, cruel and blood-thirsty as they are, ever do that,” he observed. “When they take prisoners they torture them, it is true, for a short time, but they then put them to death; they would not subject them to a long life of torture of soul and body.”

Kluko accompanied us on several hunting expeditions, but he was much less expert than we were in the use of the rifle. He could shoot very well when he got his weapon on a rest, but could never manage to bring down game on the wing. The first time he saw me kill a bird flying, he expressed his astonishment. He had been accustomed to the bow from his boyhood, he said, and, that his people never attempted to shoot at any creature except on the bough of a tree, or running along the ground.

At length he took his departure, promising to pay us another visit ere long, should his life be spared. Month after month went by without any alarms from Indians, while we heard nothing more of the threatened attack on the farm by the Blackfeet.

Uncle Denis was successful in trapping several animals to add to his menagerie. One day he arrived with two wolf cubs, which, although ill-tempered at first, soon became as tame as puppies, though less playful. We obtained also three young fawns, of different species of deer; charming little creatures they were, great pets with Kathleen and Lily, and would follow them round the farm and into the house. They were of course not allowed to go to a distance, lest they might be carried off by any wild animal prowling about. The young wolves at first showed an inclination to bite at them when they came near, but were soon taught better manners, and afterwards never attempted to molest them.

Bruin soon became on the most friendly terms with them, and would roll on the ground, while they leapt over and over his body, and frolicked round and round him. One of the last animals added to the menagerie, was the most difficult to tame, and great doubt was entertained whether it would be prudent to allow it to associate with the other members of the happy family. Uncle Denis arrived with it on horseback in a big bag hung to the saddle-bow, late one evening.

“What have you got there?” we all asked eagerly, as we saw that there was a living creature kicking about in the bag.

“Something which, although at present somewhat inclined to be unruly, will, I hope, before long become as gentle as Lily’s pet lamb. I must send it to school, however, at first, to receive instruction, before I allow it to mix in the world. Here, Mike, take it to the cage; don’t let it out until I come and help you.”

I took the bag from him, and by the weight I supposed that it contained an animal the size of a large cat. The cage, I should say, was about six feet high and eight square, composed of strong hickory, or oak bars, placed so close together, that no animal could force its way out, while only such as had teeth as strong as those of the beaver, could have bitten through the wood. The door was made to slide from side to side, in order that only as much of it as was necessary need be opened at a time. Uncle Denis, having untied the string of the bag, put the mouth inside, when out bounded a beautiful little animal of a tawny hue, with a long tail and a remarkably small head, somewhat more elongated than that of a cat. On its back and sides were several rows of dark streaks, and on its shoulders some spots of similar colour, resembling those of the leopard. It made towards the opposite bars, but finding it could not get out, began circling round and round the cage, looking very much astonished on finding that, although out of the bag, it could not escape.

“Why, that’s a young panther,” exclaimed Dan. “Do you hope ever to tame it, Uncle Denis?”

“A ‘painter’ it is, or rather a puma, to give it its proper name: I have no doubt that in a short time, it will be as gentle as a domestic cat,” answered our uncle; “but we must take care not to irritate it, as its temper is none of the sweetest.”

The little creature continued running round and round, sometimes leaping up, and trying to scramble to the top of the cage, expecting, probably, to find an outlet in that direction. When at length it found all its efforts of no avail, it seemed to resign itself to its fate. Uncle Denis having brought it some small pieces of meat, it devoured them greedily, and looked towards his hands, expecting more. He gave it a very small portion at a time, refusing to give it any food, until it came humbly crawling up to receive the morsel. He then put in a number of leafy boughs, under which it crawled and went to sleep. The next day it was evidently tamer, and more accustomed to the sight of human beings, and after this, the moment he appeared, it came towards him in a suppliant manner to receive its food. In less than a week, it was perfectly tame, and before a month was over, followed him about like a dog, while it became on perfectly friendly terms with the rest of the animals. At first it evidently stood in awe of Bruin, conscious that the bear had the power of giving it an unpleasant gripe, but finding itself unharmed, began to play with its shaggy coated companion, and the two in a short time became fast friends.

Once more wintry blasts blew up the valley, the ground was covered with snow, and lakes and streams were frozen over. We had plenty of occupation, both indoors and out, and although the days were short, the moon for nearly half the month afforded us light sufficient to move about with as great ease as in summer. Habited in dresses of fur, we hunted often at considerable distances from home, either bison or deer, or smaller animals.

On such occasions we built a shanty in some sheltered wood, of birch bark, when it was to be procured, or boughs stuck into the ground close together, with a thick mass of snow piled up against them, while a cheerful fire blazed in front.

Very frequently, however, we dispensed with any shelter beyond such as the wood afforded, and, wrapt in our blankets, lay down to sleep on the snow, canopied by the starry vault of heaven.

Uncle Denis and I were out on one of these hunting expeditions, when, as we were following the tracks of a deer through a wood, accompanied by Boxer and Toby, my uncle, who was ahead, made a sign to me to advance cautiously, while he, stopping, concealed himself behind a tree. I crept forward as he desired, not knowing whether he had sighted a deer or a party of Indians on the war-path. On getting up to him, I found that he was observing the movements of two animals, very different in appearance to each other. On the trunk of a fallen tree, stood a porcupine, or urson, with quills erect, looking down on a smaller animal, which I at once recognised as a marten, or rather, a sable, which was gazing up in a defiant way, apparently meditating an attack on the other.

“I should like to catch and tame both those animals,” whispered Uncle Denis. “Keep back the dogs or the sable will escape and the urson will treat them in a way they are not likely to forget.” The sable was evidently bent on having some porcupine meat for breakfast, and kept moving backwards and forwards, meditating a spring at the nose of its formidable antagonist; but, aware of the power of the latter’s tail, was waiting for a favourable opportunity to seize it. The porcupine, though so much larger, and naturally moving only at a slow pace, seemed aware of the superior agility of the sable, which would enable it to spring from side to side, or dash forward and attack it in front, when its armed tail would have been of no avail. Presently the sable retired to a distance, and I thought would have discovered us, but at that moment it made a dash at the nose of the porcupine, who, whisking round its tail in an extraordinary fashion, sent a shower of darts into the body of its opponent. This did not, however, prevent the latter from seizing it with its sharp teeth and dragging it to the ground.

“Now is our time,” whispered Uncle Denis, putting down his rifle and unstrapping his blanket, and I imitating his example, we rushed forward and threw them over the two combatants. The sable, however, managed to spring out, when the dogs gave chase, but we were too much occupied to see with what result. The porcupine in its struggles whisked about its tail, sending several of its quills through the blanket, but the rest of its body being unarmed, we managed to press it down until we had tied the blanket tightly round it. Having secured the urson in a way which made its escape impossible, we turned our attention to the sable, which the dogs had brought to bay, but the brave little creature was becoming faint, from the wounds inflicted on it from the porcupine’s tail, the quills from which were sticking out all over one side of its body. Seeing that there was no other way of capturing it, I picked up a stick and dealt it a blow on the head, sufficient to stun it, but not to deprive it of life. While I kept back the dogs, Uncle Denis, kneeling down, pulled out the quills, and then throwing my blanket over the animal, he secured it as we had done the urson. It seemed very doubtful, however, whether it would revive, but my uncle said that he would take it home, and should it recover, would try, with gentle treatment, to tame its fierce spirit. To carry our unusual prizes, we formed a long pole from a sapling, to which we secured the creatures side by side. Placing the pole on our shoulders, we began our homeward march. We had the best part of the day before us, and hoped to reach the farm before dark. The urson, weighed heavily, and sometimes it made a convulsive struggle and very nearly worked itself out of the blanket. The sable for some time lay perfectly quiet, but at last we observed a movement in the blanket, which gave us hopes that it was reviving, and we had to put on additional fastenings lest it should escape. To make a long story short, we at length arrived, pretty well tired with our heavy burden. Our friends were somewhat disappointed on finding that we had brought a couple of living animals instead of the fat venison or buffalo they had expected. We, however, relieved their minds by telling them that we had left the meat of a couple of wapiti and a big-horn sheep en cache, and Martin and another man were sent off with the horses to bring it in. We had now to dispose of our captives. The urson was tumbled into the cage, which had before served as a prison to the young puma, while one of smaller dimensions, with iron bars, served as the present habitation of the sable. I cannot stop to describe the process by which both creatures were tamed. The next morning Kathleen and Lily came eagerly to look at them, as they had never seen anything of the kind before. They were greatly surprised at the size of the urson, which was nearly four feet long; the body measured upwards of three feet, and the tail rather less than nine inches. At first they thought it was a young bear, which, from the long blackish brown hair which covered it, concealing the quills, it somewhat resembled, it having also lost a considerable number of the longer quills in its fight with the sable. It had, however, others on the head and hind-quarters, which were more visible than the short ones on the rest of its body. The urson plays a not unimportant part in the destruction of the forests of North America, as it feeds entirely on the bark of trees. This it separates from the branches with its sharp teeth, commencing at the highest and working its way downwards. Having destroyed one tree, it climbs up to the top of another, and carries on the same process, always proceeding in a straight line, and I have often, when passing through a forest, been able to trace its progress by the line of barked trees, which are sure ultimately to die. It is asserted by some hunters, that a single urson will consume the bark of a hundred trees in the course of a year. Our urson, though it became attached to Uncle Denis and would feed out of his hand, was always an object of awe to the rest of the animals, who seemed well aware of its power of inflicting punishment on any of them who might offend it. Even Bruin held it in respect, and none of them ever attempted to be on too familiar terms.

The sable took even longer to tame than the urson. We used to feed it partly on vegetable and partly on animal diet. In winter it preferred the latter. After it had had its meals, it had the habit of going to sleep so soundly that it was difficult to awaken it. It was about eighteen inches long, exclusive of its bushy tail, and much resembled the ordinary marten in shape. The fur was of a rich brown, with white about the neck, and on the head there was a grey tinge. It was of unusual length for so small an animal, and its most remarkable peculiarity was, that in whatever way the hair was pressed down, it lay smoothly on the animal’s back. It extended down the legs to the end of the claws. So tame did it at last become, that it was allowed to roam about at large. Shortly afterwards Kathleen and Lily lost a favourite hen and several young chickens, and as there could be no doubt as to who was the criminal, the sable was doomed to imprisonment for life. Its health suffered in consequence, and in a couple of years it died, but Uncle Denis got 10 pounds for its skin, so that it thus became far more profitable dead than alive.

I have said little of the doings of my sister and Lily. Both were growing into charming young girls, and certainly looked older than they really were. They were also—which was of more importance—sensible and good, devoted to our mother. I always looked upon Lily as a sister; indeed our mother treated her with the same affection as she did Kathleen.

Months and years went by, faster than I could suppose possible. We brought more and more ground under cultivation, our cattle increased, as did our herds of swine even still faster, while the few sheep we had brought became a large flock. Mr Tidey still acted as tutor to the family. Dan had, however, become almost a young man, and I had long considered myself grown up. We laboured on the farm, hunted and fished and traded in furs; some of the furs we bought from the Indians, and a considerable number we trapped or shot ourselves.

Uncle Denis remained a bachelor, although, when urged by my mother, he sometimes talked of going eastward to look out for a wife. I had no intention of following his example even if he did go. I could not tell whether Lily would consent to marry me, but I determined some day to ask her, feeling now that I should never find her equal in any part of the world.

Chapter Fourteen.

My mother is taken dangerously ill—Dio and I set off to Fort Hamilton—Boxer disobedient—End of our first day’s journey—An agreeable addition to our supper—Cat-fish—My dog on the watch—A midnight interruption—Overtaken by the snow—A trying day’s march—We are at length able to camp—Strong inclination to sleep—Boxer keeps watch—The red-skins near—Our horses and rifles stolen—We suffer from hunger—We continue our way on foot—Sleep in a hollow tree—Pursued by wolves—We kill one of the pack—Saved by our dog and a buffalo carcase—Worn out—Camp.

Hitherto our community had enjoyed the most uninterrupted good health, no accidents had even occurred requiring more surgical skill than my father or uncle were able to afford. In this we were especially fortunate, for we knew of no doctor nearer than Fort Hamilton, and we could scarcely expect him to come in any ordinary case of illness. At length our dear mother began to ail, and her pale cheek and sunken eye showed that she was suffering greatly. One evening, towards the end of the year, the trees being already stripped of their leaves, Lily came to me.

“Our dear mother is, I fear, very, very ill,” she said; “I don’t think that your father is aware how serious her case is, and unless we can get a doctor to prescribe for her, I am afraid that she will die. I should be sorry to frighten you unnecessarily, Mike, but I am sure it is of the greatest importance that a medical man should see her without delay.”

“I am ready to set off this moment, and I will endeavour to bring back a doctor at all costs,” I answered.

“Do go, Mike,” she said; “and yet I fear that you may encounter dangers on the way, the journey is long, and the Indians are less peaceably disposed, it is reported, than they have been of late, but I pray that God will protect you, and I am sure that He will, when you are performing an act of duty.”

“Neither difficulties nor dangers shall prevent me from going, and I feel as you do, that it is most important our mother should have medical assistance. I am the fittest person to go, and I shall have no fears, knowing that you, dear Lily, are praying for me.”

“Remember too, Mike, that God will hear my prayers, and grant them too, as He has promised,” exclaimed Lily; “what an encouragement it is to know that He does hear faithful prayer, and never fails to attend to it.”

As may be supposed, this was not the whole of our conversation. When my father came in, I broke the subject to him; not wishing to alarm him more than necessary about my mother’s health, at the same time anxious to obtain his permission for going. He at first hesitated, as I expected that he would do, being more aware even than Lily was of the difficulties of such a journey at that season of the year, when at any time a snow-storm might come on and cover the ground many feet in depth. At last, however, when I told him what Lily had said, he consented. I had intended to go alone, trusting to my rifle for support, should I require more provisions than I could carry on my horse. As soon as I announced my intention of starting, Dio entreated that he might accompany me.

“I will keep up wid you, Massa Mike, however fast you may hab to go. Watch at night when you camp, and will remain by you while I have life, should you be attacked by Indians or grizzlies. Do let me go?” exclaimed the faithful fellow.

“I only hesitated, Dio, lest you might suffer from the weather, should the winter begin before we can get back,” I answered.

He thanked me when I consented, as much as if I had granted him a great favour. He at once proposed that, as the winds were already cold, we should put on our warm clothing, so as to be prepared for snow and frost, should it overtake us. As his advice was good, I of course agreed to follow it.

The next morning we were on foot before daybreak. My father had authorised me to offer a large fee to the surgeon, and he sent a message entreating the commandant to allow him to come, and promising to send him back under a strong escort if necessary.

Kathleen and Lily were up to get my breakfast and to see us off.

“May Heaven protect you, my boy, and bring you back in safety with the doctor,” said my father, as he wrung my hand.

Other farewells were said, and mounted on our favourite horses, with our rifles and pistols ready to our hands, our buffalo robes and blankets strapped behind us, and our haversacks filled with provisions and cooking utensils hung to our saddles, we set off. The increasing light enabled us to go at a good speed. We had got some distance from home, when looking round I saw that Boxer was following us. I ordered him to go back, but though always obedient, after stopping an instant, he came on again, and as he had volunteered to undergo the fatigues of the journey, I allowed him to come. As soon as I called him, he rushed forward, leaping and barking to show his delight, and then fell behind again, steadily making his way at the heels of our horses. With the first part of the country we were well acquainted, and as the weather promised to be fine, we hoped to make a rapid journey. We got over a good distance during the first day, and camped comfortably in the sheltered nook of a wood near a stream, where our horses could obtain plenty of grass. As it was important to husband our provisions, Dio, who had brought a fishing-line and hooks, fitted up a rod, and was fortunate enough to catch two fine cat-fish. The cat-fish, although its name is not attractive, is excellent when cooked. It has, indeed, a very fine flavour, is firm, white, and very rich. In appearance it is like a diminutive dolphin. It has double fins in addition to those on its back, and a long beard-like excrescence hangs from each side of its mouth. One was more than sufficient for our supper, but Boxer had no objection to eat the remainder. I was very glad my faithful dog had come, as he assisted to keep watch, and was not likely to allow any foe to approach the camp without giving us warning. Having built a lean-to, we arranged our beds, composed of twigs and leaves, of which there were abundance on the ground, and with our saddles for pillows and our feet to the fire, we rolled ourselves up in our blankets, feeling as comfortable as any people could do on feather beds. I, however, had not been long sleeping, when I was awakened by hearing Boxer barking furiously close to my ears. Starting up I saw a huge white animal, with glaring eyes, staring at us from a respectful distance. Boxer, though a brave dog, had apparently thought it prudent not to attack the creature without arousing me to be ready to assist him. Leaping to my feet, I instinctively seized my rifle, and, remembering the tricks played by Indians, my first idea was that it was an enemy covered up by a wolf-skin, trying to inspect our camp, and perhaps to steal our rifles and other property, should he have an opportunity. I then recollected that an Indian was much more likely to carry off our horses, and looking round I saw them feeding quietly at the spot where they had been left. They could not have seen the wolf, and the wolf could not have seen them. I was convinced, however, that the animal I had seen was really a wolf. On observing me move, huge as it was, it began to slink away, showing that it was alone, and had not the courage to attack a man and a dog. Though I could have knocked it over with my rifle, I did not think it worthy of powder and shot, but calling to Dio, I picked up a thick stick, that had served to poke up the fire, and ran forward. The creature now took the alarm, and bounded off at full speed, Boxer and I following close at its heels. The dog, exerting itself to the utmost, at last made a spring and fixed his teeth in the hind-quarters of the wolf, somewhat impeding its progress. This enabled me to get up and deal several hard blows on the creature’s head, one of which, given with more force, or better aim, brought it to the ground, and Dio coming up, we quickly deprived it of life. The skin, from the size of the animal and its rare colour, was of some value, but as we could not carry it with us, we hung it up to the branch of a tree, on the chance of finding it on our return, merely taking some of the flesh to reward Boxer for his vigilance and exertions.

“Dis not good ting to do, Massa Mike,” observed Dio, as we returned to camp; “maybe other wolves come, too many for us, when we sleep, and we find hard job to get away from them.”

“I don’t see why, because we have killed one white wolf, we are more likely to be attacked by the brown ones,” I answered; “had we let it escape, we might with more reason suppose that it would tell its fellows.”

Dio shook his head, but he let the subject drop, and once more, on reaching camp, we went to sleep, trusting to Boxer to call us if necessary, and as we could not take the wolf-skin, he benefited most by the adventure.

The night had been lovely, the stars were still shining brightly overhead when we awoke. Knowing that it was nearly morning, I proposed that we should breakfast and ride on. There was daylight sufficient to enable us to see our way. Boxer, not content with his plentiful supper, as soon as he saw us moving, started off in the direction of the dead wolf, and when we were on the point of mounting, reappeared with his mouth besmeared with blood, showing how he had been employed. From the way he moved on, I was afraid he had over-eaten himself; he, however, contrived to keep up with our horses. During the night there had not been a breath of wind, but as the sun rose, it began to blow fresh from the east, and soon shifted to the northward, from which quarter a bank of clouds rising rapidly, formed a dark canopy over the sky. On one side the sun shone brightly across the prairie, lighting up its vivid tints of green and brown and yellow, while on the other the whole country wore a wintry aspect. Every instant the wind became stronger and stronger, and the cold increased. Unbuckling our buffalo robes, we put them over our shoulders, drawing down the flaps of our caps to keep our ears warm. Before long it began to rain, but the rain soon changed into snow, which came down thicker and thicker, until, in the course of an hour, the whole face of the country was covered by a sheet of white, making it difficult to distinguish the marks which had hitherto guided our course.

“Dis not pleasant, Massa Mike,” observed Dio; “we must push on to a wood, for if de snow falls as it now does, before many hours de horses will not be able to travel through it.”

Dio was perfectly right, but the question was whether we could find the desired wood. From my knowledge of the country, I believed that no forest existed for many miles, the intermediate space being one extensive prairie, the very worst description of country to be caught in by a snow-storm. Still it would not do to pull up where we were, as we had no means of lighting a fire. We urged on our horses therefore, trying to keep as direct a course as possible. The snow, however, fell so thickly, that we could no longer discern objects at any distance. It was difficult, indeed, to steer a straight course, for the flakes quickly obliterated the tracks of our horses’ hoofs. We could only judge that we were going right by the wind, which blew on our left cheeks. That, however, veered about, coming in fitful gusts, and driving the snow against our eyes with a force that almost blinded us. Our horses, too, began to grow weary by their efforts to make their way through the snow, and I feared, after all, that we should have to dismount, and lead them on by the bridle. Still it would not do to give in.

“We must push forward, Dio, and perhaps the snow before long will cease,” I observed.

“Nebber fear, Massa Mike,” answered the faithful black whose teeth were chattering with the cold; “worse things dan dis happen ’fore now, and we got safe out of dem.”

I remembered, indeed, my many former providential escapes, and I had not forgotten that my dear little Lily was praying for us. Still matters looked worse and worse. The snow gave no sign of ceasing, while the wind blew more keenly and fiercely than before. The day, too, was drawing to a close. A night on the prairie under such circumstances would be truly dreadful. There was no moon, and with the sky obscured, should the snow continue to fall, we might even possibly become separated. I urged Dio to keep close to me, and I knew that Boxer would not fail to do so. We rode on and on, but our steeds went slower and slower, while the cold had become so intense that I feared we should be frozen if we continued to ride; I therefore, in the hopes of getting my blood into quicker circulation, by the exertion of walking, got off, as did Dio, and we led our horses. I went first, he following close behind me, and Boxer bringing up the rear. The snow had become so deep, that I had to lift up my feet at every step, making the exertion excessively fatiguing. Our horses went on readily enough. As I beat a path, Dio had somewhat less difficulty than I had. At last he begged that he might lead the way to relieve me, but this I would not allow. Severe as was the exercise, I still preferred it to riding. At last, our horses being somewhat rested, having brushed the snow from our saddles, we remounted and endeavoured to urge them on at a faster rate than we had lately been going. The snow suddenly ceased falling. I stood up in my stirrups to look round, in the hopes of distinguishing a wood in one direction or another where we might find shelter, but one uniform sheet of white covered the whole ground as far as the eye could see. Our great object was to keep in a straight line towards the east, but, as before, we had only the wind to guide us. Scarcely had we gone a hundred yards, when the snow again fell as thickly as ever. I felt the cold creeping over me. Poor Dio I knew must be suffering even more than I was, but not a word of complaint did he utter.

“Long lane, massa, dat hab no turnin’!” he cried out, trying to laugh. “Perhaps ’fore long we come to de wood where plenty of sticks, and we light fire, build hut, an’ de horses find grass, an’ we sit down warm and comfortable.”

“I shall be very thankful if we do,” I answered; “but it has become terribly dark. It will be a difficult matter to see a wood, even should we get near one.”

“Yes, Massa Mike, but de hosses find it out, even it we don’t,” answered Dio in a cheery tone; “what we best do is to let dem take dare own way; dey know what the wood is, dough we no see him.”

I followed Dio’s advice, but our horses showed no inclination to turn either to the right hand or to the left, but ploughed on through the snow, as though unwilling to remain exposed to it as we were; I took out my watch, but could scarcely see the hands, though I managed to make out that it was about five o’clock, and that the sun must have set; indeed, the rapidly increasing darkness assured me that in a short time night would overtake us. I soon could only barely distinguish the outline of my horse’s head against the white ground. I frequently spoke to Dio, for fear any accident should make him drop behind, when he might have a difficulty in finding me again.

“Do not lose sight of my horse’s tail, whatever you do,” I shouted out.

Dio promised to keep me in sight, but that was not so easy, though probably his horse would from instinct keep close behind mine. At last I could scarcely see my own hand when I held it up, and my horse’s ears were totally invisible. I had heard of travellers crossing the open prairie perishing in a snow-storm, and I began to fear that such might be our fate, but then I recollected Lily and my little sister. They were praying for us, and I took courage. Several times Dio and I got off to warm ourselves, but as I found on the whole that we made slower progress on foot than on horseback, we again remounted. I have since wondered how we could have endured the chilling breath of that piercing wind for so many hours. On and on we went, the time appeared longer indeed than it really was, but we had no means of calculating how it went by. Dio continued talking, both to assure me that he was close behind, and to keep up my spirits, though the idea of giving in as long as we and our horses had strength to move, never occurred to me. At length it seemed to me that my horse was verging to one side, as I felt the wind blowing in my teeth, more directly than it had hitherto done, then, after some time longer, a low murmuring sound reached my ears. It was, I fancied, the soughing of the wind among the branches of tall trees. Still I could see no object ahead. Next there came a lull, but the snow did not decrease. Presently I made out what seemed like a large column close to me, on the right hand side, then I saw another on the left. They were the trunks of trees, and from the irregular way the snow flakes fell, I was sure that we had gained the confines of the wood.

“We all right now, Massa Mike,” sang out Dio; “dis is de wood: we get off and build a hut under some of dese trees.”

On dismounting, as Dio proposed, I found that the snow was scarcely an inch deep. By creeping about we discovered a clump of trees, under the lee of which but little snow had rested. We could feel that there was grass, and were consequently sure that our horses would not stray from the spot. We therefore took off the saddles and saddle-bags, and, having put on their halters instead of their bridles, left them to feed, while we broke off, from the lower branches and bushes, a sufficient amount of dead wood to kindle a fire. It was somewhat doubtful, however, whether the wind would allow us to light it, or if we succeeded in doing so, whether it would scatter the sparks about, and perhaps ignite some of the underwood, so as to set the whole forest in a blaze. Against such a catastrophe as this we had especially to guard. The idea also occurred to me that possibly some old bear might have taken up its winter-quarters in the hollow trunk of one of the trees, but I was satisfied from Boxer’s quiet behaviour that such was not likely to be the case; he followed close at my heels wherever I went, and I knew that he would spring forward, should any savage animal be near, to do battle in my defence. Dio and I kept talking the whole time, that we might not run the risk of being separated. As I was groping about, I observed a luminous appearance, somewhat like the embers of a fire, though of a paler hue. It was a mass of touchwood in the hollow of a tree. I put my hand in and broke off a lump. Though it would not afford flame itself, it would enable us to kindle a blaze. Close below it I discovered a quantity of dry leaves, and we now had the means of making what we so much required, a fire to warm our benumbed limbs. No hunter in the prairies is ever without a flint and steel, and we soon had a cheerful fire, burning away between the roots of a thick tree, round which we crouched with our buffalo robes over our shoulders, Boxer joining us to enjoy the warmth. We had had no food since the morning, and as we began to grow warm our hunger also increased.

“Where are the saddle-bags?” I asked, thinking they were close at hand.

“I put dem down whar’ we unsaddled the horses—I go get dem,” said Dio. Jumping up he speedily returned with them, bringing also the saucepan and tin mugs, with a water-bottle which was still quite full, but he left the saddles, where they had been first placed on the ground. Our hunger made us immediately apply to the contents of the saddle-bags, while we put on our saucepan to brew some tea, which served more quickly than anything else to restore warmth to our bodies. Poor Boxer, however, came off but badly, as we could only afford to give him a small portion of the bacon and bread, being disappointed of the game we hoped to shoot to feed him. As to building a hut, besides the difficulty of obtaining materials, both Dio and I were so fatigued, that once having sat down we felt no inclination to move about more than was necessary. All we could do, indeed, was to collect a further supply of wood to keep up our fire. On looking at my watch I found that it wanted scarcely three hours to morning. I felt by this time an overpowering inclination to sleep, and Dio, I saw by the way he uttered his words, was affected in the same manner. As far as we could judge the snow continued to come down as heavily as before, but as we were protected by the thick overhanging limbs of the trees, very little fell on us. We could hear our horses cropping the grass, where we had tethered them, and we hoped they would obtain sufficient to enable them to continue the journey the next day. To keep awake any longer I found was impossible, so, drawing my blanket tightly round me, I lay down with my feet towards the fire, as near as I could venture to place them without fear of being burned. Dio was already asleep, and I dropped off immediately afterwards. I do not know how long it was after I had closed my eyes, when I became conscious that Boxer was crawling close to me, licking my face, trembling and whining in a peculiar manner. I was, however, so heavy with sleep, that I did not comprehend for some time the cause of this. Finding that he could not rouse me, he rushed across to Dio, whose voice I soon heard.

“Some ting de matter, Massa Mike. Wake up, wake up. Boxer know dat red-skin not far off.”

Boxer again came back to me and gave a pull at my blanket, which effectually awakened me.

“Red-skins!” I cried out, sitting up and listening. “I can hear nothing.”

“Boxer does dough,” answered Dio.

The fire had burnt low, a few glowing embers alone remained, insufficient to cast a light to any distance, I sprang up, intending to put some more wood on to kindle a blaze, when the sound of horses’ feet reached my ears. “Our animals have got loose at all events, and if we are not quick about it, we shall have a hard job to recover them,” I exclaimed.

Without a moment’s delay I dashed forward in the direction in which we had left the horses tethered, followed by Dio. They were both gone. If they had pulled up the tether-pegs, and we were under a mistake in supposing that Indians had carried them off, we might easily catch them in the morning. Should we follow them now, we might run the risk of losing ourselves, and indeed it was too dark to see their tracks in the snow; still, hoping that we might come up with them before we lost sight of our fire, we went on, until Dio stumbled over the trunk of a fallen tree, and I, knocking my head against a bough, was almost stunned. I heard Dio cry out, but I was too much hurt to reply. Boxer was close at my heels; he uttered a bark which brought the black to my assistance. In less than a minute I recovered.

“We must go back to the fire,” I said, “for we shall be frozen if we remain long away from it.”

Just at that moment, looking in the direction of our camp, I saw—unless I was deceived—two figures, on which a flickering flame cast an uncertain light, pass by on the other side of the fire. The alarming thought occurred to me, that we had come away without our rifles, and that, should the persons I fancied I had seen prove to be enemies, we were entirely in their power. On looking again, I could see no one. I told Dio, but he had not seen the figures. My first impulse was to rush forward, to ascertain if our rifles had been taken; then I thought, if hostile Indians are on the watch, they will shoot us down as soon as we appear within the light of the fire.

“It will be more prudent to ascertain whether any enemies are near,” I whispered to Dio; “we will creep up, keeping as close as possible to the trunks of the trees, until we get nearer the fire, and learn what has happened.”

We did as I proposed, Boxer keeping close to my heels. This was somewhat suspicious, as it showed that he, at all events, believed that Indians were not far off, he sharing the dislike of all white men’s dogs to the red-skins. We managed to creep up to within a short distance of our camp, without, as we supposed, exposing ourselves to view. When we looked round from behind the trunk of a tree which we had gained, we could see no one.

“After all I believe that my fancy has deceived me,” I whispered to my companion; “probably the horses have only gone a short distance, to find more grass. We may as well go back and sleep quietly until morning.”

We accordingly, without hesitation, returned to the camp. The first thing I did was to look about for the rifles; what was my dismay not to find them where I felt sure they had been left. Our saddle-bags, too, were gone. We walked round and round the fire, to be certain that we were not mistaken, but we could discover neither the one nor the other. We were now convinced that Indians must have visited our camp during our absence, and that our horses also had been carried off. The only surprising thing was, that they had not attacked us. Perhaps they only waited until we were seated before our fire to shoot us; they might suppose that we had pistols, and were afraid of venturing near while we were on the watch. My first impulse was to fly and try to escape, but in what direction should we go? Until daylight, we could not find our way out of the forest. We should in all probability fall into their hands. I never before felt my scalp fit so uncomfortably to my head. The thieves, whoever they were, had, however, left us our blankets, which perhaps had escaped their observation. To stay where we were, with the prospect of being shot, would be madness. Snatching up our blankets, therefore, we secured them over our shoulders, and, followed by Boxer, endeavoured to make our way through an opening, which as far as we could calculate, led towards the east. We went on groping our way, sometimes falling over logs, but managing again to recover our feet. It was better to keep moving than to sit down. Although the cold in the forest was much less than in the open prairie, it was still very severe, and we might very easily be frozen to death. Our chief consolation was, that day would soon return, and that we might at all events be able to see our way. We were still a long distance from the fort, and even should we ultimately reach it, the delay of sending medical assistance to my dear mother might be of serious consequence. Daylight at last returned, but not a break in the sky indicated that the snow was about to cease. It was important to keep under the shelter of the trees as long as we could. Should we venture after we got out of the forest to cross the open prairie without weapons to defend ourselves against enemies, or any means of obtaining food? Dio and I decided that it must be done at all risks; that on we would go as long as our legs would carry us. It was now broad daylight. We were making our way on, when we came to a stream, which flowing but slowly, had been frozen over during the night. As I knew the rivers in that locality ran more or less to the eastward, it would assist in guiding our course, but the appearance of the ice did not encourage us to use it as a high road. We settled therefore to keep along the bank, crossing it or cutting off angles as might appear advisable.

“Before we go far, I tink we get arms,” said Dio; “dat saplin’ make good spear.” And taking out his axe, he cut down the young tree, while I formed a heavy club from a branch of hickory, which had been torn off apparently by a storm. If we had had time, we might have formed bows and arrows, but the cold was too great to allow us to do so, until we had put up a hut in which to work; besides, before they could be finished, we might starve with hunger. We therefore contented ourselves with the weapons we had formed, and Dio having scraped one end of his pole into a sharp point, we continued our journey.

We had not gone far, when we discovered a hollow tree, and as we were very weary, besides being hungry, after examining it, to ascertain that it was unoccupied, we crawled in. We had not much fear of being attacked by the Indians, who, although they certainly could have followed our trail, would, we concluded, have made us prisoners or put us to death when they had us in their power, should they have been so disposed. The tribes of red-skins are not all equally blood-thirsty, some being addicted rather to stealing horses and cattle than to murdering the whites; and we had no doubt that such were the people who had carried off our horses and rifles. We therefore, squatting down in the confined space of the tree, folded our arms across our breasts, and immediately dropped off asleep. Weary as I was, my slumbers were troubled and far from sound. I did not intend to rest more than an hour at the utmost, as I was afraid of wasting too much precious time. Before that period had elapsed, I opened my eyes and awoke Dio. Looking out, I found that the snow had ceased. I could nowhere see Boxer. I called to him again and again, but he did not come.

“He gone to de hunt for himself,” observed Dio; “perhaps he come back with young hare or ’possum.”

We waited a few minutes. As I knew that Boxer would follow up the trail as well as any Indian could do, I did not think it necessary to wait for him. Scarcely had we recommenced our journey, when the well-known howl of a wolf reached my ears, repeated by several other brutes of the same species. Had we possessed our rifles, we should not have been afraid of a hundred of them, but, unarmed as we were, it would be difficult to defend ourselves against them, should they follow us. To retreat to the hollow tree would be useless, for although we might keep them at bay, should they besiege us, we might starve before we could regain our liberty. We therefore continued our course, hoping that they would not scent us out. The sounds of barking and yelping increased. It made me fear that Boxer had fallen into their power; if so, he would long ere this have been torn to pieces, and there would be no use in going to his rescue. We were close to the stream, when, on looking round, I saw an animal coming out of the wood on the opposite side. At first I thought it was my faithful dog, but a second glance showed me that it was a wolf—a savage looking brute it was too. The sight of one wolf however, did not give us the slightest alarm, and even if I had had my rifle in my hand, I would not have shot it. When we stopped, the wolf stopped and looked at us, but as soon as we went on again, I saw that it was following, though at a respectful distance.

“Nebber fear; if he come near, I gib him poke with my spear,” said Dio; so on again we went.

The howls which we had before heard, again broke out, and the brutes appeared to be coming nearer.

“We must keep ahead of them at all events, Dio,” I observed; “if we cross the river, they are less likely to follow. Let us push on!”

We reached the ice, which appearing firm, we ventured on it. As it bore our weight better than we expected, we could now run on at a quick pace. I led, Dio following close behind me.

“Go on, massa! go on!” I heard him sing out continually.

I kept verging towards the opposite side of the stream, where the ground was more open, and I hoped that we should make better progress. Presently I heard Dio utter an exclamation, and looking round, I saw a wolf close at his heels, while several more were following at a short distance. Should the brute once attack us, it would be the signal for the others to set on us.

On the impulse of the moment, not thinking of what he was about, Dio took off his cap and threw it at the brute, which stopped, and quickly tearing it to pieces, came rushing on faster than before. Dio, now again turning round, pole in hand, stood ready for the attack, the next instant he plunged it into the wolf’s side, pinning the creature to the ice. Even then, so violent were its struggles, that it would have broken away, had I not come up and finished it with a blow of my club.

“On now, massa! on!” cried Dio; “dey rest stop an’ eat their friend, and we get ’way.”

This was obvious enough, and we set off running as fast as we could over the ice. Several loud cracks, however, warned us that it would be prudent to gain the shore as soon as possible, although we might not make our way so fast over it as we had been doing on the ice. As I glanced over my shoulder, I saw that the pack had attacked their comrade, and were busily employed in devouring his carcase. They would not, however, take long in doing that, and we might soon expect to have them at our heels. Hungry as we were, our strength was not exhausted, and we resolved not to give in while life remained. We might hope to reach some place where we could defend ourselves until the savage pack had grown weary of besieging it. We had gained a considerable distance, and were almost out of hearing of the yelping and barking, when again those horrid sounds began to draw near. The brutes had eaten up their companion, and were once more on our trail. How many miles we had run I could not tell, when we saw that the pack were rapidly gaining upon us, and that we should have to stop and fight for our lives. As I was expecting every instant that we should have to turn round and commence the battle, I saw a dark object on the ground, and at the same moment I heard a bark, uttered certainly not by a wolf. Presently a dog came rushing towards us whom I at once recognised as Boxer, holding a huge piece of meat in his mouth. Regardless of the wolves, he leapt up as if to offer it to us. A short distance off lay a buffalo bull, which probably had been shot by some hunter, and had there fallen down and died. Taking the meat, I threw it towards the wolves, then Dio, Boxer, and I continued our flight, passing close to the bull. We were saved from the imminent danger which had threatened us, for the wolves would certainly be delayed long enough over the carcase to enable us to make good our escape. I was rushing on, when Dio cried out—

“Stop, massa, I git out some meat for our supper.”

With his axe he quickly cut off a huge piece of the flesh. The morsel I had thrown to the wolves, had delayed them longer than I might have supposed. The brutes having stopped to quarrel over it, had furiously attacked each other, so that we were already a considerable distance beyond the buffalo before they reached it. So completely did it occupy their attention, that they no longer thought of us, and at length, when we from a distance looked back, we could see a tossing, moving mass of animals, their barks and yelps sounding faintly in our ears. Hungry as we were, I thought it prudent not to stop until we could reach some sheltered place where we could light a fire, and at the same time, defend ourselves, should any of the pack follow us. We had been saved from one danger, we might hope to escape others. The wind had fallen, though it still blew from the north, and the cold was severe. The exercise, however, kept us warm. We were again in open ground, but we could see the wood ahead, bordering the stream, an angle of which we had cut off. Continuing on, we once more gained the wood, and soon fixed on a spot for camping. Near it was a tree, the branches of which we could reach, so that should the wolves again come near us, we might climb up out of their reach. Collecting sticks, we soon had a fire lighted, and a part of our meat spitted and roasting before it. As we had lost our buffalo robes, it was absolutely necessary to form some sort of shelter, and while our supper was cooking, we began to collect materials for forming it. Well accustomed to such work, we did not take long about it. The necessary stakes were cut, the branches and pieces of bark collected, and by the time Dio pronounced the meat “done,” we had our hut up, resting against the trunk of a tree. Had we not been so busily employed, we could not have waited so long without food. Tough as was the meat, it greatly restored our strength, while we quenched our thirst with handfuls of snow. I had not before felt sleepy, but scarcely had I swallowed the food, than I became almost overpowered by drowsiness, and had just sense enough to crawl into the hut, when I dropped off to sleep.

Chapter Fifteen.

Sufferings from cold—Kindness of Dio—A weary march—Trails of buffalo and deer—More snow—We reach a wood where we camp—Indians—Dio scouts—Possibility of being separated—I charge the Black with my father’s message—We steal near the Indians’ camp—Recover our horses—The flight and pursuit—Dio and I part company—Jack put on his mettle—On the edge of a precipice—My horse fails me—A last effort to escape—Rescued—The mysterious hunter—A blank in my existence—I recognise my preserver—A strange discovery—Lily’s father found—Uncle Michael—Regaining health and strength—Spring—Return to Smiling Valley—Meeting of the brothers—Conclusion.

Accustomed as I was to a life in the wilds, to endure the extremes of heat and cold, and what most persons look upon as hardships; I am sure that I should have perished with cold had it not been for my faithful companions Dio and Boxer. The dog, I will not say from instinct, because I believe, that he was influenced by a higher power, stretched himself upon me, giving me the warmth, of his body, while Dio chafed my feet, and then wrapped them up in a part of his own blanket, while he sat up, having raked the fire as near as he could venture to bring it. During the whole night I am convinced that he did not once drop asleep, at all events for more than a few minutes at a time. After several hours I awoke, feeling thoroughly warm. I was somewhat astonished at the heavy weight above me, and it was not until I put out my hand and felt Boxer, that I was aware how I had been cared for. By the light of the fire, which was still burning brightly, I saw Dio seated at the entrance of the hut. I told him how much refreshed I felt, but I had great difficulty in persuading him to crawl in and take the rest he so much required. Having put on my boots, I sat up and took his place, I was thus able to judge of the suffering he had endured for my sake, for even with my blanket round me, and a fire near my feet, I could scarcely bear it: I was very thankful when in less than an hour I saw daylight appear. Without delay I made up the fire and spitted some more of our buffalo meat to roast, that we might take breakfast before starting. I waited until the meat was cooked before arousing Dio.

“Go on, massa,” he exclaimed, starting up, “I wonder whether we get to the fort ’fore night.”

“I am afraid not,” I answered; “on horseback, in fine weather, we might have reached it in five days, but we have performed scarcely half the distance. Never mind, we have got meat for one day more, and we may trap an opossum or beaver, or perhaps Boxer may catch us something.”

As soon as we had breakfasted, and bestowed a small portion of our meat on Boxer, Dio shouldering his spear, and I my club, we began our march. As the sun rose, the clouds cleared away, and we knew that we were proceeding more or less in the direction of the fort. Still I could not tell how much out of our proper course we had gone during the last two days, and we might possibly pass the fort, either to the north or south, without seeing it. Had the ground been free from snow, I should have hoped, without much difficulty, to have struck the trail running east and west, followed by emigrants; but none were likely to have passed since the snow had fallen, and the country was generally so level that there were no land-marks to steer for; all we could do, therefore, was to push on, and keep up our spirits. Had I not been anxious about my mother, I should have cared much less for the delay; but as it was, I determined that no difficulties or dangers should stop us. As we went on, I looked out eagerly for marks of footsteps; of either men or horses, but the same uniform sheet of white appeared on every side, though our own feet left their impression more clearly than we desired on the snow, showing that two men and a dog had passed that way. Should any Indians come across our trail, knowing that they could obtain an easy victory, they would too probably follow us up. At length I saw the snow disturbed by a long line running at right angles to our course. On reaching it, I at once saw that the trail was that of a herd of buffalo moving southward, but none of the animals were in sight, though from the marks I calculated that they could only just before have passed. Soon after we met with the tracks of several deer, but they too had disappeared. The country ahead had a more hilly aspect, and I observed that the snow had melted from the southern sides of the slopes. It was of the greatest importance that we should reach another wood before nightfall, and hoping to find one on the other side of the range, we hurried on. I became conscious of my decrease of strength by finding a greater difficulty than usual in climbing the slopes, and on looking at Dio, I found that he too was toiling on with less activity than was his wont. We had only enough meat for one more meal for ourselves and dog, and I saw that it would be necessary, for the sake of our future progress, to bring our day’s journey to an end as soon as possible. There was another reason for this. As we looked northward, we saw the clouds again gathering in the sky; and the wind, shifting round to that quarter, quickly drove them towards us, blowing as keenly as before. Once more the snow began to fall. When I turned round I observed how quickly it obliterated over footsteps. I had carefully noted the direction of the wood which commenced at the foot of the hill, and we therefore reached it without difficulty. Making our way onwards, we soon selected a spot for camping, and although it was still early in the afternoon, I resolved to remain there, at all events, until the next morning. While looking about for fire-wood we discovered a large hollow tree, and as we had plenty of time, we cleaned it out, so that it would serve as a comfortable abode for the night. We collected also a quantity of dry leaves, with which we could cover ourselves up, should the cold become as intense as on the previous night. We also searched about for some slabs of bark, to line the rougher parts and to close up the aperture. While I was arranging our intended abode for the night, Dio, followed by Boxer, went off to catch, if he could, some small animal or bird which he might kill for our supper; I had lost sight of him, but felt very sure that he and his companion could find their way back. Having made up the fire, I was on the point of lighting it, when Dio appeared running towards me.

“Oh! Massa Mike!” he exclaimed, almost breathless, “I see de Indians on top ob de hill!”

The snow, which blew in their faces, had, however, prevented them from seeing him. What should we do?

“Fortunately, as the falling snow will have filled up our trail, they will not know we are here,” I observed; “the best thing we can do is to creep into our hollow tree and remain quiet; perhaps they will choose some other part of the forest to camp in, and if so, they will not discover us. Were we now to try and escape through the forest, they would nearly to a certainty fall on our trail and follow us up, whereas we may hope that they will not enter it to camp, until they have got further to the eastward; if, however, they do camp close to us, our only safe course will be to walk boldly in among them, and tell them that we wish to be friends, and that we will reward them for any assistance they may give us.”

“Den, massa, we hide in de tree,” said Dio.

Had the snow not been falling, I knew that, should they pass within fifty yards, they would discover our footsteps; but even in the thickest part of the forest, it so quickly covered the ground, that I hoped they might not see our trail.

Having scattered the sticks we had collected for our fire, we clambered into the hollow tree, followed by Boxer, and drew in after us the pieces of bark, one of which was of sufficient size to block up the whole of the entrance. We kept two small apertures, through which Dio and I could look on the proceedings of the red-skins. I was of course well aware that should the eyes of any of the party fall on the tree, our place of concealment would immediately be discovered, as they would at once detect a difference in the bark. The opening was towards the south, and enabled us to command a view for a considerable distance through the trees, to the very edge of the forest. We had not long taken our posts, when a body of Indians came in sight, some on horseback, others on foot. There were no women among them. Even at that distance, we could see that their faces were painted, and their heads bedecked with feathers, showing that they were out on the war-path. As we watched, we felt greatly relieved to find that they kept outside the forest, apparently not intending to enter it, though they rode as much as possible under the trees, for the sake of the shelter they afforded. At the rear of the line came two warriors, mounted, I knew, from the appearance of their saddles and the look of the animals, on our horses. I thought it probable, however, that they were not the thieves, but had stolen them from another party, because, being on the war-path, I felt confident that they would have taken our scalps as well as our property.

For fear that any stragglers might be following and see us, we remained carefully shut up in the hollow tree, until we believed that they had got to a distance. Still it would be unsafe to light a fire, in case they should encamp even at a mile distance, for they would observe the smoke, although they might not see the glare of the fire.

Dio at last begged that I would allow him to go and try to find out where they were, promising to take very good care not to be caught. I would rather have gone myself, but he entreated me to remain with Boxer. Should we find that they had gone on, we might then safely light our fire, and cook the remainder of our buffalo meat, which we should otherwise be compelled to eat raw. To keep myself warm, I climbed into the tree, and closed the entrance, with Boxer by my side. Anxious as I felt, I before long fell asleep.

I was awakened by Dio putting in his head.

“Dey camp too near to let us light fire,” he said, “but nebber mind, dey turn de horses loose, and our two mustangs come dis way.”

“The red-skins don’t think we are near them, that’s very clear,” I answered. “We will try to recover our own horses, though I am afraid it will be more difficult to get back our saddles and saddle-bags, or our rifles. Our horses know us, and will come at our call, even though they may be hobbled. If we can manage to get them, we must ride directly for the fort. Now, Dio, it is possible that we may be separated, and if so, I charge you to deliver the message I received from my father, to entreat that the surgeon may be sent off immediately. If there is no one else to accompany him, you must go, should I not have arrived. I only say this in case of accident. We will do our best to keep together, but still we may fail to do so. Do not suppose, however, though I may not appear, that I am lost; I can picture a dozen events occurring, which may prevent me from soon reaching the fort, though I may do so at last. You understand me, Dio? Take care also not to alarm the family, but repeat to them what I say to you. You will promise me?”

“Yes, Massa Mike,” answered Dio, looking me earnestly in the face; “but it break dis niggar’s heart, if you nebber come home.”

“Have no fears on that score,” I answered, wishing to encourage him. “If you manage to catch one of the horses and I should fail, I repeat again, that it is of the greatest consequence that you should push on to the fort; of course we may get there together, or you may lose your way, or I may get there first. Do you understand my object?”

“Yes, yes, massa; an’ I promise to try and get to de fort, and to take de doctor to Missie Loraine,” answered the faithful Black, in a melancholy tone, showing that though ready to follow out my injunctions, he grieved at the thoughts of being separated from me, when perhaps I might be caught and killed by the Indians.

“But, Massa Mike, we try and keep togedder, won’t we?” he added.

“Of course, Dio, both for your sake and my own, you may depend upon that; I give you these instructions only on the chance of our being separated.”

Dio clambered inside, and closing the entrance, we sat down, with Boxer at our feet, thus enjoying more warmth than we should otherwise have done.

We passed the time in chewing pieces of the raw buffalo meat, which, tough as it was, served to keep up our strength. Boxer came in for a larger share than he would have obtained probably, had it been cooked.

We might, of course, have avoided the Indians and continued our journey during the night, but, should no more snow fall, we felt sure that they would discover our trail, and follow us up, whereas, could we regain our horses, we might, before daylight, get to such a distance from them, that they would be unable to overtake us. The other alternative was to stay in our place of concealment, until they had taken their departure, but then our food was exhausted, and as they might possibly remain two or three days, we should be starved. We decided, therefore, that our best plan was to try and recover our horses, as we had proposed.

We waited until darkness came down on the earth, and then, getting out of our hiding-place, stole cautiously towards the Indian camp. We could proceed but very slowly, as we had to make our way among fallen logs, between the trunks of trees, and round clumps of bushes, too thick to penetrate. We stopped also frequently to listen for any sounds which might show us that we had got near the horses. Dio had been enabled to ascertain on which side of the camp they had been turned loose. Boxer kept close at our heels, apparently understanding the danger of our expedition. At length a glare on the leafless boughs of the trees some way ahead showed us that we were approaching the camp. On we crept; once more we stopped to listen. Although I could not distinguish what was said, I was satisfied, from the loud and continuous tones, that one of the chiefs was addressing his braves, perhaps exciting them to attack the fort of the pale-faces. The rest of the people kept a perfect silence while he spoke. I knew therefore that their attention would be absorbed, and that we consequently should have a better chance of catching the horses unobserved, than had the people been moving about and engaged in the usual occupations of a camp. Still I did not forget that they were habitually on their guard, and might have sentries on the watch outside the camp. We had now to consider in which direction we should most probably find the horses. We might have to make almost a circuit of the camp. I resolved to go to the right, where, as the forest was more open than on the other side, there would be a greater probability of the animals finding grass. I touched Dio’s arm, and we moved away in that direction. We had already got to the south of the camp, when we came to the edge of a glade, in which we could distinguish several horses feeding. Unfortunately, however, but few trees intervened between them and the fire, and, should we alarm them, the quick eyes of the Indians would probably observe their movements. It was impossible in the dark to distinguish our own animals from the others. We waited, in the hope that they might come near us, and, recognising our voices, allow us to mount them; whereas, the Indians’ horses, knowing us to be strangers, would keep at a distance. Still it was important not to lose time. The chief might bring his speech to an end, and there would be a greater chance of our being discovered. To my satisfaction I saw that the heads of some of the animals were directed towards us, and, as they turned up the snow to get at the grass beneath, they came nearer and nearer. I could hear my heart beat with eagerness. Presently one of them stopped feeding, and, looking about, gave a low whinny, then shuffled forward. Directly afterwards another, a little way behind, did the same, and I felt assured that they were our own horses, which had scented us out.

“You catch the first, I’ll look after the other,” I whispered to Dio; “steer for that star appearing above the trees, it will at all events take us clear of the forest.”

The first horse, from a white patch on his shoulder, I recognised as Dio’s, and knew that it would readily consent to his mounting. I had little doubt that the other was mine. We had our knives ready to cut the hobbles, the work of a moment. If we could once mount we should get a good start, as the Indians would be delayed in catching their steeds and setting their legs at liberty.

“Now is your time,” I said to Dio.

We both crept forward on our hands and knees, so that we might perform the first necessary operation of cutting the thongs which secured our horses’ legs, before showing ourselves. I saw Dio reach his horse,—in an instant his sharp knife had set its legs free; following my directions, he mounted. Mine gave another whinny, and came up to me. The Indians must have heard the sound, for I saw them start, and several who had been seated round the camp-fire sprang to their feet.

“On, Dio, on; I’ll follow you in an instant,” I cried out, as I worked away with my knife; but it was blunter than usual, and I had to make several hacks before I could cut through the tough hide. Ere I had done so, Dio, urging on his animal, was already at a considerable distance. Whether or not the Indians had discovered him, I could not tell; but they must have seen me, for as I rose to my feet, about to mount, leaving their camp-fire, they came rushing forward. I sprang on to my horse’s back, and pressing my knees into his side, patted him on the neck. “Now, Jack,” I cried, “show what you’re made of. Don’t let those fellows catch us.”

The horse, knowing my voice, obeying as if he had understood what I said, galloped forward. I looked ahead, but could nowhere see Dio. I believed that my animal would follow the course of the other horse. I was very certain that in a few moments I should have the whole pack of Indians at my heels. If I could lead them on one side or the other, I might give Dio a better chance of escaping. Brave Boxer kept close to me. I stooped to avoid the boughs under which my horse carried me. He seemed as eager to get away from the Indians as I was. I could hear them shouting and shrieking as they ran to catch their horses. Several arrows whistled over my head, or fell beside me, but they were afraid of shooting low, for fear of wounding their own horses, which were between me and them. In another minute, however, I was out of their sight among the trees. Although it was night, there was sufficient light, I feared, to enable them to discover my trail. Not that I thought much about that at the time, or anything else but the idea of escaping. My horse made too much noise as he galloped over the crisp ground, to allow me to hear whether they had yet mounted, and the only sounds from behind me which reached my ears were their shouts. Presently, however, these ceased, and I then knew that they were pursuing either Dio or me. I had had, however, a fair start. My hope rose high that I should be able to keep ahead of my pursuers. It was important, however, to get out of the wood as soon as possible, or they would, by going faster over the ground, make their way round, and be ready to meet me as I emerged from it. A narrow glade opened out before me, leading in the direction I wished to take; it was formed either by deer or buffalo, who, from constantly following the same tracks, are the chief road-makers of the primeval forests. I dashed along it; fortunately neither fallen trunks nor stumps impeding my progress. As may be supposed, I looked out eagerly for Dio, and I thought it very possible that I might fall in with him, but no signs could I discover of his having passed that way, as the snow lay unbroken along the whole path. I dared not turn my head to ascertain whether the Indians had yet entered the opening. I was encouraged, however by believing that they were not better acquainted with the country than I was, and that they would have no advantage over me in that respect.

It was no easy matter to stick on to the bare back of my horse, and had he not gone steadily forward, I could scarcely have done so. On and on I went; if I could continue my course until daylight, I hoped that I might get into the neighbourhood of the fort, and perhaps meet with some of the garrison out hunting deer or buffalo. It was a question, however, whether my horse would hold out so long. At present, he was behaving beautifully, and showing no signs of flagging. My earnest prayer was that Dio’s would behave as well. As long as the glade was level I had little doubt about his keeping up the same pace, but should it come uneven, with rocks to pass over, or hills to climb, I feared that he might give in. How many miles I had gone over, I could not tell. The open prairie was at length reached; no Indians had appeared. Some way farther on I caught sight of a rocky height against the deep blue sky, running directly across my course. If there was no path through it, I must surmount it, and with my tired steed, this would cause delay, and probably, should the Indians be pursuing, they would catch me up. The task, however, had to be accomplished; I rode forward; it was farther off than I expected, but at length I reached it. I soon found from the way my poor horse went, that I must dismount.

Taking him by the halter, which had served as my bridle, I began to climb up over the uneven ground. On gaining the top, I took one glance round and made out some dark objects moving over the plain towards me. A shout reached my ears; I had been seen; but my pursuers would have to climb up as I had done, and could I reach the bottom in safety I should gain on them. I was well aware that the descent was more difficult and dangerous than the ascent. On I went: to my dismay I came to the edge of a precipice; it was of no great depth, but both my horse and I might break our legs should we attempt to leap it, though Boxer might have performed the operation without danger. I rode along, hoping to find a more practicable path; I had, however, to ascend some distance, and then continue along the side of the hill, before the slope was sufficiently gradual to permit me again to descend. I was aware that I had spent much precious time in searching for a way down, and that, should I be delayed much longer, my enemies would be upon me. I felt like a person in a dreadful dream. I had got but a short distance down, when I saw that, even although I was leading my horse, there would be a great risk of our being rolled over. Still I hurried on, when again a precipice yawned before me. Its depth I could not distinguish. Once more I led my horse upwards, and then continued, as before, along the side of the hill. At length I came to a slope, which, although rough, seemed practicable. I might even ride down it if necessary, but without a saddle there was the danger of slipping over the horse’s neck. Boxer, as if satisfied that we could get down, sprang forward. I followed, my tired steed slipping down on his haunches. I had got about half-way to the bottom, when I heard a shout, and for a moment looking round, I caught sight of the figures of several Indians standing on the brow of the hill, their outlines clearly marked against the sky. The next instant a flight of arrows came flying after me. I heard them strike the rocks behind, and on either side. Others followed, and I felt that I was wounded; I hoped, however, but slightly. It would be better to be dashed to pieces than be made a captive, or a target; so, springing on my horse’s back, I urged him down the steep descent. Gathering up his legs, he dashed forward, while I leant back as much as possible, to throw the weight off his shoulders. How I reached the bottom I could scarcely tell. By this time the dawn had broken, and the daylight was rapidly increasing. It enabled the Indians to see me more clearly, and I knew that they would soon be close at my heels. My poor horse, too, was becoming weaker and weaker, although, as he heard my voice, he endeavoured to spring forward. The ground was far more uneven than any I had passed over on either side of the hill. My pursuers’ horses, however, were probably suffering as much as mine was, but, then, should theirs fail them, they might dismount and follow me on foot. Notwithstanding this, I had no thought of giving in, and determined, should my horse fall, that I would try the speed of my legs. I could run as fast as most Indians, boasting as they do of their swiftness of foot. Some distance before me appeared a wood, bordering a stream: I determined to try and gain it, and dismounting, to leave my poor horse to his fate, when I would make my way along the bank, and then cross the stream, if it was sufficiently shallow to allow me to ford it, so that the Indians might possibly lose my trail. The intermediate ground, however, was very rough. Twice already my horse had stumbled and nearly come down on his knees. Not having a bit in his mouth, I had no power to keep him up. In spite of the difficulties to be surmounted, I had hopes that I was once more distancing my pursuers, when my poor steed fell. I was thrown over his head but alighted on my feet. My first impulse was to turn round and help him to rise. As I did so, I saw the Indians coming on, several of them on horseback, but others on foot. Although my horse was trembling in every limb, I leaped on his back, and with indomitable spirit he sprang forward. It was but for a few minutes; before I could reach the wood he came down again, and I, being thrown with far more violence than before to the ground, was almost stunned. I lay for some seconds unable to move. I could hear the shouts of the Indians, as they thought that they had at length secured their prey. Boxer barked furiously in return and ran to my horse to try and make him get up, but the poor animal’s strength was exhausted. I, too, made an attempt to rise. It was with difficulty that I could get on my feet. I saw at a glance that my horse could no longer avail me. The Indians were advancing with their scalping-knives in their hands; in another minute, unless I could escape, I should be in their power. Life was sweet, notwithstanding the pain I suffered from the fall, and from the wound I had just received. Mustering up my remaining strength, I turned to fly. In vain, however, were all my efforts; the Indians came on whooping and shrieking; at every bound they were gaining upon me. Had I possessed a weapon, I would have fought for my life, but escape by flight was impossible. Their scalping-knives flashed in the rising sun. I raised my eyes to take one farewell look, as I supposed, of the blue sky above me, and patted the head of my faithful dog, who affectionately licked my hands, conscious of the fearful predicament in which we were placed, and as if to say, “I am ready to stop and die with you, my master.” Had they chosen it, the Indians might have sent a dozen arrows into my body, but, although they had their bows in their hands, they refrained from shooting. At that moment, when all hope seemed lost, I heard a shout coming from out of the wood behind me, and the words—

“Run for it, friend!”

I did not require a second summons, exerting all my remaining strength, I turned and hastened in the direction whence the voice proceeded. I saw two persons with rifles in their hands, one a white man, the other an Indian. The next instant I fell fainting to the ground. I heard loud voices, but no shot was fired. The white man was addressing the Indians, and they replied. I in vain endeavoured to arouse myself, and in a short time became totally unconscious of what was passing around.

When my senses returned, I found myself in a roomy wigwam of birch bark, the floor was lined with fine mats, and there were two skin-covered couches, besides the one on which I lay. Several weapons, cooking utensils, and other articles, hung to the supports, while round the walls were piled up packages of skins. At my side lay Boxer, looking sleek and fat, as if he had recovered from his fatigue and had been well cared for. He and I were the only inmates of the hut. Though I talked to him he could give me no information as to what had happened, or how I came to be there. It was some time, indeed, before I recollected the events which had occurred, and I then knew that I was indebted for my life to the white hunter I had seen just as the Indians were on the point of capturing me.

I dozed off once more after this, when I was aroused by the cool air coming in owing to the curtain in front of the tent being drawn aside as the hunter entered. After looking at me for a few seconds, and discovering that I was awake; he said in a kind voice, “I am glad to find, my young friend, that you have come to yourself. You’ll do well now, I’ve no doubt, but you have had a tough struggle for life, though by the way you made your escape from the red-skins I had great hopes from the first that you would come off the victor.”

“Have I been long here?” I asked. “Pray let me get up; I want to get to Fort Hamilton, to send the doctor to my mother, who is very ill; and if he doesn’t go, I am afraid she will die.”

“I won’t keep you in suspense; the doctor went away the day after you were brought here, and I sent word by him that you were safe. The brave black fellow, who managed to reach the fort, after escaping from the Indians, took the message, but he considered that you were not fit to be moved, and were better off with me than you would be in the crowded fort. To tell you the truth, you’ve been here six weeks or more, and the chances are that you will remain another six weeks.”

“I have much to thank you for,” I answered, “the news you have given me will restore my strength faster than anything else, and I should feel still happier if you can tell me that mother benefited by the doctor’s visit.”

“Of that I can assure you, for I way-laid him, and got him to come and see you. He informed me that she is in a fair way of recovery.”

I reiterated my thanks to my host. It was not until he was seated before the fire, cooking some venison steaks from a deer he had just killed, and the flame fell on his countenance, that, examining it, I recognised the white hunter we had met so long before, on our way to Smiling Valley. He had, however, greatly changed since then, and had evidently been leading a wild hunter’s life, his dress was of skins, and except his rifle and hunting traps, and cooking utensils, everything in the hut appeared to have been of his own manufacture.

“We have met before,” I said, “and I had then to thank you for saving me and my companions from the Indians. Don’t you remember me?”

“I recollect the circumstance, though you have altered so much, that I did not recognise you,” he answered. He then made inquiries after the Dominie, and expressed his satisfaction at hearing of our success at Smiling Valley. “Indeed, I knew that some white people had settled there from my Indian friend Kluko, who has been for a long time my firm ally, and frequently assisted me to escape from the red-skins. He will be here before long, as he visits me frequently.”

I replied that I knew the chief, who had shown his friendly disposition towards us, and should be happy to meet him. I then inquired whether he had been eastward since the time of which we were speaking.

“Once, and for the last time,” he answered, a shade of melancholy passing over his countenance.

Though afraid that I might pain him if I put further questions, my curiosity prompted me to inquire what had taken him to the settlements, since he appeared wedded to his wild life.

“Your question arouses the recollection of circumstances I have been endeavouring to forget. I had at one time resolved to abandon my hunter’s life and to return to civilisation. I married and settled at Ohio, but misfortune overtook me, floods destroyed my crops, and all the capital I had saved by years of toil was lost. To regain it I resolved once more to plunge into the wilderness, and set off, leaving my wife and infant child with her father. I was as successful as I expected, and having realised a considerable sum from the furs I had obtained, I returned to the settlement, expecting to find my wife and child with her family. On reaching it, bitter was my disappointment to learn that my father-in-law’s farm had been destroyed by a fearful fire which raged over the country, and that he, taking my wife and child, had set off with some of his neighbours to migrate westward. A report had been circulated that I had been killed by the Indians, my wife consequently had left no message for me. Once more I turned my face westward, hoping to overtake the train, or to find out where the party had located themselves. In vain I searched for them, but at length had too certain evidence that the train had been cut off by Indians, and every person belonging to it massacred.”

“I am afraid in most respects your information was correct,” I observed; and I then told him how on our journey we had come up with a train which had been destroyed as had the one he spoke of, “though it might not be the same,” I added, “for one person escaped, a little girl, who told us that her name was Lily.”

“Lily!” exclaimed the hunter, “that was the name of my child. Did she survive? Where is she?”

I replied that she had lived with us ever since as my parents’ adopted daughter. “Indeed my father and mother and Uncle Denis love her as much as they do any one of us,” I added.

“Uncle Denis!” repeated the hunter, and he seemed lost in thought.

“Young man,” he said at length, “what is your name?”

“Michael Loraine,” I answered.

“And your uncle’s surname?”

I told him.

“And they are loving and cherishing my Lily?”

“Yes,” I replied; “and there is no being an earth I love so well.”

For some minutes the hunter was silent, but I saw that he was much agitated. At length he asked, in a low voice, “Have you ever heard your uncle or mother speak of a brother, who came over to America with them?”

“Yes!” I answered, “I was named after him. They both cherish his memory, and I know that Uncle Denis much blames himself for his conduct towards him, and would give all he possesses to see him again.”

“Are you speaking the truth?” asked the hunter.

“Indeed I am, why should I do otherwise?” I answered, a suspicion rising in my mind of who he was. “Are you my Uncle Michael?” I asked, looking in his face. “I am nearly certain that you are, and if so, I am confident that my father and mother will rejoice if you will return to them, and Lily too; she must be your daughter.”

In spite of my anxiety to get well, the winter snows had melted, and the trees were once more budding before my long-lost uncle and I were able to set forward on our journey. By means of Kluko he had taken care to let my family know of my progress towards recovery, but strange as it may appear, he had not informed them who he was, being anxious to do so, I suspect, personally. Kluko had also taken charge of his bales of skins and peltries; and the wigwam which had so long served as our abode was left for the benefit of any person who might choose to take possession of it.

The hunter, for so I will still call him, was unusually nervous as we approached “Smiling Valley.” We were nearly in sight of the farm, when we saw my father approaching. I threw myself from my horse and after our first greetings were over, I introduced the hunter, as he had desired me to do, as the person who had been the means of saving my life.

“Now go forward, Mike,” he said, for so he had taken to call me; “your friends at home will be longing to see you. I will follow with your father.”

I bounded on, and was soon receiving the joyous welcomings of the loved ones from whom I had been so long parted, while the Dominie almost wrung my hand off, as he congratulated me on my return. Uncle Denis had been absent shooting, but he at that moment came in. I was burning to tell them who the stranger was, but having been forbidden to do so, I restrained myself. In a short time, however, my father and his companion arrived. Uncle Denis gazed at the latter for a few seconds.

“Michael!” he exclaimed, and the two brothers rushed in each other’s arms.

Kathleen and Lily were standing by. Uncle Michael turned from his brother, and gazed at Lily: he advanced towards her.

“I am not mistaken!” he said; “come to my arms, my child; I thought you lost with your poor mother, or I should have searched the world over for you. Do not be alarmed, I will not take you from those who have cherished you so lovingly.”

Lily returned her new-found father’s embrace, but it was some time before she could recover from her astonishment, which was still further increased on finding that he was our Uncle Michael of whom she had so often heard. My father now took him in to see my mother, who was not yet well enough to come out of doors. Dio quickly made his appearance, and showed his joy at my return by bursting into tears as he exclaimed—

“Dis nigger just ’bout de happiest man in de ’ole world.”

I did not fail to inform my father of the coolness and bravery the black had displayed in overcoming his desire to remain with me, and making his way to the fort for the sake of bringing assistance to my mother.

It was not the last time that Dio rendered us essential service, as he ever remained faithfully attached to my father and family.

My two uncles were not only reconciled, but became as affectionate as brothers should be, and before long set off for the settlements, from whence they returned with two suitable wives, who proved admirable helpmates to them, and kind aunts to us.

Lily ere long became my wife, by which time, thanks to my father’s assistance, I had a house and farm of my own.

The Dominie, to our great surprise, soon after the arrival of Uncle Michael took his departure.

“You’ll see me again,” he said, with a knowing smile: and so we did, but he did not come back alone; he was accompanied by a curious specimen of woman-kind, at least so we thought her at first, but she proved of sterling worth, and made the Dominie an excellent wife and became the mother of several sturdy sons and daughters.

Other settlers pitched their tents in the neighbourhood of Smiling Valley, and at length a large and flourishing community was gathered round us, well able to resist any attack which hostile Indians might have made on the settlement. Most of the tribes in the vicinity however, had long before buried the war-hatchet, and we and they dwelt at peace. Years have passed away since the time of which I have been speaking, but Lily and I often talk over the adventures of our younger days, and, as we narrate them to our children, we lift up our hearts in gratitude to Him who preserved us from all dangers and has showered so many blessings on our heads.

People often ask what is the moral of the tale. As far as my narrative is concerned I did not write it with the idea of evolving a moral, but I can say that, if it contains one, it is this: “Trust God—do your duty in His sight, and leave all else to Him.”

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Won from the Waves"

Chapter One.

On the Pier.

It was a gloomy evening. A small group of fishermen were standing—at the end of a rough wooden pier projecting out into the water and forming the southern side of the mouth of a small river. A thick mist, which drove in across the German Ocean, obscured the sky, and prevented any object being seen beyond a few hundred fathoms from the shore, on which the dark leaden-coloured waves broke lazily in with that sullen-sounding roar which often betokens the approach of a heavy gale.

On the north side of the river was a wide extent of sandy ground, where the vegetation consisted of stunted furze-bushes and salt-loving plants with leaves of a dull pale green, growing among patches of coarse grass, the roots of which assisted to keep the sand from being blown away by the fierce wintry gales which blew across it. On the right hand of the fishermen as they looked seaward, and beyond an intervening level space, rose a line of high cliffs of light clay and sand extending far to the southward, with a narrow beach at their base. Parallel with the river was a green bank, on the sides of which were perched several cottages, the materials composing them showing that they were the abodes of the hardy men who gained their livelihood on the salt deep. The palings which surrounded them, the sheds and outhouses, and even the ornaments with which they were decorated, were evidently portions of wrecks. Over the door of one might be seen the figure-head of some unfortunate vessel. An arbour, not rustic but nautical, was composed of the carved work of a Dutch galliot; indeed, the owners of few had failed to secure some portion of the numerous hapless vessels which from time to time had been driven on their treacherous coast.

On the level ground between the cliff and the river stood two or three other cottages. One, the largest of them, appeared to be built almost entirely of wreck wood, from the uneven appearance presented by the walls and roof, the architect having apparently adapted such pieces of timber as came to hand without employing the saw to bring them into more fitting shape; the chimney, however, and the lower portions of the walls, were constructed of hewn stone, taken probably from some ancient edifice long demolished. Though the exterior of the cottage, with its boat and fish sheds, looked somewhat rough, it had altogether a substantial and not uncomfortable appearance.

The most conspicuous object in the landscape was a windmill standing a little way to the southward on the top of the cliff. Its sails were moving slowly round, but their tattered condition showed that but a small amount of grist was ground within.

Such was the aspect of the little village of Hurlston and its surroundings towards the end of the last century. It was not especially attractive—indeed few scenes would have appeared to advantage at that moment; but when sunshine lighted up the blue dancing waters, varied by the shadows of passing clouds, the marine painter might have found many subjects for his pencil among the picturesque cottages, their sturdy inhabitants, the wild cliffs, and the yellow strand glittering with shells.

Farther inland the country improved. On the higher ground to the south were neat cottages rising among shrubberies, the parish church with its square tower, and yet farther off the mansion of Sir Reginald Castleton, in the midst of its park, with its broad lake, its green meadows and clumps of wide-spreading trees, surrounded by a high paling forbidding the ingress of strangers, and serving to secure the herd of graceful deer which bounded amidst its glades.

The fishermen—regardless of the driving mist, which, settling on their flushing coats and sou’-westers, ran off them in streamlets—kept turning their eyes seawards, endeavouring to penetrate the increasing gloom.

“Here comes Adam Halliburt!” exclaimed one of them, turning round; “we shall hear what he thinks of the weather. If he has made up his mind to go to sea to-night, it must come on much worse than it now is to keep him at home.”

As these words were uttered, a tall man a little past middle age, strongly-built and hardy-looking as the youngest, habited like the rest in fisherman’s costume, was seen approaching from the largest of the cottages on the level ground. His face, though weather-beaten, glowed with health, his forehead was broad, his bright blue eyes beaming with good-nature and kindly feeling. He was followed by a stout fisher-boy carrying a coil of rope over his shoulders, and a basket of provisions in his hand. Two other lads, who had been with the men on the pier, ran to meet him.

“They are doubtful about going to sea to-night. What do you think of it, father?” said the eldest.

“There is nothing to stop us that I see, Ben, unless it comes on to blow harder than it does now,” answered Adam, in a cheery voice. “The Nancy knows her way to our fishing-grounds as well as we do, and it must be a bad night indeed to stop her.”

“What do you think of it, Adam?” asked two or three of the men, when he got among them.

Halliburt turned his face seaward, sheltering his eyes with his hand from the thick drizzle which the mist had now become.

“If the wind holds from the south-east there will be nothing to stop us,” he answered, after waiting a minute. “It is likely, however, to be a dirtier night than I had thought for—I will own that. Jacob,” he said to his youngest boy, “do you go back and stay with your mother, she wants some help in the house, and you can look after the pigs and poultry before we are back in the morning.”

Jacob, a fine lad of ten or twelve years, though he looked older, seemed somewhat disappointed, as he had expected to have gone to sea with his father and brothers. Without attempting, however, to expostulate, he immediately turned back towards the cottage, while the rest of the party proceeded to the Nancy, a fine yawl which lay at anchor close to the pier.

She was quickly hauled alongside, when some of the men jumped into her. Before following them, Adam Halliburt took another glance seaward. The wind drove the rain and spray with greater force than before against his face.

“We will wait a bit, lads,” he said. “There is no great hurry, and in a few minutes we shall make out what the weather is going to be.”

His own sons and some of the men remained in the boat, knowing that he was not likely to give up his intention unless the weather speedily became much worse. Others followed him back to the pier-head, over which the spray beat in frequent showers, showing that the sea had got up considerably, even since they had left it.

They had retreated back a few paces to avoid the salt showers. Adam still seemed somewhat unwilling to give up putting to sea, when the dull sound of a gun from the offing reached their ears. Another and another followed.

“There is a ship on Norton Sands,” observed one of the men. “Those guns are too far off for that,” answered Halliburt. Two others followed, and then came the thunder-sounding reports of several fired together.

“I was sure those were not guns of distress. They come from ships in action, depend on that; and the news is true we heard yesterday, that the French and English are at it again,” exclaimed Adam. “I thought we shouldn’t long remain friends with the Mounsiers.”

“Good luck be with the English ships!” cried one of the fishermen.

“Amen to that! but they must be careful what they are about, for with the wind dead on shore, if they knock away each other’s spars, they are both more than likely to drift on Norton Sands, and if they do, the Lord have mercy on them,” said Adam, solemnly. “Whichever gets the victory, they will be in a bad way, as I fear, after all, it will be a dirty night. The wind has shifted three points to the eastward since I left home, and it’s blowing twice as hard as it did ten minutes ago. We may as well run the Nancy up to her moorings, lads.”

As one of the men was hurrying off to carry this order to the rest, a heavier blast than before came across the ocean. It had the effect of rending the veil of mist in two, and the rain ceasing, the keen eyes of the fishermen distinguished in the offing two ships running towards the land, the one a short distance ahead of the other, which was firing at her from her bow-chasers, the leading and smaller vessel returning the fire with her after guns, and apparently determined either to gain a sheltering harbour or to run on shore rather than be taken. The moment that revealed her to the spectators showed those on board how near she was to the shore, though evidently they were not aware of the still nearer danger of the treacherous sandbank. An exclamation of dismay and pity escaped those who were looking at her.

“If she had been half a mile to the nor’ard she might have stood through Norton Gut and been safe,” observed Halliburt; “but if she is a stranger there is little chance of her hauling off in time to escape the sands.”

While he was speaking, the sternmost ship was seen to come to the wind; her yards were braced up, and now, apparently aware of her danger, she endeavoured to stand off the land before the rising gale should render the undertaking impossible. The hard-pressed chase directly afterwards attempted to follow her example. She was already on a wind when again the mist closed over the ocean, and she was hidden from sight.

“We will keep the Nancy where she is,” said Halliburt; “we don’t know what may happen. If yonder ship drives on the sands—and she has but a poor chance of keeping off them, I fear—we cannot let her people perish without trying to save them; and though it may be a hard job to get alongside the wreck, yet some of the poor fellows may be drifted away from her on rafts or spars, and we may be able to pick them up. Whatever happens, we must do our best.”

“Ay, ay, Adam,” answered several of his hardy crew, who stood around him; “where you think fit to go we are ready to go too.”

The party had not long to wait before their worst apprehensions were realised. The dull report of a gun, which their practised ears told them came from Norton Sands, was heard; in another minute the sound of a second gun boomed over the waters; a third followed even before the same interval had elapsed. That the ship had struck and was in dire distress there could be no doubt, but when they gazed at the dark, heaving waves which rolled in crested with foam, and just discernible in the fast waning twilight, and felt the fierce blast against which even they could scarcely stand upright on the slippery pier, hardy and bold as they were, they hesitated about venturing forth to the rescue of the hapless crew. Long before they could reach the wreck darkness would be resting on the troubled ocean; they doubted, indeed, whether they could force their boat out in the teeth of the fierce gale.

Adam took a turn on the pier. His heart was greatly troubled. He had never failed, if a boat could live, to be among the first to dash out to the rescue of his fellow-creatures when a ship had been cast on those treacherous sandbanks. The hazard was great. He knew that with the strength of his crew exhausted the boat might be hurled back amid the breakers, to be dashed on the shore; or, should they even succeed in reaching the neighbourhood of the wreck, where the greatest danger was to be encountered, they might fail in getting near enough to save any of the people.

Every moment of delay increased the risk which must be run.

“Lads, we will try and do it,” he said at length; “maybe she has struck on the lowest part of the bank, and we shall be able to cross it at the top of high water. Come along, we will talk no more about it, but try and do what we have got to do.”

Just at that instant the words, uttered in a shrill, loud tone, were heard:—

“Foolish men, have you a mind to drown yourselves in the deep salt sea! Stay, I charge you, or take the consequence.”

The voice seemed to come out of the darkness, for no one was seen. The men looked round over their shoulders. Directly afterwards a tall thin figure, habited in grey from head to foot, emerged from the gloom. Those who beheld it might have been excused if they supposed it rather a phantom than a being of the earth, so shadowy did it appear in the thick mist.

“The spirit of the air forbids your going, and I, his messenger, warn you that you seek destruction if you disobey him.”

The men gathered closer to each other as the figure approached. It was now seen to be that of a tall, gaunt woman. Her loose cloak and the long grey hair which hung over her shoulders blew out in the wind, giving her face a wild and weird look, for she wore no covering to restrain her locks, with the exception of a mass of dry dark seaweed, formed in the shape of a crown, twisted round the top of her head.

“I have seen the ship you are about to visit. I knew what her fate would be even yesternight when she was floating proudly on the ocean; she was doomed to destruction, and so will be all those who venture on board her. If you go out to her, I tell you that none of you will return. I warn you, Adam Halliburt, and I warn you all! Go not out to her, she is doomed! she is doomed! she is doomed!”

As the woman uttered these words she disappeared in the darkness. The men stood irresolute.

“What, lads, are you to be frightened at what ‘Sal of the Salt Sea’ says, or ‘Silly Sally,’ as some of you call her?” exclaimed Adam. “Let us put our trust in God, He will take care of us, if it’s His good pleasure. It’s our duty to try and help our fellow-creatures. Do you think an old mad woman knows more than He who rules the waves, or that anything she can say in her folly will prevent Him from watching over us and bringing us back in safety?”

Adam’s appeal had its due effect. Even the most superstitious were ashamed of refusing to accompany him. When he sprang on board the boat his crew willingly followed. He would have sent back his second boy Sam, but the lad earnestly entreated to be taken.

“If you go, father, why should I stop behind? Jacob will look after mother, and I would rather share whatever may happen to you,” he said.

Adam and his men were soon on board the boat: the most of them had shares in her, and thus they risked their property as well as their lives. The oars were got out, and the men, fixing themselves firmly in their seats, prepared for the task before them.

Shoving off from the shore, Adam took the helm. The men pulled away right lustily, and emerging from the harbour, in another minute they were breasting the heaving foam-crested billows in the teeth of the gale. Sometimes, when a stronger blast than usual swept over the water, they appeared, instead of making headway, to be drifting back towards the dimly-seen shore astern. Now, again exerting all their strength, they once more made progress in the direction of the wreck.

All this time the minute guns had been heard, showing that the ship still held together, and that help, if it came, would not be useless. The sound encouraged Adam and his crew to persevere. The reports, however, now came at longer intervals than at first from each other. Several minutes at length elapsed, and no report was heard. Adam listened—not another came. The crew of the Nancy, however, persevered, but even Adam, as he observed the slow progress they had made, became convinced that their efforts would prove of no avail.

The gale continued to increase, the foaming seas leaped and roared around them more wildly than before. Even to return would now be an operation of danger, but Adam with sorrow saw that it must be attempted. For an hour or more no headway had been made. He waited for a lull, then giving the word, the boat was rapidly pulled round, and surrounded by hissing masses of foam, she rapidly shot back within the shelter of the harbour. The sinews of her crew were too well strung to feel much fatigue under ordinary circumstances, but the strongest had to acknowledge that they could not have pulled much longer.

“We must not give it up, though, lads,” said Adam. “I am sure no beachmen will be able to launch their boats to-night along the coast. If the wind goes down ever so little, we must try it again; you will not think of deserting the poor people if there is a chance of saving them, I know that.”

His crew responded to his appeal, and agreed to wait for the chance of being able to get off later in the night.

Looking towards the landing-place, the tall figure of Sal of the Salt Sea was seen standing on the edge of the pier gazing down upon them.

“Foolish men! you have had your toil for nought, yet it is well for you that you could not reach the doomed ship. I warned you, and you disregarded me. I commanded the winds and waves to stop your progress; they listened to my orders and obeyed me. You will not another time venture to disregard my warnings. Now go to your homes, and be thankful that I did not think fit to punish you for your folly. Again I warn you that yonder ship is doomed! is doomed! is doomed!”

While the old woman was uttering these words in the same harsh, loud tones as before, Adam and his crew were making their way to the landing-place. Before they reached it, however, the strange being had disappeared in the darkness, though her voice could be heard as she took her way apparently towards the cliffs.

“Again, lads, I say, don’t let what you have heard from the poor mad woman trouble you,” exclaimed Adam. “Come to my cottage, and we will have a bite of supper, and wait till we have the chance of getting off again.”

Dame Halliburt, expecting them, had prepared supper. The sanded floors and rough chairs and stools which formed the furniture of her abode were not to be injured by their dripping garments. During the meal Adam, or one of the men, went out more than once to judge if there was likely to be a change. Still the gale blew as fiercely as ever. Some threw themselves down on the floor to rest, while Adam, filling his pipe, sat in his arm-chair by the fire, still resolved as at first to persevere.

Chapter Two.

At the Wreck.

Thus the greater part of the night passed by. Towards dawn Adam started up. The howling of the wind in the chimney and the rattling sound of the windows which looked towards the sea decreased.

“Lads!” he shouted, “the gale is breaking, we may yet be in time to save life, and maybe to get salvage too from the wreck. We will be off at once.”

The crew required no second summons. Telling his dame to keep up her spirits, and that he should soon be back, he led the way to the pier.

Some of the men, hardy fellows as they were, looked round nervously, expecting the appearance of Sal of the Salt Sea. She did not return, however, and they were soon on board. The poor creature, probably not supposing that they would again venture out, had not thought of being on the watch for them.

Once more the Nancy, propelled by the strong arms of her hardy crew, was making her way towards Norton Sands. It was still dark as before, but the wind had gone down considerably, and the task, though such as none but beachmen would have attempted, seemed less hopeless. After rowing for some time amidst the foaming seas, Adam stood firmly up and endeavoured to make out the ship. At length he discovered a dark object rising above the white seething waters: it was the wreck. Two of her masts were still standing. She was so placed near the tail of the bank, where the water was deepest, that he hoped to be able to approach to leeward, and thus more easily to board her if necessary.

“We shall be able to save the people if we can get up to her soon, lads,” he exclaimed. “Cheer up, my brave boys, it will be a proud thing if we can carry them all off in safety.”

The wind continued to decrease. As they neared the bank, the force of the sea, broken by it, offered less opposition.

Just then amidst the gloom he caught sight of another object at a little distance from the wreck: it was a lugger under close-reefed sails standing away on a wind towards the south. “Can she have been visiting the wreck?” thought Adam; “it looks like it. If so, she must have taken off the people. Then why does she not run for Hurlston, where she could most quickly land them?”

As these thoughts passed through his mind, the lugger, which a keen eye like his alone could have discerned, disappeared in the darkness.

“I wonder if that can be Miles Gaffin’s craft,” he thought; “no one, unless well acquainted with the coast, would venture in among these sandbanks in this thick weather; she is more likely to be knocking about here than any other vessel that I know of. She has been after her usual tricks, I doubt not.”

Adam, however, did not utter his thoughts aloud. Indeed, unless he had spoken at the top of his voice he could not have been heard even by the man nearest him, while all his attention was required in steering the boat.

The crew had still some distance to pull, and their progress against the heavy seas was but slow. At length dawn began to break, and the wreck rose clearly before them. She was a large ship. The foremast had gone by the board, but the main and mizzen-masts, though the topmasts had been carried away, were still standing.

With cool daring they pulled under her stern. To their surprise, no one hailed them—not a living soul did they see on the deck.

As a sea which swept round her lifted the boat, Adam, followed by his son Ben and another man, sprang on board. A sad spectacle met their sight. The sea had made a clean sweep over the fore part of the ship, carrying away the topgallant, forecastle, and bulwarks, and, indeed, everything which had offered it resistance, but the foremast still hung by the rigging, in which were entangled the bodies of three or four men who had either been crushed as it fell or drowned by the waves washing over them. The long-boat on the booms had also been washed away—indeed, not a boat remained. The guns, too, of which, though evidently a merchantman, she had apparently carried several, had broken adrift and been carried overboard, with the exception of the aftermost one, which lay overturned, and now held fast a human being, and, as her dress proved her to be a woman. The complexion of the poor creature was dark, and the costume she wore showed Adam that she was from the far-off East. Ben lifted her hand; it fell on the deck as he let it go; it was evident that no help could be of use to her. Her distorted countenance exhibited the agonies she must have suffered.

“She must have been holding on to the gun,” observed Adam, “when it capsized; and if I read the tale aright, she was standing there calling to those in the boats to come back for her as they were shoving off. If the boats had not been lowered, we should have seen some of the wreck of them hanging to the davits. See, the falls are gone on both sides.”

Having made a rapid survey of the deck, Adam looked seaward.

“We have no time to lose,” he said, “for the sky looks dirty to windward, and we shall have the gale down on us again before long, I suspect. We must first, though, make a search below, for maybe some of the people have taken shelter there. I fear, however, the greater number must have been washed away, or attempted to get off in the boats.”

Adam, leading the party, hurried below.

The water was already up to the cabin deck, and the violent rocking of the ship told them that it would be dangerous to spend much time in the search. No one was to be found.

“Let us have the skylight off, Tom, to see our way,” said Ben.

Tom sprang on deck and soon forced it off, and the pale morning light streamed down below. Everything in the main cabin was in confusion.

“This shows that the people must have got away in the boats, and have carried off whatever they could lay hands on, unless some one else has visited the wreck since then,” remarked Adam; and he then told Ben of his having observed the lugger in the neighbourhood of the wreck.

“She looks to me like a foreign-built ship, although her fittings below are in the English fashion,” he observed, examining the cabins as far as the dim twilight which made its way through the open hatch would allow.

“As we came under her stern I saw no name on it; I cannot make out what she can be.”

The lockers in the captain’s state cabin were open, and none of his instruments were to be seen. Two or three of the other side cabins had apparently been searched in a hurry for valuables. The doors of the aftermost ones were however still closed. The violent heaving and the crashing sounds which reached their ears, showing how much the ship was suffering from the rude blows of the seas, made Adam unwilling to prolong the search. He and his companions secured such articles as appeared most worth saving.

“Let us look into the cabin before we go,” exclaimed Ben, opening the door of one which seemed the largest. As he did so a cry was heard, and a child’s voice asked, “Who’s there?” He and Adam sprang in.

Chapter Three.

Safe to Land.

As Adam Halliburt and his son sprang into the cabin, they saw in a small cot by the side of a larger one, a little girl, her light hair falling over her fair young neck. She lifted her head and gazed at them from her blue eyes with looks of astonishment mingled with terror.

“Is no one with you, my pretty maiden?” exclaimed Adam; “how came you to be left all alone here?”

“Ayah gone. I called, she no come back,” answered the child.

“This is no place for you, my little dear, we will take care of you,” said Adam, lifting her up and wrapping the bed clothes round her, for she was dressed only in her nightgown.

“Oh, let me go; I must stay here till my ayah comes back,” cried the child; yet she did not struggle, comprehending, it seemed, from the kind expression of Adam’s countenance, that he intended her no harm.

“The person you speak of won’t come back, I fear; so you must come with us, little maid, and if God wills we will carry you safely on shore,” answered Adam, folding the clothes tighter round the child, and grasping her securely in his left arm as a woman carries an infant, and leaving his right one at liberty, for this he knew he should require to hold on by, until having made his way across the heaving, slippery deck, he could take the necessary leap into the boat.

“It is wet and cold, we must cover you up,” he said, adding to himself, “The child would otherwise see a sight enough to frighten her young heart.”

The little girl did not again speak as Adam carried her through the cabins.

“You must let go those things, lads, and stand ready for lending me a hand to prevent any harm happening to this little dear,” he said, as he mounted the companion-ladder.

Before reaching the deck he drew the blanket over the child’s face, and then, with an activity no younger seaman could have surpassed, he sprang to the side of the ship and grasped a stanchion, to which he held on while he shouted to the crew of his boat, who had for safety’s sake pulled her off a few fathoms from the wreck, keeping their oars going to retain their position.

“Pull up now, lads! We have got all there is time for,” he cried out. “Ben and Tom, do you leap when I do. I have a little maid here, my lads, and we must take care no harm comes to her.”

While he was speaking the boat was approaching. Now she sank down, almost touching the treacherous sands beneath her keel—now, as the sea rolled in, part of which broke over the wreck, she rose almost to a level with the deck. Adam, who had been calculating every movement she was about to make, sprang on board. Steadying himself by the shoulders of the men, he stepped aft with his charge. Ben and Tom followed him.

The men in the bows, immediately throwing out their starboard oars, pulled the boat’s head round, and the next instant, the mast being stepped and the sail hoisted, the Nancy was flying away before the following seas towards the shore. Adam steered with one hand while he still supported the child on his arm.

“You are all right now, my little maid,” he said, looking down on her sweet face, the expression of which showed the alarm and bewilderment she felt, he having thrown off the blanket.

“We will soon have you safe on shore in the care of my good dame. She will be a mother to you, and you will soon forget all about the wreck and the things which have frightened you.”

As Adam turned a glance astern, he was thankful that he had not delayed longer on board the wreck. The wind blew far more fiercely than before, and the big seas came hissing and foaming in, each with increased speed and force.

The Nancy flew on before them. The windmill, the best landmark in the neighbourhood, could now be discerned through the mist and driving spray. Adam kept well to the nor’ard of it. The small house near the pier-head, which served to shelter pilots and beachmen who assembled there, next came into view, and the Nancy continuing her course, guided by the experienced hand of her master, now mounting to the top of a high sea, now descending, glided into the mouth of the harbour, up which she speedily ran to her moorings.

Adam, anxious to get his little maid, as he called her, out of the cold and damp, and to place her in charge of his wife, sprang on shore. Jacob, who had been on the look-out for the return of the Nancy since dawn, met him on the landing-place.

“Are all safe, father?” he asked, in an anxious tone.

“All safe, boy, praised be His name who took care of us, and no thanks to that poor creature, Mad Sal, who would have frightened the lads and me from going off, and allowed this little maid here to perish.”

“What! have you brought her from the wreck?” inquired Jacob, eagerly, looking into the face of the child, who at that moment opened her large blue eyes and smiled, as she caught sight of the boy’s good-natured countenance.

“Is she the only one you have brought on shore, father?” he added.

“The only living creature we found on board, more shame to those who deserted her, though it was God’s ordering that she might be preserved,” answered Adam. “But run on, Jacob, and see that the fire is blazing up brightly, we shall want it to dry her damp clothes and warm her cold feet, the little dear.”

“The fire is burning well, father, I doubt not, for I put a couple of logs on before I came out; but I will run on and tell mother to be ready for you,” answered Jacob, hastening away.

Adam followed with rapid strides.

The dame stood at the open door to welcome him as he entered.

“What, is it as Jacob says, a little maid you have got there?” she exclaimed, opening her arms to receive the child from her husband.

The dame was an elderly, motherly-looking woman, with a kindly smile and pleasant expression of countenance, which left little doubt that the child would be well cared for.

“Bless her sweet face, she is a little dear, and so she is!” exclaimed the dame, as she pressed her to her bosom. “Bless you, my sweet one, don’t be frightened now you are among friends who love you!” she added, as she carried her towards the fire which blazed brightly on the hearth, and observed that the child was startled on finding herself transferred to the arms of another stranger.

“Bring the new blanket I bought at Christmas for your bed, Jacob, and I will take off her wet clothes and wrap her in it, and warm her pretty little feet. Don’t cry, deary, don’t cry!” for the child, not knowing what was going to happen, had now for the first time begun to sob and wail piteously.

“Maybe she is hungry, for she could have had nothing to eat since last night, little dear,” observed Adam, who was standing by, his damp clothes steaming before the blazing fire.

“We will soon have something for her, then,” answered the dame.

Jacob brought the blanket, which the dame gave Adam to warm before she wrapped it round the child.

“Run off to Mrs Carey’s as fast as your legs can carry you, and bring threepenny-worth of milk,” she said to her son. “Tell her why I want it; she must send her boy to bring in the cow; don’t stop a moment longer than you can help.”

Jacob, taking down a jug from the dresser, ran off, while the dame proceeded to disrobe the little stranger, kissing and trying to soothe her as she did so. Round her neck she discovered a gold chain and locket.

“I was sure from her looks that she was not a poor person’s child, this also shows it,” she observed to her husband; “and see what fine lace this is round her nightgown. It was a blessed thing, Adam, that you saved her life, the little cherub; though, for that matter, she looks as fit to be up in heaven as any bright angel there. But what can have become of those to whom she belongs? Of one thing I am very sure, neither father nor mother could have been aboard, for they would not have left her.”

“I’ll tell thee more about that anon,” observed Adam, recollecting the poor coloured woman whose wretched fate he had discovered; “I think thou art right, mother.”

The child had ceased sobbing while the dame was speaking, and now lay quietly in her arms enjoying the warmth of the fire.

“She will soon be asleep and forget her cares,” observed the dame, watching the child’s eyelids, which were gradually closing. “Now, Adam, go and get off thy wet clothes, and then cut me out a piece of crumb from one of the loaves I baked yestere’en, and bring the saucepan all ready for Jacob when he comes with the milk.”

“I’ll get the bread and saucepan before I take off my wet things,” answered Adam, smiling. “The little maid must be the first looked to just now.”

Jacob quickly returned, and the child seemed to enjoy the sweet bread-and-milk with which the dame liberally fed her.

A bed was then made up for her near the fire, and smiling her thanks for the kind treatment she received, her head was scarcely on the pillow before she was fast asleep.

Chapter Four.

May’s New Home.

“What are you going to do with her?” asked Jacob, who having stolen down from his roosting-place after a short rest, found his father and mother sitting by the fire watching over the little girl, who was still asleep.

“Do with her!” exclaimed Dame Halliburt, looking at her husband, “why, take care of her, of course, what else should we do?”

“No one owns her who can look after her better than we can; we have a right to her, at all events, and we will do our best for the little maiden,” responded Adam, returning his wife’s glance.

“I thought as how you would, father,” said Jacob, in a tone which showed how greatly relieved he felt. “I knew, mother, you would not like to part with the little maid when once you had got her, seeing we have no sister of our own; she will be a blessing to you and to all of us, I am sure of that.”

“I hope she will, Jacob; I sighed, I mind, when I found you were not a girl, for I did wish to have a little daughter to help me, though you are a good boy, and you mustn’t fancy I love you the less because you are one.”

“I know that, mother,” answered Jacob, in a cheerful tone; “but I don’t want her to work instead of me, that I don’t.”

“Of course not, Jacob,” observed Adam; “she is a little lady born, there is no doubt about it; and we must remember that, bless her sweet face. I could not bear the thoughts of such as she having to do more work than is good for her. Still, as God has sent her to us, if no one claims her we must bring her up as our own child, and do our best to make her happy, and she will be a light and joy in the house.”

“That I’m sure she will,” interrupted Jacob; “and Ben and Sam and I will all work for her, and keep her from harm, just as much as if mother had had a little maid, that we will.”

“Yes, yes, Jacob, I am sure of it,” exclaimed the dame, smiling her approval as she glanced affectionately at her son.

So the matter was settled, and the little girl was to be henceforth looked on as the daughter of the house.

“Of course, dame, I must do what I can, though, to find out whether the little maid has any friends in this country,” observed Adam, after keeping silence for some minutes, as if he had been considering over the subject; “she may or she may not, but when I come to think of the poor dark woman who was on board, and who I take to have been her nurse, she must have come from foreign parts. Still, as she speaks English, even if her fair hair and blue eyes did not show that, it is clear that she has English parents, and if they were not on board, and I am very sure they were not, she must have been coming to some person in England, who will doubtless be on the look-out for her. So you must not set your heart on keeping the little maiden, for as her friends are sure to be rich gentlefolks she would be better off with them than with us.”

“As to that Adam, I have been thinking as you have; but then you see it’s not wealth that gives happiness, and if we bring her up and she knows no other sort of life, maybe she will be as happy with us as if she were to be a fine lady,” answered the dame looking affectionately at the sleeping child.

“But right is right,” observed Adam; “we would not let her go to be worse off than she would be with us, that’s certain; but we must do our duty by her, and leave the rest in God’s hands.”

Just then the child opened her large blue eyes, and after looking about with a startled expression, asked, “Where ayah?” and then spoke some words in a strange-sounding language, which neither the fisherman nor his wife could understand.

“She you ask for, my sweet one, is not here,” said the dame, bending over her; “but I will do instead of her, and you just think you are at home now with those who love you, and you shall not want for anything.”

While the dame was speaking the two elder lads came downstairs, and as the appearance of so many strangers seemed to frighten the little girl, Adam, putting on his thick coat and sou’-wester, and taking up his spyglass, called to his sons to come out and see what had become of the ship.

They found it blowing as hard as ever. The sea came rolling towards the shore in dark foaming billows. The atmosphere was, however, clear; and the wreck could still be distinguished, though much reduced in size. While Adam had his glass turned towards it he observed the mizzen-mast, which had hitherto stood, go by the board, and the instant afterwards the whole of the remaining part of the hull seemed to melt away before the furious seas which broke against it.

“I warned you that the ship was doomed, and that no human being would reach the shore alive,” shrieked a voice in his ears; “such will be the fate, sooner or later, of all who go down on the cruel salt sea.”

Adam turning saw Mad Sally standing near him, and pointing with eager gestures towards the spot where the wreck had lately appeared.

“Ah, ah, ah!” she shouted, in wild, hoarse tones, resembling the cries of the sea-gull as it circles in the air in search of prey.

“Sad news, sad news, sad news I bring,

Sad news for our good king,

For one of his proud and gallant ships

Has gone down in the deep salt sea, salt sea,

Has gone down in the deep salt sea.”

“Yonder ship has gone to pieces, there is no doubt about that, mother,” said Adam; “but you were wrong to warn us not to go off to her, for go off we did, and brought one of her passengers on shore who would have perished if we had listened to you, so don’t fancy you are always right in what you say.”

“If you brought human being from yonder ship woe will come of it. Foolish man, you fought against the fates who willed it otherwise.”

“I know nothing about the fates, mother,” answered Adam; “but I know that God willed us to bring on shore a little girl we found on board, and protected us while we did so.”

“Think you that He would have protected you when He did not watch over my boy, who was carried away over the salt sea?” she exclaimed, making a scornful gesture at Adam. “He protects not such as you, who madly venture out when in His rage He stirs up the salt sea, salt sea, salt sea!” and she broke out into a wild song—

“There were three brothers in Scotland did dwell,

And they cast lots all three,

Which of them should go sailing

On the wide salt sea, salt sea;

Which of them should go sailing

On the wide salt sea;”

and, wildly flourishing her arms, she stalked away towards the cliffs, up which she climbed, still making the same violent gestures, although her voice could no longer be heard, till she disappeared in the distance.

A number of people had collected along the beach, eagerly looking out for any portion of the wreck or cargo which might be washed on shore, but they looked in vain; the sands swallowed up the heavier articles, while the rest were swept by the tide out to sea. Nothing reached the shore by which the name or character of the vessel which had just gone to pieces could be discovered.

Adam Halliburt, finding that there was no probability of the weather mending sufficiently to enable the Nancy to put to sea, returned home.

“Look you, lads,” he observed, calling his sons to his side; “you heard what that poor mad woman said. You see how she was all in the wrong when she told us not to put off to the wreck, and warned us that we should come to harm if we did. Now, to my mind, she is just a poor mad creature; but if she does know anything which others don’t, it’s Satan who teaches her, and he was a liar from the beginning, and therefore she is more likely to be wrong than right; and when you hear her ravings, don’t you care for them, but go on and do your duty, and God will take care of you; leave that to Him.”

“Ay, ay, father,” answered Jacob; “she would have had us leave the little maiden to perish, if we had listened to her; I will never forget that.”

While the elder lads went on board the Nancy to do one of the numberless jobs which a sailor always finds to be done on board his craft, Jacob and his father entered the cottage.

The little girl was seated on the dame’s knee, prattling in broken language, which her kind nurse in vain endeavoured to understand. She welcomed the fisherman and his son with a smile of recognition.

“Glad to see you well and happy, my pretty maiden,” said Adam, stooping down to kiss her fair brow, his big heart yearning towards her as if she were truly his child.

“Maidy May,” she said, with an emphasis on the last word, as if wishing to tell him her proper name.

“Yes, our ‘Maiden May’ you are,” he answered, misunderstanding her, and from that day forward Adam called her Maiden May, the rest of the family imitating him, and she without question adopting the name.

Chapter Five.

Dame Halliburt.

Dame Halliburt was a good housewife, and an active woman of business. Every morning she was up betimes with breakfast ready for her husband and sons waiting the return of the Nancy, and as soon as her fish-baskets were loaded, away she went, making a long circuit through the neighbouring country to dispose of their contents at the houses of the gentry and farmers, among whom she had numerous customers. She generally called at Texford, though, as Sir Reginald Castleton lived much alone, she was not always sure of selling her fish there, and had often to go a considerable distance out of her way for nothing. If Mr Groocock, the steward, happened to meet her on the road he seldom failed to stop his cob, or when she called at the house to come out and inquire what was going on at Hurlston, or to gain any bits of information she might have picked up on her rounds.

Maiden May had been for upwards of a year under her motherly care, when one morning as she was approaching Texford with her heavily-loaded basket, she caught sight of the ruddy countenance of Mr Groocock, with his yellow top-boots, ample green coat, and three-cornered hat on the top of his well-powdered wig, jogging along the road towards her.

“Good-morrow, dame,” he exclaimed, pulling up as he reached her. “I see that you have a fine supply of fish, and you will find custom, I doubt not, at the Hall this morning. There are three or four tables to be served, for we have more visitors than Sir Reginald has received for many a day.”

As he spoke he looked into the dame’s basket, turning the fish with the handle of his whip.

“Ah, just put aside that small turbot and a couple of soles for my table, there’s a good woman, will you? You have plenty besides for the housekeeper to choose from.”

“I will not forget your orders, Mr Groocock,” said the dame; “and who are the guests, may I ask?”

“There is Mrs Ralph Castleton and her two sons, the eldest, Mr Algernon, who is going to college soon, and Mr Harry, a midshipman, who has just come home from sea; a more merry, rollicking young gentleman I never set eyes on; indeed, if the house was not a good big one he would turn it upside-down in no time. There is also his sister, Miss Julia, with her French governess, and Sir Reginald’s cousins, the Miss Pembertons. One of them, the youngest, Miss Mary they call her, is blind, poor dear lady; but, indeed, you would not think so to see the bright smile that lights up her face when she is talking, and few people know so much of what is going on in the world, not to mention all about birds, and creeping things, and flowers. The other day she was going through the garden, when just by touching the flowers with her fingers she was able to tell their colour and their names as well as the gardener himself.

“Then there is a Captain Fancourt, a naval officer, a brother of Mrs Ralph Castleton, and Mr Ralph Castleton himself is expected, but he is taken up with politics and public business in London, and it is seldom he can tear himself away from them.”

“I suppose Mr Ralph, then, is Sir Reginald’s heir,” observed the dame.

“That remains to be seen,” answered the steward. “You know Sir Reginald has another nephew older than Mr Ralph, who has been abroad since he was a young man. Though he has not been heard of for many years, he may appear any day. The title and estates must go to him, whatever becomes of the personalty.”

“You know when I was a girl I lived in the family of Mr Herbert Castleton, their father, near Morbury, so I remember the young gentlemen as they were then, and feel an interest in them, and so I should in their children.”

“Ah! that just reminds me that you or your husband may do Master Harry a pleasure. He has not been on shore many days before he is wanting to be off again on the salt water, and who should he fall in with but Miles Gaffin, who came up here to see me about the rent of the mill. Master Harry found out somehow or other that Miles had a lugger, and nothing would content him but that he must go off and take a cruise in her. Now, between ourselves, Mrs Halliburt, I do not trust that craft or her owner. You know, perhaps, as much about them as I do; your husband knows more, but I think it would content the young gentleman if Halliburt would take him off in his yawl, and he need not go so far from the shore as to run any risk of being picked up by an enemy’s ship.”

“Bless you, Mr Groocock, of course Adam will be main proud to take out Sir Reginald’s nephew, and for his own sake will be careful not to go far enough off the land to run the risk of being caught by any of the French cruisers,” answered the dame. “When would the young gentleman like to come? He must not expect man-of-war’s ways on board the Nancy, and it would not do for Adam and the lads to lose their day’s fishing.”

“As to that, he is not likely to be particular, and the sooner he can get his cruise the better he will be pleased. It seems strange to me that any one, when once he is comfortable on shore, should wish to be tumbling about on the tossing sea. Though I have lived all my life in sight of the ocean, I never had a fancy to leave the dry land. Give me a good roof over my head, plenty to eat and drink, and a steady cob to ride, it’s all I ask; a man should be moderate in his desires, dame, and he will get them satisfied, that is my notion of philosophy.”

“Ah! and a very good notion too,” said Mistress Halliburt, who had great respect for the loquacious steward of Texford. “But you will excuse me, Mr Groocock, I ought to be up at the Hall. I will tell Adam of Master Harry’s wish, and he will be on the look-out for him.”

“Here comes the young gentleman to speak for himself,” said the steward.

At that moment a horse’s hoofs were heard clattering along the road, and a fine-looking lad in a midshipman’s uniform cantered up on a pony, holding his reins slack, and sitting with the careless air of a sailor. He had a noble broad brow, clear blue eyes, and thick, clustering, brown curls, his countenance being thoroughly bronzed by southern suns and sea air. His features were well formed and refined, without any approach to effeminacy.

“Good-morrow, Mr Groocock,” he exclaimed, in a clear voice, pulling up as he spoke. “Good-morrow, dame,” he added, turning to Mrs Halliburt.

“I was just speaking to the dame here about your wish, Mr Harry, to take a trip to sea. Her husband, Adam Halliburt, has as fine a boat as any on the coast, and he is a trustworthy man, which is more than can be said, between ourselves, of the tenant of Hurlston Mill. Adam will give you a cruise whenever you like to go, wind and weather permitting, though, as the dame observed, you must not expect much comfort on board the Nancy.”

“I care little for comfort—we have not too much of that sort of thing at sea to make me miss it,” answered Harry, laughing. “If the dame can answer for her husband, I will engage to go as soon as he likes.”

“Adam will be glad to take you, I am main sure of that, Mr Harry,” said the dame. “But as the Nancy will be ready to put off before I get back, I would ask you to wait till to-morrow afternoon, when she will go out for the night’s fishing.”

Harry, well pleased at the arrangement, having wished the dame good-bye, accompanied Mr Groocock on his morning’s ride.

Chapter Six.

Lord Howe’s Victory.

Harry got back at luncheon time to Texford, where the family were assembled in the dining-hall. Sir Reginald—a fine-looking old man, the whiteness of whose silvery locks, secured behind a well-tied pig-tail, was increased by the hair-powder which besprinkled them—sat at the foot of the table in the wheel-chair used by him to move from room to room. His once tall and strongly-built figure was slightly bent, though, unwilling to show his weakness, he endeavoured to sit as upright as possible while he did the honours of his hospitable board. Still it was evident that age and sickness were making rapid inroads on his strength.

He had deputed his niece, Mrs Castleton, to take the head of his table. She had been singularly handsome, and still retained much of the beauty of her younger days; with a soft and feminine expression of countenance which truly portrayed her gentle, and perhaps somewhat too yielding, character—yielding, at least, as far as her husband, Ralph Castleton, was concerned, to whose stern and imperious temper she had ever been accustomed to give way.

“My dear Harry, we were afraid that you must have lost your way,” she said, when the young midshipman entered the room.

“I rode over to the post-office at Morbury for letters, and had to wait while the bag was made up. I slung it over my back, and I fancy was taken for a government courier as I rode along. I have brought despatches for every one in the house, I believe; a prodigious big one for you, Uncle Fancourt, from the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, I suspect, for I saw the seal when it was put into the bag,” he said, addressing a sunburnt, fine-looking man, with the unmistakable air of a naval officer, seated by his mother’s side. “Mr Groocock, to whom I gave the bag, will send them up as soon as he has opened it. There is something in the wind, I suspect, for I heard shouting and trumpeting just as I rode out of the town. Knowing that I had got whatever news there is at my back, I came on with it rather than return to learn more about the matter.”

“Probably another enemy’s ship taken,” observed Captain Fancourt.

“Are the Admiralty going to send you to sea again, Fancourt?” asked Sir Reginald, who had overheard Harry’s remark.

“They are not likely, during these stirring times, Sir Reginald, to allow any of us to remain idle on shore if they think us worth our salt, and I hope to deserve that, at least,” answered Captain Fancourt.

“You are worth tons of that article, or the admiral’s despatches greatly overpraise you,” observed Sir Reginald, laughing at his own joke. “I remember reading with great delight the gallant way in which, after your captain was wounded, you fought the Hector on your voyage home from the West Indies, when she was attacked by two 40-gun French frigates. You had not, I fancy, half as many men, or as many guns mounted, as either one of them, while, in addition to their crews, they were full of troops, yet you beat them off when they attempted to board; and though they had pretty well knocked your ship to pieces, you compelled them to make sail away from you, leaving you to your fate. If I recollect rightly, you bore up for Halifax with more than half your crew killed and wounded.”

“You give me more credit than is my due, Sir Reginald,” observed Captain Fancourt, “I was but a young lieutenant, though I did my duty. Captain Drury fought the ship, and we should all have lost our lives had not we fallen in with the Hawk brig, which rescued us just as the old Hector sank under our feet.”

“Well, well, when our enemies find out that it is the fashion of English sailors to fight till their ship goes down, they will be chary of attacking them with much hopes of victory.”

While the baronet was speaking, Harry had taken his seat next to a pretty dark-eyed young girl, giving her a kiss on the cheek and at the same time a pat on the back, a familiarity to which his sister Julia was well accustomed from her sailor brother, who entertained the greatest admiration and affection for her.

“You should not treat the demoiselle in that mode at table, Monsieur Harry,” observed a lady who was sitting on his other side.

“I beg your pardon, Madame De La Motte, I ought, I confess, to have paid my respects to you first.”

“Ah, you are mediant, incorrigible,” said the lady, in broken English, laughing as she spoke.

“No, I am only very hungry, so you will excuse me if I swallow a few mouthfuls before we discuss that subject,” said Harry, applying himself to the plate of chicken and ham which the footman had just placed before him. “I’m afraid that you think I have forgotten my manners as well as the French you taught me before I went to sea. But I hope to prove to you that I retain a fair amount of both,” and Harry began to address the lady in French. When he mispronounced a word and she corrected him he bowed his thanks, repeating it after her.

“Ah, you are charmant, Monsieur Harry, you have not forgotten your manners any more than the language of La Belle France, which I will continue to teach you whenever you will come and take a lesson with Mademoiselle Julia. When will you come?”

“Every day that I am at home till my country requires my services,” answered Harry.

“I never learned French, but I should think it must be a very difficult language to acquire,” observed a pale middle-aged lady of slight figure who sat opposite Harry, turning her eyes towards him, but those orbs were of a dull leaden hue, the eyelids almost closed. She was totally blind.

Her features were beautifully formed, and had a peculiarly sweet and gentle expression, though the pallor of her cheeks betokened ill-health.

“I will help you to begin, Miss Mary, while you are here, and then you can go on by yourself,” said Madame De La Motte, in her usual sprightly way.

“I thank you, madame,” answered Miss Mary Pemberton, “but I am dependent on others. Jane has no fancy for languages, and her time is much occupied in household matters and others of still higher importance.”

“Yes, indeed, Mary speaks truly,” observed Miss Pemberton, a lady of a somewhat taller and not quite so slight a figure as her sister, and who, though her features had a pleasant expression, could not, even in her youth, have possessed the same amount of beauty. She always took her seat next to Mary, that she might give her that attention which her deprivation of sight required. “While we have such boundless stores of works on all important subjects in our own language, we waste our time by spending it in acquiring another.”

“Very right, my good cousin, very right,” exclaimed Sir Reginald; “stick to our good English books, for at the present day, what with their republicanism, their infidelity, and their abominable notions, we can expect nothing but what is bad from French writers.”

“Pardonnez moi, Sir Reginald,” exclaimed Madame De La Motte, breaking off the conversation in which she was engaged with Harry, and looking up briskly. “Surely la pauvre France has produced some pure and religious writers, and many works on science worthy of perusal.”

“I beg ten thousand pardons, madame, I forgot that a French lady was present. I was thinking more of the murderous red republicans who have cut off the heads of their lawful sovereign and his lovely queen, Marie Antoinette. I remember her in her youth and beauty at the court of her brother, the Emperor Leopold, when I paid a visit to Germany some years ago. When I think how she was treated by those ruffians with every possible indignity, and perished on a scaffold, my heart swells with indignation, and I am apt to forget that there are noble and honest Frenchmen still remaining who feel as I do.”

“Ah, truly Sir Reginald, we loyal French feel even more bitterly, for we have shame added to our grief and indignation, that they are our compatriots who are guilty of such unspeakable atrocities as are now deluging our belle France with blood,” said Madame De La Motte, putting her handkerchief to her face to hide the tears which the mention of the fate of the hapless queen seldom failed to draw from the eyes of French loyalists in those days.

“You will pardon me, madame, for my inadvertent remark,” said Sir Reginald, bowing as he spoke towards the French lady.

“Certainly, Sir Reginald, and I am grateful for your sympathy in the sufferings of those I adore.”

Just at that instant the butler entered the room bearing a salver covered with letters, which most of the party were soon engaged in reading. An exclamation from Captain Fancourt made every one look up.

“There is indeed news,” he exclaimed. “Sir Roger Curtis has arrived with despatches from Earl Howe announcing a magnificent victory gained by him with twenty-five ships over the French fleet of twenty-six, on the 1st June, west of Ushant; seven of the French captured, two sunk, when the French admiral, after an hour’s close action, crowded sail, followed by most of his ships able to carry their canvas, and made his escape, leaving the rest either crippled or totally dismasted behind him. Most of our ships were either so widely separated or so much disabled, that several of the enemy left behind succeeded in making their escape under spritsails. One went down in action, when all on board perished; another sank just as she was taken possession of, and before her crew could be removed, though many happily were saved. There had been several partial actions between them.”

Exclamations of delight and satisfaction burst from the lips of all the party on hearing this announcement.

“I only wish that I had been there,” exclaimed Harry, and Captain Fancourt looked as if he wished the same.

“You might have been among those who lost their lives,” observed Miss Pemberton; “we would rather have you safe on shore.”

“We must take our chance with others,” said Harry. “I only hope, Uncle Fancourt, that you will soon be able to get me afloat again, though I am not tired of home yet.”

“I shall be able to fulfil your wishes, for the Admiralty have appointed me to the command of the Triton, 38-gun frigate, ordered to be fitted out with all despatch at Portsmouth. Before many weeks are over she will, I hope, be ready for sea. I shall have to take my leave of you, Sir Reginald, sooner than I expected. I must go down at once to look after her. Harry need not join till I send for him.”

“I congratulate you, Fancourt,” said Sir Reginald, “though I am sorry that your visit should be cut short.” The great battle was the subject of conversation for the remainder of the day, every one eagerly looking forward to the arrival of the newspapers the next morning for fuller particulars.

Chapter Seven.

The Casteltons and Gouls.

In those days, when coaches only ran on the great high roads, and postal arrangements were imperfect, even important news was conveyed at what would now be considered a very slow rate.

Adam knew no one in London to whom he could write about the little girl he had saved from the wreck, and many days passed before he could get to Morbury, the nearest town to Hurlston. It was a place of some importance, boasting of its mayor and corporation, its town-hall and gaol, its large parish church, and its broad high street.

Adam first sought out the mayor, to whom he narrated his story. That important dignitary promised to do all in his power through his correspondents in London to discover the little girl’s friends, but warned him that, as during war time the difficulties of communication with foreign countries were so great, he must not entertain much hope of success. “However, you can in the meantime relieve yourself of the care of the child by sending her to the workhouse, or if you choose to take care of her, her friends, when they are found, will undoubtedly repay you, though I warn you they are very likely, after all, not to be discovered,” he added.

“Send the little maiden to the workhouse!” he exclaimed, as, quitting Mr Barber’s mansion, he pressed his hat down on his head; “no, no, no; and as to being repaid by her friends, if it was not for her sake, I only hope they may never be found.”

The lawyer, Mr Shallard, on whom Adam next called, had the character of being an honest man, and having for many years been Sir Reginald Castleton’s adviser, he was universally looked up to and trusted by all classes, except by these litigants who were conscious of the badness of their causes.

He was a tall, thin man, of middle age, with a pleasant expression of countenance. He listened with attention to Adam’s account of his rescuing the little girl, but gave him no greater expectation of discovering her friends than had the mayor.

“You will, I suspect, run a great risk of losing your reward,” he observed; “but if you are unwilling to bear the expense of her maintenance, bring her here, and I will see what can be done for her. Of course, legally, you are entitled to send the foundling to the workhouse.”

“You wouldn’t advise me to do that, I’m thinking,” said Adam.

“No, my friend, but it is my duty to tell you what you have the right to do,” answered the lawyer.

“Well, sir, I’d blush to call myself a man if I did,” replied the fisherman, and without boasting of his intentions, he added that he and his dame were quite prepared to bring up the little girl like a daughter of their own.

When Adam offered the usual fee, the lawyer motioned him to put it into his pocket.

“Friend Halliburt, you are doing your duty to the little foundling, and I will do mine. If her friends can be found, I daresay I shall be repaid, and at all events, when you come to Morbury again you must call and let me know how she thrives.”

Adam, greatly relieved at feeling that, having done what he could towards finding the child’s friends, there was great probability that she would be left with him and his wife, returned home.

“Any chance of hearing of our little maiden’s friends?” asked the dame, on Adam’s return.

“None that I can see, mother,” he answered, taking his usual seat in his arm-chair. “As it seems clear that they are in foreign lands, those I have spoken to say, now that war has broken out again, it will be a hard matter to get news of them.”

“Well, well, you have done your duty, Adam, and you can do no more,” answered his wife, looking much relieved. “If it is God’s will that the little girl should remain with us, we will do our best to take care of her, that we will.”

“What do you think, though?” he continued, after he had given an account of his first visit; “Mr Mayor advises us to send her to the workhouse. It made my heart swell up a bit when he said so, I can tell ye.”

“Sure it would, Adam,” exclaimed the dame; “little dear, to think on’t.”

“Mr Shallard said something of the same sort too, but he showed that he has a kind heart, for he told me to bring the child to him if we didn’t want to have charge of her, and when I offered his fee he wouldn’t even look at it.”

“Good, good!” exclaimed the dame; “I’ve no doubt he’d act kindly by her, but I wouldn’t wish to give her up to him if I could help it. It’s not every one who would have refused to take his fee, and it’s more, at all events, than old Lawyer Goul would have done, who used to live when I was a girl where Mr Shallard does now. There never was a man like him for scraping money together by fair means or foul. And yet it all went somehow or other, and there was not enough left when he died to bury him, and his poor heart-broken, crazy wife was left without house or home, and went away wandering through the country no one knew where. Some said she had cast herself into the sea and was drowned; but others, I mind, declared they had seen her after that as wild and witless as ever. Hers was a hard fate whatever it might have been, for her husband hadn’t a friend in the world, no more had she; and when she went mad there was no one to look after her.”

Then Dame Halliburt told a tale, interrupted by many questions by the good Adam, of which this is the substance.

Lawyer Goul had a son, and though he and his wife agreed in nothing else, they did in loving and in spoiling that unhappy lad. He caused the ruin of his father, who denied him nothing he wanted. Old Goul wouldn’t put his hand in his pocket for a sixpence to buy a loaf of bread for a neighbour’s family who might be starving, but he would give hundreds or thousands to supply young Martin’s extravagance. He wanted to make a gentleman of his son, and thought money would do it. His son thought so too, and took good care to spend his father’s ill-gotten gains. As he grew up he became as audacious and bold a young ruffian as could well be met with. He had always a fancy for the sea, and used often to be away for weeks and months together over to France or Holland in company with smugglers and other lawless fellows, so it was said, and it was suspected that he was mixed up with them, and had spent not a little of his father’s money in smuggling ventures which brought no profit. Old Martin Goul had wished to give his son a good education, and had sent him to the very same school to which the sons of Dame Halliburt’s master, Mr Herbert Castleton, went. There were two of them, Mr Ranald and Mr Ralph. Mr Herbert was Sir Reginald Castleton’s younger brother. He was a proud man, as all the Castletons were, and hot-tempered, and not what one may call wise. He was sometimes over-indulgent to his children, and sometimes very harsh if they offended him. For some cause or other Mr Ranald, the eldest, was not a favourite of his, though many liked him the best. He was generous and open-hearted, but then, to be sure, he was as hot-tempered and obstinate as his father. While he was at college it was said he fell in love with a young girl who had no money, and was in point of family not a proper match for a Castleton. Some one informed his father, who threatened to disown him if he married her. He could not keep him out of Texford, for he was Sir Reginald’s heir after himself. This fact enraged him still more against his son, as he thus had not the full power he would have liked to exercise over him. When Mr Herbert married, his wife brought him a good fortune, which was settled on their children, and that he could not touch either. They had, besides their two sons, a daughter, Miss Ellen Castleton, a pretty dark-eyed young lady. She was good-tempered and kind to all about her, but not as sensible and discreet as she should have been.

When Mr Ranald and Mr Ralph left school young Martin Goul, whose character was not so well known then as it was afterwards, came to the house to pay them a visit. As they had been playmates for some years, and he dressed well and rode a fine horse, they seemed to forget that he was old Martin Goul’s son, and treated him like one of themselves. To my mind, continued the dame, nothing belonging to old Goul was fit to associate with Mr Castleton’s sons. Once having got a footing in the house, he used to come pretty often, sometimes even when the young gentlemen were away from home, and it soon became known to every one except Mr and Mrs Castleton that Lawyer Goul’s son was making love to Miss Ellen. She, poor dear, knew nothing of the world, and thought if he was fit to be a companion of her brothers, it was no harm to give her heart to him. She could see none of his faults, and fancied him a brave, fine young fellow, and he could, besides, be as soft as butter when he chose, and was as great a hypocrite as his father. He knew it would not do to be seen too often at the house, or Mr and Mrs Castleton would have been suspecting something, and so he persuaded Miss Ellen to come out and meet him in the park, and she fancied that no one knew of it. This went on for some time till Mr Ranald and Mr Ralph came home from college. One evening, as Mr Ranald was returning from a ride on horseback, and had taken a short cut across the park, he found his sister and Martin Goul walking together in the wood. Now one might have supposed that if the account of his own love affair was true he would have had some fellow-feeling for his sister and old schoolmate, and not thought she was doing anything very wrong after all, but that wasn’t his idea in the least. Without more ado he laid his whip on Martin’s shoulders, and ordered him off the grounds, much as he would a poacher. Martin, the strongest of the two by far, would have knocked him down if Miss Ellen had not interfered and begged Martin to go away, declaring that if fault there was it was entirely hers. Martin did go, swearing that he would have the satisfaction one gentleman had a right to demand from another. Mr Ranald laughed at him scornfully, and, taking Miss Ellen’s arm, led her back to the house.

Mr Ranald was not on the terms, as I have said, which he should have been with his father or even with his mother, so he said nothing to them, but taking the matter into his own hands, told his sister to go to her room and remain there. She, as I said, was a gentle-spirited girl, and did as she was bid, only sitting down and crying and wringing her hands at the thoughts of what might come of what she had done. Poor dear young lady, she told me all about it afterwards, and I thought her heart would break; and I was not far wrong, as it turned out at last.

Now, though Mr Ranald and Mr Ralph were not on affectionate terms as brothers should be, and were seldom together, they were quite at one in this matter. Mr Ralph was by far the more clever, and had gained all sorts of honours at college we heard; so that Mr Ranald looked up to him when there was anything of importance to be done, and took his opinion when he wouldn’t have listened to any one else.

The brothers were closeted a long time together talking the matter over, as they thought very seriously of it, and considered that the honour of the family was at stake. They then got their sister to come to them, and tried to make her promise never to see young Martin Goul again; but notwithstanding all they could say, gentle as she was in most things, she would not say that. They warned her that the consequences would be serious to all concerned.

Martin Goul was as good as his word. He got another young fellow who passed for a gentleman, something like himself, to carry a challenge to Mr Ranald. The young fellow did not like to come into the house, so he waylaid Mr Ranald near the entrance of the park, and delivered a letter he had brought from Martin Goul. Mr Ranald, as soon as he found from whom it came, tore it up, and throwing it in the messenger’s face, so belaboured him with his whip, that he drove him out of the park faster than he had come into it.

Mr Ralph had, however, in the manner he was accustomed to manage things, taken steps to get Martin Goul out of the way. The last war between England and France had just begun; the pressgang were busy along the coast obtaining men for the navy. Mr Ralph happened to know the officer in command of a gang who had the night before come to Morbury. He told him, what was the truth, that young Martin was a seafaring man, and mixed up with a band of smugglers, and he hinted to the officer that he would be doing good service to the place, and to honest people generally, if he could get hold of the young fellow and send him away to sea. Martin was seized the same night, and before he could send any message home to say what had happened, he was carried to a man-of-war’s boat lying in the little harbour of Morbury, ready to receive any prisoners who might be taken. He was put on board a cutter with several others who had been captured in the place, and not giving him time to send even a letter on shore, she sailed away for the Thames, and he was at once sent on board a man-of-war on the point of sailing for a foreign station. Miss Ellen, when she heard what had happened, was more downcast and sad than before, and those who knew the secret of her sorrow saw that she was dying of a broken heart.

Poor Mrs Castleton had been long in delicate health, and soon after this she caught a chill, and in a short time died. Miss Ellen was left more than ever alone. From the day she last saw her worthless lover she never went into society, and seldom, indeed, except at church, was seen outside the park-gates.

Mr Castleton himself had become somewhat of an invalid, which made his temper even worse than before. He showed it especially whenever Mr Ranald was at home, and I am afraid that Mr Ralph often made matters worse instead of trying to mend them.

At last Mr Ranald left home altogether, for as he had come into a part of his mother’s property, he was independent of his father. Some time afterwards a letter was received from him saying that he had sailed for the Indies. Whether or not he had married the young lady spoken of at college was not known to a certainty.

As may be supposed, old Martin Goul and his poor witless wife were in a sad taking when they found that their son had been carried off by a pressgang. Old Goul vowed vengeance against those who had managed to have his son spirited away. His own days, however, were coming to a close. He found out the ship on board which young Martin had sailed, and he tried every means to send after him to get him back. That was no easy matter, however; indeed, the money which he had scraped together and cheated out of many a lone widow and friendless orphan had come to an end. No one knew how it had gone, except, perhaps, his son. He himself even, it was said, could not tell, though he spent his days and nights poring over books and papers, trying to find out, till he became almost as crazy as his wife. No one went to consult him on law business, except, perhaps, some smuggler or other knave who could get no decent lawyer to undertake his case, and then old Goul was sure to lose it, so that even the rogues at last would not trust him.

He and his wife had had for long only one servant in the house. A poor friendless creature was old Nan. One day the tax-gatherer called when Martin Goul, who was seated in his dusty room which had not been cleaned out for years, told him that Nan had the money to pay, and that he would find her in the kitchen. He went downstairs and there, sure enough, was poor Nan stretched out on the floor. She had died of starvation, there was no doubt about that, for there was not a crust of bread in the kitchen, nor a bit of coal to light a fire. How Martin Goul had managed to live it was hard to say, except that his wife had been seen stealing out at dusk, and it was supposed that she had managed to pick up food for herself and her husband.

Meantime it was known that young Martin had been aboard the Resistance frigate, which had gone away out to the East Indies. At last news came home that the Resistance had been blown up far away from any help in the Indian seas, and that every soul on board had perished or been killed by savages when they got on shore.

Mr Ralph tried to keep what had happened from the ears of his sister, but she was always making inquiries about the ships on foreign stations. At last one day she heard what it would have been better she had never known. We found her in a dead faint. She was brought to, but the colour had left her cheeks and lips, and she never again lifted up her head. Mr Ralph came to see her.

“It was all your doing,” she said to him in a reproachful tone. “He might have been wild, he might have been what you say he was, but he promised me that he would reform and be all I could wish.”

“Of whom do you speak, Ellen,” asked Mr Ralph.

“Of him who now lies dead beneath the waters of the Indian Ocean, of Martin Goul,” she said, and uttered a cry which went to our hearts.

“That scoundrel’s name is unfit to come out of your lips, Ellen,” he answered with an oath. “He met a better fate than he deserved, for he died with honest men. Now put him away from your thoughts altogether, and never defile your lips by speaking of him.”

Poor Miss Ellen made no reply. Nothing would induce her to leave her room. She grew weaker and weaker, and soon was laid beside her mother in the family vault.

A few months afterwards Mr Castleton died, and the place was sold. Mr Ralph, who had become a barrister, went away to live in London and married, and has been there ever since.

The death of his son was known to many others before Lawyer Goul heard of it, for it was no one’s business to tell him, and few would have been willing to do so. At last, one day in an old newspaper which contained an account of the loss of the Resistance, his eye fell on the announcement. He let the paper drop, sank back in his chair, and never spoke again. His crazy wife took it up, and she, seeing what had happened to her son, not even stopping to learn whether her husband was dead or not, or trying to assist him, rushed away no one knew where. “Some say,” said Dame Halliburt, as she finished her long story, “that she has long since been dead, and others that she is ‘Mad Sal,’ as the boys call her; but she does not look to me like old Goul’s wife; and I cannot fancy that one brought up as a sort of lady, as she was, could live the life that poor mad woman does, all alone in a wretched hovel by herself among the cliffs, without a neighbour or a soul to help her.”

“Well, it’s a sad story, wife; I wonder you never told it me before.”

“To say the truth, Adam, it’s not a matter I ever liked talking about, and I don’t know scarcely what made me tell it you now. It’s not that I care about Lawyer Goul and his crazy wife and their son; but even now I cannot bear to think of poor Miss Ellen. It was a sad thing that a sweet innocent creature like her should have been cut off in her young days.”

Chapter Eight.

Gaffin, the Miller.

Adam had just recounted to his wife his interviews with the mayor and lawyer of Morbury, and had listened to her history of Mr Herbert Castleton’s family, and the unhappy fate of his daughter, when a knock was heard at the door. The dame opened it, but drew back on seeing their visitor.

“Good-day, neighbour,” said the person who entered, a strongly-built man with a bushy black beard and a sunburnt countenance, the sinister expression of which was ill-calculated to win confidence, and whose semi-nautical costume made it doubtful whether he was a landsman or sailor.

“I have come to have a friendly chat with you, if you will give me leave?”

Without waiting for a reply, still keeping his hat on, he threw himself into a chair by the fire, glancing round the room as he did so.

“What have you got to talk about, Mr Gaffin?” asked Adam, disdaining to give the welcome he could not heartily offer, and instead of sitting down, standing with his hands in his pockets opposite his guest, while the dame continued the work in which she had been engaged.

“I hear you boarded a wreck the other morning and rescued a child from it,” observed the visitor.

“I did so,” answered Adam, curtly.

“What has become of the child, then?” asked Mr Gaffin, looking round the room as if in search of her. The visitor was Miles Gaffin, the miller of Hurlston, as he was generally called.

“She has gone out for a walk,” said the dame, coming up near her husband on hearing the subject of the conversation.

“You will find the maintenance of a child in addition to your own somewhat burdensome in these hard times,” observed the miller.

“We can judge better than our neighbours whether the burden is more than we can bear,” answered the dame; “so you see, Mr Gaffin, that need not make any one uneasy on our account.”

“Very likely, my good woman, and all very well at present; but the day will come when she will require schooling and clothing, and I suppose you had not time to bring much property belonging to her on shore, Adam Halliburt?” said Gaffin, in an inquiring tone.

“No, Miles Gaffin, I had less time to bring anything away than those who visited the wreck before me,” he answered, fixing his eyes on the visitor, who met his glance unmoved.

“What! did any one else get on board the wreck, do you think?”

“I am sure of it; and whoever they were, they were heartless villains to leave a little child to perish when they might have saved her.”

“Perhaps if people did visit the wreck they were not aware that any human being remained on board,” said Gaffin. “Did you see any of the crew? No one has heard of them, I understand.”

“It’s my belief that they attempted to escape in the boats, which were swamped on crossing the sands,” answered Adam. “They deserved their fate, too, if they recollected the poor child and her nurse who were left behind. Though the little dear was saved by their base conduct, as she would have been lost had they taken her, not the less shame to them. However, no one can tell how it happened.”

“Of course they attempted to escape in their boats, there is no other way to account for their disappearance,” answered Gaffin; “few craft except such as ours on this coast could live in the sea that was then running, for it was as bad as could well be, as I hear. I myself was away to London on business,” he added, carelessly.

Adam kept his eyes on his guest while he was speaking, but the countenance of the latter maintained the same bold, defiant look which it generally wore.

As Gaffin made the last remark, Jacob, with his little charge, entered the cottage.

Maiden May, on seeing a stranger, kept tight hold of Jacob’s hand, and drew away from the fireplace, where he was seated.

“Is that the child we have been speaking of?” asked Gaffin, looking towards her. “She is indeed a little beauty. Well, my friends, I conclude you don’t intend to bring her up as a fisherman’s daughter—pardon me, I don’t mean to say anything disrespectful—even supposing you fail to discover to whom she belongs?”

“As to that, Mr Gaffin, God placed her under our charge, and we intend to do our duty by her,” answered Adam, firmly.

“Your duty would be to obtain for her every opportunity of retaining the position in which she was born,” said Gaffin. “That’s no common person’s child.”

“Maybe she is not; but, as I said before, we will do our best. More than that we cannot do,” answered Adam.

“Now, my friend, I have a proposal to make,” said Gaffin, speaking in as frank a tone as he could assume. “She will be a heavy burden to you some time hence, if she is not so at present; my wife and I, as you know, have no daughter, although, like you, we have three sons. We are more independent of the world than you are, as my wife had money; you will understand, though, I do not eat the bread of idleness; and as she would very much like to have a little girl to bring up to be her companion when our boys are away, we are willing to take charge of that child and adopt her, should her friends not be discovered. To show you that I am in earnest, here are five guineas as payment to you for going off and bringing her on shore in the gallant way I understand you did. It’s a trifling reward, I own, but if I have the power I will increase it should you accept my offer.”

Adam stood with his hands in his pockets as he had been doing while his visitor was speaking.

“Keep your money, Mr Gaffin, for when it may be required,” he answered, quietly. “My lads and I only did our duty, and what any one with the heart of a man would have tried to do. That little maiden has been placed in my charge, and until her rightful friends appear, my wife and I will take care of her without looking for payment or reward. You have our answer, I speak for myself and dame; there is no use wasting more time in talking about the matter.”

“Well, well, neighbour, I cannot take your reply as conclusive,” said Gaffin, trying to conceal his annoyance; “just think it over, and you will be doing a great pleasure to my wife and lay us under an obligation if you agree to my proposal.”

Adam had given his reply, and was determined to say nothing more. He was anxious, too, to get rid of his guest.

Gaffin at length, finding that he could gain nothing by staying, rose to leave the cottage. The dame took up May and retired with her to the farther end of the room, while Adam stood as before with his hand firmly thrust down into his pocket, as if determined not to shake that of his departing guest, while Jacob opened the door as wide as he could. Gaffin, unabashed, nodded to the fisherman and his dame, and with a swagger in his walk to conceal the irritation he felt, left the cottage. Jacob watched him till he had got to some distance.

“He has gone,” he exclaimed. “He shall not have our Maiden May if I can prevent him.”

“No fear of that, Jacob. He, with his cursing and swearing, and his wild, lawless ways, and his poor heart-broken, down-spirited wife, bring up a little maid in the way she should go! She would be better off with us as long as we had a crust to give her; and take her from us he shall not, whatever reasons he may have for wishing it. So don’t you fear, Jacob, that I will listen to him even if he comes with 50 in his hand, or 500 for that matter. As I said before, if we don’t find fairer friends for her than he and his wife are like to prove, Maiden May shall be our child, bless her.”

Chapter Nine.

A Sail in the Nancy.

Captain Fancourt took his departure from Portsmouth to commission the Triton, promising to send for Harry as soon as the frigate was sufficiently advanced to give a midshipman anything to do on board.

“I will ride by a single anchor, so as to be ready to slip at a moment’s notice,” answered Harry.

Harry recollected his engagement to take a cruise in Adam Halliburt’s boat.

“Come, Algernon,” he said to his elder brother, a tall, slight youth, three or four years his senior, with remarkably refined manners, “you would enjoy a trip to sea for a few hours in the Nancy. It would give you something to talk about when you go to college, and you have never been on salt water in your life.”

“Thank you,” said Algernon. “I do not wish to gain my first experience of sea life in a fishing boat.”

“I want to see how these fishermen live, and I should have been glad of your company,” answered Harry; “but perhaps you would find it rather too rough a life for your taste, so I will go alone, and to-morrow when I return I will ride with you wherever you like.”

Harry, after luncheon, set off on his pony to Hurlston, while Algernon accompanied his mother and the two Miss Pembertons in the carriage to the same village, where they wished to look at a cottage which Sir Reginald had told them was to be let, and which they had proposed, should it suit them, to take. They were much pleased with its appearance. It stood on the higher ground above the village, surrounded by shrubberies, in an opening through which a view of the sea was obtained. On one side was a pretty flower-garden, and as Miss Pemberton led her sister through the rooms and about the grounds describing the place, they agreed that had it been built for them they could not have been more thoroughly satisfied. Mr Groocock therefore received directions to secure Downside Cottage, and they determined to occupy it as soon as it could be got ready for them.

Sir Reginald, on hearing of the decision of the Miss Pembertons, invited them to remain in the meantime at Texford, where he hoped, even after they were settled, they would become constant visitors.

“I am getting an old man now, and as I cannot hunt or attend to my magisterial duties, I am grateful to friends who will come and see me, and you have only to send over a note and my carriage will be at your disposal.”

Miss Pemberton assured Sir Reginald that one of their chief inducements in taking the cottage was to be near a kinsman whom they so greatly esteemed.

Mrs Castleton the next morning had become anxious at the non-appearance of Harry. She had not heard of his intention of remaining out during the night till Algernon told her. He agreed to ride down to Hurlston to ascertain if the boat had returned, and as the Miss Pembertons wished to pay another visit to the cottage, the carriage was ordered and Mrs Castleton accompanied them.

The weather, as it frequently does in our variable English climate, had suddenly changed by the morning, and although it had been calm during the night, by the time the ladies reached Hurlston a strong east wind sent the surf rolling up on the beach in a way which to the ladies, unaccustomed to the sea-side, appeared very terrible. Algernon, who was on horseback, met them.

“The boat Harry went out in has not come back,” he observed; “but as the fishing-boats generally return about this hour, she will probably soon be in.”

Mrs Castleton, her anxiety increased by the appearance of the weather, begged her companions to wait.

“Is that the boat?” she asked, pointing to a sail approaching the shore.

“I think not—that seems a large vessel,” answered Algernon, and he rode towards the pier, where a number of people were collected, while others were coming from various directions. There seemed some excitement among them. They were watching the ship observed by Mrs Castleton, which, in the distance, had to her appeared so small, though in reality a large brig.

“She brought up an hour ago in the roads, but only just now made sail again,” was the answer to Algernon’s question. “As she is standing for the mouth of the river she is probably leaky, and her crew are afraid of not keeping her afloat in the heavy sea now running.”

Algernon watched the brig, which, under a press of canvas, came tearing along towards the mouth of the harbour; and as she drew nearer the jets of water issuing from her scuppers showed that his informant was correct in his opinion. She laboured heavily, and it seemed doubtful whether she could be kept afloat long enough to run up the harbour.

The larger fishing-boats were away, but two or three smaller ones were got ready to go out to her assistance, though with the sea then rolling in there would be considerable danger in doing so.

At length the brig drew near enough to allow the people on board to be easily distinguished. The master stood conning the vessel—the crew were at their stations. So narrow was the entrance that the greatest care and skill were required to hit it. Algernon heard great doubts expressed among the spectators as to the stranger being able to get in.

In a few seconds more, a sea bearing her on, she seemed about to rush into the harbour, when a crash was heard, the water washed over her deck, both the masts fell, and her hull, swinging round, blocked up the entrance. The men on shore rushed to their boats to render assistance to the unfortunate crew, but as the foaming seas washed them off the deck, the current which ran out of the river swept them away, and though so close to land, in sight of their fellow-creatures, not one of the hapless men was rescued.

Algernon could not repress a cry of horror.

“Oh, what will become of Harry?” exclaimed Mrs Castleton, when she saw what had occurred.

“I trust he is safe with an experienced fisherman like old Halliburt,” answered Algernon. “I wish, mother, you would return home. I will bring you word as soon as he comes back.”

Mrs Castleton, however, could not be persuaded to leave the shore.

At length several tiny sails were seen in the distance, and were pronounced by the people on the pier to be the returning fishing-boats. Some were seen standing away to the north to land apparently in that direction, while three steered for Hurlston.

In consequence of the mouth of the river being blocked up, Algernon found that the boats would have to run on the beach, all of them being built of a form to do this, although those belonging to Hurlston could usually take shelter in their harbour.

As the boats drew near, signals were made to warn them of what had occurred. The people in the leading boat, either not understanding the signal or fancying that there would be still room to get up the harbour, kept on, and only when close to it perceived what had occurred. On this the boat hauled her wind and attempted to stand off, so as to take the beach in the proper fashion, but a sea caught her and drove her bodily on the sands, rolling her over and sending the people struggling in the surf.

The men on shore rushed forward to help their friends.

Mrs Castleton shrieked out with terror, supposing that Harry was in the boat.

Algernon, who was not destitute of courage, rode his horse into the surf and succeeded in dragging out a man who was on the point of being carried off. Again he went in and saved another in the same way, looking anxiously round for Harry. He was nowhere to be seen, and to his relief he found that the Nancy was one of the sternmost boats. Two poor fellows in the boat were carried away, notwithstanding all the efforts made to secure them. Much of the boat’s gear was lost, and she herself was greatly damaged.

“Which is the Nancy?” inquired Algernon, round whom several people were collected, eager to thank him for the courage he had just displayed.

She was pointed out to him. On she came under a close-reefed sail.

Adam, probably suspecting that something was wrong by having seen the boat haul up to get off the shore, was on the look-out for signals.

The second boat came on shore, narrowly escaping the fate of the first. Still the Nancy was to come. She was seen labouring on amid the foaming seas. Now she sank into the trough of a huge wave, which rose up astern and robed in with foam-covered crest, curling over as if about to overwhelm her. Another blast filled her sails, and just escaping the huge billow which came roaring astern, the next moment, surrounded by a mass of hissing waters, she was carried high up on the beach. Most of her active crew instantly leaped out, and joined by their friends on shore, began hauling her up the beach, when another sea rolling in nearly carried them off their legs. Harry, however, who had remained in the stern of the boat with Halliburt, leaped on shore at the moment the waters receded and escaped with a slight wetting.

As they made their way up the beach, a fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl ran out from among the crowd and threw herself, regardless of Adam’s dripping garments, into his arms.

“Maidy May so glad you safe,” she exclaimed, as the fisherman bestowed a kiss on her brow. “We afraid the cruel sea take you away.”

“There was no great danger of that, my little maiden,” answered Adam, putting her down. She then ran towards Jacob and bestowed the same affectionate greeting on him. Holding his hands, she tried to draw him away from the surf, as if afraid that, disappointed of its prey, it might still carry him off.

Harry remarked the reception the fisherman and his son met with from the interesting-looking child, and he never forgot those bright blue eyes and the animated expression of that lovely countenance.

Summoned by his brother, he now hastened to assure his mother of his safety.

“My dear boy, we have been very anxious about you,” exclaimed Mrs Castleton, as he came up; “and I do hope that you will not go off again in one of those horrible little fishing-boats; you run dangers enough when on board ship in your professional duty without exposing yourself to unnecessary risk.”

“I assure you I have been in no danger whatever, except, perhaps, when the boat was running in for the beach,” answered Harry, laughing. “When we went off we did not expect to have to do that, and I am very sorry that you should have been anxious about me. However, I promise to remain quietly on shore till I am summoned to join my ship, and as I am somewhat damp, I will get my pony, which I left at the Castleton Arms in the village, and ride home with Algernon.” The ladies accordingly, re-entering the carriage, drove towards Texford, and Harry and his brother followed soon afterwards.

Chapter Ten.

May’s New Friends.

Harry refrained from making another trip in the Nancy, though he told Adam Halliburt that he had hoped to do so. He seldom, however, caught sight of the blue sea in his rides without wishing to be upon it.

One day he and Algernon, on a ride over the downs, passed near the old mill. Miles Gaffin was standing at the door, while behind him, tugging at a sack, was his man, whose countenance appeared to Harry, as he caught sight of it for a moment, one of the most surly and ill-favoured he had ever set eyes on. “No wonder the farmers prefer sending their corn to a distance to having it ground by such a couple,” he thought. The miller took off his hat as he saw the lads. Algernon scarcely noticed the salute.

“I am sorry, young gentlemen, not to have had the pleasure of giving you a trip in my lugger,” said the miller, in a frank, off-hand tone. “If, however, you and your brother are disposed to come, we will run down the coast to Harwich, or to any other place you would like to visit, and I will guarantee not to get you into such a mess as old Halliburt did, I understand, the other day.”

“Thank you,” said Harry, “my brother has no fancy for the salt water, and as I shall be off again to sea shortly, I cannot avail myself of your offer.”

“Did any one advise you not to go on board my craft?” asked Gaffin, suddenly.

Harry hesitated.

“Adam Halliburt offered to take me a trip, and as Mr Groocock thought I should prefer the Nancy to any other craft, I arranged to go with him,” he said at length.

“Ah, I guessed how it was. My neighbours are apt to say unpleasant things about me. Mr Groocock told you I was not a man to be trusted, didn’t he?”

“My brother has said that he preferred the fisherman’s boat,” said Algernon, coming to Harry’s assistance, “and I consider that you have no right to ask further why he declined your offer. Good-day to you, sir; come along, Harry,” and Algernon rode on.

“Proud young cock, he crows as loudly as his father was wont to do,” muttered the miller, casting an angry glance at the young gentlemen; “I shall have my revenge some day.”

“I do not like the look of that fellow,” observed Algernon, when they had got out of earshot of the mill. “I am glad you did not go on board his vessel.”

“He seems rather free and easy in his manners, and his tone wasn’t quite respectful, but I suppose his pride was hurt because I chose another man’s boat instead of his,” answered Harry.

“You did not observe the scowl on his countenance when he spoke,” said Algernon.

Algernon evidently possessed the valuable gift of discernment of character which some can alone gain by long experience.

The family party were separating one morning after breakfast, when, the front door standing open on that warm summer day, Harry, as he passed through the hall, caught sight of Dame Halliburt approaching with her basket of fish, accompanied by the blue-eyed little girl he had seen when landing from the Nancy.

“Come here, Julia,” he exclaimed. “Does not that sturdy fishwife with her little daughter trotting along by her side present a pretty picture? I wish an artist were here to take them as we see them now.”

“Yes, Gainsborough would do them justice. He delights in rustic figures, though the child should have bare feet, and I see she has shoes and stockings on,” answered Julia.

“The little girl would, at all events, make a sweet picture in her red cloak and hat,” observed Miss Pemberton, who with her sister as they crossed the hall had heard Harry’s exclamation, and had come to the door; and she described her to Miss Mary.

“I should like to speak to her. I can always best judge of people when I hear their voices,” observed Miss Mary.

Harry proposed asking Dame Halliburt and the little girl to come up to the porch, but they had by this time passed on towards the back entrance.

“The dame is probably in a hurry to sell her fish and to go on her way,” observed Miss Pemberton. “We will talk to her another time.”

“Come, Harry, madame is ready to give you your French lesson,” said Julia, and they went into the house.

Before luncheon Madame De La Motte proposed taking a walk.

“And we will talk French as we proceed. You shall learn as much as you will from your books,” she said, inviting Harry to accompany her and her pupil. Harry gallantly expressed his pleasure, and they set out to take a ramble through the fields in the direction of Hurlston.

They had got to some distance, and were about to turn back, when they saw in the field beyond them the same little girl in the red cloak who had come with Dame Halliburt to the house.

Two paths branched off at the spot she had just reached. She stood uncertain apparently which to take, when, at that instant, a bull feeding in the field, irritated by the sight of her red cloak, began to paw the ground and lower his head as if about to make a rush at her. The child becoming alarmed uttered a cry, and ran in the direction of the gate near which they were standing. Harry leaped over the gate and hurried to her rescue. Seeing him coming she darted towards him.

“Throw off your cloak,” he shouted.

She was too much frightened to follow his advice. The bull was close upon them when Harry reached her, and in an instant tearing off her cloak he threw it at the bull, and lifting her in his arms darted on one side, while the savage animal rushed over the spot where the moment before they had stood, and catching the cloak on its horns threw it over its head, and then stopping in its course looked round in search of the object at which it was aiming. Seeing Harry running off with the little girl, it again rushed at them. He had just time to lift her over the gate, and to spring after her, when the creature came full tilt against it.

The courage of Madame De La Motte and Julia had given way as they saw the bull coming, and believing that the gate would be broken down, they had run for safety to a high bank with a hedge above it a little on one side of the field.

“You are quite safe now, little girl,” said Harry, trying to reassure the child. “See, though the bull knocked his horns against the gate, he could not throw it down, and is going off discomforted. Come, Julia, and help her,” he shouted; “she has been dreadfully frightened, and not without cause.”

Julia and her governess, feeling a little ashamed of themselves, descended from their safe position.

“I hope you are not hurt; but how came you to be in the field by yourself?” asked Julia, addressing the little girl.

“Mother told me to take the path across the fields while she went round by the road to call at some houses,” she answered.

“To whom do you belong, and what is your name?” asked madame, looking admiringly at the child’s delicate and pretty features.

“I belong to Adam Halliburt, and he calls me his Maiden May,” answered the child.

“Maiden May! that is a very pretty name,” observed Madame. “But you are very young to go so far alone.”

“We must not let you go alone,” said Harry; “I will take care of you till you meet your mother, but I will first get your cloak. I see the bull has left it on the grass, and I hope has not injured it.”

“Take care, Harry,” exclaimed Julia, “the bull might run at you if he sees you in the field.”

“I do not mind running away from him, and I suspect I can run the fastest,” answered Harry, laughing, as he leapt over the gate.

Julia and Madame De La Motte watched him anxiously, not more so, however, than did Maiden May.

“Oh, I hope he will not be hurt, I would much rather lose my cloak,” she said, following him with her eyes.

The bull having gone to a distance, Harry was able to reach the little girl’s cloak, and by keeping it in front of him the animal did not catch sight of it, and he soon returned with his prize.

“If you will come to the hall we will send one of the servants with you,” said Julia.

“No, no,” said Harry, “you go back, as you must be in at luncheon, and I will take care of the little girl.”

“Thank you, thank you,” repeated Maiden May, “but I am not afraid.”

Harry, however, with true chivalry, though the object of his attention was but a little fisher-girl, insisted on escorting her, and at length induced his sister and her governess to return, promising to hurry back as soon as he had placed the child under Dame Halliburt’s care.

They soon found the style which led into the path May should have followed. She took Harry’s hand without hesitation, and as she ran along by his side, prattled with a freedom which perfect confidence could alone have given her. She talked of the time he had been off in the Nancy, and how anxious she had felt lest any harm should befall the boat.

“And you are very fond of the sea?” she said, looking up in his face.

“Yes; I am a sailor, and it is my duty to go to sea, and I love it for itself,” said Harry; “I hope as you live close to it that you love it too.”

“Oh no, no, no,” answered May; “I do not love it, for it’s so cruel, it drowns so many people. I can’t love what is cruel.”

“It could not be cruel to you, I am sure,” said Harry. “Does your father ever take you in his boat?”

“Yes, I have been in the boat, I know, but it was a long, long time ago, and I have been on the sea far, far away.”

She stopped as if she had too indistinct a recollection of the events that had occurred to describe them.

Harry was puzzled to understand to what she alluded, and naturally fancied that she spoke of some trip her father had taken her on board his boat, not doubting, of course, that she was the fisherman’s daughter.

In a short time they caught sight of Dame Halliburt, when Harry, delivering Maiden May to her care, without waiting to receive her thanks hurried homewards as he had promised.

Chapter Eleven.

Harry off to Sea.

A letter from Captain Fancourt at length arrived, summoning Harry to join the Triton. He bade an affectionate farewell to his kind old uncle. His brother had remarked the failing health of Sir Reginald.

“I shall be very sorry when he goes, but probably when you next come to see us, you will find us here,” observed Algernon, “unless our uncle should turn up and claim the title and property, and as he has not been heard of for a long time, I do not think that likely.”

“I have no wish to be here except as Sir Reginald’s guest,” answered Harry, with more feeling than his brother had displayed. “I hope that our old uncle will live for many a year to come.”

In those times of fierce and active warfare it was far more trying to the loving ones who remained at home when the moment of departure arrived, than to the brave and gallant soldiers and sailors who were going away to fight their country’s battles. They could not help reflecting how many were likely to fall in the contest, and that, though victories should be gained, their aching eyes might some day see in the list of killed or wounded the names of those from whom they now parted so full of life and spirits.

“Do not be cast down, mother,” exclaimed Harry, as Mrs Castleton pressed her gallant boy to her heart. “I shall come back safe and sound, depend on that; remember the verse of the song in Dibdin’s new play:—

“‘There’s a sweet little cherub who sits up aloft

To take care of the life of poor Jack.’”

“Let us rather trust to Him by whom the hairs of our head are all numbered—without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground—instead of talking in that light way,” murmured Miss Mary, who was sitting knitting near the window. “Let us pray to Him, my dear Harry, that you may be brought back in safety.”

“I will, Cousin Mary,” said Harry, “and I am sure mother will too. I spoke thoughtlessly. It is the way of speaking one is accustomed to hear.”

“Too much, I am afraid,” said Miss Mary. “We are all too apt to speak lightly on such matters.” The carriage came to the door.

“You will continue to study French diligently, Master Harry,” said Madame De La Motte, as she wished him good-bye. “Though my countrymen are your enemies, you will love the language for my sake, will you not?”

Harry promised that he would do as she advised; indeed, he was well aware that the knowledge he already possessed was likely to prove very useful to him on many occasions.

His sister Julia was the last of the family he embraced. “The next time I come home I must bring my old shipmate, Headland; I am glad to find that he has joined the Triton. He is one of the noblest and most gallant fellows alive,” he said, as he wished her good-bye.

“Though we shall be happy to see your friend, I only want you to bring yourself back, Harry, safe and sound, with your proper complement of arms and legs,” she answered, smiling through her tears.

“I would sacrifice one or the other to have my name in the Gazette, and to gain my promotion, so I can make no promises,” he replied, springing into the carriage after Algernon, and waving his hat as it drove off.

A number of the surrounding tenantry had assembled near the park-gates to bid farewell to the young sailor who was going off to fight King George’s enemies on the high seas. Harry stopped the post-boy that he might put his hand out of the carriage to wish Mr Groocock, who was among them, good-bye, and to thank them for their good wishes, promising at all events to do his best to prevent the French from setting foot on the shores of England, and disturbing them in their quiet homes. Their hearty cheers as he drove off restored his spirits.

“It pays one for going away when the people show such kind feeling, and I hope when I come back to be received with as hearty a welcome,” he remarked to Algernon, who accompanied him as far as the next town, through which the coach passed.

There seemed a blank at Texford after Harry had gone.

The next day the Miss Pembertons moved into Downside Cottage. To some of the more worldly guests their departure was a relief, as they freely expressed opinions which were looked upon as savouring too strongly of what was called Methodism to be uttered in polite society.

Although she could not see the expression which her remarks called forth on the countenances of the company, Miss Mary was often aware by the tone of their voices that what she said was unpalatable. This, however, though it grieved her gentle spirit, did not anger her, and she spoke in so mild and loving a way that even those who were least disposed to adopt her principles could not help acknowledging that she was sincere and faithful in her belief.

The Miss Pembertons had not been long settled in their new abode before they began to visit their poorer neighbours. The blind lady and her sister were soon known in all parts of the village, and might be seen every day walking arm-in-arm, now stopping at one cottage to admire the flowers in the little plot of ground before it, or now at another to inquire after the health of one of the inmates. The sick and the afflicted received their first attentions; Miss Mary could quote large portions of the Scriptures, and explain them with a clearness and simplicity suited to the comprehension of the most ignorant of those she addressed.

The sisters had no carriage, for their income was limited; but those in distress found them liberal in their gifts, and the inhabitants of Hurlston averred that they might have kept not only a pony-chaise, but a carriage and pair, with the sums they annually distributed in the place. Their charities were, however, discerning and judicious, and although those who had brought themselves into poverty received assistance when there was a prospect of their amending, if they were known to be continuing in an evil course they might in vain look for help, and were pretty sure to meet with a somewhat strong rebuke from Miss Jane, as Miss Pemberton was generally called. In their inquiries about the people they were helped by a good dame, one of the oldest inhabitants, Granny Wilson, who lived in a nice tidy cottage, with an orphan grandchild. Though their charity was generally distributed by Miss Jane’s hand, Miss Mary was the greatest favourite. The sweet expression of her sightless countenance, and her gentle voice, won all hearts. Though Miss Mary never ventured outside their gate without her sister, she was wont to wander about the grounds by herself. The flower-garden was under her especial care. She was said to know, indeed, every flower which grew in it, and to point not only to any rose-tree which was named, but to each particular rose growing on it, with as much certainty as if she could see it before her.

A year had passed since the two spinster ladies had taken possession of Downside.

One morning, while Miss Pemberton had gone over to Texford, her sister was engaged, scissors in hand, in clipping the dead flower-stalks in front of the cottage.

“Good morning, Miss Mary,” said a voice. “Am I to leave any fish for you to-day?”

“Pray do, Mistress Halliburt; Susan knows what we require. And you have brought your little girl with you; I heard her light footstep as she tripped by your side. I should like to talk to her while you go in. Come here, my dear,” she said, as the dame went round to the back entrance; “I have heard of you, though I forget your name; what is it?”

“My name is Maiden May, please, Miss Mary; and I have heard of you and how kind you are to the poor; and I love you very much,” answered the little girl, looking up naïvely at the blind lady’s face.

“Your name is a pretty one,” said Miss Mary, a smile lighting up her countenance as she spoke, produced by the child’s remark. “Why are you called Maiden May?”

“Father called me so when he found me a long time ago,” answered May.

“When he found you, my child, what do you mean?” asked Miss Mary, with surprise.

“When I came in the big ship with my ayah, and was wrecked among the fierce waves,” answered May.

“I do not clearly understand you. Is not Dame Halliburt your mother?”

“Oh, yes, and I love her and father and Jacob and the rest so much,” said May. “I have no other mother.”

“Is your mother’s name Halliburt?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot understand what you mean, my dear; I must ask Mistress Halliburt to explain to me,” said Miss Mary.

“Ah, yes, do; she will tell you. But I remember that father found me on board the big ship, and brought me home in the boat, and mother took care of me, and Jacob used to walk with me every day till I was old enough to go out with mother.”

“But who is Jacob?” asked Miss Mary.

“He is brother Jacob, and he is so kind, and he tries to teach me to read; but he does not know much about it himself, and I can now read as fast as he can.”

“Does your mother not teach you?” asked Miss Mary.

“Not much, she has no time; but father on Sunday tells me stories from the Bible. He can read very well, though he sometimes stops to spell the words, just as I do. There is only the Bible and one book we have got at home.”

“Would you like, my little girl, to come up here and learn to read? My sister will teach you, and I think I can help, though I cannot see what is printed in a book.”

“Oh, yes, so much, if mother will let me,” answered May. “I am sure I should remember all you tell me, and then I might teach Jacob to read better than he does now. Ah, here comes my mother.”

“You can go round the garden and look at the flowers while I talk to her.”

“Thank you, Miss Mary; I so love flowers. We have none near our cottage, for they would not grow on the sand,” and May ran off, stopping like a gay butterfly, now before one flower, now before another, to admire its beauty and enjoy its fragrance.

“If you can spare a few moments, Mistress Halliburt, I should like to learn from you more than I can understand from the account your little girl has been giving me of herself,” said Miss Mary, as the dame approached her. “She has been talking about a wreck and being brought on shore by your husband. Is she not really your child?”

“We love her as much as if she was, but she has been telling you the truth, Miss Mary,” answered the dame. “We have been unable to gain any tidings of her friends, though we have done all we could to inquire for them, and though we are loth for her sake to bring her up as a fisherman’s child, we would not part with her unless to those who could do better for her welfare.”

The dame then described how May had been brought from the wreck, and how, from the dress the little girl had on, and the locket round her neck, and more especially from her appearance, there could be no doubt that she was the child of gentlefolks.

“From the tone of her voice and the account my sister gave of her, I feel sure that you are right, Mistress Halliburt,” said Miss May. “If you can spare her to-day, I should like to keep her with me, and you can call or send for her when you have finished your rounds. I shall esteem it a favour if you will bring her up to-morrow morning, and let my sister see her, and if we can in the meantime think of anything to benefit the child, we will let you know.”

The dame expressed her gratitude for the interest Miss Mary took in Maiden May, but she could not help feeling somewhat jealous lest the blind lady should rob her and Adam of some of the affection which the child had bestowed on them. Still she was too right-minded to allow the feeling to interfere with May’s interest. She readily agreed to let her remain, and also to bring her up the next morning, that Miss Pemberton might see her and form her own opinion about the child.

Calling May, she told her that she was to stay with Miss Mary, “and if Miss Mary wants you to lead her about, you must be very careful where you go, and mind to tell her everything you see; but don’t talk too much if it seems to weary her,” added the dame in a whisper, as, kissing May, she wished her good-bye.

Chapter Twelve.

May’s Schooling.

Maiden May, on finding herself alone with Miss Mary, at once went up, with a confidence she might not have felt with a person not deprived of sight as the kind lady was, and took her hand.

“Mother told me to ask whether you would like me to lead you about the garden. May I do so?”

“I should like you to lead me about very much, though I think I know my way pretty well. But you must stop whenever you come to a flower you admire, and I will tell you its name, and you must describe to me anything else you see—birds or butterflies or other insects. As my eyes are blind, you must use yours instead of them for my benefit.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Mary; I will try and do what you say,” exclaimed May, delighted to find that she could be of use to the blind lady. A new existence seemed suddenly opened out to her. The gentle and refined tone of voice of Miss Mary sounded pleasing to her ear, although she did not understand all that she said, her language was so different to that she had been accustomed to hear used in the fisherman’s cottage.

Then she was delighted with the new and beautiful flowers, and her wonder was excited when she found that they all had names, and that Miss Mary, though blind, could tell their colours and describe them so perfectly. Miss Mary also told her the names of the birds whose notes they heard as they walked about the grounds, and May in return described with a minuteness which surprised her blind friend a number of objects both animate and inanimate which she thought would interest her, while she asked a variety of questions which, though exhibiting her ignorance, showed a large amount of intelligence and desire to obtain information. The child was evidently natural and thoroughly unaffected, without either timidity or rustic bashfulness. She had, indeed, been treated with uniform kindness, and with even a certain amount of respect, which the fisherman and his family could not help feeling for her. Though the dame had not failed in endeavouring to correct any faults she might have exhibited, yet she had done so with that gentleness and firmness which made the little girl sensible that her kind protectress did so for her benefit alone. The dame found the task a very easy one, for Maiden May rarely required a rebuke.

Still, though her voice was gentle, the child had caught the idiom and pronunciation of the fisherman’s family; but even in that respect there was a natural refinement in the tone of her voice; and as Adam was a God-fearing man, and had brought up his sons to fear God also, no coarse language or objectionable expressions were ever heard in his cottage. Indeed, more true refinement is oftener found among the lower classes where religious principles exist than is generally supposed.

Miss Mary, after walking till she was tired, invited her young guest into the house. Luncheon was placed on the table; Susan attended her mistress and placed delicacies before May such as she had never before tasted. In spite, however, of Susan’s pressing invitations to take more, she ate but sparingly, to the surprise of the kind woman, who thought that the little fisher-girl would have done more justice to the good things offered her.

“She has quite a young lady’s appetite,” she observed afterwards to Miss Mary.

“That is not surprising, for a young lady she is, depend on that. It will be a grievous pity if her relatives are not to be found,” was the answer.

After luncheon, Miss Mary got out a book and placed it before May, and begged her to read from it. By the way May endeavoured to spell out the words Miss Mary discovered that she had made but very little progress in her education.

“Please, I think I could say my lessons better in the Bible if I could find the verses father teaches me,” said May, with perfect honesty.

Miss Mary rang to obtain Susan’s assistance, and May asked her to find the Sermon on the Mount. May read out nearly the whole of the first chapter, with a peculiar tone and pronunciation, which she had learned from honest Adam, following the words with her finger.

“I rather think, my little maid, that you know the verses by heart,” observed Miss Mary.

“Oh, yes,” answered May, naïvely, “I could not read them without; but I will try and learn more before I next come.”

Miss Mary was, however, inclined to advise her not to make the attempt, as she would learn to pronounce the words with the accent which sounded so harsh to her ears.

“But, however pronounced, they are God’s words,” she thought to herself. “I should not prevent her learning even a verse from His book. She will soon gain the right pronunciation from educated people.”

The time passed as pleasantly with Miss Mary as with May herself.

At length Susan appeared to say that a fisher-lad, one of Dame Halliburt’s sons, had come to fetch the little girl.

“Who is it?” asked Miss Mary.

“Oh, it is sure to be brother Jacob, the rest have gone out with father,” answered May.

Jacob was desired to walk in. He stood in the hall, hat in hand, watching the door of the drawing-room, through which Susan had intimated May would appear. As soon as she saw him she ran forward and took both of his hands, pleasure beaming on her countenance. He stooped down and kissed her.

“Are you ready to come with me, Maidy May?” he asked; “you don’t want to stop away from us with the ladies here, do you?”

“Oh, no, no, Jacob!” answered May, holding him tightly by the hand; “I don’t want to leave father or mother or you; I will go back with you as soon as you like.”

Miss Mary overheard the latter part of the conversation as she followed May out of the drawing-room.

“I hear, my good lad, that you have been very kind to the little girl; and pray understand that we do not wish to rob you of her; and if we ask her to come up here, it will only be to help you in teaching her to read, as I understand you have been accustomed to do.”

“Please, ma’am, I am a very poor scholar,” answered Jacob; “but I do my best, and I shall be main glad if you will help me.”

Hand-in-hand May and Jacob set off to return home.

That evening Jacob might have been seen with the Bible before him, and May seated by his side, while he tried to help her to read. As the lamp fell on their countenances, the contrast between the fair, delicate-looking child and the big, strongly-built fisher-boy, with his well-bronzed, broad and honest face, would not have failed to be remarked by a stranger entering the room.

Jacob spelt out the words one by one, pronouncing them with his broad accent as he gained their meaning, while May followed him, imitating exactly the intonation of his voice. Sometimes she not only caught him up, but got ahead, reading on several words by herself, greatly to her delight.

“Ah, May! I see how it is,” said Jacob, with a sigh. “You will be quicker with your books than I ever shall be, and if the kind ladies at Downside wish to teach you, it’s not for me to say them nay; but I would that I had more learning for your sake, and I shall be jealous of them, that I shall, when I find that you can read off out of any book you have got as smoothly as you do the verses you have learned by rote. Oh, you will be laughing at me then.”

“No, no, Jacob! I will never laugh at you. You taught me all I know about reading, and I shall never forget that, even if I learn to read ever so well.”

Next morning, when Adam came home from fishing, the dame told him the interest Miss Mary Pemberton seemed to take in Maiden May, and of her expectation that the Miss Pembertons would wish to have the little girl up to instruct her better than they could at home. Adam agreed that it would not be right to prevent their charge enjoying the benefit which such instruction would undoubtedly be to her.

“But they must not rob us of her altogether, dame. I could not bear to part with the little maiden, and what is more I won’t, unless her own kindred come to claim her, and then it would go sore against the grain to give her up. But right is right, and we could not stand out against that.”

“If the Miss Pembertons wish to take the little girl into their house and make a little lady of her it would not be right, I fear, Adam, to say ‘No’ to them.”

“She is a little lady already,” answered Adam, sturdily. “They could not make her more so than she is already.”

“But I am afraid the way we live, and speak too, Adam, is not like that of gentlefolks; and though our Maiden May is a little lady, and better than many little ladies I have known in all her ways, she will become in time too much like one of us to please those to whom she belongs, I am afraid,” observed the dame, who had from her experience as a domestic servant in Mr Castleton’s family, a clearer perception of the difference between the habits of her own class and those of the upper orders of society than her husband. Still Adam was not to be convinced.

“We are bringing her up as a Christian child should be brought up, to be good and obedient,” he observed, in a determined tone, “and that’s more than many among the gentry are. You know, Betsy, you wouldn’t like her to be like that Miss Castleton you told me off.”

“No more I should,” answered the dame; “But though the Pembertons are of her kindred, they are truly Christian ladies, and Maiden May could only learn good from them.”

As is often the case in a matrimonial discussion, the wife had the best of the argument, but they were still uncertain whether the Miss Pembertons would even make the offer which the dame had suggested as possible. She, at all events, had promised to take Maiden May up to them, and Adam could not prohibit her doing so.

Chapter Thirteen.

May an apt Scholar.

On Miss Pemberton’s return to Downside, while seated at their tea-table, Miss Mary gave her a description of her young visitor of the morning, and told her of the proposal she was anxious to make about her.

“I should just like to see the little girl,” said Miss Pemberton. “If she is really as the dame supposes, of gentle birth, it would be undoubtedly right to try and give her some of the advantages of which she has been deprived. At the same time we should be cautious—perhaps the dame may have been mistaken, and it will be unnecessary, if not imprudent, to try and raise her above the position in which she was born, unless she possesses qualities calculated to make her happier and better in a higher station.”

“Well, Jane, I could only form an opinion from her sweet voice and from what she said. Adam Halliburt and his wife are devotedly fond of her, and do you not think that we may help them by judicious training.”

“Well, Mary, I see that you are determined to think highly of the child, and unless we find that you are mistaken, I shall be very glad to see her as often as her worthy protectors will allow her to come,” said Miss Pemberton.

“I trust that it will be found that I am right in my opinion of the sweet little girl,” said Miss Mary, nodding her head and smiling. “I can always judge best of people by their voices, and I detected in her’s that true tone which can only proceed from a true heart.”

“Well, well, we shall see, and I hope that my opinion will agree with your’s, Mary,” observed Miss Pemberton.

Next morning Mistress Halliburt arrived with Maiden May. The little girl was scrupulously clean and neatly dressed, though her garments were befitting a fisherman’s daughter of plain and somewhat coarse materials, except that she wore the unusual addition of shoes and stockings.

“I have brought our little maiden to you, ladies, as you desired, and if you will please to tell me how long you wish to keep her, I will send my Jacob up to fetch her away at the proper time,” said the dame as she entered the hall into which the Miss Pemberton’s had come out to meet their young guest.

Miss Pemberton scanned her narrowly with her keen grey eyes before replying.

“Good morning, my dear,” said Miss Mary, “come and shake hands.”

May ran forward and placed her hand trustfully in that of the blind lady. “May I lead you about the garden as I did yesterday, Miss Mary,” she asked, “and tell you of the birds, and butterflies, and flowers I see? I shall like it so much.” Miss Mary smiled and nodded her consent to the proposal. “Thank you, thank you,” exclaimed Maiden May. “You need not send for the child till the evening, Mrs Halliburt,” said Miss Jane, who had been watching May. “We shall not grow tired of her I think, and she, I hope, will be happy here.”

The dame went away in the hopes that Maiden May had made a favourable impression on the ladies. “The elder is a little stiff and won’t win the child’s heart like the blind lady; but she is kind and may be thinks more than her sister,” she said to herself. “She won’t spoil the child or set her up too much—that’s a good thing, or maybe she might not like coming back to us and putting up with our ways, and that would vex Adam sorely.”

The little girl spent a very happy day with the kind ladies. She led Miss Mary as she had proposed about the garden, and was as entertaining to the blind lady as on the previous day, while she gained a considerable amount of information tending to expand her young mind.

Miss Jane commenced giving her the course of instruction she had contemplated, and Maiden May proved herself a willing and apt pupil. When invited to come to dinner, Miss Jane was pleased to see her stand up with her hands before her, ready to repeat the grace which she herself uttered.

“Father always prays before and after meals though he does not say the same words; but I think God does not care about the words so much as what comes out of the heart. Oh, He is very very kind, I always thank Him for what He gives me. If He had not taken care of me, I should have been washed away in the sea with my poor ayah and all the people on board the ship.”

“And you love God my little maiden,” asked Miss Pemberton. “Oh, yes, how could I not when He has given us His dear Son, and with Him all things else which we can want to make us happy.”

“The child has been well taught by the good fish wife,” observed Miss Mary aside to her sister. “She has set us an example which we must be careful to follow.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Jane, “we can better give her lady-like notions and habits than the good old woman could have done, but she has acted faithfully in imparting that knowledge which is above all price.” It is true May did several things at table not in accordance with the customs of polite society, but Miss Jane refrained from saying anything for fear of intimidating the little girl.

“You will observe, May, how I behave at table, and you will try, I am sure, to do as I do,” she said quietly.

May nodded, and after this so narrowly watched all her movements that Miss Jane began almost to wish that she had not made the remark. If Miss Jane helped herself to salt so did Maiden May, when she drank the little girl lifted her small tumbler to her lips, her knife and fork was held exactly in the same way she saw Miss Jane doing, or held daintily in her tiny hand while Susan took her plate for some more chicken.

“Our young friend will prove an apt scholar, I suspect,” observed Miss Jane, to her sister. “I will tell you why I think so by and bye.”

After dinner Miss Jane gave May her first writing lesson. She had never before held a pen in her hand, and her attempts to make pot-hooks and hangers, and even straight lines were not very successful.

“I think I could make some letters like those in a book, if you will let me, Miss Jane,” she said, looking up after surveying her performance.

“I do not want you to make such as those at present; but I will write some which you can copy.”

To her surprise the little girl imitated the letters, as she told Miss Mary, with a neatness and precision which was truly surprising.

“I like to do them much better than those ugly things,” said Maiden May, and she was spared the task of copying the pot-hooks and hangers, and was allowed to learn writing more according to her own fancy.

She was so happy that she thought Jacob had arrived sooner than it was necessary to escort her home. She went, however, very willingly, tripping along by his side as she held his big hand, and describing with glee all she had seen and learned.

“You will soon be thinking little of our home I am afeared, May,” said Jacob with a sigh.

May protested honestly she liked home best. Jacob felt that in a few years she would think differently. He scarcely dared to allow himself to contemplate the wide gap which would be placed between them.

Day after day May went up to Downside Cottage.

“We ought not to give you the trouble to come for your little girl, Mistress Halliburt,” observed Miss Jane; “Susan can escort her if you do not think her old enough to go by herself.”

“If she were my own daughter, or any other poor person’s child, I would have let her go and come back by herself long ago, but there is one living not far off, who, for reasons of his own which I cannot fathom, would, I am afraid, like to spirit her off,” said the dame mysteriously. “I have never lost sight of her except when she has been with you or my Jacob, besides that time when near Texford Mr Harry saved her from the wild bull, and I was so frightened then that I made up my mind never to let her go by herself again. If she had come to harm I should have almost died of it, and Adam would never have forgiven me.”

“That was an accident not likely to occur again, and surely no one would injure the child,” observed Miss Jane.

“It’s no fancy of mine if I think there is,” said the dame. “He came once and tried to get her from us by fair means, but we would not give her up for all his promises. But when he finds out as he is sure to do before long, that she is with you, and coming backwards and forwards, he will be on the watch for her. He is not often here now since the war began, and Adam thinks he is about no good. He does come back sometimes for a day or two, and Satan will be helping him if he thinks of mischief.”

“No doubt about that, Mrs Halliburt,” observed Miss Jane. “But there is one more powerful than Satan who will protect the innocent.”

“True, marm, but He will protect them through the means of their friends, and it’s our business, if we suspect evil to guard against it,” said the dame.

“You are right. But who is the person of whom you speak who is likely to injure our little girl?”

“We must not speak ill of our neighbours, Miss Pemberton,” answered the dame. “I know that; but if our neighbours do ill we may warn others against them. The man I mean is Miles Gaffin, the miller, as he calls himself. Now, I cannot say exactly what ill he does, except that I never heard of his doing any good or saying even a kind word, though he says many a bad one: but Adam, my husband, has a pretty strong notion of the sort of business he carries on, and that it’s not by his mill he makes his money. There are few about here who don’t stand in awe of him, and yet it would be hard for anyone to say exactly why. Only one thing is certain, that if he had a mind to do a thing he would do it, and set the law at defiance. To say the truth, I cannot tell you more against him than I have, but I am just afraid of him, and cannot help feeling as how he would work mischief to our Maiden May if he had the chance. But, Miss Pemberton, you will not repeat what I have said?”

“Certainly not, dame, certainly not,” said Miss Mary, “but after all I cannot say that you have brought any serious accusation against the miller, nor can I understand why you should fancy he is likely to injure our Maiden May.”

“That’s just it, Miss Mary, no one about here can say exactly what he does, or why they don’t like him. Still, no one does like him, and I feel a sort of tremble whenever I set my eyes on him, just as I should, begging your pardon, ladies, if I was to meet Satan himself, though I know well he cannot hurt me, for I trust in one who is able to keep evil at a distance.”

“Though I still remain in the dark as to why we should be cautious of this man Gaffin, we will always keep a careful watch over Maiden May, and when you or your son cannot come for her we will send her home with some prudent person who will take care that neither he nor anyone else runs off with her,” answered Miss Jane.

Chapter Fourteen.

At Portsmouth.

Portsmouth was a busy place in those stirring times of warfare, and as the coach, on the top of which Harry was seated, rattled and rumbled down the High Street, parties of sailors came rolling along, laughing and talking, several in their heedlessness almost running against the horses in spite of the shouts of the coachman, who had more than once to pull up to avoid driving over them. Now a pressgang passed along, dragging a number of unwilling captives to serve on board the fleet, some resigned to their fate, others with frowning brows resenting the treatment they had received, and some glancing round, hoping against hope for an opportunity to escape. Officers in cocked hats and glittering epaulets were walking quickly along, while post-chaises came driving in bringing Admiralty officials or Captains to join their ships. Groups were collected in front of the different inns, and Jews were looking out for customers, certain of obtaining a ready sale for their trumpery wares. Ballad singers, especially those who could troll forth one of Dibdin’s new songs, were collecting a good harvest from eager listeners, and the apple-stall women were driving a thriving trade; as were the shopkeepers of high and low degree, judging by their smiling countenances, while the sound of revelry which came forth from the numerous inns showed that the landlords were rejoicing in the abundance of custom: in short, there was little chance of grass growing in Portsmouth streets in those days.

As Harry leaped down from his seat he found his hand grasped by another midshipman, a handsome looking youth, somewhat taller and older than himself, who had made his way through the crowd gathered round the coach.

“I have been on the look-out for you, Harry, with a message from the Captain,” said the latter, as they cordially shook hands. “You are to come on board at once, for we are all ataunto and the frigate goes out of harbour this evening.”

I have to order a few things at my tailor’s, and shall be quite ready, answered Harry.

“Well, Headland,” he added, taking his friend’s arm after he had given his portmanteau into charge of a porter, “I was so glad to find that you had joined the Triton, and as the captain knows and esteems you, he is sure to give you a lift whenever he can. We shall see some more service together, and I hope that you, at all events, will mount a swab on your shoulder before the ship is paid off.”

“Your uncle will get you promoted first, I should think,” answered Headland, “though I hope some day my turn will come.”

“You are my senior, and have done not a few things to merit it, and Captain Fancourt is the last man to favour a relation by passing over another with greater merits.”

“Come, come, you have learned to flatter while you were studying French on shore. We shall both do our duty, I have no doubt about that.”

Harry having called at his tailor’s, he and Headland went down to the point now so crowded with men-of-war’s boats, and wherries coming in and shoving off marines and sailors, watermen, and boat-women, and gaily dressed females and persons of all description, that they had no little difficulty in gaining one of the wherries. Reaching her, however, at last, they off to the frigate lying mid-channel, with her sails loose, ready to get under way.

Harry, having reported himself, had some old friends to greet, and a number of new acquaintances to make, and he soon found himself at home in a midshipman’s berth.

As soon as the captain came on board, the frigate, slipping her moorings, glided out of harbour, and took up a berth near Lord Howe’s fleet, which had a short time before arrived after the glorious victory of the 1st June.

Captain Fancourt having sent for Harry, gave him a kind welcome, and said:—

“You shall go on shore with me to-morrow to attend the king and queen, who are coming on board the fleet. It is the best opportunity you may have of seeing their majesties till you go to court on your promotion, which I hope, however, you will gain before many years are over.”

Accordingly, the next morning the captain went on shore in his boat, taking Harry with him, and pulled to the dockyard.

Never had Portsmouth harbour presented a gayer scene. Every vessel afloat was dressed with as many flags as could be mustered, from the proud line of battle ship to the humble lighter, while banners waved from numberless flagstaff’s on shore. The shores were everywhere lined with people on the watch for the flotilla of boats which were collecting before the Commissioner’s house in the dockyard. The whole garrison was under arms, and the Lords of the Admiralty, whose flag was hoisted on board the Queen, and most of the Ministers of State were present.

Shouts rent the air as at length the king issued from the Commissioner’s house, carrying in his own hand a magnificent diamond-hilted sword, accompanied by the queen, and followed by several of the princes and princesses. He thus proceeded down to his barge waiting at the steps, when, amid the shouts of the multitude, and the firing of guns, he embarked with his family and attendants. The barge, then urged by the strong arms of her crew, proceeded down the harbour, followed by a vast fleet of boats, and steered for the Queen Charlotte, the most conspicuous of the ships at Spithead.

As soon as the barge arrived alongside, the royal standard was hoisted, that of the venerable admiral being shifted to a frigate, and a royal salute thundered forth from all the ships, while hearty cheers rose from the throats of the gallant crews as they stood on the outstretched yards.

On the deck of the Queen Charlotte were collected the gallant admirals and captains, by whose courage and seamanship the first of that long series of victories which contributed so greatly to England’s naval glory had been won.

The king would allow no one to take the sword from him, but as soon as he reached the deck, eagerly advanced towards Lord Howe. He presented it to him as a mark of his satisfaction and entire approbation of his conduct. Rich gold chains were then presented by the king to Sir Alexander Hood, to Admiral Gardener, and also to Lord Howe’s first captain, Sir Roger Curtis.

“I am sorry that their wounds prevent Admiral Bower and Admiral Paisley from attending,” said the king. “I must have the satisfaction of presenting them with gold chains; and as soon as medals can be cast to commemorate the victory, I will send them that they may be attached to the chains.”

It was an interesting sight when, on that occasion, the flower of the English navy, with the gallant men who had fought that glorious action, were presented by the venerable admiral, for Lord Howe was then seventy years of age, to the good king on the quarter-deck of the flag ship. His Majesty exhibited much genuine feeling as the admirals captains and lieutenants in succession came up to him. He had a kind word for everyone, and one of sympathy for those who had so far recovered from their wounds as to be able to be presented.

“Who would not be ready to shed the last drop of his blood when we have our dear country to fight for, and so first-rate a king to reign over us,” exclaimed Harry, enthusiastically to his friend Headland, for they both had accompanied their captain on board, and witnessed the spectacle from a distant part of the ship.

The levee being concluded, the king dined with the admiral on board, and then returned in his barge to the harbour, accompanied as before by a squadron of boats.

His Majesty was so eager to see the prizes captured by his fleet, that, before going on shore, he insisted on pulling up the harbour to have a look at them. There, at their moorings, lay the six huge line of battle ships which had lately belonged to the republican French, now the prize of English valour. The Northumberland, Achille, La Just, Impetueux, and America, the two latter the finest seventy-fours that had ever been seen in the British harbour, the Sans-Pareille, almost equalling in size the Queen Charlotte, and noted for her swift sailing. The Venguer would have been among them had she not sunk just after she struck her colours.

In the evening the town was brilliantly illuminated, and the next day the king attended the launch of a line of battle ship, the Prince of Wales. Directly afterwards, the indefatigable monarch, with the queen and princess, rowed out to Spithead, embarked on board the Aquilon frigate, royal salutes firing from all the ships while the crews manned yards and cheered, and the bands played their most lively music.

The Aquilon getting under way stood towards the Needles, when the king returned to Portsmouth to spend the Sunday.

On the following Monday he sailed in the Niger frigate for Southampton, whence the royal family proceeded in carriages for Windsor.

Such is a description of one of the many visits the king delighted to pay to the fleets of England, so that both the officers and men of the navy were well acquainted with his person, and very many could boast of having had the honour of conversing with him.

The Triton, however, was soon to be far away from such scenes, and to be engaged in the stern reality of warfare. Her destination was the Mediterranean, and her captain and crew being eager to distinguish themselves, the grass was not allowed to grow on her keel. Still, though a bright look-out was kept, and leagues of water had been ploughed by her, a couple of privateers, a few merchantmen, and Gunda costas, only had been captured, she having hitherto encountered no worthy antagonist.

Unhappily fever broke out on board, and going into Gibraltar she was compelled to leave thirty men at the hospital. Even after she sailed again, a considerable number remained on the sick list; indeed, she had almost an equal number with those left behind unable to do duty.

Though his crew were thus reduced in strength, Captain Fancourt continued his cruise in search of the enemy.

The Triton, approaching the neighbourhood of Carthagena, a number of large ships were seen hull down between her and the land. They were known to be the Spanish fleet. Their movements were watched, and they were observed standing back to port. The Triton kept them in sight, and then standing away, continued cruising on the ground they had before occupied. In vain, however, Captain Fancourt watched for their return, that he might carry information of their whereabouts to the admiral.

Day after day went by and not a sail was seen.

“This is vexatious work,” exclaimed Harry, as he and Headland were walking the quarter-deck during the first watch, when the frigate lay becalmed about ten or a dozen miles off the coast.

“It’s more than vexatious to me who have no friends to help me, and who, unless I get the opportunity of fighting my way up the ratlines, have but little hope of promotion,” answered Headland. “You who have a father in Parliament are sure of yours as soon as you have served your time.”

“That may be the case, but I would rather gain my promotion in hard service, than as a matter of favour. I am sure that you will make opportunities for yourself, and I hope to find them too, though they may not come as willingly as we may desire,” said Harry. “But how is it, Headland, that you speak of having no friends? You know me well enough, to be sure, that I could not wish to pry into your affairs from idle curiosity; but the truth is, that being known to be your friend, I have several times been asked about you, and I have been compelled to confess that I know nothing of your history. That has made people fancy that there is something you would desire to conceal, though, as I know you, my dear fellow, to be the soul of honour, I am very sure there is nothing, as far as you are personally concerned, which you would desire to be kept secret.”

“You do me no more than justice, Harry,” answered Headland, in a tone which denoted honest pride—a very different feeling to vanity. “There is nothing in my history which I wish to conceal. On the contrary, I would rather have it as widely known as possible, though the fear of being considered egotistical has prevented me talking about myself. For this reason alone I have hitherto, even to you, never spoken about my early days, and now you put the question to me, I can scarcely otherwise account for my silence on the subject.”

“You have spoken at times of a kind-hearted seaman who took care of you as a child, and of having served as a ship’s boy before you were placed on the quarter-deck, and of other circumstances which have made me suspect that your early history was not a little romantic. From strangers being present, or from other causes, I have, however, always been prevented from questioning you more particularly on the subject, and even now, as I honour you for yourself, I would not ask you to tell me anything, but that I believe it would be for your advantage, and certainly, as I said before, not to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“I am sure of that, my dear Harry,” answered Headland, “and I will try to give you as much of my early history as I possess myself. To do so I must exert my memory, and help it out with the information I have obtained from my early protector and devoted friend, Jack Headland, whose name I bear, though I know from him that it is not my proper one. I have no reason, however, to be ashamed of the name, and therefore gladly retain it, hoping some day to make it known with honour. I confess, however, did I possess any means of being recognised, my earnest wish would have been to discover my parents and family, but as you will learn, from what I am going to tell you, all possible clue that would enable me to do so has been lost, and I have therefore made up my mind to be content with my position, and to gain a name for myself.”

Chapter Fifteen.

A Yarn at Sea.

“If it gives you no painful recollections, my dear Headland, I shall much like to hear your history,” said Harry. “On this calm night the thread of your narrative is not likely to be broken.”

“I will try to go back, then, as far as my memory will help me,” said Headland.

I have a dim recollection of living in a large Eastern style of house, with a number of black servants dressed in white, and a black woman who spoke in a language which has now become strange, though I think I then understood it. She attended especially on me. There was a tall gentleman of a slight figure, and a very fair lady, who was, I am sure, my mother. I have a faint recollection of her blue eyes and sweet smile as she took me in her arms, or looked down upon me as I played at her feet. Still, it is only now and then like the vision in a dream that her countenance rises to my memory. After that there comes a blank, and I found myself on board a ship—brought there by my black nurse, accompanied by the tall gentleman. I remember him clearly in the cabin, talking to a lady who then took charge of me, my nurse, I conclude, returning on shore, for she disappears from my recollection. While the gentleman was on deck, as I was afterwards told by Jack Headland, he suddenly, looking at the mate, asked him if he was not somebody he had known in England. The mate seemed for a moment taken aback, but, recovering himself, replied quite quietly that the gentleman was mistaken; that he had never heard of such a person, and that his name was Michael Golding, which, as Jack said, as far as he knew to the contrary, was the case, for that was the name he went by on board, though he was generally spoken of as the mate. The gentleman at last seemed satisfied, and returned on shore.

The ship sailed, and I remember seeing the blue water bubbling and hissing alongside as she clove her way through it, and playing with a ball on deck, which rolled out through one of the ports. The lady was very kind, and used to sing to me, and tell me stories, and, I fancied, tried to teach me my letters, though I was somewhat young to learn them. She was, however, very different to my mother, much older I suspect, and I did not love her half so much.

It came on to blow after a time, the sea got up and the ship tumbled about, and the poor lady was unable to watch over me.

There were other passengers, but they were all ill, and the stewardess was too busy to attend to me, but the mate came one day and told the lady that he would watch over me, or get some one else to do so when he was engaged.

From the first I did not like him, for he was a dark, black bearded man, with an unpleasant expression of countenance, so I cried out whenever he came near me. The captain must, I think, therefore, have given me in charge to Jack Headland, a young apprentice, whose looks I liked much better than the mate’s. At all events, I was frequently with Jack, and no one could have taken better care of me.

There were not many English seamen, most of the crew being dark-skinned fellows—Malays, I suppose.

The vessel was, I know, not an Indiaman, but a country trader bound to Calcutta or Bombay.

I told Jack—so I learned from him—that I did not like the mate. He advised me not to say that to any one else, and promised that he would be my friend.

Most thoroughly he fulfilled his promise. Strange as it may seem, the mate intentionally left me near an open port several times, in the hopes that I might by chance slip through, so Jack thought, though he could not guess at his motive. Still it was clear that the mate had a bitter spite against me.

We had been some time at sea when we were caught in a fearful hurricane. The ship was dismasted, and I remember hearing a dreadful crash, when all was confusion on board. The sea broke over the ship, and a number of people were washed away. Even then Jack did not forget me. He found me in the cabin, and seizing me in his arms carried me to the fore part of the ship, which still hung to the rocks, while the after part, directly we had left it, broke up, and the poor lady who had had charge of me with many others was lost. The mate, who had made his way forward with half-a-dozen men, advised Jack to let me go, as it was impossible I should survive, and that he would probably lose his own life in attempting to save mine.

“No, no,” answered Jack. “I promised to take care of the youngster, and I will as long as I have life in me.”

The noble fellow held me the faster with one arm, while he clung to the wreck with the other. Scarcely had the mate spoken than he was washed away; but Jack saw him gain a piece of the wreck to which he was clinging, when he disappeared in the gloom at night.

When morning broke, the shore was seen. The hurricane was over, and the sea was becoming calmer. Jack securing me to the stump of the bowsprit with three or four of our surviving shipmates, contrived to form a raft. When this was launched he came for me, and fed me with some biscuit which he had in his pocket, I conclude. We then embarked, and partly by paddling with pieces of plank, and partly by sailing, we reached the shore.

We had not long landed when a number of natives came, and made the whole party prisoners. While they were consulting what to do with us, some others were seen along the shore dragging the mate in their midst. Three Malays had been saved on the raft, who, poor fellows, were quickly knocked on the head. The lives of the white men were spared. Jack kept me tightly in his arms, and entreated the natives not to take me from him. The mate, however, seemed to be able to make them understand him, and Jack said that he was certain from the way he looked at me, that he was endeavouring to persuade the natives to separate us. Though we had fallen among a tribe of murderous pirates, such as frequent the coasts of many of the Indian Islands, they had still some of the kinder feelings of human nature lingering in their breasts. Notwithstanding what the mate might have said Jack was allowed to keep possession of me, and our captors making signs to us to accompany them, we proceeded to their village, situated on the shores of a creek, on the bank of which several piratical proas lay moored.

By this time I was suffering dreadfully from thirst. Jack seeing this entreated the natives to give me some water. The houses were raised on platforms, with steps leading to them some height from the ground.

One of the natives, a headman, calling out a pleasant-looking young woman, brought down a calabash of water, which she gave me to drink. She smiled as she watched me. As soon as I had satisfied my thirst, I put it to Jack’s mouth, and he swallowed the remainder. The young woman seemed to have taken a fancy to me, and saying something to the head man, who was her husband, the latter made signs to Jack that he was to give me to her. On this she seemed highly pleased, and Jack, thinking I should be safe in her keeping, made no resistance.

As soon as she got me, she carried me up into the house. Jack was going to follow, when some of the natives seized him and dragged him away. My new nurse brought me some dry native clothing, and while doing so discovered round my neck a gold chain to which an ornament was attached; but she did not attempt to take it off, and I have ever since carefully preserved it in the hopes that it might assist to identify me. She then gave me food, and placed me on a mat, where I soon fell asleep.

Day after day passed by, and though I frequently asked for Jack, he did not appear. The young woman who had no children of her own, treated me with great kindness, and dressed me up like a native. I do not remember having had my own clothes restored.

I remember once, if not twice, seeing the mate while I was playing in front of the house; but my protectress, fancying that he wanted to take me from her, ran out and carried me inside.

I was beginning to learn the language of the people with whom I was thrown, and could make my wants known, so that I must have been some time with them. I had not forgotten Jack, however, and continued hoping that he would come back for me; and whenever I went out I was on the watch for him. Once I fancied I saw him in the distance, but as I was dressed as a native child, he did not recognise me.

Many months went by. I afterwards found that the white men had been compelled to labour as slaves, though the mate had managed to gain the confidence of one of the chiefs, and had risen in his favour. The proas frequently went out of harbour, and were absent often for a considerable time. When they came back they brought all sorts of things, which were placed in their store houses, and were certainly not obtained by peaceable commerce.

One day the young woman who had charge of me seemed very unhappy. I was now able to understand all she said, so I asked her the cause of her grief, and she told me that the chief whose slave the mate had become, wanted to persuade her husband to give me up to him, and that she could not bear the thoughts of parting from me. I entreated her to keep me, and promised that if I was taken away I would run back to her. I then asked her if she knew what had become of my friend Jack. She said he was not far off, but that his master would not let him come to see me. I begged her, at all events, not to let me be given up to the mate. She at last told me one day that I need have no fear of the mate, as he had disappeared, and was supposed to have made his way out to sea in a canoe to a vessel which had appeared off the coast.

The pirates lived tolerably easy lives on shore, apparently believing that though they must have made enemies in all directions, their village was so securely hidden, they were not likely to be molested.

Thus time went on, when one night I was awoke by hearing a fearful uproar, rapid reports of firearms, shouts and shrieks of men fighting desperately. Presently flames burst forth from different parts of the village. They were approaching the house where I was. The one next to it was on fire. My kind protectress did not forget me. At first, not knowing what to do, she had remained watching the progress of events, hoping probably that the enemy would be driven back. When, however, the fire surrounded her house, she saw that it was time to fly. Seizing me in her arms she was about to do so, when the crackling and hissing flames burst forth around us. At that moment a man leaped up the steps. Though so long a time had passed since we had parted, I at once recognised my friend Jack. Snatching me from the woman’s arms, he sprang down to the ground, telling her to follow him. Bullets were whizzing through the air in all directions. He made his way as fast as his legs could carry him out of the range of fire, and then directed his course towards the river, where he sat down on the ground beneath some bushes, and I believe I fell asleep.

It was just daylight when I awoke, and Jack creeping with me down to the water’s edge, we saw several boats full of men. Jack shouted to them, and one of them put in and took us on board. They were, he afterwards told me, the boats of two Dutch men-of-war, which had been sent up the river to destroy the nest of pirates. This they had done effectually, and were now on their way back to their ships. Jack was the only one of the shipwrecked crew who had escaped; what had become of the others he could not tell, but concluded that they had been murdered.

It was a long time, however, before I could speak to him or understand what he said, for I had been so long without hearing a word of English that I had almost forgotten it, while he knew but very little of the native language in which I had in the meantime learned to express my wants.

We were kindly received on board one of the Dutch frigates. Jack tried to tell the captain the little he knew about me, but as the Dutchman spoke no English, and Jack was ignorant of Dutch, he did not, I suspect, give him a very lucid account. Jack having been but a short time at the port from which we sailed, as he had joined the ship from a vessel which had arrived only the day before, had entirely forgotten its name, and being no navigator he had not the slightest notion from what direction we had come. He was not much happier in recollecting the name of the vessel, except that there were two of them both ending, as he said, in “jee.”

Before long a Dutch seaman who spoke English was found on board, and through his interpretation Jack was able to give a rather more clear account of me than at first. The captain was at all events satisfied that I was the child of English parents of a good position in life, and taking compassion on my destitute condition, he desired Jack to leave me in the cabin, giving him permission, however, to come aft and attend to me. Jack would rather have kept me forward with himself, but believing that this arrangement was for my good, he submitted to it. I was soon rigged out like a young Dutchman by the ship’s tailor, and Jack used to come into the cabin to look after me in the morning, and to attend to me at my meals, while he watched during the best part of the day as I ran about the deck.

The frigates were bound for Batavia. As soon as we arrived there the captain took me on shore, and he so interested a wealthy Dutch merchant and his wife in my favour that they offered to receive me into their house and adopt me should my parents not be discovered. I at once became a great favourite of the lady’s, who had no children of her own, and for my sake they sent for Jack and asked if he would wish to remain on shore and enter their service. As he was very unwilling to part with me he accepted their offer, though, as he afterwards said, kind as they were, he did not like the thoughts of my being turned into a Dutchman. He was my constant companion when I was not with Mynheer Vanderveldt or his excellent Frau, and he did his best to teach me English. They, however, did not neglect either my education or my manners, but took great pains to bring me up as a young gentleman.

Three or four years more passed by, and I had become a biggish boy, and should, in spite of Jack’s efforts, have been soon turned into a Dutchman, when my kind friends determined to return to Europe. I suspect that all this time, from their wish to keep me, they had taken no great pains to discover to whom I belonged; indeed, the only clue that Jack could give them was so slight that I feel that they really had a sufficient excuse for their negligence. My faithful friend Jack, still unwilling to part from me, accompanied my friends in the Prinz Mauritz, on board which we embarked. He and I were doomed, however, to be unfortunate in our voyages, though more fortunate than our companions.

We had been some weeks at sea when, during a dark and blowing night, a terrific crash was heard. I sprang out of my berth and dressed, and within a minute my faithful Jack was by my side.

“The ship is on shore and will go to pieces before daylight, but I will not desert you, my boy,” he said. “As I came aft I made out a rock close aboard of us, and as the masts are sure to go over we may manage to gain it if we take the proper time. I wish I could help Mynheer and the Frau, but I must look after you first.”

Scarcely had he said this when another and another crashing sound reached our ears.

“There go the masts!” he exclaimed. “Come along!” and seizing me by the arm he dragged me on deck.

As he had expected, the head of the mainmast rested on the rock, which could now be seen as a bright flash of lightning darted from the sky. We were the first on the spar, and making our way along it gained the rock. A few others seeing us followed. I entreated Jack to look after my friends, forgetting the danger to which he would be exposed in doing so. The people coming along the mast prevented him from going, and just then a heavy sea rolling in sent a sheet of spray over us, completely hiding the ship. When we looked again she was gone. The sea had lifted her, and falling off the rock she had sunk, dragging her fallen masts with those still clinging to them.

Six people, besides Jack and me, had alone escaped, all the other human beings on board, including my kind friends, had perished. We remained till daylight on the rock, and at daybreak managed to get to the island, partly by wading and partly by swimming. It was itself only a huge rock, about three miles long, rising in some places to the height of a couple of hundred feet above the sea.

We employed the whole day in collecting provisions and part of the cargo washed ashore. We went in search of water and found a spring, so that we had no fear of dying from hunger or thirst for some time to come. One of our first cares was to erect a flagstaff as a signal to any passing ship. I felt deeply grieved for the loss of my friends; but I did not think so much about the fact that I was reduced from affluence to perfect poverty. Jack told me that he knew Mynheer Vanderveldt intended to leave me all his property.

“He made his will before he left Batavia, and I am pretty sure he had it with him, so that if any of his chests are washed on shore, as I should know them, there may still be a chance of finding it. Though I am no scholar myself, you might make it out, and some day get what the good man intended to be yours.”

So impressed was Jack with this idea that he employed a considerable portion of his time in hunting along the shore for my friend’s chests.

Though we did not get them, we found several articles which were of more use to us just then, so that the time was not fruitlessly spent.

We lived in a hut built partly of stones and partly of the wreck, and thus suffered no great hardship. After we had spent three months on the rock we saw a sail in the distance. She approached—our signal was discovered. A boat came and took us off, when we found ourselves on board an English frigate, the Nymph, which had been driven by a gale out of her course. Had it not been for this circumstance we might have remained on the rock many months longer, or till we had all died of starvation.

Captain Biddell sent for me, and desired to know who I was.

“That’s more than I can very well tell you, sir,” I answered in the broken English I then spoke; “but my friend Jack Headland can tell you more about me than I can.”

He accordingly sent for Jack, who told him all he knew. He seemed, by his remarks, to have some doubts of the truth of the story.

“Well, all I can do is to enter you both on the ship’s books,” he observed. “I shall see how the boy behaves himself and act accordingly.”

Jack was asked by what name I should be entered.

“I’ll give him mine,” he answered. “I don’t want him to be a Dutchman, and I don’t know any other to call him by.”

And so I was entered as young Jack Headland, and young Jack I was called ever afterwards, while he was known as old Jack, though he was not very old either, for he was still a fine active young fellow.

“You heard what the captain said,” observed old Jack to me. “What you have got to look after is to behave yourself and to do your duty. Though he is somewhat cross-grained in his manner, he is all right at bottom, or the ship would not be in the good order she is, or the men so well contented. Though I have never served on board a man-of-war before I can judge of that.”

I followed Jack’s advice, and having shifted my shore-going clothes, which were pretty nearly worn out, for a seaman’s suit, I was soon able to do my duty as well as any of the other boys in the ship.

Captain Fancourt was then first lieutenant of the frigate, and having heard Jack’s account he spoke to me and found that at all events I was a young gentleman in manners and education.

“Do you wish to keep your present knowledge, my lad?” he asked one day, calling me to him. “It is a pity you should lose what you know.”

I replied that I especially wished to do so, but that I had no books, and should find it a hard matter to read them for’ard, even if I had.

“Very well,” he answered. “You shall come to my cabin every day, and I will assist you in your studies.”

The other officers following his example, also took me in hand. The master gave me lessons in mathematics and navigation, and the purser taught me writing and arithmetic, so that though I was still berthed for’ard I had advantages which even the midshipmen did not possess. They, in a short time, finding I was a gentleman in manners, applied for leave to the captain, and I was admitted into their berth. I do not know that I gained much by the change in some respects, but I was glad to escape from the rough boys with whom I had at first to associate. I still did duty as a ship’s boy, and by this means Jack was able to instruct me in knotting and splicing, and other minutiae of a seaman’s education, which I found especially useful.

We had been in the Indian Seas about three years, chiefly engaged in protecting British merchantmen from the pirates which swarmed there. The boats had been sent away in chase of three or four of their craft, cut off from a piratical fleet which were endeavouring to make their escape along shore. My friend Jack belonged to the second cutter. Night came on, and the frigate stood after the boats, making signals for their return. Three of the boats at length got alongside, but the second cutter did not appear. The weather changed—a heavy gale sprang up, and we were compelled to stand out to sea. As soon as the weather moderated, we returned and cruised up and down the coast, the boats being sent on shore at various places; but nothing could be seen of the second cutter, and we had every reason to fear that the officer in charge of her and all hands, had either been killed or fallen into the power of the pirates. I was very much cut up at the loss of my kind friend, who had indeed acted like a father towards me. The captain sent for me into his cabin, and expressed his regret at the loss of my old protector.

“I wish to make all the amends I can to you, my lad,” he said. “As your conduct has been thoroughly to my satisfaction since you came on board, and as there is now a vacancy by the death of Mr Watson (the midshipman lost in the boat), I will place you on the quarter-deck and give you the rating of a midshipman.”

I thanked him very much; but I remember saying, “I would rather old Jack were alive though.”

“I appreciate your feeling, my lad,” he answered; “but even if he does return I won’t disrate you, and I will see how we can best manage to get you an outfit.”

Thus by the loss of my honest friend, whom I greatly lamented, I got my first step on the ratlines.

After a further search for the missing boat we left the coast, and soon afterwards going to Calcutta received our orders to return home.

Your uncle has been my friend ever since. He obtained his promotion on our arrival in England, and was at once appointed to the command of the Ariel, corvette, in which I accompanied him to the West Indies, where we were actively engaged, and I had there the opportunity I had so much wished for of performing two or three acts which gained me credit. I was still more anxious than ever to make a name for myself, as since the loss of my protector, Jack Headland, I had no possible clue by which to discover my parents with the exception of the gold chain, which I wore round my neck, and which I still preserved. A small bundle containing a child’s clothes and shoes, and the figure of an Indian tumbler, which were found in Jack’s kit, I felt sure had belonged to me. Whether or not they are sufficient to identify me I am very doubtful. Not wishing to throw a chance away I deposited them for safety with my agents in London.

Such was Headland’s history, and Harry assured him at its close that he always knew he must be a gentleman by birth, as he was in every other possible way.

“I heartily wish,” he said, “that you may some day find out to whom you belong. Whoever they are you may depend on it they will welcome you joyfully. Why there goes eight bells. Our watch has indeed passed quickly away.”

The two midshipmen were relieved and went below. They had scarcely, as they supposed, closed their eyes, when the boatswain’s rough voice and shrill pipe roused them up with a cry of “All hands on deck!” followed by the quick roll of the drum, the well known beat to quarters.

Chapter Sixteen.

Home, with Promotion.

As Harry and his friend reached the deck they caught sight of a strange frigate standing towards the Triton, which was, as has already been said, off the port of Carthagena, and as they looked towards the land they observed a small vessel under all sail running in for it. That the stranger was an enemy there was no doubt, and as she was evidently as heavy a frigate as the Triton, there appeared, even should she be captured, with the Spanish squadron close at hand, little prospect of her being brought off. There was indeed a great chance that the Triton herself would not escape should she be crippled.

“The odds are against us,” observed the captain to his first lieutenant. “We must not, however, show our heels to a single frigate, and will do our best to take her before the enemy can come out to her rescue.”

“Ay, ay, sir; take her we shall, and I hope get off with her too,” was the answer.

The crew were at their quarters, stripped to the waist, waiting eagerly to begin the action. The second lieutenant being left on shore and the third being ill, Headland and Harry were doing duty in their places, though the third lieutenant came on deck when he heard of the pending action.

The stranger, which hoisted Spanish colours, and was seen to be of 34 guns, two more than the Triton, approaching within hail then hauled to the wind, on the Triton’s weather beam.

“Give her a shot!” cried the captain, “to prove her.”

Scarcely had the flash been seen than a whole broadside fired by the enemy came rattling on board the Triton. It was returned by the British crew. Broadside after broadside was given and received. In vain Captain Fancourt endeavoured to haul either ahead or astern of the enemy to rake her. She kept her advantageous position, and the Spaniards, whatever may sometimes be said of them, fought their ship gallantly. The action continued to be a regular broadside to broadside one. The boatswain was seen examining the masts with anxious looks. They and the bowsprit had been wounded pretty severely, while the rigging hung in festoons, and her sails were shot through and torn. Still the British seamen fought their guns as energetically as at first.

“Keep it up, my lads!” cried Headland, as he with Harry and other officers moved from gun to gun. “We have given her as much as we have received, and something more into the bargain.”

As far as the canopy of smoke which hung round the ships could enable the British crew to distinguish the condition of their antagonist, they saw that every shroud had been cut away, and her boats and upper works knocked to pieces, while hitherto but very few of their own crew had been hit and not one killed. The action lasted an hour and twenty minutes, when the Spaniards’ fire sensibly slackened.

The Triton, giving her antagonist another broadside, now forged ahead. The crew were ordered to leave their guns, and in an instant the greater number swarming aloft began knotting and splicing the damaged rigging, while fresh sails were got up and bent with a rapidity which looked like magic. Meantime the Spaniard was similarly engaged, and her helm being put up she endeavoured under such sail as she could set to make off. The sight still further stimulated the British crew to exertion, and in twenty minutes, with rigging refitted, she went about and with every gun reloaded stood down once more towards the enemy. Though the latter had hitherto fought with the greatest courage, yet no sooner did the Triton come within range than the proud flag of Spain was hauled down. A cheer, such as British sailors alone can give, burst from the victorious crew.

Headland and Harry were sent on board with the only boat that could swim, to take possession.

The brave Spanish captain delivered up his sword with a dignified bow, and Headland, complimenting him on his gallantry, requested him at once to go on board the Triton. That he had not yielded till the last moment was evident, for the booms having fallen down had disabled all the waist guns of the frigate, and fully thirty men lay on the decks, while an equal number were found wounded in the cockpit, many of them mortally.

Not a moment was to be lost, and as soon as two other boats could be patched up, more of the Triton’s crew were sent on board to repair the damages the prize had received.

She proved to be the Mahonesa, and her brave captain, Don Tomas Ayaldi.

“Well, we have done something now at all events,” said Harry to Headland, as the severed shrouds and running rigging of the prize having been repaired and sail made she and her captor were steering for Gibraltar.

The Triton remained sometime at Gibraltar to refit.

After another cruise up the Mediterranean, where she did good service, and fought an action not inferior to the first, when she captured her antagonist, she was ordered home. On her way she looked into Lisbon, and Headland, who received his commission as lieutenant, was put in charge of their first prize, with Harry as his second in command, and another midshipman and thirty men to carry her home.

They reached Plymouth in safety, and when the Triton was paid off, Captain Fancourt being soon afterwards appointed to a ship in commission in which there were no vacancies, Harry and his friend were separated. They were employed for nearly three years on different stations and saw much service, both obtaining their promotion, while Headland, by several gallant acts, gained the credit he so eagerly sought for.

During the time, being then lieutenants, Harry belonging to the Naiad frigate, and Headland to the Alembic, they had the good fortune to capture two Spanish frigates, the Thetis and Santa Brigida, laden with specie to the value of upwards of 300,000 pounds sterling. Though two other frigates joined in the chase, each of the lieutenants of the four ships obtained 5000 as their share of prize money, while the four captains received upwards of 40,000 pounds a-piece.

“If you ever have to establish your claims, you will now have the means of doing so,” observed Harry to his friend when they arrived at Plymouth. “And remember my share shall be at your service.”

“I am very sure you will help me to the last penny you possess if I should require money,” answered Headland. “But I have long given up all hopes of success, and really now think very little about the matter. I am not ambitious of wealth, and when the piping times of peace come round, and I am sent on shore to shift for myself, I shall have saved enough to live on in comfort and respectability.”

“What, with a wife!” asked Harry. “She may not be satisfied with what you consider a competency.”

“I have not thought about marrying,” answered Headland, laughing, “and I do not suppose any lady I should like would accept an unknown adventurer such as I should be considered,” he added, and a shade came over his countenance showing that he felt his position more than he was willing to acknowledge.

“Adventurer! nonsense; no one has a right so to call a naval officer who has already made a name for himself, and will make a greater some day or other,” answered Harry. “Don’t let such an idea take possession of your mind. There are dozens of girls who would accept you gladly for yourself, and perhaps be better pleased to find that they had not married a whole tribe of relations, sisters and aunt, who might interfere with their domestic arrangements. Depend on it if every lieutenant and ward-room officer of our four fortunate frigates were to go on shore at once, we could each of us be married within a fortnight.”

“Very likely,” answered Headland. “But the ladies would take us for our prize money not for ourselves, and I should not wish to have a wife on those terms.”

“Nor should I, indeed; when I was last on shore during the London season, and went out with my mother and sister, I saw enough of fashionable society to make me resolve whenever I might take it into my head to look out for a wife, not to seek for her in such an atmosphere. I saw numbers of pretty girls, I confess, and, I daresay, some of them possessed sterling qualities. If I particularly admired any one fair lady, on discovering that I was only a midshipman, she was sure to freeze me up the next time I met her.”

“Had she found that you were a lieutenant with a share of the Santa Brigida’s treasure, she might have looked more affectionately on you,” said Headland, laughing.

“Exactly; but I should not, as you were remarking, have been flattered had I been aware of the motive which prompted her feelings.”

“So it seems that we are perfectly agreed,” said Headland, “and the less we think about the matter till the time comes the better. At all events I intend never to entertain any thoughts of marrying unless I find some one who, rising above ordinary prejudices, is ready to link her fate with mine, regardless of my unknown birth and name.” See there are the waggons to carry off our treasure.

As he spoke, he pointed to a large number of artillery waggons which had driven into the dockyard, close to which the prizes had been hauled.

Two days were employed in landing the rich cargoes, which were escorted by horse and foot soldiers, and armed seamen and marines, and accompanied by bands of music and an immense concourse of people, to the Citadel of Plymouth, in the vaults of which the treasure remained till it was removed to London, and finally deposited in the Bank of England.

A similar scene occurred at different times when treasure ships were taken.

On one occasion an English captain sailed into port with huge silver candlesticks at his mastheads, and ordinary seamen found themselves possessed of two or three hundred guineas prize money, frequently squandered before many weeks were over; while the officers obtained a proportionate share of wealth. Few, perhaps, thought of the suffering and injustice endured by the owners when gold was captured which belonged to private individuals, and though in some instances when such was the case it was returned, yet in many others non-combatants lost their lives and their property at the same time.

Harry and Headland were among the fortunate officers who, having many opportunities of distinguishing themselves, gained wealth and honour together.

At length the great victory of the Nile, in which Headland took a part was won, Napoleon’s armies had been defeated in Syria and Egypt, Copenhagen had been bombarded, and the treaty of Amiens, speedily again to be broken, had been signed.

The ships in which the two lieutenants served came to an anchor at Spithead, within a few days of each other.

Harry went on board the frigate in which Headland was serving as first lieutenant.

“You are sure of your promotion, Headland,” he said after their greeting was over. “I have just got a letter from my uncle telling me your name is on the list. You deserve a spell on shore. We are to go into harbour to be paid off to-morrow, and as soon as I am free you must start with me for Texford, where my family are now residing. Captain Fancourt has already spoken to them of you, and you will receive a hearty welcome. No excuses, old fellow, you will be Captain Headland by that time, and that alone will be sufficient introduction to any family in the land.”

Headland hesitated. He thought of making a tour round England, and perhaps going over to France, to have a look at the country from which Englishmen had so long been excluded, but Harry overcame all objections, and Headland agreed should he not be appointed to a command, which was not very likely, to accompany his friend to Texford.

Chapter Seventeen.

Second Period of Maiden May’s History.

Time went on, and nothing occurred to interrupt the even tenor of the Miss Pembertons’ well-spent lives. They never wearied in their efforts to benefit the bodies and souls of their poorer neighbours, and if some were ungrateful, many blessed them for the words they spoke, and the kind acts they performed. Their young pupil, in winter and summer, rain and sunshine, continued to come to them every day. She never wished for a holiday, and it would have been a trial to her to have had to keep away from Downside. Though she was as loving as ever to those at home, she was able to bestow an equal amount of affection on the ladies who devoted themselves to her instruction.

She was now no longer the little fisher maiden she had appeared in former years; but the charms of her mind and person having gradually been developed, though she herself was scarcely aware of the change, she had become a truly lovely girl already entering womanhood.

Adam had lost none of the affection he had from the first felt for the child, whose life he had saved. He could no longer, however, properly call her his little Maiden May, for she had become a full-grown damsel, full of life and spirits; and if, conscious that she was not his daughter, she did not bestow on him all of a daughter’s affection, she yet treated him with respect, and so lovingly and kindly, that he had no cause to complain. Her tastes were refined, and her intellect expanding as she advanced in knowledge, she could not help seeing the space gradually widening between herself and her foster-parents and their sons. Yet, with tact and right feeling, she had contrived not to let the young men feel how fully alive she was to the difference between them. They, however, gradually became aware of it, and treated her with that deference which they considered to be her due, as superior to themselves. To the elder ones this was easy, but it caused Jacob no small exercise of self restraint not to behave towards Maiden May as he had been accustomed to do, when under his charge she was allowed to go blackberrying, or to wander along the shore picking up shells.

May’s dress, though plain and simple in the extreme, was such as was suited for the companion of the well-born Miss Pemberton’s, and she had entwined herself so completely round their hearts that they regarded her in the light of a beloved niece. She had now for sometime resided entirely with them. She, however, paid frequent visits to her kind foster father and mother, as she now called Adam and his wife.

It had been a hard struggle to Dame Halliburt and her husband to part with her, but they saw clearly that it would be for her benefit, and that their cottage was not a fit abode for a young girl destined to occupy a higher rank than their own. Even they felt that there was already a broad line between them, and the dame, not having forgotten her own training in a gentleman’s family, could not help treating May with much more deference than she would have shown to her had she been really her daughter.

May herself, conscious of the change in the dame’s manner, could scarcely tell why she had become so much more formal than she used to be, though she had too much confidence in the kind woman’s love to suppose that it arose from any want of affection. Adam was, however, as hearty as ever, but then he had for long treated her with a certain amount of respect, moderating that exhibition of his affection his big warm heart would have inclined him to bestow. He still generally called her his Maiden May, but sometimes addressed her as Mistress May, and seldom offered to press the hearty kiss on her fair brow with which he had been accustomed to greet her after a day’s absence.

Adam and the dame had undergone severe trials during the last years, though they bore up under them with christian fortitude and resignation. Their second son Sam had been crossed in love, and as a consequence went off to sea on board a man-of-war. He was a steady well-conducted young man. He had become a petty officer, and there was every prospect of his doing well.

A short time after Sam had gone to sea Ben, who was his father’s main-stay, had on one occasion gone to Morbury, just at the time when press-gangs were hard at work along the coast, laying hands on every seafaring person, whether willing or unwilling, to man the fleet. Ben, not suspecting danger, was walking along the quay, when a party of seamen rushed out of a public-house and surrounded him. Though he endeavoured to make his escape, he was quickly overpowered, and being dragged into a boat, was carried on board a cutter outside the harbour. As many other brave fellows acted when he found his fate inevitable, he submitted with a good grace, and determined to do his duty.

He did not return, and for several days Adam could gain no tidings of his son, though he suspected what had occurred. At length he received a letter from Ben saying that he had been seized by a pressgang, and that he was on board a frigate destined for the East India station. Adam went to Mr Shallard with a message from the Miss Pemberton’s saying they would be answerable for any sum required to obtain Ben’s discharge, but the lawyer feared that so urgent was the need of men for the navy that success was improbable. He did his best, but before any effort could be made to obtain his discharge, the frigate sailed, carrying Ben as one of her crew.

Thus Adam was deprived of the services of his two elder sons. Still he hoped that they would some day return, and be again able to assist him on board the Nancy.

A still greater blow, however, was in store for him and his wife. News came that the ship on board which Sam was serving had been engaged in action, and as they anxiously read the account of the battle, their eyes fell on his name in the list of killed.

“God’s will be done! Poor Sam,” exclaimed Adam, with a deep groan.

The dame expressed her grief in a louder manner, but honest Adam’s was the deepest.

May did her utmost to comfort her foster-parents, showing all the sympathy for their sorrow which her gentle heart prompted her to express. Day after day she came to see them, sometimes accompanied by Miss Jane, who, although she urged arguments innumerable to prove that excessive grief was wrong, failed to convince them of the truth of her assertions. Their perfect confidence in God’s love and justice, however, brought resignation to their hearts, and they recovered in time their usual spirits. The dame became once more as active and loquacious as ever, and Adam went through his daily labours with his ordinary industry and perseverance.

Adam Halliburt, who had been out fishing all night, had just risen from his noonday rest, when the dame returned from her usual round.

“Sad news from the Hall, Adam,” she said, putting aside her basket.

“Old Sir Reginald has gone at last. Poor dear gentleman, he will be missed by many around. I met Mr Groocock, who had been over to Morbury to arrange about the funeral with Mr Shallard, who was Sir Reginald’s lawyer you know. He pulled up just to have a talk for a minute, though he was in a great hurry to get back. Sir Reginald had sent, when he found himself getting worse, for his nephew, Mr Ralph, his nearest of kin in England, whom he seemed to have a great desire to see again. Mr Ralph, however, could not set off at once, and when he arrived at Texford, his uncle was no more. It seems a question whether he is now Sir Ralph or not. Mr Ranald has not been heard of for eight or nine years or more, though his brother and old Sir Reginald have been making all the inquiries they could. Mr Groocock says that Mr Shallard always speaks to Mr Ralph as Sir Ralph, and says he has no doubt whatever that his brother is dead, and that he is the heir. He himself seems to think so, and as Mr Groocock said to me, for his part he is ready to serve whoever has possession as faithfully as he did his old master, and if Mr Ranald is dead, and has left no sons, his younger brother must be Sir Ralph. At all events, Sir Ralph considers himself, and as such has taken possession, and gives orders as if he were, without doubt, the owner of Texford. There will be a great change there shortly, for he has already let Mr Groocock understand that his lady, and daughter, and eldest son, will be coming down soon, and Mr Harry is expected home before long. If he is like what he was when he was here last, he will keep the house alive. I remember hearing that Mrs Castleton, or we must call her Lady Castleton now, was a very nice kind lady, and so, though many will be sorry that Sir Reginald has gone, there will be others who will think that the change is for the better. Mr Groocock, however, has his own opinion. I would not say anything against Sir Ralph for the world, but I remember that he was a somewhat proud and haughty young gentleman, and though he was quiet and grave enough in his manner, he was hot-tempered too, and could carry things with a high hand sometimes.”

“Well, well,” said Adam, “Sir Reginald had nigh reached four score years and ten, and that’s a fair age. He was a kind, good man, and will be missed by many; but we will hope that Sir Ralph may be like him, and it’s our duty to think as well of our betters as we can. I should like to see Master Harry again, for I mind the brave way he saved our Maiden May from the bull, and how he spoke to you so kindly and modest-like afterwards, as if he had just done nothing out of the way. I blessed him then, and I bless him now, and every time I hear his name, for what would have happened to her, young as she was then, without knowing how to save herself, it’s more than I like to think of.”

Sir Ralph, no one appearing to dispute his title, took possession of Texford.

Chapter Eighteen.

A Visit.

A longer time than usual had passed since Maiden May had paid a visit to the cottage of her foster-parents.

Adam and the dame were seated in their usual places by the fire, the dame, never idle, busily employed in mending one of her son’s garments.

“You or I, mother, must go up this evening and inquire for our May,” said Adam, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. “She would never stay away from us so long of her own free-will; and either one of the ladies must have been taken ill, and they cannot spare her, or she herself may be ailing.”

“I pray heaven nothing has happened to her,” replied the dame. “I will just finish off Jacob’s coat and then go up myself. If she is ill I must ask the ladies’ leave to stay with her. I would sleep on the bare floor by her side rather than not be with her, sweet dear.”

“Yes, do,” said Adam in an anxious tone. “The Miss Pembertons will be glad to have you, mother, for there is no one—not even they themselves—can know better how to tend her than you.”

Just as Adam had finished speaking the latch was lifted, and a sweet-looking young girl entered the cottage. Her complexion was beautifully fair and glowing with health, her features delicately chiselled. A bright smile beamed from her blue eyes, while her figure was light and graceful, and though her dress was simple, there was that air of elegance and refinement about her rarely seen in so humble an abode.

The dame hurried across the room to fold her in her arms, while Adam put out both his hands to take hers, which she stretched forwards towards him. He bestowed a kiss, half reverential, half paternal, on her brow.

Her appearance, for it was Maiden May herself who entered, banished all their fears about her health.

“It does my heart good to see thee, my own Maiden May,” he said, gazing at her affectionately, and placing a chair for her by the side of his own. “We almost thought that thee had forgotten us. And yet, no, no—we knew thee would’st not have done that; but what kept thee away, my dear?”

“Miss Mary has been unwell, and required constant attention,” answered May; “and Miss Jane has been at Texford to see poor Sir Reginald. You probably have heard that he is dead.”

“Yes, mother has just brought the news,” said Adam. “He will be a great loss to many.”

“Yes, indeed he will,” said May, “especially to my kind friends. I fear that Sir Ralph will ill supply his place. Miss Jane, who waited to receive him, has come back much hurt at the way he behaved to her. He looks upon them as gloomy Methodists, and inclined to censure his worldliness, and he partly hinted that they must no longer come to Texford as they had been accustomed to do in Sir Reginald’s time, unless with an especial invitation. I am truly sorry for it, as Miss Jane used to enjoy her visits there; and though, now Sir Reginald has gone, it will be very different, yet she thought she should like Lady Castleton and her daughter Miss Julia, and her sons, especially Mr Harry, who greatly took her fancy when he was there before. She tells me he is the young gentleman who saved me from being tossed by the bull when I was a little girl, and so kindly brought me back to you, mother. I remember the circumstance, though I have but a dim recollection of him, except that he was very good-natured and laughed, and told me I was a little heroine, though at the time I confess I did not know what he meant. I only remember that I was dreadfully frightened, and very grateful to him for saving me.”

“Ah, yes, good reason too we had to be thankful to him, for it would have broken our hearts if any harm had come to our Maiden May,” observed Adam, looking affectionately at the young girl. “But I am main sorry to hear what you say about Sir Ralph.”

“Miss Mary thinks, however, that perhaps Miss Jane, who was in much grief at Sir Reginald’s death, might have spoken more seriously to Sir Ralph than he liked. You know she does occasionally say things with which worldly people are not pleased, and perhaps that put him out of humour. She, however, asserts that she ought not to be ashamed of her principles, and that she merely reminded Sir Ralph that he was but a life tenant of Texford—that the time would come when he too would lie, as Sir Reginald does now, on the bed of death, and his body be carried to the family vault, while his soul has to stand before the Judge of all things, and give an account of his stewardship while here below. Miss Mary observed that, although what Miss Jane had said was very right and true, she might not possibly have taken the proper time for making her remarks, and that, perhaps, had they come from a clergyman, he would have received them in a different spirit.

“Miss Jane replied that she was sure, in the first place, that the clergyman would not make them, and felt that the time might pass when they could be made at all, if she did not, while, as she supposed, he was grieving for the death of his excellent uncle. Miss Jane, however, confessed that she had made a mistake in supposing that his heart was in any way touched with sorrow; but, on the contrary, she feared that he felt nothing but satisfaction at becoming the possessor of Texford, and was annoyed at being reminded of the uncertainty of human life.

“But I ought not, perhaps, to repeat, even to you, dear mother and father, what my kind friends say; only, in this instance, I am sure they would not object to my doing so.”

“It’s safer not to repeat what we hear, there is no doubt about that,” observed the dame. “But, you know, what you say to us never goes to other ears. Now, to my mind, Miss Mary is right. Miss Jane can say strong things when she thinks it is her duty to say them, and people do not always take them in the same spirit they are spoken. I hope when my lady and Miss Julia come things will be put to rights, and that the Miss Pembertons will not be shut out of Texford more than they like.”

“For their sakes I hope, at all events, they may be on friendly terms with their relatives,” said May. “However, Miss Mary has no wish to leave home even for a day, and I always enjoy being in her company alone, and attending to her. I can never feel weary in trying to repay the kindness she has shown me. She has taught me much of what I know, even more than her sister has, and her memory is so retentive that she can talk over the books we have read together, and remind me often of portions which I have forgotten.”

“Ah, she is a dear lady; it’s a wonder she knows so much, and no eyes to see with,” observed the dame. “She may not be so wonderful a woman as her sister is, who can talk every bit as cleverly, if not better, than Mr Simms, the apothecary, and it’s my belief she could bleed as well if she thought fit, though she says she sees no reason to take honest blood out of people’s bodies, but that a little sulphur and milk in the spring and the fall will answer the purpose as well.”

The dame was enlarging still further on Miss Jane’s medical knowledge, when May, turning her head, saw Jacob, who had entered, and was standing watching her at a distance, and unwilling, it seemed, to be observed. A blush rose to his cheeks when he found that he had been discovered.

“I promised not to be long away, and I ought to be on my road back again,” she said. “So good-bye, mother; good-bye, father.”

May put out her hand to Jacob, who pressed it in his own rough palm, casting a look at her, in which reverence was mingled with affection. Not noticing his glance she tripped lightly away.

He followed from the cottage, keeping, however, at some distance behind, till he had seen her enter the gate of Downside Cottage.

“What can have come over our Jacob,” said the dame, after he had gone.

“He looks of late as if he was afraid of our Maiden May, instead of being friendly with her, as he used to be. I suppose, as she seems a fine young lady, that it would not become him, a poor fisher-lad, to be talking to her as he did when she was a little girl,” observed Adam. “To be sure he does sometimes look curious, and often forgets things I tell him; however, he is as good a lad as ever, so I will say nothing agen him.”

Neither his father or mother knew the true cause of poor Jacob’s changed manner.

Chapter Nineteen.

The New Squire.

Mr Reginald’s funeral took place, and was conducted with the pomp usual in those days when a county magnate was carried to his final resting-place. Sir Ralph and his eldest son attended as chief mourners, and the heads of all the county families, from far and near, either came in person or sent representatives to pay their last tokens of respect to one who had been held in honour among them. The tenantry of the Texford property followed on horseback or foot.

For many years so large a gathering had not been seen in that part of the country. Even the boatmen and fishermen from the neighbouring coast, among whom were Adam Halliburt and his sons, managed to get on shore in time to join the cortege, walking two and two, with the flags of their boats furled round the staff carried at the head of each party. There were several real mourners in the crowd. One of the most sincere probably was Mr Groocock. He had lost a kind and indulgent master, who had ever placed confidence in his honesty of purpose, and he had reason to doubt whether the new lord of Texford would treat him in the same way.

As the assembly gathered round the family tomb of the Castletons, Mr Groocock, happening to look up, observed among the crowd, standing directly opposite where the chief mourners were collected, a dark bearded man, whose eye was fixed on Sir Ralph, his countenance exhibiting a peculiarly evil expression.

“That man comes here for no good,” thought the steward. “He had no love for Sir Reginald, and he is not one who would put himself out of his way for an object which could be of no advantage to him. Still he has not come without an object, of that I am very certain.”

The minister had uttered the last solemn words, “earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes,” and the burial service was concluded. Those who felt disposed to do so moved down into the vault to take a last look at Sir Reginald’s coffin ere the tomb was closed till another occupant might claim admission. Mr Groocock had been among the first to descend, and remained unwilling to quit the spot. As he stood there he saw the man he had observed among the crowd enter the vault just as the last of the other visitors had left. He did not appear to cast a glance even at Sir Reginald’s coffin, but he was seen to stop before three others on the opposite side, not aware apparently that anyone else remained in the vault. The steward could not see his features, but the working of his shoulders showed that he was agitated by some strong feeling. A groan escaped his bosom.

“I will have vengeance on your murderer,” he muttered.

Suddenly turning round as if by a powerful effort, he hastened out of the vault.

“This is strange,” thought the steward, “what can have made him say that.”

He was alone.

“Good-bye, dear master,” he said in a sobbing voice. “I shall not meet your like on earth, but I hope to see you in heaven when my time comes.”

Before he left the vault he turned to examine the coffins at which the stranger had been gazing. Above one of them was the name of “Ellen Castleton, aged 18.”

“I cannot make it out,” muttered the worthy steward; “it’s strange, passing strange,” and his thoughts thus set to work, went back to years and events he had well-nigh forgotten.

The funeral guests were dispersing with the exception of those of higher position, who had been invited by the young baronet to partake of a breakfast provided at the hall.

As Adam and his party were making their way back to Hurlston, Miles Gaffin, mounted on the powerful horse he usually rode, galloped by apparently not observing the suspicious glances which were cast at him as he passed.

“The miller looks as if the foul fiend had got possession of him,” observed one of the men. “They say he has had dealings with him for long past.”

“Ay, ay, if it hadn’t been for that he would have been in limbo before now for some of the things he has done in his time,” observed another. “To my mind, mates, Satan lets them go on in their own way without ever showing himself to them; and as to helping them out of danger, depend on it he would leave them to perish soon enough if he had the power over them,” observed Adam. “There is another more powerful than him who looks after human beings; and not one of us, good or bad, can leave this world without He thinks fit. Its only when He knows that the cup of their iniquities is full that He allows even the worst to perish.”

Sir Ralph remained some time at Texford after his uncle’s death, giving directions for certain repairs and alterations which he wished to have executed immediately.

Sir Ralph had summoned Mr Groocock to the library, a fine old wainscotted room, with bookcases against two of the walls, while over and on either side of the fireplace were hung family portraits. Sir Reginald was there, occupying the centre position, with those of his younger brother, Mr Herbert Castleton, with his wife and their two children, the long lost Ranald, and their daughter Ellen, hers executed when she had just reached her sixteenth summer, and Ranald when he was about nineteen. The features of Ellen fully bore out the description which Dame Halliburt had given of her beauty.

Sir Ralph was seated with his legs crossed and his arm resting on the table when the steward entered. Sir Reginald would have desired him to sit down and welcomed him with a kind smile, and enquired after his health. Sir Ralph allowed the old man to stand before him while he issued his directions.

The house was to be freshly painted, and the furniture for some of the best rooms sent down from London.

“I purpose making Texford my summer and winter residence when my political duties do not require my attendance in London,” he observed to Mr Groocock.

Sir Ralph had sat in parliament for a close borough for the last three years, and he had let it be known that he intended to stand for the county at the next general election.

“Hurry on with the work, Mr Groocock, for Lady Castleton wishes to come down as soon as possible.”

The steward promised to see that his master’s orders were executed to the best of his ability.

“But you see, Sir Ralph,” he observed, “workmen are often dilatory, and we cannot always depend upon their doing what they promise.”

“They will do the work if you keep a watchful eye on them, Mr Groocock,” answered the baronet. “I am not accustomed to have difficulties raised when I give orders. My late uncle has been somewhat over-indulgent, I suspect. You will get all the rent paid up and proceed against defaulters, according to the power the law affords you. I desire to have no injustice done to anyone, but I suspect that the rents of several of the tenants ought to be raised. You will give them notice that they must expect it.”

“I will act as you desire, Sir Ralph, but I venture to observe that it may be a hardship to some of them if we act according to the strict letter of the law. The tenant may, from unforeseen circumstances, have got into difficulties, or he may have expended a considerable amount on his farm, and thus increased its value, or he may have a large family, and find it a hard matter to make the two ends meet, or he himself, or his wife or children, may have been suffering from sickness. In such cases Sir Reginald was wont to give me discretionary power, and was always more inclined to lower than raise the rent of a farm.”

“I do not consider myself bound to be guided by what my uncle, an old bachelor without ambition or any other aim in life beyond enjoying existence, might have thought fit to do,” answered Sir Ralph in an angry tone. “You will see that my directions are carried out.”

Mr Groocock bowed, and tried to suppress the sigh which he found rising from his bosom.

“If Sir Ralph wishes to stand for the county he will find his object defeated by these proceedings. My dear old master would have grieved if he had known the changes likely to be made, but I must obey orders—I must obey orders,” he thought to himself.

Having received his final directions, Mr Groocock bowed and retired from the room.

Sir Ralph went back to London. The steward felt relieved at his absence, though he had many unpleasant duties to perform.

He spoke in consequence of the directions he had received to the tenants, and naturally tried to exonerate himself from the suspicion that he had advised the proceedings he was compelled to carry out, yet he gained more ill-will than he had ever before experienced since he became steward of Texford. The miller of Hurlston, whose rent had been, however, very small, was among the most indignant at receiving notice that it was to be raised considerably should he wish to renew the lease as he had the option of doing. He rode over to Texford to expostulate.

“Very well, Mr Gaffin, you can give up the mill if you wish,” observed the steward, who would have been glad to get rid of a person whose character he had reason to suspect was none of the best.

“That may not be convenient, and it is very hard to have the rent raised on me after I have been working for years to bring a trade to the mill,” answered the miller. “I’ll not give it up, however, and you can tell your master that I’ll pay the rent he demands.”

His eye kindled as he spoke, and a dark frown gathered on his brow, adding, in a low fierce mutter as he left the steward’s room, “and with interest too, such as he does not expect.” Mr Groocock, however, did not catch the words, and believing the matter settled was glad to get rid of his surly visitor.

The house was at length got ready. Lady Castleton and her daughter Julia, with Madame De La Motte, who had now become rather her companion than governess, arrived, and were shortly after joined by Algernon. He had sometime before left college, where he had taken high honours, and was looked upon as a young man likely to rise in the world. He was, however, very delicate, and hard study had contributed to make him somewhat of an invalid. As his mother observed his spare figure and the hectic flush on his pale cheeks, she could not help at times fearing that he would be but little able to go through the career for which his ambitious father destined him.

“He must get into parliament as soon as possible, and in a few years I hope we shall see him a Minister of State,” Sir Ralph had observed to her as she was setting out from London.

He himself, however, had little wish to commence the career his father proposed.

“At present, at all events, let me enjoy Texford, and yours and Julia’s society, mother, and when my father vacates his seat for Mumbleton it will be time enough for me to decide whether or not I wish to occupy it,” he said to Lady Castleton when she spoke to him of his father’s wish.

When Sir Ralph arrived he did not appear to remark how ill his son looked; he was so occupied with politics and his various projects that he troubled himself about little else. When his wife tried to draw his attention to Algernon his only reply was—

“Yes, he reminds me very much of myself when I was of the same age that he is. I was slight and tall, and I suspect that my cheeks were paler than his, although I was accustomed to more exercise than he indulges in, and was fonder of riding and field sports. If he would take to hunting and shooting he would soon get round, and be well able to go through a political campaign in London.”

The time of mourning for the old baronet was over. Several guests had arrived, others had been invited, and whatever some of the tenants might have thought of the exactions, as they considered them, which the new baronet had imposed, there appeared every probability that Texford would become a far more lively and sociable mansion than it had been during the latter years of Sir Reginald’s life.

Chapter Twenty.

Young Miles Gaffin.

Sir Ralph and his family had been for some time settled at Texford, when the dame brought the news, gained from her usual source of information, Mr Groocock, that Mr Harry with another officer were daily expected at the hall.

“Mr Groocock says that Mr Harry has done all sorts of brave things, and that he will be captain himself before long,” observed the dame to her husband and May, who had just then come in from Downside to pay her a visit. “It seems but the other day that he was a young midshipman, and now to think that he is old enough to be captain of a big ship, though he cannot be very old either.”

“I have known captains of nineteen,” observed Adam; “and though they had not much experience, when it came to real work they did it as well as their elders and better than many. It’s not so much what age a man is as what is in him, and that will show itself even though he has not got a hair on his lip.”

“Mr Groocock says there are to be grand doings at the hall in honour of Mr Harry’s return from sea,” continued the dame. “All the tenantry are to be invited, and the labourers and tradesmen and workpeople from Morbury, and the fishermen too from Hurlston; and he made me promise to come and to bring my daughter, for he always calls you my daughter, May, and seems to forget what I once told him, for I am sure I did tell him all about you, though in truth you are my daughter, if a mother’s love can make you one.”

“I trust that I always shall enjoy that love,” said May, taking the dame’s hand. “I think I should like to go with you to Texford if the ladies do not object, for they certainly will not go. Miss Mary would not like the crowd, which I suppose there will be, and indeed it is possible that they may not quite approve of such proceedings; besides which, Sir Ralph and Lady Castleton have never asked them to the hall since they took possession, though her ladyship once called at Downside and left her card, but when Miss Jane returned the visit she was not admitted, and has not felt disposed to call again.”

“But the ladies must remember Mr Harry, as they were staying with Sir Reginald when he was last there, and Mr Groocock says that he was as great a favourite with them as he was with everybody, so perhaps for the sake of seeing him, if they are asked, they may be persuaded to go,” remarked the dame.

“Not if they consider it wrong to give such a fête,” answered May. “I am uncertain of the opinion they will form. I cannot myself think it wrong to afford amusement to a number of people from whom they cannot expect to receive the slightest benefit in return.”

“Well, if you don’t go with the ladies, May, I hope you will come with me. I should have little pleasure by myself; if I was to see you liking it I should be pleased also. You need not go and dance in the crowd. I should not wish to see you do that, even if you were really my daughter; but as you are a young lady, and there is no doubt about that, it would not be proper for you to mix with any but young ladies, and that, perhaps as you would not know any of those present, you would not wish to do.”

“No, indeed,” answered May. “It is strange that I should never in my life have spoken to a young lady, and I have no notion, except from the descriptions given in Miss Burney’s novels, of the way young ladies in general behave, or speak, or think. I should be terribly afraid of them if they are like some of the heroines whose histories I have met with in ‘Evelina and Cecilia,’ which I have read to Miss Mary, and in a new story she has lately had sent to her, called ‘Camilla,’ but I have not finished it yet.”

“I don’t know what sort of young ladies are put into books; but you need not be at all afraid of anyone, May, I am sure of that,” observed the dame. “I have known several young ladies in my time. There was poor Miss Ellen Castleton, and three very nice girls who all married well at another house where I was in service, and they could not have held a candle to you, that they couldn’t; but I must not say that for fear of making you vain, my dear. Just do you feel what is true, that you are equal to any of them and that will make you comfortable and at home. However, as Mr Harry has not come home and the day is not yet fixed, there will be time to talk about it; only if the ladies say anything just tell them that I should be so much obliged if they would let you go, and that I will take good care of you, and you shall come to no harm or do anything they won’t like.”

May gladly promised, for she felt curious to see Texford, since she had only a very faint recollection of the place.

As evening was approaching she wished her foster-parents good-bye. Just as she left the house Jacob came up from the boat. She greeted him in her usual unaffected way, but he seemed even less at his ease than he had been of late when he met her.

“Brother Jacob,” said May, “I am so glad you are come. I wanted to ask you to collect me some shells, as many as you can find time to gather; not all winkles and cockles, remember, but as great a variety as possible. The ladies have a fancy for making a grotto in the garden, and I have undertaken to adorn the inside with shapes of all sorts of strange creatures to be formed with the shells. They will, I am sure, gladly pay you for your trouble, and I shall be much obliged to you if you can get them as soon as possible.”

“If it’s to please you, Miss May, I will do it with all my heart, and I want no payment,” answered Jacob, his strong manly voice trembling more than he was aware of. Jacob was now a fine specimen of a stout young sailor.

“What has come over you, Jacob?” exclaimed May, with a look of surprise, yet laughing as she spoke. “I never heard you call me Miss May before. I hope you are not offended at my saying that the ladies would pay you; they would not think it fair to employ your time without some recompense.”

“But if it’s for you, I want no pay, and cannot take it,” said Jacob, his voice softening as he spoke. “I will get the shells, that I will gladly, as many basketfuls as you may want; only tell me when I bring them if there are not enough, and I will get more.”

“Thank you, Jacob, I am sure you will,” said May, and without further noticing his peculiar manner she tripped lightly away on her homeward road.

Jacob stood gazing at her with his hand on the door till she was out of sight. He then, instead of entering the cottage as he had previously intended, made his way in the direction she had gone.

May continued her walk towards Downside. Having stopped at the cottage of an old woman (one of the many the Miss Pembertons were in the habit of visiting) to enquire whether she had got over her last attack of rheumatics, May, as she turned round, caught sight of Jacob in the distance. It was not the first time she had discovered him following her, but she knew him too well not to believe that he had some good motive for so doing.

“Mother has not got over her fear of that man Miles Gaffin, and sends Jacob to watch that he does not run off with me, as she used to fancy he would do when I was a little girl,” she said to herself.

The old dame assured her that she was much better for the stuff Miss Jane had sent, when May, as she wished her good-bye, looked back once more, but Jacob had disappeared. She therefore continued her walk, taking little further thought of him. Once, however, as she happened to turn her head for a moment, she fancied that she saw him, but he again disappeared round a corner.

She was still some way from Downside when, on a part of the road where there were no cottages in sight, she observed a young man leaning against a gate at some little distance in front. He was dressed in the fashionable costume of the day—a green riding coat and top-boots, with a huge frill to his shirt, while his hat was set rakishly on one side. Though his features were not bad his countenance had a coarse unpleasant expression, and notwithstanding the dress he wore his appearance was not that of a gentleman.

On seeing May he started forward and advanced towards her. Making her a bow as he approached, he said—

“Highly pleased, Miss, to meet you. I have been on the look-out for the last two hours. I thought you were not coming.”

May did not reply, but moved on.

The young buck, however, was not to be daunted.

“Saw you at church last Sunday, and thought you had seen me; but I suppose you were attending to the parson, or your eyes were on the prayer-book.”

May, wondering who this intruder could be, and beginning to feel excessively annoyed at his impertinence, walked on as fast as she could.

As he spoke of having seen her at church, she recollected remarking in a pew at some distance a youth who appeared to be staring at her.

“I fancy you must be under some mistake in addressing me,” she said at last. “I am residing with the Miss Pembertons, and wish to have no acquaintances unless introduced to me by them.”

“No, Miss, I do assure you that I am under no mistake whatever,” answered the youth, in a tone of assurance. “I have not the honour of being acquainted with the old ladies, but I have great respect for them on account of the care they take of you. They are not likely to be acquainted with a young buck like me, though they cannot object to your being so, and I would only ask you to give me the favour of seeing you safe home.”

“Thank you, sir, I am very well acquainted with the road and require no one to accompany me,” said Mary, assuming as composed and dignified an air as she could put on. She, however, unaccustomed to assume any manner besides her own natural one, did not succeed much to her satisfaction. Her annoyance was greatly increased when, notwithstanding her remarks, the youth persevered in walking by her side. She now began to regret that she had not invited Jacob to accompany her, for she was very sure that no one would have ventured to have spoken to her thus had he been her attendant. She instinctively looked round in the hopes that he might still be following, but she could not see him. She therefore went on, trusting that her silence would induce the impertinent stranger to allow her to proceed alone.

“Ah, Miss, though you don’t seem to know me I have known you for all your life nearly. I am young Miles Gaffin, and I remember when you were a little girl living with old Halliburt and his wife, and I often saw you when I came home for the holidays, though I have been now long away from Hurlston studying the law, in which I hope to make a figure some day. A fine profession for making money, and the only way to make a figure in the world is to get that, in my opinion,” and he laughed at his own intended wit.

Still May kept on her way in silence.

“Can this person be a son of that dreadful man Gaffin?” she thought. “If the stories about the miller are true it is the sort of conduct to be expected from a son of his.”

She felt that her best course was not to speak to the youth whatever he might say.

He continued walking by her side, beating his boot with his riding whip. At length he began to grow impatient at her silence.

“You have got a voice I know, for I heard it sound very sweetly just now. Can’t you use it just to say something? It’s not pleasant when a person speaks to a young lady not to have a word in return.”

Still May was firm in her determination not to speak. The youth, probably unaccustomed to such treatment from the young women he usually associated with, entirely lost patience.

“Come, come, Miss, let’s be friends! Though you do live with the Miss Pembertons, there’s no reason you should look down upon a young man who is in a respectable position, and would make you an independent lady if you would let him.”

As he spoke he tried to seize her hand, and put his other arm round to draw her towards him. She started back to escape his touch, and as she did so, looking over her shoulder, she saw Jacob following in the distance. She turned and flew towards him faster than she had ever run in her life. Jacob hastened to meet her. She took his arm panting and scarcely able to speak as she told him the insult to which she had been subjected.

“I saw some one walking alongside you, and thought it wasn’t by your wish, but couldn’t tell, you see, though I ought to have known better. But the impudent fellow shall rue it, that he shall. I’ll serve him as I would a conger!” exclaimed Jacob. “Let me be after him now—I’ll catch him before he has got far, and I’ll warrant he shall never speak to you again.”

“Oh, no, no! pray do not, Jacob,” said May, leaning on his arm to support herself. She was more agitated than she could have supposed. “Let him alone, whoever he is, though I suspect from what he said that he is a son of Miles Gaffin. It will be only necessary, I hope, to warn him not to behave again as he has done; and as I shall tell Miss Pemberton, she will probably speak to him, and that will be sufficient.”

“If the audacious young scoundrel is Miles Gaffin’s son, and he is like his father, he will care neither what Miss Pemberton nor any other lady says to him,” exclaimed Jacob, doubling his fist, while his eye assumed a fierce expression it seldom wore. “He will care what this says to him though, and I’ll make it speak in a way he won’t like, that I will. But don’t you be afraid, there is no harm will come of it. How he should have dared to speak to you is more than I can tell; but I will find out if he has a tongue to answer me, and it will be the last time he’ll try it.”

Had young Gaffin heard Jacob, and seen his brawny arm and huge fist, he would have had no inclination to fall in with him; but feeling that it would be wise not to encounter the sturdy protector to whom May had appealed, he had, after pursuing her a few steps, leaped over a gate and run into a wood, which concealed him from sight. It is possible that, from his place of concealment, he might have observed May leaning on Jacob’s arm as they proceeded towards Downside.

“Thank you, Jacob, for your kindly succour,” she said when they reached the door. “You will come in and see the ladies, for they will wish to thank you as I do.”

“Oh, May, you don’t fancy that there is any need of thanking me—no, not even if I had saved your life, for that would have made me happier than I can tell you,” answered Jacob, with a half reproachful look. “As to that villain, I will find him out, and then I’ll come and tell the ladies how I have served him.”

“I must again entreat you not to use any violence,” said May. “It will be quite sufficient if you can learn who he is, that I may be protected from his insults, but for no other reason do I even wish to ascertain his name.”

While they were speaking, Miss Jane, who had heard their voices, came out, and May hurriedly told her what had occurred.

“May has spoken very properly to you, Jacob,” she said. “Do no more than she has advised.”

Jacob’s countenance assumed a more dogged look than May had ever seen it wear, and, unwilling to receive more of Miss Jane’s stem exhortations, or May’s milder entreaties, he wished them good evening, and casting a look expressive of his devotion at May, hurried away.

As May was able to identify the youth who had spoken to her with the young man who had appeared at church on the previous Sunday, Miss Jane, with her usual sagacity, ascertained that he was staying at the Texford Arms, and that Miles Gaffin, the miller had met him on his arrival. It was supposed that he was the eldest son of that person.

“I fear there will be but little use complaining to the father,” observed Miss Jane; “but it will be more prudent, my dear May, for you to confine your walks to the grounds till he has left the place, unless you accompany Mary or me. Jacob will undoubtedly let his parents know what has occurred, and we shall, probably have the dame up here to make enquiries. I will then tell her not to expect a visit from you till you are no longer likely to be subjected to the same annoyance.”

May agreed to the wisdom of this proposal; indeed she would have been very unwilling to venture beyond the grounds by herself.

Chapter Twenty One.

The Smuggler’s Vault.

The appearance of young Gaffin at Hurlston must be accounted for.

The old mill on the cliff, which belonged to Sir Reginald Castleton, was in a somewhat decayed condition, and had long been unoccupied, when a short time before the period at which our story commences, a stranger, calling himself Miles Gaffin, a miller by trade, called on Mr Groocock, and offered to take it. As he was ready to give a better rent than the steward expected to receive, he was glad to let it.

Miles Gaffin had occupied the mill for about a year, when, leaving it in charge of his man, he disappeared for a time and returned with a wife and three boys, whom he placed in a neat cottage at some little distance from the mill. His wife was a foreigner, of dark complexion, who spoke no English, a care-worn, spirit-broken woman, it was said.

She had little or no intercourse with her neighbours, who were unable to find out anything about her; indeed, either by her husband’s order or her own wish, she never admitted any of them within her doors.

Some time after Miles Gaffin had been established at the mill, a lugger appeared off the coast, on board which he was seen to go. He had previously declared to Mr Groocock, notwithstanding his sunburnt countenance and undoubted sailor-like look, that he knew nothing of nautical affairs.

Mr Groocock began to suspect that he had been deceived in the matter on finding that Gaffin had sailed away in the lugger, and did not return for many weeks.

He confessed with a laugh when he next met the steward that he was really fond of the sea, and that whenever his business would allow him, he proposed taking a trip to indulge his fancy. He went so far even to invite Mr Groocock to accompany him, his offer, however, as may be supposed, being declined.

On one side of the mill the ground sloped rapidly down for twenty feet or more, and here a house was erected, the roof of which reached scarcely higher than the basement of the mill itself, so that the arms on which the sails were stretched could pass freely over it. This building had been in even a more dilapidated condition than the mill itself. The lower portion was used as a stable, where the miller kept his horse, the upper contained two rooms. Miles Gaffin had partially repaired the house, and had had the two rooms fitted up as sleeping apartments, that he might, as he said, put up any guest whom he could not accommodate in his own house. From the time he had taken possession of it he had, however, admitted none of his neighbours, though it was rumoured that strange men who had landed from the suspicious lugger had been observed entering the house, and sometimes leaving it, either on foot or on horseback, and making their way inland; lights also had been seen at all hours of the night when certainly the mill itself was not at work. It was remarked, too, by several of the fishermen in the neighbourhood, that the stranger had been carrying on some work or other either inside the house or below the mill, as they had observed a large quantity of earth which had been thrown down over the cliff, and though part of it had been washed away by the spring tides, it still went on increasing. When one of them made an observation to him on the subject, he replied promptly that he had heard a noise one night, and had no doubt that part of the cliff had given way. However, considering the risk there was, should such have been the case, of his mill being carried down bodily to the beach, he took the matter very coolly.

From time to time a still larger quantity of earth was observed, and it was whispered by one or two of his more sagacious neighbours that Miles Gaffin must be excavating a vault beneath his mill, possibly for the purpose of forming a granary in which to store corn purchased by him when prices were low. Why, however, he had not employed any of the labourers in the neighbourhood, or why he should have the work carried on in secret, no one could determine. Still the idea prevailed that a vault of some sort had been formed; but after a time the matter was forgotten. No one, indeed, had much fancy for asking the miller inquisitive questions, as he generally gave such replies as to make people wish that they had not put them. He was, indeed, looked upon as a morose, haughty man, who, considering himself superior to the other inhabitants of the village, was not inclined to allow any familiarity. He had never been known to seek for custom. He had brought a man with him to work the mill who was even more surly and morose than his master. Poor Dusty Dick, as he was called, was deaf and dumb, so that he could only express his feelings by his looks, and they were unprepossessing in the extreme. When corn was brought he ground it and returned the proper quantity of flour on receiving payment, though he would never give it up without that.

The miller wished it to be understood that he ground his neighbour’s corn as a favour, and that his chief profits arose from turning into flour the wheat which came by sea on board the lugger. This statement was borne out by the large number of sacks which her crew were frequently seen landing. Waggons from a distance also frequently arrived, and being loaded with flour, were sent off again to the places from whence they came. The miller’s business, however, it was evident, was not a steady one; sometimes for weeks together the long arms of the mill were only seen working for a few hours now and then, and at others the miller and his companions were as busy as bees, while the sails went spinning round at a great rate, as if trying to make amends for lost time.

Miles Gaffin continued to make frequent voyages in the lugger, of which he was generally supposed to be the owner. Sometimes he was several months together absent. When he came back he was so busy at the mill that he was seldom seen at the cottage where his family resided.

As soon as his boys were old enough he sent them away to school. When they came back for their holidays they were noted chiefly for being the most noisy, wild, and worst mannered lads in the place, especially held in dread by Miss Pemberton, who had frequently rebuked them when she saw them playing games on a Sunday in the village, and had received rude answers in return. The youngest was, notwithstanding, a fine, manly looking boy, and the only one ever seen in his father’s company.

On one occasion Gaffin had taken him on board the lugger, but the lad had not returned, and it was said that he had been knocked overboard in a gale of wind, and drowned.

On Gaffin’s return after this event, his wife, as it was supposed, on his suddenly communicating the boy’s death, became ill. A doctor was sent for, but the stroke had gone too far home for human cure, and in a short time the hapless woman breathed her last.

On this Miles sent back his sons to school, and from that time, greatly to the relief of Miss Pemberton, they did not make their appearance in the village. He gave up his cottage, and after that took up his abode, when at Hurlston, entirely at the mill-house.

A short time before the reappearance of his son at Hurlston, as just mentioned, he had himself, after a considerable absence, returned. He had been of late unsuccessful in his undertakings, whatever they were, and even Dusty Dick, as he observed his master’s countenance, thought it prudent, as much as possible, to keep out of his way.

Several strangers had come with him on board the lugger, and had taken possession of one of the rooms in the mill-house, while he occupied the other. They were personages unaccustomed apparently to soft beds or luxuries of any sort, so that they were perfectly at home in the roughly furnished room; and when they wished to sleep they found, when wrapped in their cloaks, all the comfort they desired.

Besides a couple of tressel beds, a long deal table, with benches on either side, were the chief articles of furniture.

The miller and his guests were seated round the table, on which stood the remnants of their supper. Their conversation related chiefly to an adventure in which they had lately been engaged, while political subjects were also discussed.

“Now, mates,” said Gaffin, rising, “I have got business to attend to before I turn in, but I will leave you to put on your night-caps whenever you have a fancy.”

“This is the only night-cap I ever put on,” answered one of the men, pouring out half a tumbler of brandy. “It serves for night-cap and blanket too, and keeps a fellow from dreaming, an occupation I have no fancy for.”

“You are not going to leave us yet, captain, are you? We have not reached the small hours of the night,” said a second. “Another stoup of liquor, man; we are on firm ground, and no king’s cruisers are in chase of us; you need not fear if it sends you to sleep, or makes you see double for once in a way.”

Gaffin still, however, refused to sit down again, even though other urgent appeals were made to him, couched in much coarser language, interlarded with not a few strange oaths, which need not be repeated.

“I have told you, mates, that I have business to attend to. Amuse yourselves as you list, only don’t get to brawling, or burn the house down in your revels; if you do, remember you will chance to burn with it before your time comes.”

The smuggler captain, for such he appeared to be considered by his ruffianly companions, without again speaking left the room.

He repaired at once to his own chamber, and sitting down at a table, on which a lamp burned, he opened a desk, took a huge pocket-book from his coat, and began to examine several documents which it contained.

“I must raise the wind by fair means or foul to satisfy my fellows, as well as to make another venture before I cry die. Unless that is as unsuccessful as the last, I shall soon redeem my fortunes.”

He sat for some time ruminating, now and then turning to his papers, and casting up accounts. Suddenly a thought occurred to him.

“How came I so long to forget the chest I got only off the wreck from which old Halliburt saved the little girl?” he muttered. “Though I took out not a few valuables, there were all sorts of things at the bottom of the chest, which, now I think of it, I never turned over. I will have a look at them this very night. Even a few gold pieces would be welcome, and it was evidently the treasure chest of some Indian nabob or other, his ill-gotten gains from the wretched natives he had fleeced and cheated.”

He went to a chest of drawers in which he found a key.

“This must be it,” he said, “by its foreign make.”

Taking the lamp he left the chamber, and descended the stairs. The sound of boisterous revelry proceeded from the room where his guests were assembled.

“The drunken brutes are not likely to disturb me,” he growled out, “and Dick is fast asleep in his loft.”

Going across the stable, on removing a heap of straw he found a low door, which opened with a key he produced from his pocket. Going through it, he closed it carefully behind him.

He now stood in a low vaulted cavern, the earth supported by upright pieces of stout timber, with flat boards above them, which prevented the sandy soil in which it was cut from falling in. This was the excavation which he, with a few trusty companions, had formed many years ago.

Various sorts of goods were piled up in it—casks of spirits, bales of tobacco, silk, and several other articles. In a recess at the further end was a large chest.

After several attempts, for the lock from disuse was rusted, he opened it, and placing the lamp, resting on a piece of board, at one corner of the chest, he sat down on a cask by its side. On first glancing into it there appeared to be little or nothing within; but, on examining it further, he found that there was a large tray at the bottom, which apparently, on some former hurried examination, had escaped his notice. On lifting this a number of articles were revealed closely packed; they were mostly cases of various sizes. There was a jewelled-handled sword, a curious dagger, and a brace of richly ornamented pistols, two or three silver bowls and cups, and other articles which had probably been presented by native princes or other wealthy men to the owner of the chest. Several of the cases contained jewels evidently of great value, which, as they glittered in the light, the smuggler gazed at with intense satisfaction.

“And I have had all this wealth at my command and never knew of it,” he muttered. “I guessed the girl must have had wealthy friends, and as this chest must have belonged to them, it would have been worth my while to get hold of her. As, however, they have never appeared, I have been saved the trouble and expense she would have been to me, and now this store comes just in the nick of time when I want it most. The only difficulty will be to dispose of all these things without raising suspicion as to how I came by them. Still, at the worst, I can but tell the truth should questions be asked, and prove that I got them from a wreck. At all events, there are Jews enough in London who will give me cash for them, though it may cost me not a little trouble to wring their proper value out of the close-fisted hypocrites.”

Such were the thoughts which occupied the smuggler’s mind as he examined in succession the articles which have been mentioned.

At last he came to another case or writing-desk, which was locked.

“I may as well overhaul the whole at once,” he thought. “I must get this opened somehow.”

A sailor’s strong knife was the only implement at hand. He broke off a portion of the blade in making the attempt. At length he succeeded, though he injured the case in the operation. Placing the desk on his knees, he examined the contents, which consisted of a number of papers, title-deeds, official documents in oriental characters, and other papers apparently of value, together with several bills of exchange for a large amount, and rolls of gold coin.

“Ah, ah! these will save me from going to the Jews as yet,” he exclaimed. “I will keep the jewels and other things till any future necessity compels me to part with them.”

Having examined the coin to assure himself that he was not mistaken, he was glancing carelessly over the papers, when his eye fell on a name which attracted his attention. He eagerly read through the paper, and then looked for another and another. A deep frown settled on his brow, while a look of satisfaction kindled in his eye.

“If Satan himself had been asked to do my command, he could not please me better than this,” he exclaimed. “I can now more amply than I had expected accomplish the design I have for years waited for. And while I enrich myself, I shall without risk humble those I have good reason to hate.”

He was now lost in thought, now again glancing over the papers.

“They and the other things will be safer here, where they have lain so long, than in the house which may get burned down through some drunken spree by the fellows I have to harbour. But the coin may as well go into my pockets at once,” he said to himself, as he put back the desk with its contents in the chest.

Having replaced the tray, he brought some straw from another part of the vault, and threw in a sufficient quantity to conceal it should by any chance the chest be opened by any one else.

“This will make it be supposed that there is nothing below,” he said to himself, as he closed the lid and locked it.

At length leaving the vault, he returned to his chamber. His companions’ revels had ceased, and now loud snores only came from the room where they were sleeping. He threw himself on his bed, but his busy brain was too hard at work to allow him to sleep.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Miles Gaffin, Junior.

Miles Gaffin lay on his bed turning over in his thoughts the information he had obtained, and considering how he could gain the most advantage from it. Returning to the table, he sat down to write. He was a man of decision. With him to propose was to act. “My son Myles,” he wrote, for it was not his wont to use terms of endearment, “you are to come here at once. Tell Mr Crotch so from me; you need not say more to him. I want you to make your fortune by a way to which you will not object marrying a young and pretty wife. When you come you shall know more about the matter. Get a good rig out, so as to appear to advantage. Wait at the Texford Arms, where I will meet you, but don’t come to the mill. From your father, Miles Gaffin.”

The letter was speedily sealed and directed, and sent off the next morning to the post by one of his companions, who, by that time, was sufficiently sober to undertake the errand.

Gaffin’s lugger, the Lively, lay at anchor off the mill. She had no contraband goods on board, so that a visit from the revenue officers need not be feared. He had previously intended going away in her, but he now was anxious to see his son before he sailed. His difficulty, in the meantime, was to dispose of his guests. They, however, as long as his supply of liquor and provisions lasted, would be content to remain where they were. He had no wish to bring his son among them, for bad as he himself was, he had, since the loss of his youngest boy, kept his other two children ignorant of his mode of life, though it was possible that the eldest might have suspected it from circumstances which he must have remembered in his younger days.

Gaffin waited with more patience than he generally exercised, till he calculated that a sufficient time had elapsed to allow of his son’s arrival. He then walked down to the little inn in the village.

Just as he readied it, a post-chaise drove up to the door, out of which stepped a young man, whom he recognised as Miles, though he had not seen him for the last three or four years.

“You are my son, Miles, I conclude,” said Gaffin.

“You are my father, I suppose,” answered the young man in the same tone.

“You are right,” said Gaffin. “Pay the post-boy, and let him bring your portmanteau into the house. I will order a room, and we will talk over the matter in hand.”

The landlady having shown Gaffin into a room, young Miles did as he was directed, and followed him.

“Well, I want to know more about this business you sent for me about,” said the young man, throwing himself into a chair. “I have done as you told me, and I hope you think I have got a good chance.”

Gaffin surveyed his son for a moment.

“Yes, you will do, as far as that goes,” he answered. “Now listen to me; I don’t want to be asked questions, but do you trust to me and go ahead. There is a young girl whom you remember when you were a boy. She was found on board a wreck by Adam Halliburt, the fisherman, and brought up by him and his wife. Two old ladies here took a fancy to her, and have given her an education which has made her fit to be the wife of any gentleman in the land. She is pretty, too, and everything a young fellow could wish for. I happen to know to a certainty that she is a prize worth winning. When you have seen her, I am much mistaken if you would not give your eyes to have her, without asking any questions, and I am not going to answer them, if you do. I have your interests at heart, and wish to serve you in the matter.”

“I have no doubt you have, but I should like to have a look at the girl before I decide,” answered young Miles.

“That you can do to-morrow at church where she is sure to be, and when you have seen her don’t let there be any shilly shallying; make up to her at once, most girls like to be won in an off-hand manner, and just do you go and tell her how you have seen her and fallen in love with her, and all that sort of thing. I daresay you have had some experience already.”

“Pretty well in a sort of way,” answered the young man in a conceited tone. “If I have got your word that she is worth winning, you will find I am not backward, and I hope, before long, to give a good report of progress.”

Gaffin, satisfied that his son would do all he desired, charged him to keep himself quiet and not get into any scrapes while at Hurlston.

“People here will know you are my son, so just get a good name for yourself, and whatever they may think, they cannot say you are not a fit match for the old fisherman’s foster-daughter,” and Gaffin gave way to a laugh such as he rarely indulged in. “I will come down here again and have a talk with you after you have seen the girl. Now there is one thing more I have got to say, though I do not know to a cute fellow like you whether the caution is necessary; don’t go and be blabbing to others of what you are about.”

“I have been too long with Mr Crotch not to know how to keep a secret,” answered the young man; “and I fancy I can manage this affair as I have done several others for my employer. I do not mean love affairs though, but matters of business in which I have given him perfect satisfaction, he tells me.”

The conference over, Gaffin again charged his son to behave himself, and with no more show of affection than he had exhibited on the young man’s arrival, took his departure and returned to the mill.

He kept within doors endeavouring to maintain order among his lawless associates. He wished not to be seen in company with his son, or to let it be supposed that he was instigating him in his siege on Maiden May’s heart. From the accounts he had received from Mr Crotch of that young gentleman’s talents, he believed that he could allow the matter to rest securely in his hands. If impudence was to carry the day young Miles would come off victorious, as he was known to possess no inconsiderable amount of that quality.

Gaffin had an excuse for remaining at the mill, as a larger quantity of grist than usual had been brought, and, for a wonder, its long arms with the sails stretched out went merrily round and round, giving Dusty Dick ample employment. The smuggler’s crew grumbled at not having their dinner cooked in time. Dusty Dick had to take charge of the kitchen in addition to his other duties, and the mill required his attention. Gaffin had accordingly to serve out an additional supply of liquor to keep his guests quiet. He succeeded so effectually that, seasoned as they were, one and all were soon unable to quit the house, leaving him at liberty to attend to his own affairs.

“The beasts,” he said, as he looked in upon the drunken ruffians, some sleeping with their heads on the table, others fallen under it, and others stretched their length on the beds, or at the side of the room. “They will stay there quiet enough till I want them, and no one is likely to come prying this way to disturb their slumbers.”

Securely bolting the door of the house he passed by a back way into the mill, where, after giving some directions to Dusty Dick, he descended to the beach. A small boat lay there which he was able to launch by himself, and pulling off in her he went on board the lugger. He had left the most trusted part of his crew in her, including his mate, Tom Fidget, on whom he could always rely, not that Tom objected to get drunk “at proper times and seasons,” as he observed, but duty first and pleasure afterwards was his maxim. His notions of duty were, to be sure, somewhat lax, according to the strict rules of morality, and his only idea of pleasure was a drunken spree on shore when he could leave the craft without risk of her suffering damage either from wind and weather, or the officers of the law. He was a bullet-headed fellow, with a figure almost as wide as long, small keen eyes, and a turned up nose scarcely perceptible beyond his puffed out copper-coloured cheeks.

Pipe in mouth he was taking his usual fisherman’s walk, when the captain stepped on board.

“The craft shall not be kept here longer than can be helped, Tom, and you must be ready to start at a moment’s notice,” he observed. “I have some business to attend to first, however, so it won’t be for a day or two, though that does not matter, as the weather promises to hold fine. Only keep the fellows sober, for I have as many drunken men on shore as I can manage, and it won’t do to have all the hands in the same state. The next time it will be your turn to go on shore, and you may then drink as much liquor as you can hold, and enjoy yourself to your heart’s content.”

Gaffin having given these directions, returned on shore again. Several days passed and Gaffin again went in the evening to the Texford Arms to meet his hopeful son. The young gentleman was in, the landlady answered, in the room upstairs.

“Well, what progress have you made?” asked Gaffin, as he entered and found young Miles lounging lazily alone, a pipe in his mouth and a glass of brandy and water by his side.

“I thought I knew something about girls,” was the answer, “and that I could come round her much as I have done with others, who wouldn’t think themselves much beneath her, in our town, and I was not going to be stopped by any nonsense.”

“I don’t want to hear what you thought, but what you did,” said his father.

“Well, you shall, if that’s your wish,” answered Miles. “I went to church on Sunday and had a good look at her, and thought she saw me with my eyes fixed on her from one end of the service to the other, but she hurried home among a lot of people, and I hadn’t a chance of getting alongside to put in a word. For three whole days she never showed outside the gates, and I thought at last of going and calling on the old ladies with a story I had got up, but when I came to learn what sort of people they are, I found that would not do. Then I thought of another plan.”

“I tell you I don’t want your thought’s,” growled Gaffin. “What were your acts?”

“That’s what I was coming to,” answered Miles. “As ill-luck would have it I was off watch when she slipped out, and I discovered had gone down to old Halliburt’s. You may be sure I kept a look-out for her on her return. I saw her coming along, and thought I had got the game in my own hands, but by—” and he swore a fearful oath, “the girl was altogether different to those I have had to do with. Beautiful, I believe you, she is, but as haughty as if she was a born princess; and just as I was going to show her what sort of a fellow I was, she slipped away and ran off towards a young chap and took his arm, just as if she had been accustomed to keep company with him. I watched them as they went by, and he seemed to be looking for me in no very friendly mood, for I saw him double his fists, and he was not the sort of fellow I wished to come to close quarters with, or I would have gone up to him and asked what he meant by carrying off the girl I was talking to.”

“The long and short of it,” said Gaffin, as soon as he could master his anger, “is that you frightened the young lady, and got a rebuff which you might have expected. But as for the young fellow, I know who he is, and he won’t interfere with you. Just do you go on and persevere, and if you do not succeed we must try other means. Marry the girl I am determined you shall, whether she likes it or not, and I can depend upon you. Remember I am not one to have my plans thwarted, least of all by my own son.”

“I will not thwart them, you may trust me for that,” answered Miles. “The girl is about as pretty as I ever set eyes on, and I am obliged to you for putting me up to the matter. But, I say, I should like to know more about her. You led me to suppose that there is some secret you had got hold of—what is it?”

“That’s nothing to you at present. Your business is to win the girl, whether she is a fisherman’s or a lord’s daughter. She was brought up as the Halliburt’s child, though I suppose she knows that she is not, yet she has no reason to think much of herself, except on account of her good looks, and those, from what I have heard of the old ladies she lives with, they would have taught her not to pride herself on.”

Gaffin’s last directions to his son were to keep himself quiet for a time, and to wait his opportunity for again meeting May under more favourable circumstances.

“I will write to Crotch and tell him that a matter of importance keeps you from returning just yet, and if good luck attends us you may not see his face again. I will not say that though, eh?” and Gaffin indulged in a chuckle, the nearest approach he ever made to a laugh.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Caught in a Thunderstorm.

Harry’s ship had been paid off, and Headland having received his promotion, the two friends started in a post-chaise and four for London. It would have been unbecoming for two naval officers, with their pockets full of prize money, to travel in a less dignified way. The last time Harry had come that road it had been on the top of a coach.

Captain Headland had been very little on shore in England, and everything was new to him and full of interest. The country girls at the cottage doors struck him especially.

“I had no idea English women were so pretty,” he observed.

Harry laughed.

“I thought your philosophy would soon be capsized. If you think them attractive, I suspect that you will find the girls of higher rank enchanting.”

They remained in town to attend a levee, when Captain Headland was presented on his promotion, and Harry on his return from foreign service. Headland was in no hurry to leave London, for never having before been in the big city, he found so much to interest him; but Harry was anxious to be at home. Julia had written him word that they hoped to have a number of visitors, and intended to give a fête in honour of his return.

They posted to Texford, agreeing that a pair of horses would take them there as fast as four, which their dignity no longer required.

Headland received a warm welcome from Sir Ralph and Lady Castleton as their son’s friend, and Julia extended her hand as if she had known him all her life. He thought her a very charming girl, and wondered that Harry had never spoken to him of her beauty. Her frankness soon set him at his ease. He had mixed but little in ladies’ society, and at first felt awkward. Algernon was kind and polite, but was somewhat cold and stiff in his manner, like his father, and Headland suspected that he should never be very intimate with him.

Next morning Julia volunteered to show several of the guests who had lately arrived, including Captain Headland, over the grounds. Algernon had in the meantime asked Harry to ride with him, and invited their guest to join them.

“Miss Castleton has engaged me to be one of the walking party, and as I am no great horseman you will, I hope, excuse me.”

Harry begged that he would do as he had promised. He wished to ride with Algernon to enjoy some private conversation. He had been struck by his brother’s changed appearance. He had a short teasing cough, of which, however, he made light, observing that it generally disappeared with the warm weather, though it annoyed him a little longer that year.

The brothers had much to talk about after their long separation. Harry enquired if any authentic account of their uncle’s death had been received. Algernon replied that though their father and Mr Shallard had made every possible enquiry, the only fact they had learned was that the ship he had sailed in had never been heard of, and that there was no doubt she had gone down in a hurricane which had occurred during the time she must have been at sea.

“It would be a trying state of things if our uncle were after all to make his appearance and claim the title and property,” observed Algernon. “I suspect that our father would be very unwilling to give them up, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“Surely he would not hesitate if convinced of our uncle’s identity,” said Harry, “and would be thankful to welcome his brother back to life.”

“He is so firmly convinced of his death that it would be difficult to persuade him to the contrary,” replied Algernon. “For my own part I am not ambitious of becoming a baronet, and as far as I am individually concerned I should be ready to welcome with sincerity our long lost uncle.”

“So should I,” cried Harry warmly, “and surely our father with his political interest can, if he chooses, obtain a baronetcy for himself.”

“He would prefer exerting that influence in gaining a higher rank,” observed Algernon with a sigh. “He wished me to be in parliament, but he only a few days ago, greatly to my relief, acknowledged that he was afraid my health for the present would not enable me to stand the wear and tear I should have to undergo in the ‘house.’ I am afraid that it has greatly disappointed him. He probably will wish you to take the place he intended for me.”

Harry laughed heartily.

“I in parliament,” he exclaimed, “I should indeed feel like a fish out of water. I wish to stick to the service, and hope to get my flag some day.”

“But there are naval men in parliament, and you may do that notwithstanding,” said Algernon.

“I do not wish to disobey him, but the very thoughts of the life I should have to lead, talking and debating, or worse, listening to long debates in the close atmosphere of the House of Commons, would make me miserable. So, pray, if he suggests such a thing to you, tell him you are sure that I should not like it, and beg him to let me off.”

Algernon promised to do as his brother wished.

They had taken the way to the downs to the south of Hurlston.

Harry enquired for their cousins, the Miss Pembertons. On hearing that they were still living there he proposed paying them a visit.

“To tell you the truth, I have not called since we came to Texford,” answered Algernon. “You know that they have peculiar notions. Our father, looking upon them as puritanical dissenters, has no wish to have them at the house. I have not seen the old ladies for some years. I remember that they did not make a very favourable impression on me when I met them last.”

“I suppose I may call on them,” said Harry. “They were kind to me when I was a boy, and I liked cousin Mary, as we called her.”

“Yes, there can be no objection to your going,” answered Algernon. “They will not consider it necessary to return your visit, and will look upon it as a kindness.”

The young men had been riding on further than they had intended, and being engaged in conversation while passing along lanes with high hedges on either side, they had not observed a storm gathering in the sky. Emerging from the lanes Harry invited his brother to take a gallop across the wide extended downs spread out before them, and thus they did not observe till they turned the thunder clouds sweeping up rapidly towards them.

“We shall get wet jackets, I suspect, before we reach home,” observed Harry.

“I hope not,” answered his brother, “for I have been especially charged to avoid the damp and cold, and I feel somewhat heated. I wish there was some place where we could get shelter.”

“I am very sorry that I led you on, for I see no shed or cottage anywhere,” said Harry, gazing round; “and I am afraid we shall have the rain down upon us before many minutes. Our shortest way to the nearest house at Hurlston will, I suspect, be across the downs. Come along, there is no time to spare.”

They put their horses into a gallop. The downs though at a distance appearing to be level, were intercepted by several deep ravines, and the young men had not gone far before they were compelled to turn inland by coming to one of the most rugged and wild of these ravines, the side of which was too steep to allow them to ride down it.

A little further Harry observed a place which he thought they could descend without difficulty, and thus save some distance. As he reached the bottom, followed by Algernon, he saw nestling under a rock on one side a hut built party of rough stones, and partly of the planks of some wreck cast on shore. At the same moment a bright flash of lightning darted from the clouds, followed by a crashing peal of thunder, when immediately down came the rain.

“We may, at all events, find shelter in yonder hut,” said Harry, “though it seems scarcely large enough to admit our horses, but I will hold them while you go inside.”

They made their way down the ravine, when Algernon dismounting pushed open the door and ran in, while Harry leading the horses followed him.

At the further end of the hut a woman was seated on a stool before the wood fire blazing on the hearth, over which she bent, apparently engaged in watching the contents of an iron pot boiling on it.

“Who dares intrude unbidden into my mansion,” she shrieked out in a wild unearthly tone, which made Algernon start back.

Her long grey hair hung down on either side of her colourless face, from which beamed forth a pair of wild eyes, glowing with the fire of madness. Her dress being of the same sombre hue as was everything in the hut, had as Algernon entered prevented him from observing her till she turned her face full upon him.

She rose as she spoke, confronting the two young men. “Who are you?” she repeated; “speak, or begone, and trouble me not.”

“I beg your pardon for entering without leave,” said Algernon; “but the rain is coming down so heavily that we should have been wet through in another minute, and there is no other shelter at hand.”

“That’s no answer to my question,” she exclaimed. “What care I for rain or storm; let the lightning flash and the thunder roar, and do its worst. Go your way, I say, and leave me to my solitude.”

“My brother would suffer should he get wet,” said Harry, stepping in. “And I must beg you, my good lady, not to be annoyed if we remain till the storm is over; it will probably pass away in half an hour, and we beg not to interrupt you in what you are about.”

“You are fair spoken, young sir, but you have not answered my question. Who are you, I ask again?”

“We are the sons of Sir Ralph Castleton, and we discovered your hut by chance, while looking for a place to obtain shelter from the rain.”

“Spawn of the viper, how dare ye come hither to seek for shelter beneath my roof?” exclaimed the woman in a voice which made the young men start, so shrill and fierce did it sound, high above the roar of the thunder, the howling of the wind, and the pattering of the rain.

“A fit time ye have chosen to come and mock at me; but I have powers at my command to overwhelm you in a moment. See, the heavens fight on my side.”

As she spoke a bright flash of lightning darted down the glen, which, with the crashing peal of thunder that followed, made the horses snort and plunge so violently, that Harry had no little difficulty in holding them, and was drawn out from the doorway in which he had been standing.

“And you deem yourself the heir of Texford,” she continued in the same tone, gazing with her wild eyes intently fixed on Algernon. “Though you rejoice in youth and wealth, I see death stamped on your brow; and before many months have passed away, instead of dwelling in your proud and lordly hall, you will have become a tenant of the silent tomb. I can command the elements, and can read the future. It was I who summoned this storm to drive you hither that you might hear your fate, that fate which the stars last night revealed to me. Ah! ah! ah! you now wish that you had passed by instead of seeking shelter beneath my roof; but your destiny drove you hither, and against that you fight in vain.”

Algernon feeling that it would be wiser not to reply to the wild ravings of the strange creature looked anxiously out of the hut, strongly inclined, in spite of the rain, to make his escape. Harry, who, having been engaged with the horses, had not heard what she first said, now brought them back again, and stood once more beneath the roof of the hut.

“At all events now we are here, my good woman, I hope you will not object to our remaining till the storm is over,” he said, hoping that by speaking in a quiet tone he might calm her temper.

“I invited you not to come, I welcomed you not when you did come, and my curses will follow you when you go,” she shrieked out.

“We really had better not stay,” said Algernon to Harry. “I cannot understand what has irritated the poor woman, and I fear nothing we can say will have the effect of soothing her.”

“I cannot consent to your going out and getting wet through,” said Harry; “so notwithstanding what she says we must stay till the rain has ceased.”

“My good woman, I really think you are mistaken with regard to us,” said Harry, turning to the mad woman. “When we saw your cottage we were not aware that it was inhabited, and as we have taken up your time in interrupting you in what you were about, we shall be glad if you will accept a present as a recompense;” and Harry, giving the reins to Algernon to hold, took out half-a-guinea, and offered it to their hostess.

“You cannot bribe me to reverse the orders of fate,” she shrieked out, snatching the coin from his hand and throwing it into the fire, and uttering a piercing shriek she frantically waved about her arms, now high above her head, now pointing at them with threatening gestures, till Algernon declared that he could stand it no longer. In vain Harry entreated him to remain till the rain had altogether ceased.

The old woman shouted and shrieked louder and louder, encouraged possibly by observing the effect her behaviour had produced on the eldest of the brothers. At last the rain moderating, Algernon rushed out of the hut.

“This is not to be endured,” he exclaimed, as he mounted his horse.

Harry followed his example, and they rode up the glen as fast as the rugged nature of the road would allow them, the wild shrieks and cries of Mad Sal, as she watched them from the door of her hut, sounding in their ears till they gained the open downs.

“I am glad we are out of hearing of that dreadful old creature,” said Algernon, as they galloped along. “I hope she will not prove a true prophetess.”

“I don’t believe in wizards or witches,” answered Harry, “although sometimes by chance their predictions may appear to be fulfilled; and we should be foolish if we allowed the nonsense she talked to weigh on our spirits. I am very sure that the thread of our lives will not be cut shorter from anything she can do, and she certainly will not make me the less willing to go afloat, and fight as readily as I should have done had we not fallen in with her. She has evidently some dislike to the name of Castleton, and hearing us mention it, vented her feelings by trying to frighten us.”

“Poor woman, she is perfectly mad. I am curious to learn who she is,” observed Algernon. “Perhaps Groocock or some of the Hurlston people may know.”

Although the rain had moderated, the young men were nearly wet through before they had made their way across the down; and instead of stopping at Hurlston, as they had intended, they rode on to Texford.

In spite of the exercise he had taken, Algernon complained of the cold, and Harry observed that he shivered several times. As he, however, hurried to his room immediately on his arrival, and changed his wet things, his brother hoped he would not suffer.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Julia Castleton.

The party whom Miss Castleton had offered to escort round the—grounds consisted of several ladies and gentlemen, most of them young, with the exception of an old military officer, General Sampson, who, however, was as active and gallant as the youngest, and a matronly dame, Mrs Appleton, who went with the idea that a chaperone would be required on the occasion.

As is not unfrequently the case under similar circumstances, the party before long separated. The general and Mrs Appleton had sat down to rest in a summer-house, while the rest of the party went on. The chaperone, on discovering that they had got out of sight, started up, and was hurrying forward to overtake them, when her bonnet, adorned with huge bows, caught in a low hanging bough, and, to her horror, before she could stop her progress, not only was it dragged off, but so was her cap, and the wig she wore beneath. The general doing his utmost to maintain his gravity hastened up to her assistance. At the same moment three of the young ladies, with two of the gentlemen who had accompanied them, having turned back appeared in sight, and hearing her cries hastened towards her. The general, who was short of stature, though of no small width, had, in the meantime, been in vain attempting to unhook the bows from the branch.

“Let me, general, let me,” exclaimed poor Mrs Appleton, who was tall and thin; and she made an effort to extricate her bonnet.

While she was thus employed, leaving her bare head exposed, her companions reached the spot, trying in vain to stifle their laughter.

By the exertions of a tall gentleman of the party, her bonnet was at length set free, and with the assistance of the young ladies was, with the wig and cap, replaced on her head.

“Well, my dears, the same accident might have happened to any one of you,” she remarked, with a comical expression, which showed that she was less put out than most people would have been by the occurrence, “though to be sure, as you have only your natural hair beneath your bonnets, that, I conclude, would have stuck faster to your head than mine did, which, as you have discovered, is for convenience sake removable at pleasure.”

Captain Headland, on leaving the house, wishing to be polite to all, had addressed himself to three or four of the young ladies in succession, but either finding the conversation uninteresting, or that he could not keep it up, had walked on by the side of Julia. He soon found that his tongue before tied, became perfectly free. She had so many questions to ask about Harry, and the various adventures they had gone through together, that he soon found he had plenty to say. He was led on to speak of himself, of the battles in which they both had taken a part. While he gave her rapid and brilliant accounts of them, he found her often looking up with her bright eyes fixed on his countenance. So interested did she become, that she forgot that she had undertaken to act as guide to the rest of the party. Not till they had walked on a considerable distance, and had reached the opposite side of the lake, did she and the young officer discover that they were not followed.

“Our friends cannot be far behind us,” she said. “We ought to go back, and we shall soon meet them. I promised to guide them through the labyrinth which leads to Fair Rosamond’s Bower, as the summer-house on the top of the mound overlooking the lake is called, and no one will otherwise be able to find it.”

“I was scarcely observing where we were going. What a beautiful view of the lake we have from hence,” remarked Headland, as they turned.

“Yes, this is one of the most beautiful; but there are several other lovely points on the shores, especially at the further end,” said Julia. “I intended to have conducted our friends to them. This lake was, I believe, in our great grandfather’s time but little more than a wild-fowl decoy, with almost bare shores. He had trees planted on the banks, and the lagoon deepened and considerably enlarged, while, with the earth and gravel thrown out, mounds were raised which give the picturesque variety you observe to the banks. We have two boats on the lake; but do you not think the model of a man-of-war floating on the surface would add to the picture?”

Captain Headland naturally thought so, and said he should be happy to assist Harry in getting one built and rigged.

“Oh, I am sure mamma would like it,” said Julia, “and papa, though he might not take much interest in the matter, would not object. Till Harry went to sea, we had no naval men in the family, and neither Sir Reginald nor his predecessor, our great grandfather, took any interest in nautical affairs, as they were fox-hunters and sportsmen.”

Captain Headland said he would talk to Harry on the subject, and see what they could do.

They continued walking on, but none of their friends appeared, they having, as it happened, turned away from the lake in a totally opposite direction. Julia thought that they might have gone round to the side she had proposed visiting. She therefore led her companion in that direction.

Their conversation continued as animated as before. Headland, who had a real taste for the beauties of nature, admired the views which the lake exhibited; the wooded islands, the green points, the drooping trees and weeping willows hanging over the waters, their forms reflected on its surface; stately swans with arched necks which glided by leading their troops of cygnets. The only sounds heard were the splash of the fish as they leaped out of their watery home, the various notes of birds, and the subdued hum of insects flitting in the sunshine, where here and there an opening in the foliage allowed it to penetrate into the otherwise shady walk.

They at length reached the end of the lake; it was the furthest point almost in the grounds from the house.

Just then the storm which had overtaken Algernon and Harry burst above Texford. It had come on so suddenly that not till a loud peal of thunder crashed almost above their heads were they aware of its approach.

“I fear the rain will come down before we can reach the house, Miss Castleton,” observed Captain Headland. “If there is a boat near at hand I might row you across the lake, which would both shorten the distance and save you the fatigue of walking.”

“One of the boats is generally kept a little further on, and if you think we can go faster by water, I shall be much obliged to you.”

Before the boat was reached heavy drops of rain began to fall.

“There is a summer-house close at hand overlooking the lake,” said Julia, and led her companion to it.

They had scarcely got under shelter when the rain descended in torrents.

Julia and Captain Headland naturally renewed the interesting conversation in which they had before been engaged, not aware how time went by. Every minute the young officer was in Julia’s society, forgetting his previous resolutions, he admired her more and more.

It was so evident that she had unintentionally separated from their companions that he did not for one moment think her forward or designing. With her delicate and refined beauty he had been struck from the first, and was now still more pleased with her animated and intelligent conversation.

“I wonder Harry did not speak more to me about her,” he thought, “though perhaps he might have fancied had he praised her I might have supposed he wished to offer her as an attraction to me to visit Texford. However, I am convinced that such a thought never entered his mind.”

Although the rain at length ceased, the walks were so wet that Julia confessed she should prefer crossing the lake to returning home by land.

At the other end of the lake an artificial stream of sufficient depth for the boat, known as the Serpentine, meandered through the grounds and reached almost to the house. There were several rustic bridges which crossed it here and there, but they were of sufficient height to allow the boat to pass under them. Julia having told Headland where he could find the boat while she remained in the summer-house, he went to fetch it. As it was kept under a shed it was perfectly dry. He handed her into it, and pushing off from the bank they commenced their voyage.

The sun again shone forth brightly, and the air felt fresh and pure after the storm. For some distance he rowed close to the shore where a number of water-lilies floated on the surface. He had seldom seen such beautiful flowers. He described, however, the marine gardens in the Eastern seas visible through the clear water for an immense depth below the surface.

“Have you been much in the East?” asked Julia.

“I believe I was born there,” he answered, forgetting his intention of not speaking of himself. “Indeed my early days were at all events passed in that part of the world. I have been at sea the greater portion of my life, and have comparatively but little knowledge of the shore or the dwellers on it. I had no notion that there were such beautiful places as this appears to me in England. I conclude there are not many such.”

“Oh, yes,” said Julia. “There are many far more magnificent and extensive, though I might not admire them more than this, and certainly should not love them so much. Though we have not been here very long, I spent months when I was a girl with our uncle Sir Reginald, and became greatly attached to the place. We did not know at the time that we should ever come to live here, as papa’s elder brother was then alive. Though he has not since been heard of he is supposed to be dead, and papa consequently came into possession of the title and estates.”

Julia said this not feeling that there was any necessity for keeping the matter a secret from their guest indeed she would not have been surprised had he replied that her brother had told him of the circumstances.

Headland rowed slowly over the calm water. He was in no hurry to finish the voyage, and the young lady seemed to enjoy the scenery. Now and then he stopped and let the boat float quietly on, that they might admire some fresh point of view.

“Do you sketch, Captain Headland?” asked Julia.

He replied that he had had no opportunity of taking lessons in his younger days, except now and then from a mess-mate who had enjoyed the advantage on shore, though he was accustomed to draw ships and to sketch the outlines of the coasts that he might recognise them on subsequent visits, but that now, with the probability of remaining on shore, he should be glad to study the art.

“I should like to come out on the lake and make some sketches,” said Julia. “I have hitherto had no one to row the boat, and Algernon can seldom be tempted on the water; indeed, he is not much of an oarsman.”

Captain Headland expressed the pleasure it would give him to be of service in that capacity, and Julia said she should be glad to take advantage of his offer.

At length they reached the end of the lake and entered the Serpentine. There was just room to row the boat along between the grassy banks. Here and there the trees overhung the channel, and sometimes they had to bend down to avoid the branches.

They had nearly reached the end where there were some stone steps with a gravel walk above them, leading directly to the house, and a rustic bridge spanning the stream.

The old general who had taken post on the bridge, and had been for some time watching their approach, hailed them.

“Hilloa! gallant son of Neptune, I congratulate you on discovering our missing Ariadne who was to have been our guide through the labyrinthine walks of Texford. Fortunately we missed our way, and found ourselves close to the house just as the storm came on.”

“I must apologise, General Sampson, for leaving you and our other friends; but we had got to some distance before we discovered that you were not following,” said Julia, somewhat annoyed at the general’s remarks.

“The truth is, my dear young lady, it is we who have to apologise to you for not keeping pace with your fairy-like movements, and fearing that Sir Ralph and Lady Castleton might justly blame me as the senior of the party for deserting you, I hurried out as soon as the rain ceased in the hopes of finding you before you reached the house, to entreat you to offer some excuse for my conduct. But I suspect the captain is chiefly to blame, and if you will enter into a compact with me we will sacrifice him.”

“I am ready to be the victim should Miss Castleton consider any excuse necessary,” said Captain Headland, as he handed Julia out of the boat, while the old general stood on the top of the steps.

They walked together to the house, the latter talking in the same style as before. Julia ran in, glad to escape him.

“You will be a lucky dog, captain, if you succeed in securing so fair a prize,” whispered the general, giving the young officer a not very gentle dig in the ribs. “I have entertained some thoughts in that direction myself, but I see that a soldier has no chance with a naval man as his rival.”

“Really, general, you allow your imagination to go too fast. I am a comparative stranger to Miss Castleton, and have no merit which could justify me in hoping—”

“Of course, of course, my young friend we must all feel our personal want of merit when a lady is concerned. Nevertheless she may possibly regard you in a more favourable light than you suppose, from the reports we have heard of your gallant deeds.”

Chapter Twenty Five.

May’s Guardians.

Dame Halliburt made her appearance at Downside early the next morning to enquire after May. Miss Pemberton, who had expected the good woman, begged her to step into her dispensary, as she called the small room in which she received her poorer visitors, that they might talk over the matter.

The dame said that she should have come up the previous evening, but that Jacob had not returned till late at night, when he told her what had happened. He had been on the look-out for young Gaffin to bring him to account for his conduct, but had been unable to find him.

“I am sorry for that,” said Miss Jane. “I charged him to use no violence towards the young man.”

“Lord bless you, marm,” answered the dame, “our Jacob is as gentle as a lamb. I don’t think he could use violence towards any man, though to be sure if he had fallen in with that impudent young chap he would have given him a pretty sound drubbing.”

“I fear that your son’s style of drubbing would be a pretty strong act of violence,” observed Miss Jane. “Judging from the appearance of his arm, it possesses sufficient strength to fell an ox, and one blow from it might injure the youth for life.”

“I don’t doubt but that our Jacob could hit pretty hard if his spirit was up,” observed the dame with a smile of maternal pride. “I cannot say, however, but what I am glad he didn’t find young Gaffin.”

“One thing is certain, we must not let our May run the chance of being spoken to again by this young fellow. If he is stopping at the inn he probably will not remain long in the place, and she will soon be able to go to and fro from your house as usual. Indeed, I hope from the proper way she treated him that he will not again make the attempt to speak to her.”

“Fellows of his sort are not so easily put down as you may suppose, Miss Jane, and if he is the miller’s son, he may be as audacious as he is impudent,” observed the dame.

“Whatever he is, we will take good care that he has no opportunity of exhibiting his audacity,” said Miss Pemberton; “and I beg that you will charge your son to take no further notice of the affair. If your husband could see the young man and warn him of the consequences of his conduct, he might induce him to behave properly in future. Now you will like to see May.”

Miss Jane went out, and sent May into the room.

The dame received her with a warm embrace, but as the subject of young Gaffin was a disagreeable one, she did not speak much about it.

“Have you told the ladies about the grand doings to take place at Texford?” asked the dame.

May confessed that she had forgotten all about it.

“Then while I am here I will just put in a word. A little change will do you good, and if I tell them I’ll keep you by my side all the time, I don’t think they will object.”

“We will think about it,” was Miss Jane’s answer, when the dame told her. “I am not an admirer of fêtes and fantastic worldly doings such as I conclude will take place at Texford. I fear there is more harm done than pleasure obtained.”

“The scene may amuse her, as she has seen nothing of the sort,” observed Miss Mary. “Far be it from me to countenance even indirectly the follies of worldly people, but as this fête is intended to afford amusement to the tenantry and labourers, it must be kindly meant, and if May herself desires to accompany Dame Halliburt, I think that we ought not to deny her the amusement.”

“Thank you,” said May, simply. “I should like to go, very much.”

The dame returned home satisfied that May was not likely to receive any further annoyance from young Gaffin, and well pleased that there would be no difficulty about her attending the fête.

Jacob arrived in the evening at Downside with a basket of shells. May could not help asking him whether he had seen young Gaffin, and again entreated him not to interfere.

“I have not seen him, but I know where he is,” answered Jacob; “and I don’t think he will show his nose outside the house without having me at his heels.”

Every day before going off for the night’s fishing in the Nancy, Jacob managed to find time to get up to Downside.

He would have been a bold man who would have ventured to encounter the young fisherman with any intention of annoying Maiden May. Honest love, when the object loved is to be benefited, wonderfully sharpens the wits. Jacob, who would never have thought of such a thing under other circumstances, had set a boy to watch the inn, and bring him word of Miles’s movements. When he was away, the lad was to inform his mother.

Miles, either in obedience to his father’s directions, or because he had found out that he was watched, kept himself a prisoner, and did not venture beyond the precincts of the garden at the back of the house, where he spent most of the day sauntering up and down, smoking his pipe, and forming plans for winning the young lady in spite of the obstacles in his way. Though unable to appreciate any higher qualities, he had been really struck by her beauty, and was as much in love as it was in his nature to be. He was thus perfectly ready to enter into any scheme which his father might propose for gaining her, either by fair means or foul.

“I would not hurt her feelings if I could help it,” he said to himself; “but I am pretty sure I have a rival in that young fellow Halliburt. I guessed that when she took his arm and ran off from me. She knows well enough that he is not her brother, though they have been brought up together, and girls are generally apt to admire those big, sturdy-looking chaps who have done them a service, more than well-dressed, gentlemanly young men like myself,” and Miles glanced approvingly on his new and fashionable costume. “If she still turns a cold eye upon me that worthy dad of mine must manage to get the young fisherman out of the way—it won’t do to have him interfering—and with a clear stage I shall not have insuperable difficulties to overcome, I flatter myself.”

Still Miles had to remain inactive some days longer. At last he received a note from his father telling him to go, if he pleased, to the fête at Texford, and simply state, if asked, that he was the son of a tenant, saying that he was spending a few days at Hurlston, and had come instead of his father, who was unable to attend. “I find that Dame Halliburt is going, and I have no doubt she will take her daughter, as she calls her, with her,” he added. “You will thus have an opportunity of meeting the girl under more favourable circumstances than before, and if you mind your P’s and Q’s it will be your own fault if you do not work yourself into her good graces.”

Miles received this communication with intense satisfaction. Having a thoroughly good opinion of himself, he had now little doubt that he should succeed in his enterprise.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Fête at Texford.

No summer’s day could be more bright and lovely than that on which the fête at Texford took place. Visitors of high and low degree—for it was to be a meeting of all classes—were seen at an early hour moving along the roads from every direction towards the park, some in carriages, some on horseback, others in light tilted waggons and carts, and no inconsiderable number on foot.

The distance between Hurlston and Texford was upwards of two miles by the road, but the inhabitants of the village could enjoy a pleasanter and much shorter path across the fields.

The dame arrived at Downside in good time to escort May. She to the last felt some hesitation, however, about going, as it was evident that Miss Jane was doubtful as to the propriety of the proceeding, but Miss Mary, with whom she had discussed the subject over and over again, always concluded with the remark that though it might be dangerous to trust a gay and a giddy girl in such a scene, their steady and sensible May was not likely in consequence to gain a taste for the frivolities of the world, and that, as she had never seen anything of the sort, she could not fail to be amused, while, from her unremitting attention to them, she certainly deserved a holiday. May, not to appear out of place while in company with the good fishwife, had dressed herself in a costume as much as possible like that which a well-to-do fisherman’s daughter would wear; and although she had not intended to produce any such effect, her neat straw hat and cloak set her beauty off to even greater advantage.

Adam, who had with the dame’s earnest persuasion consented to accompany her, waited outside. Jacob, strange to say, had declined accompanying his mother and May. He had work to attend to on board the Nancy, and had no fancy for jigging about with the girls of the village, while May did not intend to join in the revels. Jacob, indeed, felt that he should be out of place. He knew that it would not do to be seen standing near his mother and May all the time, and he should take no pleasure in wandering about away from them.

May was perhaps relieved when she heard that Jacob was not coming. Although she regarded him with esteem for his honesty and bravery, and his devotion to her, she felt instinctively that the less he was in her society, the better for him.

“You will come home early,” said Miss Jane, as she wished her good-bye; “and you will keep to your resolution in not mixing with the throng more than you can help.”

“You must tell me all that takes place when you come back,” said Miss Mary. “If you see Miss Castleton and her brothers, and you will scarcely fail to do so, I shall like to hear all about them. Julia must have grown into a tall young lady, and Harry and Algernon into full-grown men. I shall be interested in hearing what Harry is like especially; he was a great favourite of mine when a boy. He has now become a fine gallant officer. I wish I could let him know how much I should like to see him; for although Sir Ralph and Lady Castleton have been so inattentive, we should not, therefore, feel the less regard for their son, and I am sure he would not hesitate to come, if he remembered that we are here.”

This was said in the presence of the dame.

“If I have a chance of speaking to Mr Harry, I will tell him,” she said. “I will remind him how he saved our Maiden May from the bull, and maybe he will remember Adam and me, and come up and speak to us, as he won’t have forgotten his trip in the Nancy, though he is not likely to wish to take another.”

“Tell him, then, that we hope to see him,” said Miss Mary.

The dame promised to deliver the message.

When the dame and her companions arrived at Texford, she remarked that the appearance of the place was totally changed. There stood the house, certainly, as usual, but the park looked like a huge fair. There were numerous booths and tents in all directions, and swings and roundabouts, targets for archery, courses marked off for running races, arrangements for the old game of quintain, for Sir Ralph was somewhat of an antiquarian, and wished to re-introduce it. There were three bands of music, the best stationed near the house, and the others at, a sufficient distance not to interfere with it. A band of Morris dancers had been arranged by Sir Ralph’s desire, and there were a couple of jugglers who went about performing feats which greatly astonished the rustics. As May and her friends passed along the lake, they saw a number of boats which had been brought there from Morbury, that races and other aquatic sports might be indulged in. Indeed, everything had been prepared which could possibly be thought of for affording amusement to the assemblage.

The sports on the lake were to be, as the dame suspected, under the charge of Mr Harry and his naval friend, Captain Headland, who were, however, both too energetic not to take a part in everything that was going forward.

The guests of higher degree were already assembling on the broad steps or the gravel walk in front of the house, when the dame and May found themselves among the crowd of tenants and others on the lawn, who felt that it would be disrespectful until invited to approach the neighbourhood of their betters.

Mr Groocock was going about attending to the multifarious duties imposed on him. Though he was as active as ever, his task appeared to give him more trouble than pleasure.

“Glad to see you, dame, and Miss May and friend Adam,” he said, as he once passed close to where they were standing.

“Thank you, Mr Groocock. It’s a beautiful sight,” observed the dame, in reply.

“Well enough,” answered the steward, “but the work it imposes is more suited to young limbs, than to mine,” and he passed on to give some directions.

The signal for the sports to begin was now given, and a large portion of the people collected were soon engaged according to their tastes—some dancing, some running races, others amusing themselves with the various games, and others witnessing the feats of the jugglers, or looking on at the pantomimic performances of the Morris dancers.

It required some exertion, however, of the directors of the fête to set the guests in motion, or to keep them entertained in the variety of ways which had been prepared for their amusement. Among the most active who were thus engaged were Harry Castleton and his friend Headland, it being more in accordance with Algernon’s taste to devote himself to the guests of higher degree.

“I must go and get yonder crowd of rustics under weigh again,” Harry observed to Headland, on seeing a number of people standing idle near one of the spots devoted to dancing.

Dame Halliburt and her companions had taken up a position not far off it, on a grassy mound under the shade of a tree, where, a little removed from the crowd, they could observe all that was going forward. Harry was passing by when he saw the dame, who had recognised him, following him with her eyes. It is possible that at the same time he may have caught sight of May’s sweet countenance; at all events he stopped, and going up to the dame, said—

“I think I ought to know you.”

“Yes, please you, Mr Harry; and maybe you remember the trip you took in the Nancy with my good man here.”

“Ah, how fares it with you, my friend?” he said, shaking Adam by the hand. “I remember the trip right well.”

“You have pretty nigh grown out of remembrance, but I am right glad to see you, Mr Harry,” answered Adam.

“Maybe you recollect, sir, saving our Maiden May from a wild bull?” said the dame, looking towards May, who blushed as she spoke, for Harry glanced up, and her eyes met his fixed on her lovely countenance with an unmistakable expression of admiration.

“I was very glad, I know, to have been of service, though I suspect I ran very little personal risk in performing the exploit,” said Harry, still looking at May, and wondering at the delicate beauty and refined manner of the fisherman’s daughter.

“I suspect that I was too young to have thanked you for the service you rendered me as I ought to have done,” she said, “for my mother has since told me that had it not been for you I might have been killed by the fierce creature.”

“All I did I remember was to throw your red cloak at the animal, and that required no great exertion of courage or strength,” answered Harry, smiling. “I then ran off with you, and lifted you over the gate. I can only feel thankful, now you bring the circumstance to my recollection, that I came up at the moment to save you,” answered Harry. “But are you not going to join the dancers?”

“I promised some kind friends with whom I live to avoid mixing with the crowd,” answered May; “and they would especially object to my dancing. Indeed, I confess that I have never danced in my life.”

“Very strange,” said Harry. “Who are they, may I ask?”

“The Miss Pembertons,” answered May. “You surely, Mr Castleton, remember them, and they desired mother and me to express their great wish to see you again.”

“Oh, yes, my good cousins, of course I do. Pray tell them that I will call upon them to-morrow, or the first day I possibly can. I am not surprised that they do not quite approve of dancing; but have they actually prohibited you? We shall form some fresh sets shortly nearer the house, which my sister and other ladies will join, and can you not be tempted to come too? You would have no difficulty, as the figures are not intricate, and you need only move through them as you see others do.”

May smiled, but shook her head.

“No,” she said, “the Miss Pembertons made no exception with respect to those with whom I might dance, and I fear that they would object as much to my dancing in a quiet set as they would to my joining those who are rushing up and down so energetically out there;” and May looked towards the spot where a country dance of rustics was going on, the swains dragging their partners along at no small risk of pulling off their arms, though sometimes the case was reversed, and the damsels were engaged in hauling on their more awkward partners. “I must say that I have no reason to regret not being among them,” she added, with her eyes full of laughter as she watched the vehement movements of the dancers to which she had called Harry’s attention.

“Oh, but we shall move much more quietly in the dance I ask you to join, and I am sure it will suit your taste better,” he said.

Still May declined firmly, though gently. Harry was convinced that she was not to be persuaded. Had he consulted his own inclination he would have stopped and talked to her as long as she remained, but he remembered that he had numerous duties to perform.

“Are you likely to be walking about the grounds, or do you intend to remain where you are?” he asked.

May turned to the dame for the answer.

“While this sort of fun goes on I do not think we can be better off than where we are,” answered the dame.

“I will see you again,” said Harry, who admired the manner in which she obeyed her friends’ wishes, and hesitated to repeat his request. “Perhaps my sister would like to send a message to our cousins. Pray tell them that she regards them with the same feeling she has always done.”

“I will gladly carry the message to the Miss Pembertons,” said May.

“Thank you,” said Harry. “I will try to get my sister to give it you herself,” and he tore himself away.

“What a lovely creature that little girl with the blue eyes has grown into,” Harry thought to himself. “I remember she was a sweet child, and now she is as near perfection as I can fancy any human being. I wonder if I should think so if I saw her dressed as a young lady in a ball room. Yes, I am sure of it—any dress would become her. I must get Julia to see her. And yet I do not know, she might possibly say something I should not like. Maiden May, what a pretty name. She spoke, too, of living with our cousins. Can she be their servant? Yet she does not speak or look like one. Her manner and tone of voice is perfectly that of a young lady. But I must not think too much about her, or I shall forget what I have to do.”

Harry hurried on, trying to collect his thoughts, which the vision of Maiden May had scattered.

He had now to set a troop of boys running races, now to arrange another rustic dance.

It was some time before he made his way back to the house, where his friend Headland had got before him, and was now engaged with Julia and other friends in arranging the sets to be formed by ladies and gentlemen, and in which some of the daughters of the upper class of tenantry and shopkeepers would take their place.

Harry excused himself from leading out a partner on the plea that he had so many duties to perform, and before long he again found himself approaching the spot where Adam and his wife were standing. As he did so he saw a man come up to them and make a low bow, beginning to speak to May, at which she turned away with a look of annoyance, not unmingled with scorn, while she put her arm into that of the dame.

So Harry interpreted the expression of her countenance. Had it not been for this Harry would have hesitated to approach.

“I am sure, Miss, I do not wish to offend you, and I have a thousand pardons to ask,” he heard the stranger say. “It’s all a mistake to suppose that I intended to be otherwise than polite and respectful.”

The dame, as she drew May nearer to her, looked up at her husband, and was going to speak. Adam made a step or two towards the young man, and looking him firmly in the face, said—

“This is not the place where I can treat you as you deserve; but there is only one thing I have to say, that is to take yourself off, and don’t come near our Maiden May if you wish to keep a whole skin on your back.”

Young Miles, for it was he, knowing that he was perfectly safe from personal violence in Texford Park, putting on a swaggering look, was about to reply, when he saw Harry coming up, and observed an angry frown on the young officer’s brow.

“I’ll make you pay dearly for this, old fellow,” he muttered between his teeth, and turning round, slunk away towards the nearest group of persons, among whom he soon concealed himself.

“Who was that young man?” asked Harry, glancing in the direction Miles had gone. “He seems to have caused you some annoyance,” and he looked at May, who however did not reply.

The dame spoke for her.

“He is an audacious young fellow, who came to Hurlston a few days ago, and has had the impertinence to speak to our Maiden May when she was alone out walking; and if it had not been for our Jacob, I don’t know what she would have done. He is the son of the miller at Hurlston, and we have reason to think he would speak to her again if he had the chance, so she has had to keep inside the grounds at Downside ever since, till she came out with my husband and me, and we little thought he would have been here; but it only shows what he is capable of.”

“What, did that fellow dare to speak to you against your wish?” exclaimed Harry, indignantly. “I must take measures to prevent his doing so again. If the miller cannot keep him in order, I must beg Mr Groocock to desire him to send the fellow away again. You say he only came here lately,” he added, turning to the dame.

“Yes, Mr Harry, he only came to Hurlston lately, though he was born and bred in the place. He was sent away after his mother’s death some four years ago, and has not been back that I know of till lately.”

“Depend on it he shall not cause you any further annoyance,” said Harry, again addressing May, “and pray do not let the matter trouble you further. I scarcely dare ask whether you are still resolved not to dance?”

“Quite as resolved as at first,” answered May. “Even if I greatly wished to do so, I could not break my promise to my kind friends.”

Harry took notice of her reply.

“Surely she would not speak of them as her kind friends if she was in their service,” he thought, and he longed to ascertain the position she held in his cousins’ family. Her costume gave him no clue, but her manner, her tone of voice, and her mode of expressing herself, showed him that she was a person of education. He was greatly puzzled. He longed to ask her more questions, but was afraid of appearing inquisitive.

“When the people begin to get tired of their present amusements, we are going to have some boat racing on the lake, and as soon as it grows dark there are to be fireworks, which will have a pretty effect on the water. I hope that you will remain to see them,” he said.

“I regret that we cannot do so,” answered May. “Neither of the ladies are well, and I never like to be absent, especially from Miss Mary, long at a time, as Miss Jane having a cold there is no one else to read to her.”

“Are you fond of reading?” asked Harry.

“Yes. Indeed, it is the chief source of amusement I have,” answered May. “I have read, I believe, every book the Miss Pembertons possess, and with their usual kindness they have procured a good many fresh ones for me. Though Miss Jane is not an admirer of the French, she allowed me to study their language, so that I can read it with ease, though I fear that I should find myself greatly at a loss were I to attempt to speak it.”

“When you have the opportunity of hearing it spoken, I am sure you will soon get over that difficulty,” observed Harry.

“I hope to do so if I am ever able to mix with French people, or to obtain a French master.”

“I am considered to speak it well, and perhaps you will allow me when I call to give you a lesson,” said Harry, now thoroughly convinced that, at all events, the fisherman’s daughter was not in a menial capacity in his cousins’ family.

He felt relieved. There would be nothing derogatory in his attempting to become better acquainted with the fair young creature with whom he had been so greatly struck. Though very unwilling at present to leave her, he was conscious that he ought not, with so many eyes likely to be turned in that direction, to remain longer in her society.

“I must attend to my duties,” he said, nodding to Adam and his wife. Unconsciously he lifted his hat to May with the same respect he would have shown to any high born young lady in the land.

May watched him till he was lost in the crowd. If he by chance approached young Miles, that worthy kept out of his way. Harry had undertaken to start the rowers on the lake with the assistance of Headland. It was remarked that he made two or three mistakes, which were, however, remedied by his friend. His eyes continually wandered among the crowd on the banks as if in search of some one. Headland rallied him when they were alone for a few minutes.

“Why, Harry, you look quite bewildered! Has anything happened?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed,” laughed Harry, who had no secrets with Headland. “I have made a discovery. I have seen such a lovely girl. I wanted to point her out to you and Julia, but I could not find you. I went a second time myself to be satisfied that I had not gazed at her with rose-coloured spectacles, but I found that she was even superior, if possible, to what she at first appeared. I am romantic, you know, but I tell you she is perfectly charming.”

“Who is she?” asked Headland.

“Only a fisherman’s daughter, but she is living with my cousins, and, from what I understand, has been educated by them, though they certainly could not have given her the graceful manner and sweet tone of voice so remarkable in her had she not possessed them naturally.”

“My dear Harry, charming as she may be do not lose your heart to her, or attempt to win hers in return, if she is of the parentage you tell me, for although I have no right to lay any stress on the point of birth, yet I am very sure that others will, and you may be entangled in a way which will produce much suffering, and may be painful to her as well as to you.”

“I have been thinking of that,” answered Harry, “and if she were only an ordinarily pretty girl I would at once put up my helm and run away from her; but she is so perfectly lovely that I feel capable of overcoming every possible objection, could I win her.”

“Perhaps when you see her again you may discover some slight defects which were not discernible at your first interview,” observed Headland, smiling. “Did I not think this very possible I would advise you not to call at your cousins as you propose. Otherwise I should certainly say, keep out of her way. I know you too well not to feel sure that you would not wish to win her love without feeling sure that you could make her your wife.”

“I should be a wretch indeed if I wished otherwise,” said Harry. “If you saw her perhaps you would agree with me that she is the essence of all that is pure and modest, and I could not approach her with any other thought in my mind.”

“For that very reason, Harry, I would advise you simply to pay your cousins the visit you propose, and then keep away from Downside till you are about to join another ship.”

“At all events I will go there to-morrow,” said Harry. “If I find that I am mistaken there can be no harm done; but I am not blind, and I am too well accustomed to ladies’ society not to be able to distinguish between what is refined, and graceful, and lady-like, and their opposites,” exclaimed Harry.

“Well, be cautious what you say, and how you look and act,” answered Headland, knowing Harry’s impetuous character.

The friends again parted. The aquatic sports were concluded, the fireworks over, and the fête in the park came to an end.

The more select guests, however, had been invited to remain for a dance in the house.

Some of the young ladies thought Lieutenant Castleton was much less entertaining than they had expected to find him, for though he danced indefatigably, he had very little to say for himself.

Headland made himself as agreeable as usual, though it was remarked that his eye brightened and a smile lighted up his countenance whenever Julia Castleton passed near him, or he had an opportunity of speaking to her.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Harry’s Visit to Downside.

“And what do you think of my friend Headland? I have not overpraised him, have I?” asked Harry, when he happened to find himself alone with Julia in the garden the morning after the fête.

“You certainly have not overpraised him,” answered Julia, examining some flowers amid which they were walking. “I do not remember that you ever said very much in his favour.”

“Oh, yes, I did, I am sure, for I admire him more than any other fellow I know, and I am sure when I was last at home I constantly told you of the gallant things he had done.”

“That was before I saw him, and I suppose I forgot all about it.”

“Well, I am glad you like him, indeed, I am sure everybody must. But, by-the-bye, Julia, do not fall in love with him, however gallant a fellow he is, or I shall be sorry that I brought him here, though I should never suppose you likely to be guilty of such a weakness. Perhaps I ought to have told you at once that I know, to a certainty, he is not a marrying man. He and I have frequently talked the subject over, and he has assured me that he should never think of taking a wife unless, in the first place, she was charming and lovely, and refined and highly educated, and perfect in every way, indeed, next door to an angel, and would love him entirely for himself. Perhaps also I ought to have told you before that he is a man of no family, or rather he does not know to what family he belongs, as he was separated from them when an infant, and has lost all means by which he can discover who his parents were.”

Harry did not observe the colour which his remarks brought to his sister’s cheeks while they walked on, for she turned her head as if looking at the flowers at her side.

“I have not liked to mention this circumstance to any one, not thinking it fair to my friend, as it would set people talking about him. But you well know how very tenacious our father is on the subject of birth, and so I fancy is our mother, and they would blame me excessively if you were to captivate Headland and be captivated by him; and Algernon, who, I confess, put me up to speak to you on the subject, says he is certain that they would never give their consent to your marrying my friend, though, to confess the truth, there is nothing I should like so much. In fact, Julia, whether or not he thinks you come up to his standard of perfection, I cannot help fancying that he admires you excessively, and so, as Algernon insisted on it, I felt that I must warn you in time.”

“In time!” murmured Julia. “You should have said this before.”

“I never should have thought of saying it at all, my dear sister, if it had not been for Algernon,” answered Harry. “You know, intimate as I am with Headland, I could not say anything of the sort to him, or warn him not to make love to you. And Algernon agrees with me on that point, as to a man of his delicate honour and sensitive feeling, it would be equivalent to telling him he must leave Texford, or it would appear as if I wanted to put the notion into his head.”

“Oh, pray do not on any account say a word to him!” exclaimed Julia. “You would not be justified in saying anything which might make your friend suppose he is not welcome at Texford.”

“Oh, no, depend on my discretion,” said Harry, now for the first time observing Julia’s countenance, which in spite of her efforts betrayed the agitation of her feelings. “My dear Julia, I almost wish that I had not spoken. I am afraid that what I have said has in some way annoyed you. Believe me, that nothing would give me greater pleasure in life than to see you become Headland’s wife; in fact, it used to be one of my boyish dreams of happiness. But, as I said, I felt that I must do as Algernon wished, and warn you, should he pay you any particular attention, not to encourage him, as also not to allow the admiration you naturally have for him to ripen into a warmer feeling. There, I have done my duty, and I will not say another word on the subject, and I would not have said it now if I had not been persuaded that I ought to do so for your happiness,” and honest Harry stopped at last, greatly to his sister’s relief.

She pressed her brother’s hand, showing that she believed his sincerity, and then hurried to her room. She would rather have remained in the fresh air, but she was afraid of meeting any one, and she felt that she could not just then enter into conversation; least of all would she wish to meet Captain Headland.

Her brother’s words had suddenly revealed to her the state of her own heart. She had heard Captain Headland praised and spoken of as one of the most gallant among the gallant officers of the day, and he had himself recounted to her in modest language some of the daring deeds he had performed; and yet this brave officer when speaking to her was so gentle and deferential, that he seemed to feel as if he was addressing a being infinitely his superior. He evidently preferred her society to that of any other lady in the house, as he always, when an opportunity occurred, singled her out from the rest; and several times, when he fancied she was not watching him, she had observed his eyes fixed on her, while, whenever he addressed her, his features brightened up in a way which she had not observed when he was speaking to any one else. She could not be mistaken with regard to his manner towards her, for she was confident, noble and honourable as he was, he would not trifle with her feelings.

“Harry ought, indeed, to have told me this before,” she said with a sigh. “It is now too late. If Headland really loves me, and I am sure he does, I cannot be mistaken. If he proposes to me I must not leave him to suppose that I am indifferent to his love.”

During the morning Miss Castleton did not appear, and many enquiries were made. General Sampson especially was very anxious to know what had become of her, and having his suspicions, was not satisfied that they might not possibly be correct till Captain Headland came in alone, and, when asked, assured him that he had not seen Miss Castleton since the morning.

“Ah! I thought, captain, that she might have put your nautical experience into requisition, and employed you in rowing the boat on the lake.”

“No,” said Headland, “I hope to have the pleasure of being employed in that way in the afternoon, and I shall be glad if any other lady will trust herself to my pilotage.”

Harry, in the meantime, recollecting that he had promised to pay the Miss Pembertons a visit, ordered his horse, and took the road to Hurlston.

As he approached the village, having never been at Downside, he thought he would first call at Adam Halliburt’s cottage and enquire the way. The cottage, from its remarkable structure, he remembered well.

Calling to a boy to take care of his horse, he dismounted and knocked at the door. The dame opened it.

“This is an honour, Mr Harry,” she said, begging him to enter, with a look of pleased surprise on her countenance. “To think that now you are a grand officer you have come to see poor folks like us,” she continued, dusting a chair, while Adam in his frank, hearty way held out his hand to welcome his guest. He would probably have done the same had the king come to his cottage.

“To tell you the truth, I am on my way to Downside, and thought I would call here first to enquire the road,” said Harry. “I hope you and your daughter were not tired by walking about so much yesterday at the fête.”

“Thank you, Mr Harry, not a bit; besides, as our May didn’t dance she hadn’t so much cause to be tired as most of the young people had.”

“She looks somewhat delicate, and ill able to go through what many girls would think nothing of,” observed Harry, for he wished to get the dame to talk about her daughter.

“Bless you, she is strong and hearty as she ever was, and some time ago when both the ladies were ill, she sat up night after night watching them, and was none the worse for it, and fine weather or foul she goes about the village for that matter all the year round, visiting the poor and sick when the Miss Pembertons cannot go to them,” and the good dame ran on expatiating on her favourite theme—the praises of May.

Harry was somewhat surprised to hear her speak in such unmeasured terms of her daughter’s good qualities.

“The worthy woman naturally appreciates her daughter, and in her honest pride feels that she can never speak too highly of her,” he thought.

While she was speaking the door opened, and May entered, looking bright and blooming as usual, and Harry thought her even more lovely than the day before. She started, and the colour rose slightly to her cheeks, as she saw him. She evidently did not expect to find a visitor.

Harry naturally enquired if she had enjoyed the fête.

“Yes. She had been amused at all events,” she answered with a smile. “And it was a pleasure to be able afterwards to describe it to the Miss Pembertons. I mentioned meeting you, sir,” she added, “and they look forward to seeing you before long.”

Harry of course said he was on his way to pay his respects to his cousins, but being uncertain as to their house, had called at her father’s to enquire which it was.

“Our May will be able to show it to you, Mr Harry,” said the dame. “She seldom likes to be long away from the ladies, and I suppose will soon be going back there.”

May hesitated. She did not look upon Mr Castleton as a stranger, but she naturally felt a degree of timidity at the thoughts of walking with him alone. When, however, she looked up into his frank open countenance, after he had sat talking for some time, the feeling vanished.

He told Adam how well he recollected his trip in the Nancy, and declared that even now he should like to take another. Then he remembered the little blue-eyed girl he had seen rush into Adam’s arms, utterly regardless of his wet clothes.

Maiden May smiled.

“I remember that I was dreadfully frightened at seeing the boat coming in, thinking you would all be lost.”

She was about to make another remark, which would possibly have greatly puzzled Harry, when looking up at the clock, she exclaimed—

“I had no idea it had been so late. I got leave to run down and see you for a few minutes, mother, and ought to have been back again by this time.”

Harry instantly rose.

“I hope that I have not detained you; but if you will kindly, as your mother proposes, show me the Miss Pembertons’ house, I shall be grateful to you.”

May replied that she should be happy to do so, and Harry wishing the fisherman and his wife good-bye, went to look for the boy who had charge of his horse. May, stopping to say a few words to the dame, came out by the time he had returned to the door of the cottage.

Harry, instead of mounting, taking the rein in his hand, walked by her side.

The subject of their conversation might seem commonplace, though perhaps it was interesting to themselves. Harry was at length led to speak of some of his adventures at sea, from a question May had asked him, and on mentioning one of the battles in which he was engaged, he was surprised to find that his companion was thoroughly well acquainted with the details as well as with all the events which had lately taken place. During the walk Harry could not accuse himself of having said anything which could have been construed into making love to the fisherman’s fair daughter.

On reaching Downside May went into the house to send for the gardener to hold his horse, and to announce his visit. The two ladies came to the door to welcome him.

“I should have known you by your voice,” said Miss Mary, taking his hand, “though you have grown from a boy into a man since we met you last. But there is something I discern in a voice which never alters: yours is the tone I like to hear.”

“We must not flatter Harry, and I do not do it,” observed Miss Jane. “I see the same expression in his countenance which won my regard when he was a midshipman. You recollect him, May, do you not?”

“I recognised Mr Castleton at once yesterday,” said May without hesitation. “I should have been ungrateful had I not,” and May turned her blue eyes towards the young officer.

His met them, and, strange to say, May speedily withdrew hers, while a slight blush rose on her cheeks.

“I am indebted to Miss Halliburt for finding my way here so easily,” observed Harry, “for I have never been in this part of Hurlston before, and did not know where your cottage was situated. What a beautiful spot it is. If I ever settle on shore, it is the sort of place I should like, with just that peep through the trees to remind me of the ocean which I have been wont to live on. Perhaps if peace lasts I shall be compelled to take up my abode on shore.”

“Grant that it may,” said Miss Jane. “I should think the nations of Europe must be sick of the fearful strife which has raged so long, and will be very unwilling to recommence it.”

“Things do not look much like it,” answered Harry. “The First Consul has shown no great love for peace; and as I wish to obtain my promotion, I confess that I should like to have a little more fighting before long.”

“I suppose that is but a natural wish for you to entertain,” observed Miss Jane with a sigh. “Yet I would that you saw the case in a different light, and might thus be led to reflect how contrary is the love of fighting to the religion of mercy and peace which we profess. And even though I acknowledge that fighting may be necessary for the defence of one’s country, we should mourn the stern necessity which compels men to engage in it.”

Harry had no wish to dispute the point with his cousins, although perhaps he did not quite enter into their views on the subject.

He gladly accepted their invitation to remain to luncheon. As he watched May attending to Miss Mary, he could not help remarking how lady-like and graceful was every movement she made; he could scarcely believe that she had been born and bred in a fisherman’s cottage, for honest and worthy as Adam and his wife appeared, they were plain and blunt in their manners, though the dame was in some respects certainly above her class.

“We must show you the grounds,” said Miss Jane, when luncheon was over, “if you are not in a hurry to return home.”

Harry was sure he should not be missed at Texford, and would very much like to see their garden.

The ladies got their bonnets and shawls and went out, May leading Miss Mary.

“Our dear May has quite spoilt me,” observed the blind lady. “Instead of letting me learn to grope my way about, she always insists on my taking her arm, so that I can step out without fear of falling over anything in the path.”

May looked affectionately at Miss Mary, as if she felt the duty was one in which she delighted.

They had just left the house when a girl came running up, saying that her mother was ill, and would be grateful if Miss Jane would come down and visit her.

“I must go at once, Mary,” she said, “and leave you and May to do the honours to Harry. I daresay I shall be back before you go,” she added, turning to him, “as the cottage is not far off.”

Harry begged her not to hurry.

The grounds, though not extensive, were very pretty, for the Miss Pembertons had done much to improve them since their arrival. There was a lawn on the garden side of the house, with a number of flower beds and shrubberies and walks, and here and there seats, with a rustic arbour covered with creepers. At the further end of the grounds, where a spring of water bubbling up formed a pool surrounded by rocks, over which moisture-loving plants had been taught to creep, was a grotto, artificially constructed of masses of rock. Miss Mary called Harry’s attention to it, as she and her sister were very proud of the work, it having been formed under their directions, and she begged him especially to admire some figures formed with shells, a few only of which were finished, though they intended that the whole of the interior should be ornamented in the same style.

“This is just the sort of thing I should like to work at,” exclaimed Harry. “It should be a thoroughly marine grotto. I see that there is a covey of flying fish already finished. You might have Neptune and his car and attendant tritons at the further end, dolphins and swordfish and other inhabitants of the sea on either side. I must compliment the artist who executed those flying fish. They are most natural.”

“Here she is, then, to hear your praises,” said Miss Mary. “But we shall be very glad if you will come and assist, as you take an interest in the sort of thing, as I am afraid that otherwise it will be a long time before it is completed.”

“I shall be very glad to be of use and to serve under Miss Halliburt, for she has made so admirable a beginning that she must remain director of the works. Will you accept my services?” he asked, looking at May.

“I cannot refuse them when they are so frankly offered,” she said, looking up somewhat timidly as she spoke; “though I must leave the Miss Pembertons to decide who is to be director.”

As some baskets of shells and cement for sticking them on were in the grotto, Harry, with May’s assistance, tried his skill and produced a very creditable flying fish in addition to the covey she had commenced.

“I am very certain I could not have produced the result had I not had your model to copy from,” said Harry.

Miss Mary seemed as much interested as if she could have seen the designs, and May and Harry worked on till Miss Jane returned, apologising to him for her long delay. He thought she had been absent only a few minutes, and was quite surprised to find that an hour or more had passed away.

They had still some portion of the grounds to visit, and on their return to the house he was surprised to find, on looking at a clock in the hall, that he had barely time to gallop back to Texford and to dress for dinner.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Miles Gaffin’s Proposal.

Jacob had been at work on board the Nancy when he found that it was time to return home for dinner. He caught sight, as he approached the cottage, of May, as she and Harry Castleton were setting off on their way to Downside.

“Who can that be?” he thought, a strange feeling oppressing his heart. “It is not that scoundrel young Gaffin. No, no, she would not walk so quietly alongside him; but I don’t like it, that I don’t, though, as far as she is concerned, it’s all right; she would not do what is wrong, I am sure of that, and mother must know all about it.”

Jacob watched May and Harry as long as they were in sight, and then something like a groan broke from his bosom. After some time he entered the cottage. The information he gained from his mother did not make him much happier, for he could not believe that a young man such as his mother described Mr Harry could see May without falling in love with her; and if so! Poor Jacob groaned as he thought of what might be the consequence. He mechanically hurried over his dinner without appetite, and then, taking a basket, went off to the beach to collect some more shells, and to fetch some which he had deputed some fisher-boys living at a considerable distance along the coast to obtain for him. He felt more downcast than he had ever been in his life as he now began to realise the wide distance which existed between himself and May.

“Of course she is just like an angel of light to a poor rough chap like me; yet I love the very ground she treads on,” he murmured to himself, as he went on. “There’s not anything I would not do if she was to ask me, yet if I was to tell her so, I don’t know what she would say; it would not make her angry, it would frighten her though, I am afraid, and maybe she would be very sorry, and tell me I must not think of such a thing. Of course she would. I wish I had never been born,” and Jacob felt as if he could have thrown himself down on the sand and cried his big, honest heart out. Though the struggle was a rough one, he overcame his feelings for the moment, and trudged on.

“I said I would get some shells for her and the ladies, and I will; and if I do but have a sight of her but for a moment it is recompense enough.”

Jacob went on collecting shells on the way, till he reached the furthest point to which he intended to go, where he met the lads who had collected a good supply. He was returning pretty heavily laden under the cliffs when, weary with his walk, he sat down on a bank of sand thrown up by the tide, placing his basket by his side. Thoughts such as seldom troubled him were passing through his mind when he saw a man approaching him from the direction of Hurlston. As the stranger drew near he recognised Miles Gaffin.

The miller coming up to him slapped him on the shoulder and sat down close to him, and in the frank hearty tone he often assumed, said—

“How fares it with you, Jacob? Why, lad, you look somewhat out of sorts.”

“Do I, Mr Gaffin? It’s more than I wish to do then,” answered Jacob, who had no desire to enter into conversation with the miller.

“Perhaps I know the reason why you are not as happy as you would wish to be,” said Gaffin, fixing his eyes on the young man’s face. “There is a pretty girl in the case whom you thought you would like to make your wife.”

“Every man’s thoughts are his own, Mr Gaffin,” answered Jacob, “and I do not see how you can know mine more than I can know yours.”

Miles Gaffin laughed, not pleasantly.

“The old can read the thoughts of the young better than you may think. Now, lad, I tell you that you are following a will-o’-the-wisp if you ever think to make the girl your father saved from the wreck your wife. She would laugh you to scorn if you breathed such a notion in her ear, and tell you to go and drown yourself, or be off to foreign lands so that she might never set eyes on you again. Don’t I say what is true, lad?”

In spite of his resolution a groan escaped Jacob’s breast.

“I thought so,” continued his tormentor. “Now, Jacob, I have known you from a boy, and I will be frank with you. You fancy that I want my son to succeed where you are certain to fail, but I have no such notion in my head, though there is a difference, you will allow, between him and you. I don’t, however, guide the young man’s proceedings, or pretend to dictate to him, he is old enough and clever enough to act for himself; and I want it to be understood that I have nothing to do with his movements. You will mention that if you have the opportunity. And now, my honest Jacob, if you are disposed for a trip to sea just let me know, and I will give you a chance which will suit your taste, I have a notion, and fill your pockets with gold. I know I can trust you, so I can say to you what I would not to others. Are you inclined for a trip on board the Lively? There is a berth for you if you are. Whatever way you may think she is employed, I can tell you that she carries a commission as good as any of the king’s cruisers, though I do not pretend to say that in peace time she does not engage in a little free trade occasionally, yet that is not the business which I am employed on.”

Miles had laid his hand on Jacob’s arm so as to prevent him rising, which he showed an intention of doing.

“Do you wish to be convinced, lad? Look here, I know you can read,” and Gaffin drew from his pocket a paper signed by Mr Pitt desiring any naval officers or others, who might fall in with Miles Gaffin, the bearer, not to interfere with him, he being engaged in the secret service of His Majesty’s Government.

Jacob read the paper, and though he did not very clearly comprehend its meaning, it made him feel a greater fear, if not respect, for the bearer than he had before entertained.

Gaffin might possibly have shown one from the First Consul of France, of the same description, had he been disposed, but that was kept for use on the other side of the Channel. He was not the only person so employed at that time by the rival powers, to whom it was of the greatest importance to obtain information of each others preparations.

“You see, my friend, that I invite you to engage in the service of your country. We want a few fresh steady hands, and if you know any lads who would like to accompany you, your recommendation will be in their favour.”

At no time could Gaffin have made such a proposition with a better prospect of success. Still the honest fellow was far from trusting his tempter. He knew well enough that whatever Gaffin might say to the contrary, the Lively was engaged in smuggling, though she certainly had escaped capture in a wonderful way, which was perhaps now partly accounted for. His father had always set his face against contraband traders, and had warned his sons never to have anything to do with them. But there was another motive influencing him still more; May was in danger of being insulted by the son of the very man who was trying to persuade him to leave home. She might scorn him, but he would stop near her to watch over her safety. He would never leave his father and mother either without their sanction.

Gaffin, not aware of the thoughts which were passing through his mind, watched him for some minutes without speaking.

“Well, my lad, what do you say to my offer?” he at length asked. “That I am not going to leave my old father and mother whatever you or any other man may say to me, Mr Gaffin,” answered Jacob, putting his arm through the handle of his basket and rising. “Good evening to you.” He walked on.

Gaffin after sitting for a moment, somewhat taken aback, followed him. “Come, think of my offer, lad, I wish you well. I have no reason to do otherwise,” he said in his most insinuating tone.

“It’s no use your wasting words on me, Mr Gaffin; if you are going to the south’ard you had better go—I am homeward-bound.”

“That was not a civil remark, my lad; but I will overlook it, and perhaps you will think better of the matter.”

“I can’t think better of a bad matter, Mr Gaffin,” answered Jacob, firmly, hurrying on.

The smuggler folded his arms and stood watching the young man as he trudged sturdily over the sands. “I will win him over yet, though his father may be too obstinate to move,” he muttered to himself as he made his way up the cliff to the mill.

Jacob carried his basket of shells to Downside and deposited them with Susan, for the ladies were at tea, and they did not hear of his coming. She spoke of the visit Mr Harry Castleton had just paid.

“Such a nice gentleman,” she observed. “The ladies kept him here all the afternoon helping Miss May to work at the grotto. And I have a notion that he was very well pleased to be so employed. I should not be surprised but what he will be back here again before long,” she added.

Jacob did not stop to hear more, but, emptying his basket of shells, hurried home. What he had heard did not contribute to raise his spirits. He at once told his father of his meeting with Miles Gaffin.

“If you care for me or for your own happiness, don’t have anything to say to him,” said Adam, earnestly. “He bears none of us any love, and depend on’t he means mischief.”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Making the Grotto.

Harry had paid several visits to Downside. The old ladies welcomed him cordially, and were much pleased at the interest he took in their grotto.

“It got on rapidly,” they observed, with the assistance he so kindly gave May. She received him as a relative of the ladies without supposing that had she not been his fellow-labourer he might not have taken so great an interest in the work. Frequently Miss Jane and Miss Mary were present, but sometimes they sent May and Harry by themselves, and only followed when at leisure. Those moments were very delightful to the young people. They did not perhaps hurry on with the grotto as fast as they might otherwise have done, and when the ladies arrived they had not always made much progress. Yet Harry believed that he said nothing to May which he would not have been willing for his cousins to hear, and probably had he been accused of making love to the fisherman’s daughter, he would indignantly have denied that he was doing so. She did not stop to enquire why she felt unusually dull when he did not come, or why her ear was so eagerly on the watch for the sound of his horse’s hoofs at the hour he generally arrived.

Every day Harry fancied that he had discovered new graces in her mind, and the slight degree of rusticity which he might have first detected when he compared her with his sister Julia, had entirely worn off. In person he thought her faultless.

Harry was anxious that his mother and sister should see May without knowing who she was—he was sure that the Miss Pembertons would be pleased at receiving a visit from them, and he was in hopes that he might be able to induce them to call without showing his anxiety that they would do so. He made no secret at home of his visits to Downside, observing that the Miss Pembertons had employed him to ornament a shell grotto for them, and as he hated to be idle, he was very glad to find employment suited to his taste, and at the same time to do anything to please the kind old ladies.

Sir Ralph had been called to London on political business, and was likely to remain some time away. Most of the visitors had left Texford. Those who remained were able to amuse themselves, and did not require the attention of their host and hostess. Captain Headland, being looked upon as Harry’s guest, was quite independent. Lady Castleton was therefore more at liberty than she had been for some time.

“By-the-bye, mother, you should drive over some day and call on our cousins, and see the grotto. They will be much pleased, I am sure, with the visit, and will be delighted to show you over the garden, which is a perfect gem in its way.”

“I confess that we have somewhat neglected our cousins, but your father was annoyed with the way Jane spoke to him, and was afraid that she might come here oftener than would be agreeable, so that he begged me not to encourage her,” said Lady Castleton. “However, as she has shown no inclination to do that, he will not object to my calling again, and Julia and I will drive over there to-morrow.”

“I am sure they will be pleased to see you, and I will go on ahead, and let them know that you are coming, lest by any chance they may have thought of going out,” said Harry, well pleased that his suggestion had been taken.

“You appear to be very fond of the old ladies, Harry,” observed his mother.

“They are kind good creatures, and are so pleased to see me that I cannot help liking them,” and Harry turned away, lest further observations might be made.

Although he was unwilling to mention May to his mother and sister, and still more so to his brother, he did not hesitate to speak of her to Headland.

“But, my dear Harry, have you well considered what will be the consequence of your frequent interviews with this beautiful young creature?” asked his friend. “You appear already to have lost your heart, and what will be the effect of your attentions on her?”

Harry was what he would have called taken aback at the question.

“You are right in supposing that I have lost my heart, but if I know what love is, I believe that I love her as sincerely and devotedly as a man can love a girl. Had she been uneducated and living with her father and mother, I would not have attempted to see her again. When I found her as lady-like and refined as the best born in the land can be, I could not resist my cousin’s invitation, and, I own, yielded to her attractions without considering the consequences. Still, whatever may be my feelings, I have done my utmost not to exhibit them, and she receives me so calmly and modestly, simply as a visitor to the Miss Pembertons, while she appears so unconscious of her own beauty, that I am not vain enough to suppose her feelings are in any way interested in me.”

“I am a person of little experience with regard to women’s hearts,” said Headland; “but it strikes me that a country girl wholly unaccustomed to the society of gentlemen is very likely, in spite of all your caution, to be more interested in you than you may in your modesty suppose. Whatever your cousins, who, from your account, must be unusually simple-minded, unworldly ladies, may think, their young protégé may suspect that you would not come over every day for the sole purpose of working at their grotto, and may have a suspicion that she herself is the attraction.”

“Indeed, I believe I like them so much, that had they asked me to come and make a grotto for them, I would have done so even if Miss Halliburt had not been with them!” exclaimed Harry. “Though I confess that the pleasure is enhanced by working with her.”

“It may be so, Harry,” said Headland. “But if Miss Halliburt is there, and you admire her so warmly, can you sufficiently conceal your admiration as to convince her that she is not the attraction, and if you did so, might she not be unconsciously piqued by wishing to bring you to her feet.”

“She is too pure and simple-minded to do anything of the sort!” exclaimed Harry in an indignant tone. “If I find I have gained her affections, I will offer her my hand, and stand the consequences. I shall feel that I am in honour bound to do so; indeed I should be utterly miserable if, conscious that I possessed her love, I was compelled to give her up.”

“My dear Harry, it is not for a man of unknown birth like myself to warn you against the consequences of a misalliance; but you tell me that the Castletons are a proud race, and that your father and brother are like the rest of the family. You cannot for a moment suppose that they would be otherwise than indignant were you to propose to marry this girl, charming and beautiful as she may be. And I am afraid that your mother and sister, though they might be pleased with her, would strongly oppose your wishes.”

“I should have hopes of winning them over. Algernon has no right to interfere, and I do not think he would; and my father, proud as he is, has so great an admiration for female beauty, that I believe were he to see May, he would be compelled to acknowledge I had ample excuse for wishing her to become my wife.”

“I trust it may be so, Harry,” said Headland. “I have spoken to you as I felt bound to do as one of your oldest friends, and as I know you to be thoroughly honourable and right-minded you would not be the cause of pain and disappointment to any woman, especially to the young and innocent creature you admire so much.”

“I am grateful to you, Headland, indeed I am,” exclaimed Harry, taking his friend’s hand. “I should have been wiser had I not spoken a second time to Miss Halliburt, but I am sure that I should have been less than human had I not done so. The fact is, my dear fellow, I am in for it. But I will remember your warning, and, for her sake rather than my own, not make love to her, and then, at all events, I shall have to suffer alone, should insuperable difficulties to our marrying arise.”

Though Headland had spoken thus frankly and faithfully to Harry, Harry, from delicacy, could not bring himself to speak in the same way to his friend. He felt very sure that Headland admired Julia, and from what she had said, he fully suspected the secret of her heart. Would not his father, however, object as much to Julia marrying Headland as he would to his marrying the fisher-girl. The cases were, however, very different. Headland, though of unknown birth, had gained a position for himself, and Captain Fancourt had written in the highest terms of him, and would, he thought, support his suite if he proposed. Still he was too well acquainted with his father’s proud unyielding temper not to fear that in either case there would be difficulties to contend with.

Headland had already made a considerable sum in prize money, so that the only objection which could possibly be raised against him was his ignorance of his family.

Harry trusted that as he himself was a younger son, his father might not object so much as he would have done, had Algernon been in his place. This gave him some slight hopes that the difficulties which he knew must arise would finally be overcome. At all events, as long as the Miss Pembertons wished him to come to their house, he arrived at the conclusion that he was perfectly justified in going there.

Chapter Thirty.

May’s Introduction to the Castletons.

Miss Mary, led by May, was taking a stroll after breakfast, when Harry arrived.

“We shall be truly glad to see your mother as she so seldom visits us,” said Miss Mary, mildly; “and as I hope she and Julia will stop to take luncheon, I will go in and order preparations, for Jane is out visiting at some cottages in the neighbourhood and may not be back just yet. As I suppose you do not wish to be idle, pray, if you feel disposed, go on in the meantime with the grotto, and May will, I daresay, be glad to assist you.”

Harry, after his conversation with Headland, had been more observant than usual of May’s behaviour. A blush suffused her cheeks as Miss Mary said this, and as her eyes met Harry’s he was convinced that she had no disinclination to do what Miss Mary proposed.

Accordingly, after they had attended Miss Mary to the house, they went together, Harry carrying a fresh basket of shells brought up by Jacob on the previous evening. May was more silent than usual, though she answered when Harry spoke to her in that soft tone he so much delighted to hear, which she had learned from Miss Mary rather than from her elder sister.

Harry at length made a remark which caused her to reply.

“I am thinking of the visit we are to receive from Lady Castleton and your sister, and I confess that I feel somewhat nervous.”

“Why so?” asked Harry.

May looked up in his face but did not answer.

“Do you fancy they can do otherwise than admire you, and think you all that is sweet, and charming, and excellent, and loveable as I do, May,” and he took her hand which she did not withdraw, though her eyes were cast down, and the blush deepened on her cheeks. “Oh, May, I did not intend to say so much, but I had resolved to tear myself from you unless I could hope that you were not indifferent to me.”

“Harry,” said May, trying to calm her agitation; she had always before called him Mr Harry, “I was thinking of your mother’s proposed visit, and afraid lest she should believe that I was the cause of your frequent visits to Downside. Knowing, as I do, the pride of your family, I feared that you might be induced to give up your visits here; and oh, Harry, that we might be parted.”

“No, no, May,” exclaimed Harry, letting all his sober resolutions fly to the wind, and pressing more lovingly her hand. “My parents, even should they wish to do so, have no right to insist on my giving up one against whom they cannot allege a single fault. The circumstance of your birth ought not to be an impediment, and believe me, May, with all the desire I possess to be an obedient son, I could not be influenced by such a reason. I do not invite you to share poverty with me, for I have already an ample income to support a wife, and as I need not ask my father for a single shilling, I do not think he will have any just reason to oppose my wishes.”

“Harry,” said May, “I own I love you, but I must not run any risk of creating dissension between you and your parents. That and that alone can prevent me from giving you my hand as you already have my heart. I have been told of a sad history of a member of your own family, your father’s brother, who, against his parent’s wishes, married a young lady to whom they objected on account of her birth, and he was banished from his home ever afterwards, living an exile in foreign lands. I should fear that your father and mother would look upon me as an unfit match for you, and discard you, should you persist in marrying me.”

“You speak of my uncle Ronald,” exclaimed Harry, “who married, I am told, a very lovely girl, and simply because she could not trace her pedigree to the same stock as the Castletons, my grandfather refused to receive her as his daughter-in-law, and my uncle, rather than subject her to the annoyance to which she might have been exposed at home, took her abroad. Surely my father, after he has seen the consequence of the harsh treatment his brother received, would not behave in the same way to me; besides, you know, he is my father’s eldest brother, and it is not at all certain that he is dead, so that he may some day return and claim the baronetcy and Texford, and if so, I shall be but a younger brother’s youngest son, and no one need trouble their heads who I marry. But, my dear May, if I wore a ducal coronet, you would be the richest prize I could wish for to grace it; though do not suppose, though I would rather, for the sake of avoiding difficulties, be of the humblest birth, that I consider you unworthy of filling the highest rank in the realm.”

May had never told Harry that she was not Dame Halliburt’s daughter. Why she had not done so she might even have found it difficult to say. At first, a feeling of modest reserve had prevented her from speaking about herself. The Miss Pembertons, in their simplicity, had not thought it likely that Harry would fall in love with her, merely by coming a few times to the house, if he supposed her to be Adam Halliburt’s daughter; but they had sufficient worldly wisdom to know that should they excite his interest by telling him her romantic history, he, in all probability, would be moved by it. May herself, however, now felt she ought not longer to conceal the fact from him. It could not fail to be a satisfaction to him, as both the ladies and her foster-parents were fully convinced that she was of gentle birth. She was on the point of telling him when Susan hurried up with the information that Lady Castleton’s carriage had just driven to the door.

The young people had not marked how rapidly the time had gone by.

May suddenly felt even more agitated than before. Harry’s declaration, though delightful, was not calculated to prepare her for receiving his mother and sister with the self-possession and calmness she would have wished to exhibit.

“Do, Harry, go in first, and I will come into the drawing-room as soon as I can compose myself. You have made me very happy, but I must be alone for a few minutes before I can meet any one.”

They returned to the house together. Susan had gone on before.

Lady Castleton and Julia had been for some time seated in the drawing-room when Harry entered.

“I am glad to find Harry makes himself so useful to you,” observed Lady Castleton to Miss Jane, as he took his seat near Julia, who was talking to Miss Mary.

“Yes, indeed, we are much obliged to him, and hope to have the pleasure of showing his handiwork to you after luncheon,” answered Miss Jane. “He and the young friend residing with us have done nearly the whole of the ornamental part of the work, and have exhibited a great deal of skill and taste.”

Harry overheard the remark, and feared that his mother would inquire who the young friend was; but she observed instead—

“It is a great thing when naval officers are on shore if they can find employment. So few care for field sports, and as my brother, Captain Fancourt, observes, they too generally fall in love with some fair face and marry, and then have speedily to go off, and leave their young wives to pine in solitude, often for long years.”

Harry dreaded what next might be said.

“Ah, they are greatly to be pitied,” observed Miss Jane.

“My mother will be sure to suspect me the moment she enters,” thought Harry. “I almost wish that I had not persuaded her to come here; and yet she cannot but be satisfied with my choice; she and Julia must love May the moment they see her.”

Harry tried to join in the conversation which Miss Mary and Julia were carrying on. Julia had always liked their blind cousin, and now exerted herself to amuse her, mentioning only such subjects as she thought would do so. Harry found, however, that his remarks were not very relevant. Miss Mary was more surprised than Julia. At last he got up and went to the window, whence he could watch the door.

At length it opened, and Lady Castleton and Julia turned their heads as May glided into the room. Both instinctively rose from their seats as Miss Jane introduced her as “a friend who is living with us.”

They bowed, and, taking their seats, continued their conversation, while May took a chair a little on one side between where Harry was standing and his mother and sister.

They both looked at her several times, and Harry observed that their countenances exhibited surprise, and he believed at the same time no small amount of admiration.

At last Julia, drawing her chair a little back, addressed May, and asked if she had been long at Hurlston.

“Yes, ever since I was a child,” was the answer.

“May has resided with us several years, and a great blessing and comfort she has proved to me especially,” observed Miss Mary.

Julia looked more puzzled than ever. More than once she glanced up at Harry, who now came forward and took a seat near May.

“I was not aware that you had any guest in your house,” said Julia; “but I hope we shall now have the pleasure of frequently meeting each other,” and she looked towards May with a slight bow.

“It will give me very great pleasure to see you, Miss Castleton,” said May, who, in spite of her efforts, found herself blushing whenever she spoke, conscious as she was, too, that Lady Castleton was watching her from the other side of the room.

Though she would have liked to talk to Julia, she wished that Miss Mary would again engage her in conversation. Julia, on her part, was somewhat puzzled what to say without appearing rudely inquisitive, and yet she was eager to know who the beautiful young creature could be who had been so long living with her cousins; possibly she was some orphan whom they had protected.

At this juncture luncheon was announced. Miss Jane conducted Lady Castleton into the dining-room, telling Harry to take care of his sister, while May, as usual led Miss Mary.

“What a beautiful creature; who is she?” whispered Julia, looking up in her brother’s face.

“I knew you would admire her,” he answered, evasively, meeting her glance, without as he hoped betraying himself. “Our cousins consider her as excellent in every way as she is lovely.”

“But what do you think of her?” asked his sister.

“My eyes are not more penetrating than yours: you shall form your own opinion before I reply.”

They entered the dining-room before Julia could make any further remark.

May attended to Miss Mary with all the calmness she could command, though she felt that Julia’s and Lady Castleton’s eyes were fixed on her all the time.

Harry exerted himself with considerable success to entertain his cousins and their guests. He could not help wishing, however, that his mother and sister would take their departure as soon as they had seen the garden, for he longed to be again alone with May, and he dreaded lest they might ask their cousins who the beautiful young stranger was. He wished them to admire her first, and he was sure she could not fail to win their admiration, and that they would then be less unwilling than might otherwise be the case to receive her as his promised wife. He would not, indeed, allow himself to see the difficulties which would certainly arise directly they learned who she was; nor could he bring himself to believe that, however great might be their admiration, it would vanish immediately the truth was known. Though May spoke but little, her voice was sweet and musical, and what she said showed her sense and judgment.

After luncheon, Miss Jane invited Lady Castleton and Julia to walk through the grounds, and to see their grotto.

“And is this all your doing, Harry?” asked his mother, after they had admired the grotto and its surrounding rock-work, with the clear pool of water shaded by lofty wide-spreading trees.

“Only partly; I did not originate the designs, to that young lady is due all the credit which they deserve,” he answered, looking at May. “I had merely acted as a workman under her superintendence.”

“I must not allow the merit they possess to be given to me; Mr Castleton suggested and executed many of the designs,” said May, heartily wishing that the ladies had not brought their guests to see the grotto at all.

Lady Castleton was evidently more than ever puzzled. Knowing the world she was now very certain that this fair stranger was her son’s chief attraction to Downside, and determined to cross-question him on the first opportunity.

They returned to the house where, after sitting a few minutes, Lady Castleton begged that her carriage might be ordered. As Harry handed his mother into it, she said quietly—“I am not surprised that you take so much interest in grotto building. You will follow us soon, I hope.”

“Oh yes,” answered Harry, telling the coachman to drive on. “We shall have time for a little more work,” he said, entering the hall where Miss Jane stood watching her departing guests. May resumed her hat and accompanied him to the grotto.

“I feel as if I was acting the hypocrite to my kind friends. I ought to tell them, Harry, and not allow you to come here under false pretences.”

“They cannot object to my coming even though you are the attraction. We will tell them at once.”

May and Harry, as may be supposed, did very little work; they would probably have been less successful than usual had they attempted it.

At length his watch told him that it was nearly time to return to Texford. They went into the house and found the ladies in the drawing-room. May sat down next to Miss Mary and took her hand.

“I ought to lose no time in telling you what has occurred,” she said, trying to maintain her calmness. “Mr Castleton has asked me to marry him.”

“My dear!” exclaimed the two Miss Pembertons, in different keys, Miss Jane fixing her eyes on Harry.

“What have you said in reply?” asked Miss Mary.

“Do you suppose that I could refuse him.”

“I see, my dear, that you have not,” observed Miss Jane, “judging from his countenance. We love you both, and I am sure no two young people could be better suited to each other. But when we invited Harry here we did not dream of such a result. Have you both considered well the consequences.”

Yes, Harry declared that he had thought them over seriously.

“At all events, cousin Jane,” he exclaimed, jumping up and taking her hand, “you and cousin Mary will not object to my continuing to come here.”

“You know we ought to do so should your father and mother not approve of your intentions.”

Harry replied that now his mother and sister had seen May, they could not fail to love her.

“Of that I have no doubt,” whispered Miss Mary, pressing May’s hand.

Miss Jane was less sanguine. Still they would be happy to see Harry until Sir Ralph prohibited his coming.

Harry continuing to refuse to see any clouds in the horizon, rode home rejoicing that he had won Maiden May.

Chapter Thirty One.

Young Miles Gaffin again.

May had been anxiously looking forward to another visit from Harry on the morning after he had openly declared his love, and she had more than once gone to the front door to watch for his coming. She endeavoured, however, to fix her thoughts as she read, as usual, to Miss Mary from the book of books, and to listen to Miss Jane’s comments, though she might have been puzzled to give any very clear account of the remarks she heard.

“Our May does not seem quite herself,” observed Miss Mary, when the two sisters sat together the next morning. “Poor girl, it must have been very trying when she felt that Lady Castleton’s and Julia’s eyes were fixed on her during their visit, especially if they suspected that Harry admires her.”

“We ought to have foreseen the consequences of encouraging him to come here,” said Miss Jane, “though my conscience acquits me of having designedly thrown the young people together.”

“I love May for her gentleness and sweet manner, and her kindness to me,” observed Miss Mary. “It never occurred to me that she possessed the beauty which would attract a young and gallant officer like our cousin.”

“I shall blame myself if the peaceful happiness May has hitherto enjoyed is interrupted from our want of discretion, dear girl,” said Miss Jane. “Though nothing we can do can effectually restore it, we can make her all the amends in our power; and I have long been thinking of placing her in as independent a position as is possible should we be removed from the world. I have determined to make my will and to leave her all my property.”

“The very thought which has occurred to me,” said Miss Mary, “and I should wish to do the same.”

“I am glad to find that you agree with me, and the sooner we do so the better,” observed Miss Jane. “I will write to Mr Shallard and beg him to come over here the first day he is at leisure. Sir Ralph ought to be able to well provide for his children, and they cannot miss our small fortune, nor has he any reason to expect that we might have left it to them.”

Scarcely had the two sisters come to this understanding than May entered the room. Her countenance, usually so bright and cheerful, looked sad.

“What is the matter, my dear May?” asked Miss Jane.

“Mrs Brown’s daughter, Peggy, has just come up to say that my kind mother is very ill—the doctor has been sent for, but that she seems anxious to see me,” answered May. “With your leave I will go to her at once, and I hope to be back before Harry leaves you, should he come to-day.”

“Had she not unwisely sent for the doctor I would have tried to accompany you, though I feel scarcely able to leave the house,” said Miss Jane. “But I must not interfere with him.”

“I am sure that you would be welcome, as you are everywhere. But if you will allow me I will run down to mother at once and ascertain what is the matter with her.”

“Do so, my dear, and send Peggy back if you find that you must remain with Mistress Halliburt.”

May, though greatly disappointed at thus missing Harry, hurried down to the cottage with Peggy Brown, often looking in the direction of Texford in the hopes of seeing him coming along the road. Still the duty and affection she owed her kind foster-mother prompted her to hasten on.

She found the dame in bed. Seldom having been ill, the good woman was greatly alarmed about herself. She had caught a chill and was feverish and weak. Adam, and Jacob were away in the Nancy, and there was no one except Peggy to attend to her, as Mrs Brown had only waited for May’s coming to go back to her own cottage. May regretted that Miss Jane had not accompanied her, as the dame, she thought, would probably have been benefited by her skill.

At length the doctor arrived.

“Cheer up, Mistress Halliburt, we will soon bring you round; with your fine constitution you have nothing to be afraid of. I can leave you safely under charge of this young lady,” said the doctor in a cheerful tone, bowing to May. “I will look in by-and-bye, and if I find you better, as I am sure I shall, she can return home. Send Peggy up and she will bring you back the medicine I wish you to take immediately.”

May felt greatly relieved at hearing this, though the dame shook her head, apparently not believing him. In spite, however, of her fears the dame got better by the time Adam came back, and the doctor soon afterwards looking in assured May that she might leave her mother without the slightest anxiety, for as it was Saturday Adam was not going to sea in the evening.

May, leaving a message for Jacob who was still on board the Nancy, thanking him for the last shells he had brought, and saying that more would be acceptable, set off on her walk home.

Jacob had ascertained, so the dame told her, that young Gaffin and his father had been seen to leave the inn some days before on horseback, with valises behind them, and that she thus need not fear being again annoyed by him. She hurried on, her heart beating quicker than usual at the thought of meeting Harry. She was sure he would have remained at Downside till her return; indeed she had fancied that he might have come down to the cottage, but perhaps the wish not to attract the attention of the inhabitants of the village induced him not to do so. She had nearly reached the gate of Downside when she saw standing before her not ten paces off, the very youth who had before given her so much annoyance.

“He will not surely dare to speak to me now,” she thought. “If he does I can run home without replying. If I turn back it would show that I am afraid of him, and he would overtake me before I could reach any cottage.”

She had but little time, however, for consideration, so she walked steadily on, simply crossing over to the other side of the road and keeping her eyes directly before her.

Miles, however, had no intention of letting her escape so easily. Advancing a few steps he took off his hat with an air which he intended to be full of respect, saying as he did so in a humble tone—

“I came, Miss Halliburt, to beg your pardon and to express a hope that you will forgive me for what occurred. I have been miserable ever since.”

May took no notice of this speech, but only walked somewhat faster than she had hitherto been doing towards the gate.

“Won’t you deign even a reply to my humble address?” said Miles, in a half whining tone, which scarcely concealed the irritation he felt.

Still May remained silent, hoping that in another minute she should be safe within her friends’ grounds.

Miles went on speaking in the same strain, but the tone of his voice showed that he was losing patience. Suddenly he changed his tone.

“Just listen to me,” he exclaimed. “I have the means of making your fortune, and my own too. I know who you are, and if you will marry me I will enable you to gain your rights, and make you as wealthy as any lady in the land need wish to be.”

May, believing that what he said was a falsehood, merely uttered to gain her attention, hurried on as before.

“I say I am not going to stand this a second time,” exclaimed the young ruffian, seizing her by the wrist. “If you won’t come to terms by fair means, you must expect me to use a little force when it is for your own good. Don’t be screaming out; I will tell you what I want you to know, and what you yourself would give anything to learn, though I can only tell you if you will promise to marry me, and keep it a secret till then.”

“Let go my hand!” were the first words May uttered, still not attending to what he said, her alarm prevented her from understanding the meaning of his words, as it did also from crying out for help; indeed, so few people passed that way, that unless her voice was heard at Downside, it was not probable that any help could be obtained.

“Listen,” he exclaimed, trying to force her back from Downside. “I tell you I have got something particular to say to you, and I won’t say it unless you will listen quietly.”

“Let me go,” repeated May again. “I do not wish to listen to you, all I require is to be allowed to go home. If you really have anything to say you can communicate it in a letter to the Miss Pembertons.”

“That won’t suit me,” answered Miles. “I have told you before, if gentle means won’t succeed I must use force, though I am sorry for it,” and he again began to drag her forward.

May, though now more alarmed than ever, recovered her voice, and made use of it by uttering a loud shriek. It might have been heard at Downside, and Miles seemed to think that it was, for he turned his head anxiously in that direction, expecting apparently to see some one issue from the gate.

May, struggling to get free, looked also the same way. Again she uttered a cry for help. At the same moment a man bounded round the corner of the road, and before Miles was aware of his approach, he was laid prostrate on the ground by a blow from Jacob Halliburt’s powerful fist. “Run, Miss May, run,” he exclaimed, “there are other men coming, but I will settle this one before they are here.”

May instinctively ran to the gate. No sooner had she gained it than she turned round intending to beckon Jacob to follow her to the house, and to leave the wretched man without inflicting further punishment on him. As she did so she saw Jacob lifting Miles on his feet. Scarcely was he up than Jacob, telling him to defend himself, again knocked him down.

Jacob, as soon as he had done so, seeing that she had not reached the house, again entreated her to hurry there.

“If you will go I will follow you in a moment,” he shouted, “you won’t be safe till then.”

As Jacob spoke she saw four armed men on horseback galloping along the road. Believing that Jacob was following close behind her she rushed into the house. He sprang toward the gate intending to defend it should the horsemen, as he thought they would, attempt to enter. Had he possessed any weapon he might have held his post, but in another instant one of the horsemen dealt him a blow with the butt end of a pistol, which laid him senseless on the ground.

By this time Miles had began to recover his courage, and one of the men leaping from his horse helped him up. A gleam of satisfaction lighted up his eyes as he saw what had occurred to Jacob.

“If it hadn’t been for that fellow I should have kept the girl till you came up,” he exclaimed. “Let us make sure of him at all events, and I will manage to get hold of her another time when there will be no one to interfere.”

Scarcely a word was spoken, the men seeming ready enough to agree to what Miles proposed. A couple of leathern thongs were produced, and some pieces of rope, and before Jacob recovered his senses he was bound hand and foot, and lifted up in front of one of the men on horseback.

“We can do no more now, and the sooner we are away from this the better,” said Miles, “or some one will be down upon us, and we shall be suspected of making off with the fisherman’s son. I must be away over the fields, and shall be down at the beach almost as soon as you are.”

Chapter Thirty Two.

Lady Castleton.

Whatever resolutions Captain Headland might have made when he first went to Texford, he had not been there long before he felt a strong inclination to break them. Once or twice he had almost determined to go away, but on hinting at the possibility of his having to do so, Julia had given him a look which made him immediately alter his mind, and every day he remained he found a greater difficulty in tearing himself away.

The party were assembled in the evening in the drawing-room after Lady Castleton’s visit to Downside. Julia had had no opportunity of taking the sketches on the lake she proposed.

“You promised to act as my boatman, Captain Headland.”

He had not forgotten it, and they agreed to go the following morning.

Without being vain, Headland could not help discovering that Julia seemed happy in his society. As she sang that evening he looked over her music, and asked her to sing a ballad, which described the grief of a maiden whose sailor lover had fallen in the hour of victory. Julia hesitated, and tears sprung to her eyes as she turned them towards the young officer, while he placed the music before her. She quickly recovered herself, but he would have been blind had he not observed that there was a tenderness in her manner towards him, though she apparently was unaware of it.

After the ladies had retired, Harry invited Headland to take a stroll through the grounds to enjoy the moonlight. Harry did not speak till they had got to some distance from the house.

“You remember, Headland, the advice you gave me yesterday,” he said at length. “I would have followed it, much as it might have cost me, had I found May indifferent to my affection, but she has confessed that she loves me, and nothing shall prevent me from making her my wife. If you saw her, you would agree that she is well worthy of the most devoted love a man can give, and I will do my utmost to make her happy. There may be opposition, but that I am resolved to overcome, unless she herself changes her sentiments, and that, I think, is impossible. You, I know, will stand my friend, whatever may occur.”

“Of course I will, Harry, though I fear I can give you but little assistance,” said Headland. “I am very unwilling to run the risk of hurting your feelings, but, my dear fellow, are you certain that the mutual affection which you tell me exists is as deep on both sides as you say? You were struck by the girl’s beauty, and she is flattered by your attentions. Perhaps if you were to be separated for a time, and mixed in society, you would find them more evanescent than you are at present disposed to believe possible.”

“I am very certain that I love her as much as a man can love a woman, and that I should be miserable if I were to be doomed to lose her,” answered Harry, firmly. “I can only judge by what she says and how she looks, and by my knowledge of her character, which is perfect in every respect, and, I am sure, one of the most valuable of qualities, constancy is not wanting in it. My cousins, who have known her from her childhood, highly esteem her, and bestow on her the love as to the nearest relative. What more can I say? I must get you to come and be introduced to her. Will you ride over with me to-morrow? and if you do not agree with me, never trust my opinion again.”

“I promised to row your sister on the lake to-morrow—she wishes to sketch,” said Headland, “or I should be glad to accept your invitation.”

“I won’t ask you to break such an engagement,” said Harry, smiling archly; “but if you and Julia will ride over in the afternoon, I will come back and meet you, for I want my sister to become better acquainted with May.”

“I shall be at Miss Castleton’s service, and will gladly accompany her,” said Headland.

The two friends continued pacing up and down the moonlight walk. Harry, knowing Julia’s secret, would liked to have ascertained his friend’s feelings towards her. He was certain that he admired her, but aware how diffident he was in consequence of his position, he was very doubtful whether he would venture to tell her so. Harry’s respect for his sister prevented him from even suggesting the probability that he would not be refused should he make her an offer. From everything Headland said, however, Harry felt convinced that he only required encouragement to do so.

The following morning Julia appeared with her sketch-book.

“I have not forgotten my promise,” said Headland, and his countenance brightened as he looked at her. “I shall be happy to accompany you on the lake.”

They set out, and Harry went to order his horse to ride to Downside.

Just as he was starting, the servant brought a message from Lady Castleton, who wished to speak to him. Though disliking the delay, he went immediately, guessing why she had sent for him.

“Sit down, Harry,” she said in her gentle tone. “I was very much struck yesterday with the beauty of the young lady we met at our cousins. Knowing how you must naturally admire her, I am very sure that she is the attraction which draws you daily to Downside.”

“Yes, mother, I do not deny it,” answered Harry; “and I am delighted that you and Julia admire her so much.”

“We could not fail to do that. But let me ask you, Harry, do you know her history? are you acquainted with her family? She is, I suspect, a dependant on the Miss Pemberton’s bounty. And have you not reflected that you may have won her heart as you may possibly have lost your own?”

“Mother,” said Harry, rising and taking Lady Castleton’s hand, “I love her for herself and herself alone; she has given me her love in return, and you would not wish your son to marry for mercenary or any other motives except such as influence me.”

“I wish to see your happiness secured, my dear Harry, but I fear that your father will not view matters in the light you do. He will certainly not approve of your marrying any one beneath you in rank.”

Harry argued as most young men would have done under similar circumstances.

“You might persuade me, my dear boy, but I fear that you will find it impossible to overcome your father’s strong notions on the subject. I must write and inform him of the state of affairs; and depend upon it, I will do my utmost to give him a favourable impression of the young lady.”

“But why trouble my father now about the matter?” urged Harry. “It will be time enough when he returns home to let him know my wishes, and he can then express his opinion. Pray do not object in the meantime to my visiting Downside. Our cousins invited me there in the first instance, without the slightest idea of the consequences; and I surely have a right to visit them as long as they give me permission. Remember I persuaded you to call there, a proof that I had no desire for concealment. However, as only you and Julia even suspect the state of the case, do let me ask you to keep the matter a secret at present, for I do not wish even Algernon to know it, as I am doubtful how he might act; he entertains the same opinion as Sir Ralph on most points, and might think fit to expostulate in a way I should not approve of.”

In spite of her previous resolutions, Lady Castleton was so far gained over by Harry, that she promised to wait and see how things were likely to go.

“Thank you, mother,” exclaimed Harry, kissing her brow; “all will go right. We must get Sir Ralph to see May without knowing who she is, and depend on it he will be enchanted with her, perhaps insist that I shall forthwith go and make her an offer of marriage.”

Lady Castleton smiled at her son’s enthusiasm, but directly afterwards sighed, for she knew her husband far better than did her son.

Harry was eager to set off for Downside, and hurrying downstairs mounted his horse, which the groom had been leading up and down waiting for him.

Just as he was starting, a dark, black-whiskered man, on a strong looking horse, rode up. Harry fancied that he recollected his features.

“Good morning, Mr Castleton,” said the stranger, lifting his hat. “I remember you, though a good many years have passed since you were at Texford.”

“You have the advantage of me, knowing my name. Have you business with any one here?”

“Yes; I wish to see Mr Groocock, the steward. I am the miller at Hurlston, and have to say a word or two about the rent of the mill,” answered Gaffin. “I remember you as a young midshipman, when I had the pleasure of offering to give you a cruise in my lugger, though for some reason or other you objected to accompany me.”

“I probably had good reasons for doing so,” answered Harry, recollecting what he had heard of Gaffin’s character, and that he was the father of the young man who had insulted May. “If you have business with the steward, you will find him in his room; good morning, sir,” and Harry was riding on.

“Pardon me, Mr Castleton, if I detain you for a minute,” backing his horse across the road. “You are perhaps not aware that though I have held the mill at Hurlston for a number of years, and have expended considerable sums in repairing it, Mr Groocock has given me notice that the rent is to be raised, and I wish to appeal to Sir Ralph against the injustice of the proceedings.”

“I cannot interfere in the matter, as Mr Groocock has my father’s perfect confidence, and he probably considers the rent you have hitherto paid as too low.”

“Where there is a will there is a way; if you wished to serve me, Mr Castleton, you could do so,” exclaimed Gaffin in an angry tone, as if his aim was to pick a quarrel with the young officer.

“I have no wish to interfere, and have no intention of doing so,” answered Harry. “I must again say good morning, sir.”

“You are willing to see an act of injustice done without any desire to prevent it,” said Gaffin.

“I do not believe that Mr Groocock would commit an act of injustice, and I consider it impertinent in you to infer that Sir Ralph Castleton acts unjustly.”

“I infer nothing; facts are stubborn things, Mr Castleton. I see how it is, your father wishes to drive me from the mill; but he is mistaken if he expects to succeed. If I am compelled, I will pay the additional rent, and remain, though I am not likely to be grateful to those who have ill-treated me. A few words from you would probably have favoured my cause.”

“I have already given you my answer, I cannot be longer delayed in discussing the subject,” and Harry, putting spurs to his horse, rode on.

Gaffin gave an angry glance towards the young officer, and then turning round, made his way towards the wing of the mansion in which Mr Groocock’s office was situated.

Chapter Thirty Three.

The Bird Flown.

Great was Harry’s disappointment on reaching Downside to find that May was not there. His cousins also, he fancied, received him with less cordiality than usual. Had he understood their feelings better, he would have had no cause to complain.

“Sit down, Harry,” said Miss Jane, in a somewhat formal tone, Harry thought. “May has told us of your offer. You must be aware that we have no legal control over her, but we feel it our duty not to encourage your visits here until we know that you have the permission of Sir Ralph and Lady Castleton, and that, we have our fears, will not be very readily given. As far as we have the power, we purpose making the dear girl independent, and have sent for Mr Shallard to make our wills accordingly.”

“Bless you for the thought,” exclaimed Harry, starting up. “I wish you would get Mr Shallard to make mine, and then, if I have to go to sea, and am killed before I marry, it will be a consolation that she is provided for.”

“Nothing but generosity would have prompted you to say that,” observed Miss Mary. “We only act, my dear Harry, according to the dictates of duty; we must not encourage a son to disobey his parents.”

“Then you need not object to my coming here,” answered Harry, brightening up. “I have told my mother, and I believe that I have won her over. She and Julia were delighted with May, as, of course, they must have been.”

Harry hoped that he had satisfied the consciences of the two good ladies. He begged them to let him know when Mr Shallard was coming over.

“It is very sad, Harry, to think that such a will as you propose making should ever come into effect, for it would make May very unhappy to hear of it.”

“Then don’t tell her on any account. And depend upon it, I do not intend to be killed if I can help it; only when shot are flying about, one may take me off as well as another man. Ships, too, sometimes founder with all hands, or blow up, or cast on shore, or a sea washes over the deck, and sweeps all before it, or the masts are carried away, and crush those beneath them.”

“Oh, pray do not talk of all the fearful things which happen to sailors,” exclaimed Miss Mary. “I am sure I wish that you could get Sir Ralph’s leave to marry, and come and settle quietly at Downside, instead of roaming about over the ocean; it would be a happier life, I think.”

Harry, as he pictured May as his wife, thought so too at that moment, but could he abandon the profession he loved, and the prospects of promotion and honour? For May he could abandon all; but would it be wise? That was not a subject he could just then think very clearly about.

He waited and waited, but May did not return. At last he thought of going to work at the grotto. The ladies said they should be much obliged if he would do so.

At length he recollected that he had promised to escort Headland and Julia. He would ride back to Texford, and by the time he had returned with them he hoped to find May at Downside.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Mad Sal.

We must now go back to Jacob. On recovering his senses and finding his limbs tightly lashed, he in vain attempted to free himself. He was unable to shout out for assistance, for a gag had been thrust into his mouth, while an handkerchief tightly bound over his eyes prevented him from seeing.

What his captors were going to do with him he could not tell. “They will not dare to murder me,” he thought; “if they do, no matter; I have saved May, and father and mother and the ladies will see that they must keep a careful watch over her lest these villains do what I suspect they intended doing, and try to carry her off.”

As far as Jacob could tell by the feeling of the wind on his cheeks, the horsemen were taking their way to the Downs. That road was little frequented, and he knew his captors would not venture to carry him thus openly where they were likely to meet any one who would recognise him.

“I was sure it was the villain Gaffin who has played me this trick,” thought Jacob, as he found the direction in which he was going. “He has missed his aim if it was to get hold of our May, that’s one comfort.”

At last the men stopped. Jacob found himself lifted from the horse and dragged into a house. He had little doubt that it was the mill-house. He had often heard of the desperate characters who frequented it, and they were not likely to have any scruple as to how they might treat him. He was left for some time on the ground, though he heard people speaking in low voices some way from him. Their voices grew louder and louder. At last he heard one say—

“We must not keep him here; the sooner he is aboard the better.”

Shortly afterwards he was again lifted and placed on his legs. Several strong arms dragged him along, and he felt the prick of a cutlass in his back driving him forward when he attempted to resist. He was dragged down a steep path.

“I know all about it now,” he thought. “That was the mill where they kept me, and now they are going to take me aboard the lugger, and maybe heave me overboard when they get into deep water. Poor father and mother, I care for them more than any one else; May will think little about me, I fear, and if it was not for my parents I should not care what becomes of me.”

All doubt of the matter was at an end when Jacob felt his feet pressing the sand.

“If I once get on board I shall have no chance,” he thought, and again he made a desperate effort to free himself. In doing so the bandage was torn off his head. He had sufficient time to see Gaffin, and he at once recognised the men who had captured him, while young Miles was standing by, though he kept at a respectful distance from his elbows.

At this juncture he heard a voice exclaiming—

“Are you still at your old work, ye hard-hearted ruffians, dragging off the young and helpless to be drowned in the salt, salt sea. Aren’t ye emissaries of Satan; let him go free, or my curses rest on you.” And Jacob saw the tall figure of Mad Sal descending the cliffs by a pathway few would have ventured to tread. Now and then she stopped and waved the long staff she carried in her hand.

“Who is that old woman?” asked Miles. “Make her hold her tongue, some of you, will you?”

“It’s more than you or any other man can do,” said one of the ruffians. “Try it yourself, master.”

Miles however showed no disposition to confront personally the mad woman.

“Get this young fellow aboard as you were ordered, and never mind her.”

This remark drew the attention of the mad woman, especially on Miles himself.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Are you a being of the earth, or a spirit from the nether world?” she shrieked out. “Speak, I command you, speak!”

“Be off, and don’t interfere with us, old woman!” answered Miles, plucking up his courage.

“I thought my senses deceived me,” shrieked out the mad woman, and she turned towards the men with whom Jacob was struggling as they endeavoured to drag him into the boat.

“Stay, I charge you, men, carry not off that poor lad on to the cruel salt sea if he is unwilling to go; the salt, salt sea, the cruel salt sea,” and she burst out in her usual refrain.

The men paid no attention to her, and continued their efforts in dragging Jacob to the boat.

Seeing this she again shrieked out—

“Stay, I charge you, or my curses go with you and all who abet you in the cruel act. May a speedy and sudden death overtake you; cursed be the craft which bears you across the salt sea; cursed be the sails which drive you onwards; cursed be those who bear you company; may the raging waves, the howling tempest, the flashing lightning, and roaring thunder overwhelm you; may you all sink down into the salt sea, salt sea; it’s a hungry, deep, and cruel sea. The sea, the sea, the salt, salt sea,” and she whirled her staff around her head, and shrieked louder and louder as she saw that the men had succeeded in hauling Jacob into the boat.

Miles apparently had no intention of going off, but one of the men, seizing him by the arm, exclaimed—

“Come along, and see your business carried out, young master; as you set us to the task, we are not going without you. If you turn fainthearted we will land the fellow, and let him settle the matter with you as he lists.”

Miles in vain expostulated. Mad Sal drowned his words with her wild shrieks, while she continued to wave her staff as if in the performance of an incantation. What with his unwillingness to face the mad woman should he be left on the beach, and the threats of the men, he was induced to go on board.

No sooner was he in the boat than the smugglers shoving off pulled towards the lugger, which lay in her usual berth about half-a-mile from the shore.

Mad Sal watched the proceeding, making her shrieks and wild shouts heard till the boat had got far off from the beach: she then suddenly stopped, and a gleam of sense appeared to pass through her mind.

“Instead of beseeching the villains to have mercy on the youth, I might have sent those to his aid who have the power to help him,” she muttered to herself, and turning round she began to ascend the cliff.

Chapter Thirty Five.

In Chase of the Lugger.

Harry galloped back to Texford, and found the groom, with Julia’s horse and Captain Headland’s, waiting in front of the house.

Julia came downstairs in her habit as he arrived.

“We were afraid you were not coming,” she observed. “I long to see our cousin’s young friend again.”

“I am ready to return at once,” answered Harry. “Here comes Headland.”

At that moment old General Sampson came out.

“What, my young friends, are you going to ride? I should have had the pleasure of accompanying you had I known it.”

Harry devoutedly hoped that the general would not ask them to stop till his horse was got ready.

“We are merely going to call on some relations who live at a village in the neighbourhood,” said Julia, who had as little wish for the general’s company as did Harry.

“Then let me have the honour of mounting you, Miss Julia,” said the old officer, shuffling down the steps.

At the same moment Mrs Appleton, who was passing across the hall, came to the door with most of the remaining guests.

Headland had been prepared to assist Julia in mounting, but the old general so perseveringly offered his services that she could not refuse them.

She placed her foot in his hand as he bent down, and sprang lightly into her saddle, but at the same moment the horse moving on, the general’s head came in contact with the body of her habit, when his wig catching in one of the buttons, off it came, leaving him bald-headed. He bore the misfortune, however, with much less equanimity, especially as Julia, in spite of the effort she made, gave expression to her amusement in a hearty laugh which was echoed by the bystanders, even the grooms being unable to restrain their merriment.

“I beg your pardon, general,” said Julia. “I had no intention to return your courtesy in so cruel a manner; here is your wig, do put it on, and forgive me.”

“Of course, young lady, of course; though I do not see that the occurrence should produce so much merriment among our friends.”

“My dear general,” cried Mrs Appleton from the steps above, “pray do not take the matter to heart. Come into the drawing-room and look at yourself in the mirror, and you may arrange your peruke in a more becoming way than it is at present.”

In fact, the general had in his hurry put on his wig hind part before, a mode which did not improve the appearance of his countenance, reddened with anger and annoyance.

Harry, eager to be off, called to Julia, who, again apologising to the angry general, followed her brother, and Headland soon overtook them.

Harry explained the cause of his being late, but he felt little inclined for conversation. Julia and Captain Headland were, however, perfectly ready to monopolise it, while Harry road on a little way ahead.

At length Julia called to him, and as he slackened his speed she came up to his side.

“Harry,” she said, “you warned me some days ago not to allow myself to give my heart to your friend; but as he has assured me that I have his in spite of what you said, I could do nothing less than give him mine in return.”

“You don’t mean to say so,” cried Harry. “What, has he proposed?”

“Yes, and I have accepted him, though he has told me his whole history. You won’t be angry with me, will you? He has asked me to intercede for him.”

“No, indeed, I will not,” exclaimed Harry. “I am heartily glad for his sake and yours. I congratulate both you and him.”

“Headland, my dear fellow, she has told me,” and Harry grasped his friend’s hand. “You offered to stand my friend, and I will stand yours, though really I consider your merits are sufficient to overcome all opposition. Still we may possibly have a hard battle to fight with Sir Ralph.”

“Julia and I are prepared for it,” said Headland, “though I cannot tempt her to be disobedient. I am sure that perseverance will overcome all difficulties.”

“Spoken like yourself, Jack,” said Harry. “In your case, I am sure it will. For myself, I am not quite so certain; even my good cousins began to lecture me,” and Harry described how the Miss Pembertons had spoken to him in the morning. “I do not think that May will quite agree with them, however,” he added. “No one will forbid her acting as she thinks right.”

“Then are you actually engaged to that beautiful girl?” asked Julia.

“Yes; and I told our mother, and she acknowledges that it would have been surprising had I not fallen in love with her; and I am sure you will think the same.”

Harry felt in much better spirits as they rode on. He had determined, however, to say nothing of May’s parentage till his sister had become better acquainted with her.

As they were approaching Downside, and had reached a part of the road between their cousins’ and the Halliburts’ cottage, the tall figure of Mad Sal was seen approaching them, waving her staff and talking wildly to herself. As she drew near she stopped, and, gazing at them, exclaimed—

“Who gave the command to bear the poor lad away over the salt sea, salt sea? Stay! answer me, I charge you!”

“What do you mean, my good dame?” asked Harry, as he at once recognised the occupant of the hut in which he and his brother had taken refuge from the storm.

“Good dame, forsooth; you call me so now, for ye have learned to respect me. I ask, was it by your orders yon lad was forced away against his will over the wide, salt sea?

“‘The lot fell on the youngest,

The youngest of the three,

That he should go a-sailing

All on the salt sea, salt sea -

That he should go a-sailing

All on the salt sea.’”

“I know of no lad having been forced to go to sea against his will,” said Harry, quietly. “Of whom do you speak? Tell me his name.”

She passed her hand over her brow, as if to collect her thoughts. She then answered in a calmer tone than before—

“He is the son of old Halliburt, the fisherman. Two of his sons have been borne away already to feed the insatiate maws of the cruel salt sea; ’tis hard that the old man should lose a third.”

“I will do all I can to save the lad, and punish those who have attempted to treat him as you say,” answered Harry, much interested. “If you can tell me where he has been carried to, I will do my utmost to get him set at liberty.”

“I stay for no one when on my destined course,” she answered, moving forward. “Your help will avail him nothing, as he will soon be far away from the shore,” and Mad Sal, flourishing her staff, as she generally did when walking, took the way towards Adam’s cottage.

Harry and his companions rode on to Downside. He intended, should May not have returned, to leave Julia there, and go in search of the mad woman. An undefined fear seized him that something might have happened to May. On reaching the house, Harry threw himself from his horse. Miss Jane, in a state of great agitation, was at the front door directing Susan to summon the gardener, that he might set off and ascertain what had become of Jacob. Harry fancied that she was speaking of May, and the dread seized him that she had been carried off.

At that moment he caught sight of her as she came out of the drawing-room, and forgetting everything else, he sprang forward and pressed her to his heart, as he exclaimed—

“Thank heaven you are safe, May! what has happened?”

“Jacob was attacked while defending me from some men on horseback, and I fear they have carried him off, as they failed to capture me,” she answered, making no very great effort to release herself, though she saw that Julia’s eyes were fixed on her.

Harry, however, recollecting that others were present released her, and having learned more particulars, had no doubt, coupling them with what he heard from Mad Sal, that Jacob had really been carried on board some vessel off the coast.

“We must do our best to recover him.”

“Oh yes, do,” exclaimed May. “Had it not been for him, I should probably have been carried away.”

“Headland, will you accompany me?” asked Harry. “We will go to Adam Halliburt, who has a craft, in which we can pursue the vessel his son has been carried on board. When we get to the beach we shall probably ascertain what craft she is, as she cannot have got far.”

Headland at once agreed to do as Harry proposed, and leaving Julia with the Miss Pembertons, they rode down to the fisherman’s cottage.

They found Adam at the door, Mad Sal having just before left him; but the information she had given had been in such incoherent language, that not till Harry and his friend arrived did he comprehend what had happened.

“It must be the doing of that scoundrel Miles Gaffin,” he exclaimed, “as his lugger is the only vessel lying off the mill. Ah, there she stands under all sail away from the coast,” looking through his glass. “I saw a boat go off to her just now, but I little thought my Jacob was aboard. The villains cannot have the heart to hurt him, yet it’s hard to say what they won’t do. Oh Jacob, my boy, my boy,” and Adam lifted up his eyes to heaven, as if for protection for his son.

Directly Harry spoke of the possibility of recovering him by going in pursuit, he exclaimed—

“Yes, to be sure, sir; the Nancy is as fast a craft as any, and there will be plenty of lads to go off with us.”

Headland, meantime, was looking seaward.

“What is that craft out there?” he asked, “she looks to me like a cutter.”

Adam lifted his glass.

“Yes, sir; she is the Scout, revenue cutter. But they will not trouble themselves with the lugger, for they know she has no cargo on board.”

“But if we can get on board her,” said Headland, “and send her in chase, she will have a better chance of overtaking the lugger than the fishing boat would have.”

“Thank you, sir,” exclaimed Adam. “I will let my crew know they are wanted, and when I have spoken a few words of comfort to my poor missus, who is ill in bed, I’ll be with you on board the Nancy.”

Adam, sending off a lad to summon his men, directed him at the same time to beg that Mrs Brown would come down and stay with his missus, while the two officers rode to the Texford Arms to leave their horses. They then hurried to the quay, where Adam and most of his crew were collected. As soon as the remainder arrived they went on board the Nancy. She was quickly under weigh, and the wind being off-shore ran out of the harbour.

“Is your boat a fast one?” asked Captain Headland of Adam.

“Yes, sir; not a faster out of the Tex, but I am afraid she has little chance of overhauling the lugger.”

“But if the wind falls light we may pull after her, and shall then have the advantage,” observed Captain Headland.

“She has got long sweeps too, sir. But we will try it, and my lads will give way with a will. I can trust them for that.”

“Ay, ay, no fear,” answered the men, looking towards the smuggler as if they were eager to be alongside her and to rescue Jacob.

“I believe that our best course would be to get on board the cutter, and for her to go in chase of the lugger,” said Harry; “though I do not think the smugglers would dare to oppose us if we could get up with them.”

“Whether or not, we will try to get back our Jacob, and the lads would make good play with the boat’s stretchers in spite of the cutlasses and pistols the villains have to fight with.”

“They would scarcely venture to use them when they see two king’s officers in the boat,” observed Headland.

“I am not so sure of that,” said Adam. “But they have a bad cause and we have a good one to fight for. We will get the oars out, lads,” he added, addressing his crew.

The Nancy thus assisted made good way, for the wind being light and off-shore, as has been said, the water was perfectly smooth, and the oars helped her along. Still it became evident to Captain Headland that she was not likely to overhaul the lugger. He therefore agreed with Harry that it would be best to get on board the cutter if they could.

The cutter was, however, sailing away from them, apparently watching the movements of the lugger. Their hope was that the Nancy might be seen, and that she might stand back to speak her.

The day was now drawing on, and Harry began to think of returning to Downside. Still they were unwilling to abandon all hopes of rescuing Jacob. They had no means of making a signal to draw the attention of the cutter, and if they could not get on board before dark, there was little prospect of their doing so at all.

The old fisherman sat in the stern-sheets, calm and apparently unmoved, though more eager than any one to overtake the craft on board which his only remaining son had been so barbarously carried off. Often he said to himself with the patriarch of old, “If I am bereaved of my children I am bereaved;” for he could not help seeing the little prospect there was of recovering his boy.

Already the sun had set behind the land, and the gloom of evening was stealing over the leaden ocean when the cutter was seen to haul her wind. Presently she came about and stood to the northward.

“We may still have a chance of overhauling her, sir,” exclaimed Adam, his hopes reviving.

Headland and Harry thought so too, although both were unwilling to remain out longer than they could help.

“Julia will probably ride back to Texford by herself when she finds that we have not returned; or will remain at our cousins and send over to say that we have been detained,” observed Harry, divining his friend’s thoughts.

“I fear that we shall cause the ladies much anxiety, as they will not know what has become of us,” observed Headland.

“I am afraid so,” said Harry; “but still I cannot bear that the young fisherman should be ill-treated without attempting to save him.”

“God bless you, Mr Harry, for saying that,” exclaimed Adam. “I pray we may get back our Jacob, for I know the tricks of those villains; and the Lively has a fast pair of heels; there are few cutters can come up with her, and the Scout is not one of those that can. Still something may happen to help us, though it will not be man’s doing. I can’t deceive myself, and I don’t want to deceive you.”

Headland feared that the old man was right. At the same time, as long as Harry had any hopes of overtaking the lugger he determined to accompany him.

The cutter was now about a mile distant to the south-east, but it was a question whether the Nancy could cut her off before she had run past to the north and darkness had come on.

The Nancy’s flag was run up to the mast-head and hauled down again several times in the hopes of attracting her attention.

As they approached, even though it was dark, their voices might be heard on board the cutter, and her commander would probably heave to to ascertain what they wanted.

Some more anxious minutes went by. At length Adam thought they had got near enough to make themselves heard; for though the gloom of night had come on, the cutter’s phantom-like form could now be seen as she glided onwards over the smooth sea.

“Now, lads, I will give the word and we will shout together,” cried Adam; and he and his crew, with Headland and Harry joining their voices, sent a loud shout across the ocean.

Directly afterwards the cutter was seen to haul up towards them.

“They have heard us! they have heard us!” he exclaimed. “Wait a bit, lads, we will give them another.”

After the second shout the cutter was hove to, and the Nancy was soon alongside.

“What is it you want, my men?” asked the commander, looking down into the boat.

Harry explained what had happened.

“I shall be glad to lay hands on the lugger, you may depend on that, for she has given me more trouble than any other craft on this coast,” he answered. “We have two of our boats away, and are short handed, though we would tackle the fellow as we are. It would be better if some of your men would come on board, and if we can overtake the lugger, they will be able to identify the lad you are in search of.”

“I will willingly accompany you,” said Harry, who, knowing how anxious May was about Jacob, wished to do what he thought she would desire.

“If the captain will take charge of the Nancy, I will go also with two of my lads,” said Adam. “I would take more, but must not leave the craft with fewer hands on board.”

Headland was well pleased with the arrangement, and undertook to escort Julia back to Texford, if she had not already gone, when he arrived at Downside.

There was no time to consider the matter further, as not a moment was to be lost, or there would be no prospect of overtaking the lugger.

“I hope that you will be back to-morrow, Harry, and I will ride over to Hurlston to meet you,” said Headland, as he stepped into the boat.

The cutter immediately kept away in the direction the lugger had last been seen, while the Nancy, hauling her wind, prepared to beat back to the shore.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Sir Ralph’s Arrival.

The Nancy, close-hauled, stood for the shore.

“Two or three tacks will do it, sir, I hope,” said Ned Brown, who, since Adam had been deprived of Ben’s services, had acted as his mate. “The Nancy knows her way into the harbour.”

“The oars will help her along though, I think,” observed Headland.

The men got them out, and the Nancy glided swiftly through the water.

“I am hoping, sir, the cutter will catch Miles Gaffin’s craft. There is not a bigger villain to be found than he is in these parts.”

“What has he done to gain such a character?” asked Headland.

“That’s just what no one can say exactly,” answered Ned, “still it’s pretty well known that there is nothing he would not dare to do if he chose to do it. He says he is one thing, and we know he is another. When he first came to Hurlston, he used to call himself a miller, and there is not a bolder seaman to be found anywhere. He does not now, however, pretend that he isn’t. Many is the cargo of smuggled goods he has run on this coast, and yet he always manages to keep out of the clutches of the revenue officers. There are not a few decent lads he has got to go aboard his craft, and they have either lost their lives, or turned out such ruffians that they have been a sorrow and disgrace to their families. He is more than suspected of having been a pirate, or something of that sort, in foreign parts. And they say when he first came to Hurlston, he seemed to know this coast as well as if he had been born and bred here, though he told people that chance brought him to the place, and that he had never set eyes on it before.”

“At all events, if common report speaks true, Hurlston will be well rid of him, if he does not venture back. I hope that the law will, at all events, be able to lay hands on the villain should it be proved that he kidnapped your friend Jacob,” observed Headland.

“If the cutter catches his craft, Jacob may be saved. I am more than afraid that Gaffin will knock him on the head, and heave him overboard with a shot to his feet, if he finds that he is hard-pressed, and then he will deny ever having had the poor fellow on board.”

“I trust, bad as he is, that he will not be guilty of such an act,” said Headland, though, at the same time, he feared, from what he had heard of Gaffin, that he would not scruple to commit that or any other dark deed to serve his purpose.

Headland was thankful when at length the boat glided into the Tex, and ran alongside the quay.

Several people were standing there. The news of what had occurred had spread about the village. Headland, anxious to lose no time, asked if any boy would be willing to run on to the Texford Arms to order his horse.

“Say Captain Headland’s horse, the gentleman who accompanied Mr Harry Castleton,” he said.

“Captain Headland!” said a person standing near, stepping up to him. “May I venture to ask where you come from?”

“I shall be happy to reply when I know to whom I speak,” said Headland, not quite liking the man’s tone of voice.

“I am Miles Gaffin, the miller of Hurlston. My good neighbours here have been making pretty free with my name, and accusing me of carrying off one of their number on board a lugger, which I understand you have been chasing, sir, when I have had nothing to do with the matter, having been miles away at the time the occurrence is said to have taken place.”

“I cannot say that I am unacquainted with your name, for I have just heard it mentioned, and I shall be glad to hear that you can give me the assurance that the young man has not been carried away,” said Headland.

“I know nothing about the matter,” answered Gaffin, “so I cannot tell whether the story I have heard is true or not. You, at all events, see, sir, that I am not on board the lugger, which I hear left the coast some hours ago. But I must again beg your pardon, and ask you to answer the question I put when I first had the honour of addressing you.”

“I am a commander in his Majesty’s service, and you must rest satisfied with that answer, sir,” said Headland, not feeling disposed to be more communicative to his suspicious questioner.

“Were you ever in the Indian seas in your younger days, sir? You will believe me that it is not idle curiosity that makes me put the question,” said Gaffin, in the blandest tone he could assume.

“You are right in your supposition,” said Headland, his own curiosity somewhat excited by the question.

“And you were known as Jack Headland when a boy.”

“I was.”

“And you took that name from another to whom it properly belonged.”

“I did. Can you tell me anything of him?” said Headland, eagerly.

“I wish to ask that question of you, sir,” replied Gaffin. “He was an old shipmate of mine, and being struck by hearing your name, I thought there might be some connection. I have long lost sight of him, and should have been glad to hear that he was alive and well.”

“He lost his life, I have too much reason to believe, in the Indian seas many years ago,” said Headland.

“Ah, poor fellow, I am sorry to hear that. Good evening to you, Captain Headland,” and Miles Gaffin, turning away, was soon lost to sight in the darkness.

Captain Headland, accompanied by one of the Nancy’s crew, hastened on till he met his horse, and mounting rode back to Downside. He found the ladies somewhat anxious at his and his friend’s long absence. Julia had sent a messenger on foot home to say that they were delayed, and hoped to return in the evening. Julia and the ladies made many inquiries for Harry, while May stood by, showing, by her looks, even still greater anxiety about him. Headland assured them that he would run no risk, though he probably would not be back till the following day.

Headland, for Julia’s sake, wished to set off at once for Texford, but Miss Jane had supper prepared, and insisted on his taking some before starting. Whether or not they suspected that he would become their relation, they treated him as if he were one already, and completely won his heart.

“What dear, amiable ladies your cousins are!” he observed, as he rode on with Julia. “I have never had the happiness of meeting any one like them.”

“Indeed they are,” said Julia; “I wish they were more appreciated at home. I have till lately been prejudiced against them. It has been an advantage for that sweet girl to have been brought up by them. Though she would have been equally lovely otherwise, yet she might not have had the charms of mind which she possesses. I am not surprised that Harry should have fallen in love with her, though I fear he will have a severe trial to go through when our father hears of his engagement. Though I do not forget that we are bound to obey our parents, yet I could not counsel him to give her up.”

“If she is all Harry believes her to be, I hope he may surmount that difficulty,” said Headland. “Though I have no parents to obey, I feel that he would be wrong to marry against his parents’ wishes.”

“Then, how ought I to act should Sir Ralph refuse to allow us to marry,” asked Julia in a voice which showed her agitation.

“I dare not advise you to disobey your father,” answered Headland. “But believe me, dearest Julia, whatever opposition he may make, and whatever may be his conduct towards me, I will remain faithful.”

“Should he forbid me to marry, to no one else will I give my hand,” said Julia, sorrowfully.

Neither Julia nor Headland uttered a vow or protestation; such they both felt was not required, so perfect was the confidence they had in each other’s love.

“I spoke this,” said Julia, “because Harry warned me to expect opposition; and yet I trust, when our father knows you as I do, and that my happiness depends on becoming your wife, he will not withhold his consent.”

“I wish that I could feel as little anxiety about Harry as I do about myself, and yet if our father can be induced to see May, I think she will do more to soften his heart than all Harry or I can plead in her favour. During the few hours I spent in her company, she completely won mine.”

As they rode up to the house, two servants, who had evidently been on the watch for them, hastened down the steps to take their horses. Headland helped Julia to dismount, and led her into the hall.

Lady Castleton hurried out of the drawing-room to meet them.

“Sir Ralph arrived this afternoon. We have been very anxious about you; we could not understand your message. Where is Harry? What has happened, Captain Headland?”

Headland explained that a young Hurlston fisherman had been kidnapped by a band of smugglers, that he and Harry, indignant at the outrage, had set off in the hopes of recovering him, and that while he had returned on shore, Harry had continued the chase on board the cutter.

“Harry was scarcely called upon to go through so much risk and inconvenience for the sake of a stranger,” observed Lady Castleton. “His father was much disappointed at not seeing him on his arrival.”

Julia pleaded that Harry had done what he thought to be right, and then went in to see her father, who was reclining on the sofa, with his fingers between the pages of a book closed in his hand. He received her even more coldly than usual; he never exhibited much warmth of feeling even to her. She had again to recount what had happened, and he expressed the utmost surprise at Harry’s acting in so extraordinary a manner. He did not allude to her ride home with Captain Headland, though she every moment thought he would speak of it. She excused herself for leaving him as soon as possible on the plea that she must change her riding-habit.

When Headland at last entered the drawing-room, the baronet received him with marked coldness, and made no allusion to his having been absent. The young captain could not help feeling that Sir Ralph did not regard him with a favourable eye.

Julia came down only for a few minutes before the usual hour for retiring for the night had arrived, and Headland had no opportunity of speaking to her.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

No News of the Cutter.

When Sir Ralph entered the breakfast-room next morning, Headland could not help remarking the formal politeness with which he greeted him.

“Has nothing been seen of my son Harry?” he asked. “Perhaps, Captain Headland, you would favour me by riding over to Hurlston to ascertain whether the cutter in which he embarked has returned.”

Headland said that he should be very happy to do as Sir Ralph wished. He looked towards Julia, doubting whether he might venture to ask her to ride in the same direction.

Sir Ralph seemed to divine his thoughts, for he immediately said—

“Julia, I wish to have some conversation with you during the morning; we will afterwards, if you please, take a canter round the park.”

The hint was too broad Headland saw to be misunderstood.

Julia looked annoyed, but quickly recovering herself, replied—

“I will come to you, papa, whenever you wish.”

Algernon soon after came in, looking pale and ill. His father seemed struck by his appearance, and asked with more concern than usual if he had not slept well.

“Not particularly so; my cough somewhat troubled me, but with the advantage of a few warm days, I daresay I shall be soon to rights again.”

The baronet’s thoughts seemed to be diverted from their former channel by his anxiety for his son.

General Sampson and Mrs Appleton did their best to make the conversation more lively than it might otherwise have become, for Lady Castleton had evidently some anxiety on her mind, and was less able than usual to act the part of the hostess.

The old gentleman had discovered that Julia and Headland were in love before they were aware of the fact themselves, and he had a shrewd suspicion also that Master Harry had some greater attraction at Downside than his old maiden cousins could personally offer. He was now certain that some hitch had occurred. He had already paid a longer visit than usual, but a better motive than mere curiosity prompted him to stay to see the upshot. He had a sincere regard for Harry and Julia, and was much pleased with Headland, who took his jokes in most excellent part. “I may lend the young people a helping hand, and give my friend Sir Ralph, a stroke the right way,” he thought.

Soon after breakfast, Headland’s horse was brought to the door. He saw Julia only for a moment in the hall.

“Although I have had no opportunity of speaking to my mother, she, I suspect, guesses the truth, and has thought it best at once to speak to Sir Ralph, for she dare not conceal anything from him. I would rather you had been the first to inform him of our engagement, but he evidently wished to prevent you doing so, by begging you to go to Hurlston.”

“I wish I could have spoken myself, but, pray, assure your father that I would have done so had he given me the opportunity. But as we have nothing for which to blame ourselves, we must trust that his prejudices will be overcome, and that he will not withhold you from me.”

The old general entering the hall at that moment, prevented Headland from saying more.

Mounting his horse, the captain road on to Hurlston. He met several of the Nancy’s crew. The cutter had not returned, and Ned Brown again expressed his conviction that if the lugger was to be caught, it would not be till after a long chase. Knowing that the ladies of Downside would be anxious to hear any news he could give, he proceeded thither. The Miss Pembertons welcomed him cordially. May was on the point of setting out to visit Dame Halliburt. She had from early dawn kept a look-out over the ocean, and was aware that the cutter had not returned. He was more than ever struck by her beauty and unaffected manners, though her anxiety on Harry’s and Jacob’s account made her paler and graver than usual. She expressed her regret at being compelled to set off at once, and Headland therefore did not mention Sir Ralph’s arrival till she had gone.

“I am sorry to hear of it,” said Miss Jane, “for I fear that it will terminate Harry’s and May’s present happiness, and that the troubles and trials which I foresee are in store for them will at once begin, though I trust that they may overcome them in the end.”

Captain Headland felt the remark applied equally to his own case, though he did not say so. He had omitted on the previous evening mentioning his meeting with Gaffin. He now did so, remarking—

“I understood that he was the leader of the party carrying off the young fisherman, but he assured me that he knew nothing of the matter, and was several miles distant when it occurred.”

“I almost wish that he had been of the party if such is the case, for if he remains here, I fear that our May will be exposed to danger,” said Miss Jane.

“Surely no one would venture to injure a young lady living with you,” observed Headland.

Miss Jane then told him of the annoyance to which May had been subjected from Gaffin’s son.

Headland naturally felt indignant.

“Strong measures must be taken to get this man Gaffin and his son out of the way,” he remarked. “As soon as Harry returns we will see what can be done. In the meantime I will ride down to the cottage and ascertain that your young friend has reached it in safety, and will wait to escort her back.”

He soon caught sight of her at about half-way to Adam’s cottage. At the same moment a person resembling the man who had spoken to him on the previous night appeared and seemed about to address May, who quickened her pace, when catching sight of Headland he apparently thought better of it and advanced to meet him.

“Good-day, Captain Headland,” said the man, looking up at him with cool assurance. “Your friend, Mr Harry Castleton, will have a long chase after the lugger, a wild goose chase I suspect it will prove. I have been enquiring into the truth of the story you heard, and I find that it was spread by a wretched old mad woman whom the people about here take to be a witch. The sooner she is ducked in the sea, and proved to be an ordinary mortal who has lost her senses, the better. It is disagreeable for a man in my position to have his character belied in this way.”

“We certainly heard a story from a mad woman, but she spoke in a way which led us to suppose she described an actual occurrence,” said Headland. “From what you say I conclude you are Mr Gaffin who addressed me last night.”

“The same at your service, Captain Headland. I have no further questions to ask, however, since you can give me no account of my old shipmate; I am sorry to hear of his death; good-day to you, sir,” and Gaffin moved on, taking the direction of the mill.

This last interview left a still more unfavourable impression on Headland’s mind of Mr Miles Gaffin. He did not like the expression of the man’s countenance or the impudent swagger of his manner; while it was evident by the way he talked that he was a person of some education. Headland tried to recollect whether he had before seen him, or whether his old protector had ever mentioned his name.

As he rode on slowly, keeping May in sight, he suddenly recollected the description Jack Headland had given him of the mate of the ship on board which he had been placed by his supposed father, when a child. “Can that man in any way be connected with my history?” he thought. “He certainly must have known poor Jack Headland; he had some motive, possibly, in speaking of him.”

The more he thought the more puzzled he became. The only conclusion he arrived at was that Gaffin and the mate of the vessel in which he had been wrecked might possibly be one and the same person, and if so, from Jack’s account, he was undoubtedly a villain, capable of any crime.

Having seen May enter Halliburt’s cottage, he rode to the Texford Arms and put up his horse, resolving to wait in the neighbourhood till she should again come out. He would then have time to get back and mount his horse—which he told the hostler to keep saddled—and follow her.

He in the meantime took a few turns on the pier, and got into conversation with two or three of the old seafaring men who were standing about; the younger were at sea in their boats, or had gone home after the night’s fishing. He made enquiries about the man he had just met. They all repeated the same story; their opinion was that he had been a pirate or something of that sort on the Spanish main, or in other distant seas, and having for a wonder escaped, he had returned home to follow a more peaceful and less dangerous calling, though still in reality unreformed and quite ready to break the laws of his country. From the description they gave of his wife, Headland thought that she must have been an Oriental, and this strengthened his idea that he was the man of whom Jack had spoken. Had he enquired about the Halliburts he might have learned the particulars of May’s early history, but he still remained under the impression that she was a ward of the Miss Pembertons, and had merely come down to visit the dame as she would any other of the villagers suffering from sickness or sorrow.

Notwithstanding Gaffin’s assertion that he knew nothing about Jacob being carried off, the men were certain that though he might not have been present, it had been done at his instigation, as his crew were known to be ready to engage in any daring undertaking he might suggest. They, however, feared that there was very little prospect of the lugger being captured.

“That mate of his would sooner run her under water or blow her up than let a king’s officer come on board, and it will be better for poor Jacob if the cutter does not come up with her,” observed one of them.

Headland borrowed a glass and swept the horizon several times, but no craft like the cutter appeared. At length he went back to the spot whence he could watch Adam’s door for May’s appearance. She came out at last, and he hurried to the inn to get his horse. He soon again caught sight of her and followed her at a distance till she reached Downside.

If Gaffin was, as he supposed it possible, watching her, that person took good care to keep out of his sight.

After waiting for a few minutes, Headland rode up to the cottage. He thought it would be prudent to let Miss Jane know of his having again seen Gaffin, and he took an opportunity, while May was out of the room, to tell her. She thanked him warmly.

“We must keep a careful watch over the safety of our young friend,” she observed, “and while that dreadful man remains at the mill, must not allow her to go out alone. I hear that Sir Ralph’s steward has given him warning to quit it at the end of his present lease. He will be unable to find another place of similar character suitable to his purposes.”

When May came in Headland had the opportunity of conversing with her, and no longer felt surprised that she should so completely have won Harry’s affections. Though he thought her inferior in some respects to Julia, he acknowledged to himself that she was one of the most charming girls he had seen, and was as much struck with her modesty and simplicity as with her sprightliness and beauty.

“It is a pity Sir Ralph could not be induced to see her,” he thought; and he resolved to advise Julia to try and get her father to call at Downside, if possible, before he was aware of Harry’s attachment, so that he might be perfectly unprejudiced.

Headland naturally wished to be back at Texford, though unwilling to go without being able to take any news of Harry.

At last as evening was approaching he rode once more to a point in the village where he could obtain an uninterrupted view of the sea, but the cutter was still not in sight. Accordingly, wishing the Miss Pembertons and May farewell, he set off on his way to the park.

He could conscientiously assure Lady Castleton that she need not be at all anxious about her son, as there was nothing surprising in the cutter not having returned. Sir Ralph seemed vexed at not seeing him, but made no other remark.

Captain Headland felt conscious that though Julia was anxious to be with him, her mother took every means in her power to prevent their meeting alone without showing too clearly that she was doing so. Julia found an opportunity, and told him her father was aware of their love, but had said that he would reserve any expression of his intentions till he had seen Harry. With this Headland was compelled to be content.

The baronet was perfectly polite, if not cordial, to him during the evening, and next morning he asked him if he would again ride over to Hurlston.

Algernon apologised for not accompanying him on the plea of illness.

Headland could not help suspecting that he was sent to be kept out of Julia’s way; and but for her sake and Harry’s, he would at once have left Texford.

He spent the day by first going to the village, and then calling at Downside, after which he took a long ride over the Downs to the south, whence he could see the cutter should she return.

Again, however, he was doomed to disappointment.

On his way back he met Mr Groocock, and begging the steward to accompany him, mentioned what he had heard about Gaffin.

“The man is a mystery to me, Captain Headland. I believe him to be all you have heard. But he has possession of the mill, and until his lease is up the law will not allow us to turn him out. The law, you see, captain, assists rogues as well as honest men, provided they keep within it, and there is no evidence we can bring to prove that he is what people say he is. If smuggled goods were found in his mill they would be seized, or if his vessel was taken with contraband aboard she would be captured, and there would be an end of her, and if it is true that his people have carried off the fisherman’s son, they will be punished, but the law cannot touch him or his vessel for that, and so, you see, he will laugh at us, as he has done for these years past. But the master he serves will play him a scurvy trick in the end, as he does all his willing slaves, I have no manner of doubt. But, in the meantime, if he keeps his wits awake, as he has hitherto done, he may do all sorts of things with impunity.”

To the truth of these remarks Headland agreed.

As they rode on Mr Groocock kept frequently looking up at him.

“If it’s not an impertinent question, Captain Headland, may I ask if you have been in this part of the country before?”

“No,” answered Headland. “I have been very little in England at all. I was born abroad, and have been at sea the greater part of my life.”

“Of course—of course; I ought to have thought of that,” said Mr Groocock to himself; then he added, “I beg your pardon, captain, but you remind me of some one I knew in former years—that made me ask the question without thinking; you are much younger than he would have been by this time.”

Headland would willingly have enquired of whom the steward spoke, but the old man at once abruptly changed the conversation, and they shortly afterwards reached the gates of Texford.

The evening passed by much as the previous one had done, though Lady Castleton and Julia had become still more anxious at not seeing Harry.

Julia thought of poor May, who would, she knew, feel still more anxious, and she resolved, if possible, to go over to Downside the next day to see her, and show her sympathy.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

Alarms.

The family had retired to rest. Headland, however, was sitting up, feeling no inclination to sleep, and having numerous subjects to occupy his mind. He looked at his watch. It was one o’clock.

“After all, the only course which honour dictates lies straight before me. I would not persuade Julia to marry me without her father’s consent; and if he withholds it I shall remain pledged to her, and go to sea till he withdraws his opposition.”

At that moment the hall door bell rang a loud peal. Taking his lamp Headland went downstairs, hoping to find that Harry had returned. As no servant had appeared, he commenced withdrawing the bolts. Not being accustomed to the operation, he was some time about it.

“Bear a hand, let me in as fast as you can,” said a voice. It was Harry’s. He spoke in a hurried and excited tone.

Headland succeeded at last, and Harry staggered in, looking very pale. There was blood on his coat-sleeve and down his side.

“My dear fellow, what has happened?” exclaimed Headland.

“I have been attacked by highwaymen or ruffians of some sort, and though I beat them off, one of them sent a bullet through my side, and another gave me an ugly slash with a hanger. Thanks to my good steed, and a stout stick I carried instead of my whip, I kept them at bay till I got clear away.”

“Come to your room at once then, and have your hurts looked to; you seem weak from loss of blood.”

“I am somewhat faint, and shall be glad of some refreshment if we can rouse up the butler; but I do not wish to alarm my mother and Julia by making any disturbance in the house.”

Headland having helped Harry to his room, received his directions where to find the servants, and went in search of them without waiting to hear more of his adventures.

“Thieves and robbers in the house! I’ll be after them anon,” exclaimed Boodle, the old butler, from within, giving sundry grunts and groans while trying to arouse himself.

Directly afterwards he made his appearance with night-cap on head, his breeches just slipped on supported by a single brace, and his feet in slippers, while in one hand was a blunderbuss and the other held a candle.

“You will find no thieves to fight with,” said Headland, smiling at his appearance. “We only want you to bring a bottle of wine as a cordial, and afterwards to obtain some bandages from the housekeeper. Call some one to take Mr Harry’s horse, and come as soon as you can.”

Headland hurried back to Harry’s room.

“I believe I have only received flesh wounds of no great consequence, and shall soon be all to rights,” said Harry.

“Had we not better send off for a surgeon,” asked Headland, “though I will do my best in the meantime.”

“He or the messenger might be shot at on his way,” answered Harry. “Your doctoring will be quite sufficient for the present, and we shall see how I feel in the morning.”

Boodle soon appeared with the wine. He almost let the bottle drop as he saw the blood on Harry’s dress.

“Dear, dear! what has happened, Mr Harry?” he asked with a look of horror.

“Nothing of consequence,” answered Harry.

“Shall I call up her ladyship and Sir Ralph and Mrs Trimmings?”

“Pray, my good Boodle, do nothing of the sort; just get what Captain Headland requires, and then turn in and go to sleep again. We sailors, you know, are accustomed to this sort of thing.”

Boodle having become more composed, hastened away to get the bandages and some hot water, while Headland, who had at different times assisted the surgeon on board ship, prepared to dress his friend’s hurts.

In due course Harry greatly revived, and was able to tell his story. “You will be anxious,” he said, “to hear about our chase. We thought at first that we should overhaul the lugger, as we had the breeze while she was becalmed. Still she managed to slip through the water. We kept her in sight all night, and the next morning the wind coming ahead I was in great hopes that we should get up to her—indeed we actually got within half-a-mile. Another slant of wind favouring her, she went away with her sheets eased off to the eastward, and shortly afterwards we lost sight of her in a thick mist which swept over the German Ocean. We stood on for some hours in the hopes of sighting her again, but when the fog cleared she was nowhere to be seen. The commander of the cutter declared that he had done all he could, and that we might as well look for a needle in a bundle of hay as search longer for the lugger, so we stood back for Hurlston.”

It was some time after nightfall when we landed, and having seen poor Adam safe in his cottage, I, of course, went up to Downside to let the ladies know of our return. I was not aware how quickly the time passed. At length, finding how late it was, I mounted my horse and rode towards Texford.

I had just got out of the village when two fellows started up in front of my horse and tried to seize the bridle, when they treated me as I told you. With two blows of my stick I made them let go, when the animal springing forward I got clear of them, and, as you may suppose, did not draw rein till I reached this. They may have been highwaymen, but I suspect that they belonged to the smugglers’ gang, and waylaid me in revenge for my interference with regard to young Halliburt.

Headland, recollecting the character he had heard of Gaffin, suggested that he possibly, with one of his companions, had attacked Harry.

“We must see about it to-morrow,” he added, “and I must now insist on your going to bed, Harry, and trying to go to sleep, or your hurts will probably bring on fever. You must let me take up my berth in this arm-chair, that I may watch over you during the night.”

Though Harry objected, Headland insisted on remaining, and the night passed away, Harry having given him very little trouble.

Headland was fortunate enough to meet Julia before the rest of the family had made their appearance. He thus was able to give her the first account of what had occurred, and to assure her that though Harry might be kept in the house a few days, he was in no danger.

She at once hurried to his room. He made light of his hurts, and declared that he should come down to breakfast as usual. She persuaded him, however, to remain in bed. He consented to do so on condition that she would send over to May, and account for his non-appearance at Downside that day.

Sir Ralph was very indignant at hearing of the outrage, and determined at once to take steps to discover the perpetrators. He had wished to speak to his son, and was annoyed at being unable to do so, as Lady Castleton persuaded him that any agitation would be injurious to Harry.

A surgeon had been sent for and gave a favourable report, complimenting Captain Headland on the way he had treated his patient.

Julia and Headland met constantly in Harry’s room, both being anxious to assist in nursing him.

In a couple of days he was able to dress and come downstairs. Perhaps he would have remained up longer had he known the ordeal he was about to go through.

Harry was sitting in the drawing-room when he received a message from Sir Ralph, requesting him to come into the study.

“My father is going to question me about May,” he thought. “I had hoped to escape this for some time to come; but I must be firm and not allow his prejudices to cause her unhappiness.”

He walked slowly in. Sir Ralph closed the door and placed him in an arm-chair, and took his usual seat at his writing-table.

“Harry,” he said, “I had sufficient confidence in you to suppose that, when you brought your friend Captain Headland to the house, you knew that he was a man of family and good connections, so that should he fall in love with your sister no objections were likely to be raised. Am I right in giving you credit for this amount of wisdom?”

Harry felt greatly relieved on finding that he was not to be questioned about May.

“My friend Headland, sir,” he said, “is a first-rate officer and an excellent fellow, and is sure to gain credit for himself and to rise high in the service.”

“That may be,” observed Sir Ralph. “But I wish to know if he is a man of family and a fit match for your sister, for I understand that he has of late paid her great attention.”

“I think so highly of him that I am sure any girl would be fortunate in winning his affections,” answered Harry.

“That’s not the question I wish to have answered. I wish to know whether he is of good family, and has a sufficient fortune to support a wife, as Julia ought to be supported.”

“On the first point I cannot enlighten you,” answered Harry; “for I confess that I do not know of what family he is, but he has been very fortunate in making prize money, and I am sure he has quite enough to live in a way to satisfy Julia.”

“I was afraid it might be so from never having heard him speak of his family,” said Sir Ralph. “You have acted very imprudently, Harry, in bringing a man of his description here. Though I do not wish to act with discourtesy, I desire you will give him to understand that he is no longer welcome at Texford.”

“That is impossible, father,” exclaimed Harry. “He is devotedly attached to Julia, and I am sure she is to him. If he is told to go, I must go also. I have said that, though I do not know his family, for the simple reason that he does not know it himself. He is everything that is noble, and good, and excellent, and I would rather see Julia marry him than any other person in existence.”

“I know the world better than you do, Harry, and such a marriage as you wish me to sanction for your sister is not calculated to promote her welfare, and that is the point I, as her father, have to consider.”

“If she is not allowed to marry Headland she will be miserable,” exclaimed Harry.

“I had considered the point maturely before I sent for you,” said Sir Ralph, “and I wish to save your friend the annoyance of being spoken to by me. If you refuse to tell him my determination, I shall have to do so. And now, Harry, I have another matter to speak to you about.”

Harry grew nervous.

“I understand during my absence you have paid frequent visits to Downside.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, “Our cousins kindly invited me there.”

“I know they did, and placed a young lady, I hear, of some personal attractions in your way, and, like a sailor, you directly tumbled over head and ears in love with her. I strip the matter of the romance with which you may be inclined to surround it. Do I not speak the truth?”

“I confess, sir,” said Harry, determined to speak boldly, “I have met at the Miss Pembertons a young lady to whom I have declared my love.”

“You have declared your fiddlestick,” exclaimed the baronet, with less than his usual dignity. “You could make no promise without my sanction, and that I cannot give you. You can let the girl know this in any way you like.”

“My affections were engaged before I was aware of it, and as I am of age, and the young lady is in every way calculated to insure my happiness, and I have the means of supporting her without taxing you, I felt that I had a right to propose to her.”

“In other words, you were entrapped before you saw the meshes spread to catch you, and discarding every other consideration, are ready to disobey me, and give up your profession, and all your prospects of advancement in life, for the sake of a pretty face,” observed the baronet, sarcastically. “Though you are ready to make a fool of yourself, I must exert my paternal authority and save you from ruin.”

“But I do not contemplate giving up my profession, and the prize money I have already made, with what I may hope to obtain, will give me ample means to support a wife,” answered Harry.

“Have you calculated, may I ask, to what this princely fortune you speak of amounts?”

“Three or four hundred a year, sir, not including my pay; and the young lady herself is not penniless, for our cousins have resolved to leave her their property.”

“Our cousins leave a stranger their property!” exclaimed Sir Ralph. “It should be Julia’s or yours; it came through the Castletons, and should return to them.”

“So it will, sir,” said Harry, having, as he hoped, caught his father in a trap, “when May marries me.”

“I see how it is,” observed the baronet, not noticing Harry’s last remark. “Our sanctimonious cousins wish to get a husband for this girl they have picked up, and as they are not likely to meet any other young gentleman in the secluded way they live, they have entrapped you.”

“I assure you, sir, you do them great wrong,” observed Harry, warmly. “I went to the house of my own accord, and I am sure it did not enter their heads that I should fall in love with their friend. I wish, sir, that you could see them and the lady you condemn. Possessing as you do so exquisite a taste in female beauty and refinement, I am sure you will admire her.”

“I may possibly call at the Miss Pembertons, because I wish to express my opinion of their conduct in the matter,” said the baronet, wishing not to appear influenced by his son’s remarks. “I may then see this girl who has caught you. I tell you that if she were as beautiful as Venus, nothing would alter my determination. May I ask, do you know who she is? Your mother has only spoken to me of her as the Miss Pembertons protégé.”

Harry, feeling perfectly sure that should he answer the question his father would be still more adverse to his marriage, and would possibly express himself forcibly on the subject, replied—

“I wish, sir, that you would see her before I answer the last question. I wish you to judge her on her own merits, independent of all other considerations.”

Harry had maintained the conversation with a good deal of spirit, though he felt somewhat exhausted, when his father, turning to the table, began to write without apparently noticing him. While thus seated, his eye fell on the picture of his long lost uncle which hung next to Sir Reginald’s. Though he had been often in the room, he had never particularly noticed it, for it was in a bad light, and the features were not distinct. A gleam of sunlight now coming into the room fell directly on it, and suddenly, as he gazed, a strange idea came into his mind. He thought, and thought. “Yes, the features and expression remind me much of what he was at the same age, and yet it must be fancy.”

Sir Ralph suddenly interrupted his reveries.

“Harry,” he said, “I do not wish to quarrel with your friend, that is not my way, but you will take an early opportunity of advising him to spend the remainder of his time on shore elsewhere.”

“But has Headland proposed to you for Julia?” asked Harry.

“No, and I wish to prevent him from doing so,” said Sir Ralph. “We shall part on much better terms than would be the case had I to refuse his offer, and I dislike such a scene as is likely to follow. If he goes away without being engaged she will soon forget him, and he, employed in active service, will forget her; the matter will thus be settled, and much inconvenience saved.”

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Sir Ralph at Downside.

Harry had returned to his room when the surgeon, Mr Curtis, arrived.

“Pulse is not as satisfactory as I should have wished,” he observed. “We must keep you quiet, Mr Harry, and I must request you to remain in your room till I see you again.”

“What!” exclaimed Harry. “I thought of taking a ride to-morrow. I am very anxious to go over to Downside.”

“Totally out of the question, Mr Harry. You would very likely bring on a fever, and I could not answer for the consequences.”

“Have you seen the Miss Pembertons lately?” asked Harry.

“Yes. Miss Jane, though she generally considers her skill superior to mine, sent for me to attend the young lady who lives with them, and I suspect, Mr Harry, that you had something to do with her illness, though I am happy to say there is nothing serious. She heard somewhat abruptly of your having been attacked by the robbers, and it was said that you had only just time to reach the hall and fall down in a dead faint. When I assured her that you were in no danger at all, and would soon recover if you followed my advice, she quickly got better, and I hope to find her quite well when I next call.”

“Though I may not ride, could I not drive there?” asked Harry. “I must see her, or she may still be fancying that I am worse than is the case.”

“Not with my leave, certainly,” said the doctor. “I will take care to let her know how you are getting on, and if, as I suspect, you are not indifferent to the young beauty, I shall be happy to bring you any message she may send you.”

“I will write to her,” exclaimed Harry. “I will not detain you long.”

“No, no, my friend, I am happy to convey any verbal message, but must decline being the carrier of written despatches. I might possibly hand them to the wrong persons, and instead of a prescription which I had intended to leave, some demure middle-aged maiden might find herself in possession of a love letter. I know well enough all you have to say, and trust me for making the young lady understand you.”

“By-the-bye, have you seen Dame Halliburt? I wish to know how she and her husband bear the loss of their son.”

“She is about again, and both keep up their spirits in the hopes that the lad will manage to make his escape from the smugglers, and return to them before long. It is a sore trial for them though, as he was their only remaining child.”

“The doctor forgets May,” thought Harry; and very naturally did not mention her, by which he lost the opportunity of learning a fact which might have been of considerable consequence to him.

The doctor as he went down saw Lady Castleton and Julia, and charged them on no account to let Harry go out.

“I cannot be answerable for his life if he does,” he observed, more, perhaps, for the sake of inducing them to be firm on the subject than because he had any apprehension of Harry’s safety.

Sir Ralph kept to his resolution of going over to Downside. He set out followed by his groom, both of them carrying pistols in their holsters, while the baronet in addition wore a sword by his side, in case any of the gang of ruffians who had attacked his son might set upon him.

The Miss Pembertons had in the meantime kept to their purpose of making a will in favour of Maiden May. Mr Shallard arrived unexpectedly one morning. They explained their views, and as there was nothing intricate, he was able to draw it up at once, and Adam Halliburt and their gardener, who had been sent for, acted as witnesses. Adam’s satisfaction at seeing his Maiden May thus amply provided for was very great.

“God bless you, ladies,” he exclaimed; “if there is anything that could make me feel happy it is this.”

“I remember your mentioning the little girl to me some years ago,” observed Mr Shallard to Adam; “and I am afraid we have been remiss in not making more efforts to ascertain to what family she can belong, although the difficulties have increased by the length of time which has elapsed. The expense, however, will, I fear, be considerable, though really for the sake of so interesting a young lady I should be happy to bear it.”

“If it would prove to May’s interest to discover her parents I would also assist, and so would my sister Mary,” said Miss Jane.

“We will see what can be done,” said Mr Shallard, at length preparing to take his departure. Just as he reached the hall door, Sir Ralph rode up. “Good-day, Mr Shallard. What, have my good cousins been requiring your services?”

“Had I called professionally I should have been bound not to reveal the business even to you, my most respected client,” answered the lawyer evasively. “I trust you can give me a favourable account of Lieutenant Castleton. We must hunt up the scoundrels who attacked him, but as yet the myrmidons of justice have made no progress I fear.”

“They have not, and the country is indeed in an unsatisfactory condition when such outrages as have lately occurred can be perpetrated with impunity,” observed Sir Ralph.

Mr Shallard, however, not wishing to have any longer conversation with the baronet, wished him “good morning,” and rode off.

May had just been summoned to the drawing-room after the lawyer’s departure. She was seated by Miss Mary’s side, engaged with her needle, the light which streamed through the bay window falling on her fair countenance, and showing the golden hue in her hair. Had she intentionally placed herself in a position for appearing to the best advantage, she could not have been more successful. Miss Jane was seated nearer the door, when the baronet entered.

“Though your visits are rare we are glad to see you whenever you do come, Sir Ralph,” she said, rising and putting out her hand, which the baronet lifted to his lips with his usual courtly politeness. “Here is Sir Ralph, Mary,” added Miss Jane.

Miss Mary rose as did May in a graceful way, standing with one hand on the chair, as she felt an unusual trepidation seize her.

The baronet advanced, fixing his eyes on her, and then having pressed Miss Mary’s hand, he made her one of his most courtly bows.

“Let me introduce our young friend to you,” said Miss Jane, who had observed Sir Ralph’s glance of admiration.

He was of too unbending a nature, however, to allow May’s beauty to alter his determination. He entered into conversation, however, with the freedom of a man of the world, making the ladies believe that his visit was only one of courtesy. His critical taste could not help being satisfied with May’s manners and the remarks she made, as much as it had been by her beauty, and she began to feel that regard for him which she naturally wished to have for the father of her intended husband.

The baronet, rising, said in a more formal tone than he had hitherto used—

“I must beg of you, Miss Pemberton, a few minutes private conversation before I bid you farewell.”

“If you wish it we will go to the dining-room, or Mary and May will leave us alone.”

“Not on any account would I have them quit the drawing-room,” answered Sir Ralph, and stepping up to Miss Mary he lifted her hand to his lips, bowing at the same time to May, with that courtesy which he considered her beauty demanded, though his cold look gave her an unsatisfactory feeling.

“I am obliged to you for allowing me an interview in private,” he said, as soon as he and Miss Jane were seated in the dining-room. “I wish to make enquiries with regard to the young person residing with you, and with whom, it appears, my son Harry has fallen in love. With all respect to you you must be aware that I cannot consider a person in her situation in any way a suitable wife for a son of mine, and though I do not wish to throw blame upon you, I cannot help feeling that you have been guilty of indiscretion, to use no stronger term, in allowing the young people to meet in the way it appears they have done. I should have expected, under the circumstances, that you would not have invited him to the house, and had he called of his own accord would have kept the young lady out of his way. I must therefore hold you responsible for the consequences.”

The tone of this address—so unlike that in which Sir Ralph had been speaking in the drawing-room—took Miss Jane considerably aback; but she was not to be easily brow-beaten even by her cousin.

“I am not conscious, Sir Ralph, of having acted in any way in which I can blame myself,” she answered, with as much dignity as she could command. “We had no design when we expressed our pleasure at seeing Harry at Downside, nor did we think of his falling in love with our young friend.”

“May I ask whether she is a relation, or to what family she belongs?” asked Sir Ralph, abruptly.

“She is no relation, though we love her as one,” said Miss Jane. “Has not your son told you her history?”

“Not a word; he declined doing so,” said the baronet.

“It is a very romantic one,” answered Miss Jane, and she described the way May had been rescued.

“Judging from her appearance, she may be of gentle birth,” observed Sir Ralph, “but the fact that her family have not been discovered tends to prove the contrary, and nothing you have said alters my determination not to sanction my son’s marriage to a girl depending on charity for her support.”

“That alone interests us, and makes us more than ever ready to care for her,” said Miss Jane. “We have this very day left her all the property we possess, or which may ever come to us, and she is therefore no longer helpless and dependent, as you suppose.”

“I should have concluded you would have wished to leave to the Castleton family what originally came from them,” remarked the baronet, with some heat in his tone.

“That is not a matter I am disposed to discuss,” said Miss Jane. “Your daughter is, I conclude, well provided for, and we have not acted contrary to the wishes of your son Harry, who is the only other person we should have thought of making our heir.”

“As you think fit—as you think fit,” said the baronet. “I have only now to request that you will inform your protégé if she marries my son Harry she will not be received by his mother or me as a daughter, and will certainly justly compel us to discard him for his disobedience.”

“Do you insist on my giving such a message to the poor girl?” asked Miss Jane, feeling very indignant, but, at the same time, still hoping to soften her cousin’s heart.

“If you do not give it, I must myself. To tell you the truth, I came here for that purpose. It is always better to settle matters of this sort summarily.”

“Oh!” said Miss Jane.

“Concluding that you will do as I request, I must wish you good morning,” said the baronet. “I have further to beg that you will not admit my son into your house.”

“I can make no promises,” said Miss Jane. “I will, however, give your harsh message to our young friend, though I cannot undertake to advise her how to act. I regret, Sir Ralph, that the only visit with which you have honoured us while at Texford has not terminated in a more satisfactory manner to you and to ourselves.”

Miss Jane did not even put out her hand, she felt too indignant with her cousin at what she considered his harsh and cruel conduct. He turned towards the door which she stepped forward and opened, accompanying him through the hall. He, not forgetting his usual courteous manner, turned and lifted his hat before descending the steps, at the bottom of which his groom stood holding his horse.

No further words were exchanged between the cousins, and Sir Ralph rode back to Texford satisfied at having exhibited his resentment to the only person on whom he could fix it, and, as he hoped, put an end to any further intercourse between his son and Maiden May.

Chapter Forty.

Sir Ralph’s Decision.

Harry had heard from Julia that his father had gone over to Downside, and was looking forward with no little anxiety to the result of his interview with May. He had not yet brought himself to tell Headland all his father had said, for, knowing his friend, he was sure that he would, in spite of the grief it would cause him, at once leave Texford, and he wished to allow him and Julia to enjoy that happiness which he foresaw must so soon be cruelly terminated.

Headland was not a man to exhibit his feelings in the presence of others, and the baronet, who watched him narrowly, observed only that though he appeared to treat Julia with that attention which the young lady of the house had a right to expect, there was nothing peculiarly marked in his manner.

Julia ought undoubtedly to have told Sir Ralph of the offer she had received, and she would have done so had there been that confidence between the father and daughter which should have existed. But Sir Ralph had failed to secure the confidence and affection of his children.

Julia, not wishing that her father should discover her secret, took care not to invite Headland to walk with her in the grounds when Sir Ralph was likely to meet them, and as he seldom went far from the house on foot there was little probability of his doing so.

As Mr Curtis told Sir Ralph that Harry must be kept quiet for a few days, he did not allude to his visit, and Harry was therefore left in doubt as to the result.

The next time the surgeon came, Harry asked whether he had been again at Downside.

“I tell you there is nothing seriously the matter with the young lady, though she does not recover as rapidly as I had expected; her nervous system seems slightly affected. However, there is no fear, and in a few days she will be round.”

If the doctor knew more of the true state of the case, he did not think fit to communicate it to Harry.

Such was the state of things when the post brought two official letters from the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, appointing Commander Headland to the Thisbe sloop-of-war, and Lieutenant Castleton to the Aurora frigate, with orders to join their respective ships at once. It was the first day Harry had come down.

“I congratulate you, gentlemen,” said Sir Ralph in a tone Harry did not like. “You will both soon see active service, for, depend upon it, Napoleon will not let us remain long at peace.”

Poor Julia, turning pale, nearly betrayed herself.

“I am obliged to their lordships; I scarcely expected to get a ship so soon,” replied Headland, who did not exhibit that enthusiastic pleasure which might have been expected on being appointed to his first command.

“I should have been more obliged to them if they had appointed me to the same ship,” said Harry. “You, I daresay, can manage to do it,” he added, turning to his father. “Possibly the lieutenants may not as yet have been selected.”

“I have not much interest at the Admiralty, and what I have I must keep for your promotion,” said Sir Ralph. “We shall lose you, Captain Headland, sooner than was expected, for I presume that you will have to start to-morrow at latest.”

Headland could not help feeling that this was a strong hint to him to hasten his departure.

“I will lose no time, Sir Ralph, in joining my ship, though I shall leave Texford with regret.”

He glanced for a moment on Julia, but for her sake directly withdrew his eyes, judging truly from his own feelings what hers were.

“I am glad to see that both ships are fitting at Portsmouth,” observed Harry, “and if we cannot travel together, and I suppose the doctor won’t let me go for a few days, I will join you there.”

Harry talked away, trying to keep up his own spirits as well as those of his friend. He felt that a crisis was at hand, and that Headland must openly declare his love for Julia, whether or not Sir Ralph was likely to give his sanction to their engagement.

Headland saw matters in the same light. He wished, however, first to consult Julia as to whether he should tell her father of their engagement, or leave her to do so.

Fortunately, Sir Ralph was engaged in writing letters and other business for some time after breakfast, and Headland, finding Julia alone, invited her to go into the grounds where they could talk without fear of interruption.

“Your going seems so sudden that I can scarcely realise it,” she exclaimed. “I fancied that weeks and months would pass before you were ordered away to sea, and now Sir Ralph says you must set off to-morrow. Can it be necessary to go so soon?”

“It is so,” said Headland, “but I go confiding in you, and hoping that the time may come when I shall return to claim you. Your father must be informed of our engagement, or he may justly accuse me of acting a dishonourable part. Either you or I must tell him as soon as possible. I am perfectly ready to do so, unless you think you can influence him more than I can expect to do.”

“Oh, do you speak to him,” exclaimed Julia. “You can plead the perfect right you had to win my affections; your position in the navy, and your prospects of rising; the ample means you already possess; and the gallant deeds you have performed. He cannot possibly blame you. And tell him that my heart and hand are pledged to you, and that though I will not disobey him by marrying against his will, I will never marry any one else.”

Headland undertook to act as Julia advised.

They might enjoy an hour now in each other’s society before Sir Ralph was likely to be disengaged, and how rapidly those moments flew by; but both felt that the time was come for a frank statement of their case.

They returned to the house confident in each other’s love, and supported with the hopes that whatever clouds might now arise they would in time be dissipated.

Sir Ralph was alone in his study. Captain Headland knocked at the door, and was requested to enter.

“I must apologise for intruding on you, Sir Ralph, but before I leave Texford there is a matter of consequence on which I wish to speak to you,” he said.

The baronet motioned him to take a chair nearly opposite where he himself sat.

“Pray, Captain Headland, what is it?” he asked, in a calm tone.

“I earnestly wish to make your daughter my wife, and I have her permission to request that you will give your sanction to our marriage when I next return on shore.”

“A very clear if not a very modest request,” exclaimed the baronet, with a well-feigned look of surprise. “Do I understand that Miss Castleton has pledged her hand to you without my sanction?”

“My express object in now speaking to you is to obtain that sanction,” answered Headland, with all the calmness he could command.

“I am not at all disposed to give it unless to a man her equal in birth and family, and before I can reply, I must beg that you will inform me to what family you belong, and what means you possess.”

Headland briefly described his position.

“I have, however, every prospect of rising in the service, and of adding to the credit which, with honest pride, I may venture to say, I have already gained. I have your daughter’s authority for telling you that she will marry no one else till I return to ask her hand.”

The baronet listened to him calmly without speaking till he had finished.

“I will make no remark on your conduct, Captain Headland, whatever I may think of it,” he said, at length, after nearly a minute’s silence. “But you will understand that I do not allow my daughter to pledge herself as you tell me she has done. You will understand that though I do not wish to treat you with discourtesy, I do not expect that you will honour me with another visit when you return on shore. I regret having to say this while you are still my guest, but you have forced me to express myself clearly on the subject. And now I think you will agree with me that to prolong this interview will not lead to any satisfactory result. You have clearly explained your position, and I have as clearly expressed my opinion. I will speak to Miss Castleton, and it may be a satisfaction to you if, as I expect she will, she states her readiness at my desire to set you free. I must beg, however, that what I have said may not induce you to leave Texford sooner than you had intended. I may say that I have that confidence in you that you will not in the meantime try to induce my daughter to take any step of which I should disapprove.”

The baronet rose as he spoke, and Headland, not considering an answer to the last remark necessary, did so likewise, and with a formal bow, which Sir Ralph returned, left the room.

His heart swelling with indignation and sorrow, he repaired to his own chamber. He felt indignant at the way Sir Ralph had treated him: his sorrow was for Julia, for he knew too well the sufferings she would be called on to endure on his account. He threw himself into a chair to consider what steps he should take; could he remain longer as the guest of Sir Ralph? and then he thought, “he is Julia’s father, and for her sake I must bear what I would not from any other man.”

Harry, suspecting what had taken place, soon followed Headland to his room.

“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “I am sure my father has spoken in a way you feel hard to bear; let me entreat you not to take notice of it. I do not ask you what he said, but I am right, am I not?”

“You are, and I was contemplating leaving the house.”

“That is just what you must not do,” exclaimed Harry. “You came as my guest, and I cannot allow it. Our father does not know what Julia is made of; when he comes to speak to her, he will find that she can be as firm as he is. I am very certain she will not discard you, and he may find that after all he has to give in, and allow you to go away awaiting for a time when you can return and claim her, which he may possibly hope will never arrive.”

Headland was at length persuaded to do as Harry advised; indeed his own heart prompted him to remain, for even had Sir Ralph spoken to him in a still more offensive tone, he would not have left.

“You know me, Harry; and assure her that whatever your father may say, and however she may be compelled to act towards me, I shall remain pledged to her as long as there is a possibility of her becoming mine.”

“In other words,” said Harry, “unless she is compelled to marry some one else.”

“I could not bear the thoughts of her doing so,” exclaimed Headland. “Even then I should remain her devoted and faithful friend.”

“I am sure you would,” answered Harry. “I will tell her all you say, though I hope you will be able to tell her yourself. And, my dear fellow, I know my little sister well enough to be very sure that no power on earth will induce her to marry any one else.”

Headland felt somewhat relieved by his conversation with his friend. Harry knew that he had his own trials in store, and could sympathise with him thoroughly.

He had become very impatient at not being able to ride out. The doctor had brought him better accounts from Downside; that was his chief consolation. He determined to go directly Headland left Texford; he would propose a ride with Julia, and she would not refuse to accompany him thus far.

Directly Headland quitted the study, Sir Ralph summoned Julia. She well knew what was coming, and bracing herself up for the interview, appeared before her father with as calm a countenance as she could assume.

“I understand, young lady, that your brother’s friend and shipmate, Captain Headland, has proposed to you, and that without knowing who he is, or what are my wishes on the subject, you have ventured to accept him.”

“Yes, papa, I have done so,” said Julia.

“You have acted very improperly,” remarked Sir Ralph.

“I saw nothing in Captain Headland that would make you object to him, on the contrary, everything to admire,” answered Julia, in a firm tone.

“No girl can take such a step without her parent’s permission.”

“I had no reason to suppose that permission would not be given,” said Julia.

“As you are mistaken you are absolved from your promise, and I desire you to tell Captain Headland that you set him free.”

“Father,” exclaimed Julia, rising, “if you can point out one single blemish in Captain Headland’s character, if you can produce one sufficient reason, I would obey you so far as to set him free; but, at the same time, I must tell you I could never marry another. You, however, can allege no just reason why I should not marry him, and I will not utter a falsehood, and lead him to suppose that I do not love him with the most devoted affection.”

The baronet listened to his daughter with a scornful curl on his thin lips, and a flush on his brow. Seldom did he exhibit more violent signs of anger.

“I am to understand, then, that you positively refuse to discard this unknown adventurer?” said the baronet, speaking very deliberately. “I regret that I did not use stronger language when speaking to him, but I expected to have your assistance, and wished to save a scene which might be disagreeable. I must send for him again, and explain myself more clearly.”

“Father, I entreat you not to do so,” exclaimed Julia, putting her hand on Sir Ralph’s arm. “I will speak to Captain Headland, but you cannot, you must not, insult a gallant officer, your son’s friend, a guest in your house; you would not gain your end, and you would only add bitterness to my grief at having to part from him.”

“If, as I understand, he proposes to take his departure to-morrow, I will allow matters to remain as they are, you promising me that you will speak to him in the way I desire.”

“I promise that I will tell Captain Headland of your objections, and I will not act in any way that will bring discredit on the name of Castleton, of which I am as proud as any member of the family.”

Julia, with woman’s tact, made the last remark, knowing that it would influence her father more than any vehement protestation she could utter.

Headland had been for some time writing in his room after Harry had left him, when the latter returned, and told him he would find Julia in the grounds. Headland eagerly hurried out, and joined her at the spot where Harry had told him she was waiting. They walked on till they reached a summer-house near the lake.

“You have had an interview with my father, and he has since talked to me, and desired me to speak to you, and I promised to obey him, but I do so under compulsion. He said that he would never sanction my becoming your wife, and that I must tell you so. I replied, that as you had my heart, to no one else would I give my hand.”

Headland had every reason to be satisfied with all Julia said, though he felt that long years might pass before she could become his, while she could not hide from herself the numberless dangers he might have to encounter before he could return to claim her; and even then would her father have relented, and might not still difficulties be thrown in the way of their marriage? Hope, however, buoyed her up. Her great wish, in the meantime, would be to remain at Texford, and endeavour to benefit the tenantry and surrounding cottagers. London with its gaieties she felt would have no attractions for her, though she had reason to fear that her father would insist on her going there, and mixing in society, in the hopes of inducing her to form a match such as he would consider suitable for her.

Headland, more than ever convinced of Julia’s attachment, was thankful that he had not taken offence at the language her father had used, and at once left the house.

That last meeting, as they sat together looking out on the placid lake, mirrored with the foliage of the overhanging trees, with swans gliding calmly across its surface, the only sound the sweet songs of the bird, or the occasional splash of the fish as they rose to seize the careless flies fleeting above them, could never be forgotten: it brought a sense of peace, and consolation, and hope to their hearts.

The time flew by. Both were unwilling to return to the house. It was the last opportunity they would have of meeting alone.

General Sampson’s voice addressing Mrs Appleton in loud tones aroused them.

“I tell you, my dear madam, I shall win my bet notwithstanding,” he exclaimed. “My friend, the captain, is not a man who is likely to strike his flag as long as he has a stick standing; he will renew the fight as soon as he has repaired damages.”

“I tell you, general, I have known Sir Ralph longer than you have—a more determined, or rather obstinate gentleman does not exist, and unless this captain is a man of family, and that he is not, or I am very sure we should have heard about it, our friend will never give his sanction.”

“Then, by Jove, the young people will run off and do without it, ah! ah! ah!” roared the general.

“Fie, fie, General Sampson, you would not approve of such a proceeding, I hope.”

“I am not sure of that, Mrs Appleton,” was the answer; and just then the couple came in sight of Headland and Julia, and must have been aware that their remarks had been overheard.

The young people were still more annoyed at being discovered. They both rose, and at the same moment the gong sounded from the house to summon the guests to dress for dinner.

“Pleasant sound that, captain, for those who have appetites,” observed the general. “We must all obey it whether or not, and move homewards.” Though Julia and Headland would willingly have lingered longer, they were compelled to follow the old general and Mrs Appleton to the house. How quickly that evening went by. Sir Ralph was as courteous as usual, and though formal in the extreme in his manner to Captain Headland, no one would have suspected what had occurred in the morning. Julia did her best to maintain her composure. Though Sir Ralph begged to have music, her mother interfered and saved her from the trial.

Next day arrived at length. Captain Headland was really gone. Julia felt bewildered and desolate; it seemed as if she had received some heavy blow from which it was impossible to recover. Sir Ralph spoke to her in a more kind way than usual, and tried to joke with her, while he amused his guests with the numerous anecdotes which he knew well how to tell.

The doctor, who came early, allowed Harry to take a ride. “It must be short though, and you must not gallop at headlong speed, as you naval officers are apt to do.”

“I will get my sister to accompany me to keep me in order.” Julia gladly agreed to bear him company.

“Thank you, dear Julia,” said Harry, as soon as they were in the saddle. “We must go to Downside; I cannot exist another day without seeing May.”

Julia nodded her consent.

“I thought she would have written to me, but I have my fears that either our good cousins have forbidden her to write or that her letters may have been stopped,” he continued. “Did you write to her?” asked Julia.

“No, but I sent messages, and as the only person I could trust to take a letter declined doing so, I could not order a groom to take one, as I had my suspicions that it might be stopped or opened; besides, I have that confidence in May’s love that I felt sure she would be content to wait till we could again meet, hearing in the meantime that I was rapidly recovering.”

“You acted wisely,” said Julia, “for it is impossible to say how our cousins may think it their duty to behave towards you in future.”

She then told Harry of their father’s visit to Downside, of the result of which she herself was ignorant.

“I am sorely tempted to set my father at defiance, and, if he refuses his consent, to marry without it.”

“No, no, Harry—patience! May would never consent to such a course.”

“Why, Julia, what do you intend to do?” asked Harry, wrongly feeling for the moment that even she had turned against him.

“To obey our father and not to act against his commands; but I will not obey him in doing a sinful act by marrying any one else whom I do not love. I can, therefore, with a clear conscience urge you not to persuade May to marry you until our father gives his consent, though I do not for a moment advise you to give her up.”

“You are a clever casuist, Julia,” exclaimed Harry.

Chapter Forty One.

A Ride with General Sampson.

On reaching Downside, Harry and Julia were told that Miss Jane was in the house, and that Miss Mary and May were in the garden.

“Go in and see cousin Jane,” said Harry to his sister, as he assisted her to dismount. “I will go into the garden.”

Without giving Julia the option of accompanying him, he hurried off in search of his blind cousin and her companion. He saw them seated on a bench under the shade of some overhanging trees. May was reading with her eyes bent down on the book. She was so absorbed in the subject that she did not hear Harry’s approach.

Miss Mary’s quick ear, however, soon detected the sound of his footsteps.

“Who is coming?” she asked abruptly.

May looked up, and uttering Harry’s name in a tone of joy, sprang forward to meet him.

“Why, Harry, I had not expected to see you so soon,” she exclaimed, gazing up into his face.

Holding her hand, he advanced to Miss Mary, who smiled kindly as she greeted him. He told them that it was the first day the doctor had allowed him to ride out.

“Did Sir Ralph know that you were coming here?” asked Miss Mary.

“No; I conclude he did not suppose I was able to ride so far.”

“Then you have not acted against his orders.”

“Certainly not,” answered Harry; “he has not prohibited me from coming here.”

“I am truly glad of that,” observed Miss Mary, with marked emphasis. “I will leave you young people here, and go in and have a talk with Julia. I daresay you will have something to say to each other.”

Harry and May offered to accompany the kind lady to the house.

“No, no,” she answered; “I can find my way perfectly well alone, and shall not meet with an accident if there are no wheelbarrows or rakes in the way,” and rising, she proceeded at a slow pace towards the house.

May told Harry how anxious she had been on hearing of his being wounded by highwaymen—how grateful she felt to him for having endeavoured to recover Jacob. Then Harry told her how, day by day, he had heard of her from the doctor, and how the knowledge that she was getting better did more to restore him than anything else. He refrained from telling her, as long as he could, what he knew would give her pain—that he was appointed to a ship which he must soon join. At length, however, he had to communicate the information.

“But May,” he added, “if you will consent at once to be mine, we would marry before I go, and then no human power can separate us.”

“Harry,” she exclaimed, gazing at him fixedly as they sat on the bench together, “I had not thought that the time for parting would be so soon. You know my regard; but I must not tempt you to act contrary to what I fear are your father’s wishes, and by so doing run the risk of injuring your prospects in life, and your advancement in your profession. Your father has been here, and has expressed his opinions strongly to Miss Jane, and she has told me all he said. I shall be as truly yours as if we were married, and you will thus avoid offending him, whose wishes you are bound to respect. My thoughts will be ever with you, my prayers hourly offered up for your safety, and I shall live in hopes that the obstacles which now exist to our union will be removed when you return. Your father may relent when he finds that you are constant, and I know you will be;” and she smiled as she gazed at his countenance, and felt the impossibility of his changing.

“But I know him so well that even then I am sure he will refuse his consent on the same grounds that he does now. Will you still believe that you ought not to marry me?” exclaimed her lover.

“Oh, Harry, do not press me for an answer,” answered May. “I wish to do what is right, and your cousins tell me, and my conscience assures me that they are right, that I must not become yours while your parents object to your marrying me. I must not encourage you to do what is wrong, and expose you to your father’s anger. And, Harry, though I am not proud, I could not consent to enter a family who would treat me with contempt, and consider that you had lowered yourself by marrying me.”

“Oh, May, I did not expect to have this reply from you,” he exclaimed at last, in a tone of bitter disappointment.

“I have spoken as I believe to be right, and therefore it must be for the best,” said May, trying to calm her agitation. “How I might have acted without wise counsellors, I cannot say. Do not urge me further; I dare not, I cannot give a different reply.”

In vain Harry endeavoured to induce May to alter her determination, although he reasoned as an ardent lover who was not willing to be convinced. May was not surprised that Harry should argue the point, perhaps she was pleased at his doing so; but, being satisfied that she was right, the very fact that her feelings prompted her to act differently assisted her to hold to her resolution. Harry was inclined to be angry, not with her, that seemed impossible, but with his cousins for advising her as they had done. He considered his father tyrannical and unjust in the matter, and he was even less disposed than ever to obey him. May endeavoured to soothe him. She succeeded at last. She spoke of the future when there might be no impediment to their happiness. They were both still very young, and when Harry had become a commander, or obtained his post rank, they might realise their wish of living in just such a cottage as Downside, and enjoy all the happiness their mutual love could afford.

They were interrupted by the appearance of Miss Jane and Julia. The latter had taken more note of time than had Harry, and considered that they ought to be on their return to Texford.

Julia led May to a distance.

“Your sister will tell you our wishes, Harry,” said Miss Jane. “You know how May is situated, and you know how affectionately we regard you. Though we do not consider that your father is right in withholding his consent, we feel bound to obey his commands, and as he has insisted on our not encouraging you to come to the house, and as we understand you are to join a ship as soon as possible, we must beg you to bid May farewell. I say this with regret, but I am sure it will be the best for both of you.”

“What! do you forbid me from coming here again?” exclaimed Harry. “Would you deny me the only happiness I prize on earth?”

“You must, I understand, in a few days join your ship, and though we would rather for your sake in the meantime that you did not come, we cannot turn you from our doors,” answered Miss Jane, somewhat relenting. “Only you must promise not to try to induce May to waver in her resolution. You will then part with the consciousness that you have acted rightly, and may hope for your reward when you return from sea.”

Though Harry would have lingered, Julia wisely considered that they ought to return homewards without delay.

May did not refuse to allow him to press her to his heart, and his cousins wished him an affectionate farewell, and he and Julia mounting their horses commenced their ride back to Texford.

Julia did her best to raise his spirits. Never could brother and sister more completely sympathise with each other.

The next morning Harry received a note from his cousin Jane, saying that she and Mary had resolved to pay a visit to some friends residing about forty miles away to the north of Hurlston, and that as, of course, May would accompany them, though they were grieved at his disappointment he must consider his visit of the previous day a farewell one. They hoped, however, that nothing would prevent them seeing him on his return from sea. A note was enclosed from May, giving him every assurance of her unalterable affection which he could desire, and expressing her grief at not seeing him again, though she endeavoured to persuade herself with his cousins that it was for the best.

This was indeed an unexpected and bitter disappointment. Harry, however, with right manly spirit, felt that it must be endured.

He was as eager now to set off from home as he had before been anxious to remain. He had, however, one duty to perform. As he had missed meeting the lawyer at Downside, he must ride over to Morbury to him.

The general heard him order his horse.

“In which direction are you going?” he asked.

Harry told him.

“If you will accept me as a companion, I shall be happy to ride with you,” said the general. “You, I suspect, must not put your horse to greater speed than I have been accustomed of late years to jog along the road?”

Harry’s politeness compelled him to say that he was happy to have his company.

General Sampson could make himself agreeable to old and young alike. He had seen a great deal of the world, knew all that was going forward, and seasoned his conversation with numerous anecdotes. Harry could not help being amused.

Harry had not ridden over to Downside day after day without the general suspecting the object of his visits, and he had managed to obtain pretty accurate information of the state of the case. He really liked Harry more than he did any other young man, and his present object was to draw him out of himself. He would have been glad to gain Harry’s confidence, and to hear from him how matters stood, though he very well knew he should fail if he asked the question point-blank. He therefore beat about the bush for some time, talking of his own love affairs when he was a young man, and of those of several of his friends.

“You see, my dear Harry, we must all be prepared for trials in this rugged world, but then, according to my experience, we are the better for them in the end. If the lady is obdurate or coy, or if her friends throw obstacles in the way, or if want of means exist, we must try to win her by greater attention, or sometimes by pretended indifference, or we must set to work to overcome the obstacles, or to gain the means which are wanting, and we shall enjoy double satisfaction when we triumph. I sometimes wish that I were young again to take advantage of the experience I possess, but as that is an impossibility, I have great satisfaction in enabling others to benefit by it. You understand me, Harry, nil desperandum is the motto I advise you to adopt.”

“Thank you, general,” said Harry. “You seem to suppose that I am in a position to require your advice.”

“Of course I do,” said the general. “I know something about your love affair. Though my friend Sir Ralph and Lady Castleton may not see with your eyes, and may have other views for you, I can sympathise with you, and as far as my respect to them will allow me, I shall be glad to give you all the assistance in my power.”

Harry thanked the general for his kind feelings, and supposing that he knew from Sir Ralph and his mother exactly how things stood enlightened him yet further on the subject.

“You should not be surprised at their objecting on the score of the lady’s want of birth, charming as I doubt not she is,” observed the general. “I regret, as she has gone away, that I shall not have the pleasure of being introduced to her, and by pouring her praises into Sir Ralph’s ear, perhaps assist in softening his heart. However, as I said before, don’t despair, but keep up your spirits, and you will soon be too busy in your professional duties to allow your thoughts time to dwell on the subject.”

Harry again thanked him, and promised to follow his advice.

They reached Morbury. Harry proposed putting up their horses, and begged the general to take a few turns on the esplanade, as he had business which would occupy him some little time.

Harry was absent longer than he expected, and the general, after looking at his watch two or three times, began to wonder what he could be about.

“Can the fair lady have come to the place,” he thought. “Perhaps the young fellow has been making a cat’s-paw of me all the time, and has gone to church and got married, ha! ha! ha! that would be a joke; but by-the-bye it’s out of canonical hours; he cannot have done that then.”

He took another turn or two, exchanged a few words with the boatmen on the beach, looked about in the hopes of meeting an acquaintance, and resumed his seat on a bench facing the sea.

At last Harry made his appearance.

“What have you been about?” exclaimed the general. “I began to fear that you had given me the slip altogether, and that I should hear of you next at Gretna Green, or find that you had had a licence in your pocket all the time, and had been laughing in your sleeve while I was bestowing my sage advice on you.”

“No, indeed,” answered Harry, who did not like the general’s joke. “To confess the truth, I have been making my will. I thought it was a matter which would occupy five or ten minutes at the utmost, but found that there were all sorts of complications, of which I had not dreamed.”

“Make your will, my dear boy! What could induce you to do that?” exclaimed the general.

“When a man is going to run the risk of being shot or drowned, or cut down by fever, or finished in some other way, he naturally wishes to make such arrangements that his property may benefit those in whom he is most interested. I should have asked you to be a witness, but the lawyer found those who would answer as well, and I therefore did not think it necessary to trouble you.”

“Well, we will talk about it as we ride homewards,” observed the general. “It is time that we should be in the saddle, or we may be late for dinner.”

The general, as they rode along, pumped Harry, curious to know how he had disposed of his property. He suspected from poor Algernon’s condition that the younger brother would himself soon become heir of Texford, and would thus, should Sir Ralph die, have no inconsiderable amount of property to leave.

He succeeded in satisfying himself that should Harry Castleton be killed, Miss Pemberton’s protégé would succeed to all the property he could leave.

“I hope, my young friend, you will be able to endow her with it in a different way,” he observed, “and though I do not know what some may say to your intentions, for my part I think it is a very right thing to do. Supposing Algernon were to die, and you be killed, and I heartily hope that won’t happen, your sister Julia will inherit Texford, and I shall be very much mistaken if your friend Headland does not some day become its master. Mrs Appleton and I agree that the young people are admirably matched. By the way, Harry, I want you and Headland to come and pay me a visit at a little box I have got near Portsmouth, if you can manage to get away from your ships before they sail, or when you come into port. I had thought of going to take a few weeks’ shooting with my friend, Sir Pierce Berrington, but I have made up my mind to go home direct, and if you will give me your company we will travel together. You will find posting pleasanter than the coach, and we shall give a good account of any highwaymen who may think fit to cry, ‘Halt; your money or your lives.’”

Harry gladly accepted the general’s last offer, and promised to deliver his message to Headland. He was glad to secure so amusing a companion for his journey. He hoped also to pay the general a visit, for unless May and his cousins returned to Downside, he should have no wish to go home.

Chapter Forty Two.

The Lugger again.

A Post-Chaise which had conveyed Harry and the general to Portsmouth drove up to the “George,” just as Captain Headland, who was living there, returned from a visit to his ship.

The old general, thinking that Harry would benefit by his society, had insisted on accompanying him, declaring that he had promised Lady Castleton to see him safe on board his frigate.

Sir Ralph, suspecting perhaps that Harry might take it into his head to run off with May, had encouraged the general in doing as he had offered, little aware that there was no risk of such an occurrence happening, while the general took good care to show that he had not come as a spy on his actions. Harry, indeed, was too generous to suspect him of such a proceeding.

The general having shaken hands with Headland, went into the hotel, as he said, to order rooms, leaving the two friends alone. He guessed that the captain would have enquiries to make about Julia. They joined him before long in the sitting-room he had engaged, and Headland thanked him heartily for the invitation which Harry had just delivered.

The general had ordered dinner, and insisted on the two young officers being his guests for the day.

“You shall give me a return dinner on board the Thisbe,” he observed.

The dinner was the best the hotel could supply, and the wines were good, the general keeping his guests well amused.

“By-the-bye, I daresay you two young men would rather sail together than cruise in different ships, and as I have a modicum of interest in high quarters, though I do not boast of much, if you wish, Captain Headland, to apply for Harry, it is possible that I may induce the Lords Commissioners to grant your request, unless Harry would prefer remaining as he is.”

Both Headland and Harry begged the general would do as he proposed.

“Well, do you write the official letter, and I will support it,” said the general, “and if necessary I will run up to town and see my official friends. Harry will get a longer spell on shore to recover from the hurts he received from those rascally highwaymen. I cannot compliment the police of your county for not catching them though. I always felt when riding about, the unpleasant possibility of having a bullet sent through my head.”

Harry said the search for them was not over, however, and that Mr Groocock especially was taking every means in his power to discover them, though, for his part, as they had failed in their attempt, unless to prevent their attacking anyone else, he had no wish to have them brought to justice, as it might compel him to remain on shore as a witness.

Little was the general aware when he made this offer that Sir Ralph had expressly got the young men appointed to different ships, and had taken care that Headland’s should be destined for a foreign station. How far, had he known this, he would have ventured to counteract the baronet’s arrangements it is difficult to say.

The next morning Harry joined the Aurora. The same day he paid Headland a visit on board the Thisbe, which had just come out of dock and been brought alongside the hulk. She was a remarkably fine corvette of eighteen guns, just such a craft as a young officer would be proud to command, and, from her build, both he and Headland thought she would prove very fast.

Within a week Harry found himself superseded, and appointed first lieutenant of the Thisbe.

Orders came down the next day to hurry on with her equipment, and Portsmouth was again alive with preparations for war.

Lord Whitworth’s final interview with Napoleon had taken place. The First Consul had stormed, and threatened, and insulted the English ambassador. All doubts as to his intentions vanished. The whole of England was aroused, for her shores were threatened with invasion. The militia were called out, and volunteers rapidly enrolled. A few months later, the great minister of England, his tall, gaunt figure dressed in regimental scarlet, might have been seen in his character of Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, at the head of 3000 volunteers, drilling them as he best could. Not only he, however, but every Lord-lieutenant of England and Scotland was endeavouring to prepare his countrymen to drive the invaders from their sacred shores back into the Channel should they audaciously venture to cross it. In a short time, nearly 400,000 men, providing their own clothing, receiving no pay, and enjoying no privileges, sprang up at a word—a noble congregation of citizens, united as one individual soul, ready to fight to the death as long as a Frenchman remained in arms on their native soil.

As soon as war was declared, the general bade his naval friends farewell. “Though laid on the shelf so far as foreign service was concerned,” he observed, “it would be found, he hoped, that there was still some life left in him for duty at home.”

The Thisbe was rapidly got ready for sea. Though any men who had sailed with Captain Headland were willing to join her, there was great difficulty in procuring hands, and he knew too well the importance of having an efficient crew, to take any but the best men.

The Thisbe at length sailed with sealed orders, though still short handed. Unless she could obtain the remainder of her crew by taking them out of any homeward-bound vessels or fishing-boats, she was to put into Plymouth to make up her complement. She was to avoid, however, touching anywhere, and to proceed, if possible, with all despatch on her voyage southward. She lost sight of the Needles just as the sun sank into the ocean. A light breeze to the northward filling her sails, she made some progress during the night, but as morning approached, a thick fog came on, and she lay almost becalmed on the glass like sea. It was Harry’s morning watch. Look-outs were stationed aloft to catch the first glimpse of any sail which might be near, though their hulls and lower rigging would be hidden by the mist. It was a time when vigilance was doubly necessary, for it was possible that an enemy’s cruiser might have ventured thus far towards the English coast in the hopes of capturing any homeward-bound merchantmen in ignorance of the war.

At length dawn broke, and the mist assumed that silvery hue which showed that the sun was about once more to rise above the horizon. All hands were on deck, employed in the morning duties of a man-of-war’s crew.

The sails which had hitherto hung down against the masts gave several loud flaps, then gradually bulged out, and the ship obtaining steerage way, once more glided slowly onwards.

Harry sent a midshipman forward to see that the look-outs had their eyes open.

Suddenly the fog lifted.

“A sail on the lee-bow,” shouted the midshipman. “A lugger close-hauled standing across our course, sir.”

At that moment the captain came on deck.

“She shows no colours,” again shouted the midshipman.

“We will speak her whatever she is,” observed the captain.

The order was given to trim sails, and the corvette was steered so as to cut off the lugger should she continue on her present course.

Those on board the stranger only just then discovered the ship of war, and instead of continuing on close-hauled as before, she stood away with her sheets eased off to the southward.

“That looks suspicious,” observed Headland. “If she were honest, she would not try to avoid us.”

It was soon evident that the lugger was a fast craft. Every sail the Thisbe could carry was set, while the lugger, spreading out her broad canvas, did her best to escape.

“Perhaps the fellows think we may press some of them, and are simply anxious to escape being overhauled,” observed Harry.

Though the lugger made good way, the loftier sails of the Thisbe carried her quickly through the water, and her commander and Harry hoped that she would deserve the character they first formed of her.

At length they got near enough to the lugger to send a shot from a bow-chaser as a signal to heave to. She, however, took no notice of it, and stood on. Other shots were fired in the hopes of knocking away some of her spars, and compelling her to obey. At length a shot had the desired effect, and her main-halyards being shot away, her huge mainsail came down on deck. To avoid the risk of the broadside which might follow, the lugger came up into the wind.

A boat, under the second lieutenant De Vere, was lowered to ascertain the character of the vessel. Some thought that she would prove to be a smuggler, with possibly a cargo on board. She was so completely under the lee of the corvette that everything going on on deck was seen.

“We may, at all events, get some of those fellows. Give them the option of volunteering whatever they are, but if they refuse, pick out half-a-dozen of the best hands, Mr De Vere,” said the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the answer, and the lieutenant proceeded on board.

He was seen to dive down below, and in a short time to return and muster the men on deck. They seemed by their movements inclined to refuse submission to his orders, but he pointed to the guns of the corvette as his authority, and one after the other having gone below to get their bags, they descended the side into the boat.

Six men had already been secured, whether they had volunteered or not it was difficult to say, when a struggle was seen to be taking place forward between some of the lugger’s crew and a man who had made his way up the fore hatch. He dashed those who tried to stop him aside, and sprang aft to the lieutenant. A short discussion took place between De Vere and the master of the lugger. While it was going forward, the man took the opportunity of leaping over the side into the boat.

The second lieutenant, apparently considering that the lugger still had more hands than she required, now selected four additional men, who, evidently in a very sulky humour, obeyed his summons.

With the eleven men thus obtained he returned to the ship.

The breeze freshening, Headland was unwilling to delay longer, and therefore hailing the lugger, gave her permission to continue on her course, when the corvette’s sails being filled, she once more stood down channel.

The newly pressed men were summoned aft.

“I cannot say that they were volunteers except this man,” said De Vere, pointing to the one who had been seen to leap into the boat, a fine strong young fellow, though he looked somewhat pale and ill, while his jacket had been torn, and his head cut in the struggle. “He was willing enough to join, though the others tried to prevent him.”

The men gave in their names. They were hardy-looking, but of a somewhat ruffianly appearance. They were not the less likely to prove useful seamen, only it would be necessary to keep a sharp look-out on them while the corvette was in Plymouth Sound.

When Harry asked the name of the man of whom De Vere had been speaking, he replied—

“Jacob Halliburt.”

Harry looked at him, wondering whether he could be old Adam’s son, and, as he supposed, May’s brother.

He did not wish just then to ask the question in public. He had no doubts, however, when the young man stated that he had been carried off some time before from his home by the lugger’s crew, and kept a prisoner on board ever since, being compelled to do duty when at sea, but being shut down in the hold whenever she was in port or might have an opportunity of making his escape.

“This was my only chance, sir, so I made a dash for it, and knocked down the fellows who tried to stop me, as I had a hundred times rather serve aboard a man-of-war than remain with such rascally lawless fellows.”

“You did very right,” said De Vere, “and you will find it to your advantage.”

Before the day was over three large ships had been boarded, one of which had picked up a ship’s crew of twenty men at sea. It seemed hard for the poor fellows after the dangers they had gone through not to return to their friends on shore; but necessity has no law. The greater number were sent on board the corvette, which, with several of the ship’s crew, fully made up her complement.

As Headland was eager to get to sea, he was glad thus to avoid the necessity of having to touch at Plymouth, where it would have required great vigilance to prevent some of the lately pressed men from escaping.

Chapter Forty Three.

Better than a Tonic.

The Thisbe had doubled the Cape.

On opening his sealed orders, Captain Headland found that he was to proceed to the Eastern Seas, and to give notice of the commencement of hostilities to any ships-of-war or merchantmen he could fall in with.

The Thisbe had touched at Rio to obtain water and provisions, and had since made the best of her way eastward.

Little did Sir Ralph suppose when he had got Headland appointed to a ship destined for this service, that he was going to a part of the world in which he was so much interested.

Headland, as soon as he had opened the orders, determined, as far as was compatible with his duty, to visit every English settlement, and to make inquiries which might tend to elucidate the mystery of his birth. Although upwards of twenty years had passed since he had been put on board the merchantman by his supposed father, the circumstance, he thought, might still be recollected by some of the inhabitants, and if so, he might be able to trace his parents. His heart beat high with hope; Harry was sanguine of success.

“I am sure if you can find your parents you will have no more cause to be ashamed of them than they will have of you,” he said, “and find them you will, I am very certain. I cannot help feeling that we were providentially sent out to these seas for that very object.”

“At all events, we may make use of the opportunity to obtain it,” said Headland, smiling.

Harry had taken the first opportunity of speaking to the young fisherman who had volunteered from the lugger, and, ascertaining that he was no other than Jacob Halliburt, had treated him with all the kindness which, in their relative positions, he was able to show.

“Do your duty, Halliburt,” he said, “and I can answer for it that Captain Headland will endeavour to promote your interests, and give you a higher rating as soon as possible. I will write by the first chance, to give your friends notice of your safety, and you can do the same, and let them know what I have said.”

“I am much obliged to you for your kindness,” answered Jacob. “I knew, sir, when I saw you, that you must be Lieutenant Castleton who was at Texford, and I was thankful to think that I had to serve under you. If it had not been for that, I should have been heart-sick to return home to help poor father, for he must be sorely missing me.” Harry was able to assure Jacob that his father’s spirits were wonderfully kept up, and that he hoped Ned Brown would stick by him, and help him during his absence.

“And mother, sir, does she bear up as well as father?” asked Jacob. Harry, who had seen the dame just before he left home, was able to give a good account of her.

Jacob longed to ask after May, but he felt tongue-tied, and could not bring himself to pronounce her name. Harry was surprised at his silence. Jacob merely remarked that he hoped the family at Downside were also well.

“The ladies were sorry when they heard of your being carried off.”

“Thank you, Mr Castleton, thank you,” said Jacob. “I will try and do as you tell me, and though I could not have brought myself to leave father of my own accord, it may be my coming aboard here won’t be so bad for me after all.”

Harry was still under the belief that Jacob was May’s brother, and Jacob had said nothing to undeceive him. Jacob at the same time had not the slightest suspicion that his lieutenant was engaged to marry the being on whom his own honest affections were so hopelessly set.

It was observed by his messmates that Jacob Halliburt was a great favourite with the captain and first lieutenant, but as he was a well-behaved man, and did his duty thoroughly, this was easily accounted for, as no particular favour was shown him of which others could be jealous.

Harry would often gladly have talked with Jacob about Hurlston and his family, but the etiquette of a man of war prevented him from doing so. He thus remained in ignorance of a circumstance which would have greatly raised his hopes of overcoming his father’s objection to his marriage with May, for all the time he had supposed that Sir Ralph believed May to be, as he did, Dame Halliburt’s daughter, and had been surprised that he had not spoken more strongly on the subject. His only other supposition was that Sir Ralph had made no enquiries as to May’s parentage, and took it for granted that she was the orphan child of some friends of his cousins, whom they had charitably adopted.

The Thisbe continued her course day after day over the world of waters. Though a constant look-out had been kept, no prizes had been made, and no enemy’s cruisers encountered. Both the captain and officers hoped before long to find some work either to bring them credit or prize money.

Light and baffling winds had of late detained the Thisbe, when, having got somewhat out of her course, Saint Ann, one of the Seychelle Islands, was sighted. Captain Headland stood in for the Mahé Roads, in the hopes that some of the enemy’s privateers or merchantmen might be anchored there, and might be cut out without detaining him long.

The opportunity must not be lost. The wind favoured them, for, instead of blowing off-shore as it generally does, the sea-breeze carried them swiftly towards the harbour.

Eager eyes were on the look-out. A large ship was discovered at anchor without her foremast. From her appearance she would evidently be a prize worth taking; but whether or not she was too strongly armed to allow the Thisbe to make the attempt was the question. As she could not move, Captain Headland stood in close enough to ascertain this, and determined, should her size give him a fair hope of conquest, to attack her.

The cables were ranged with springs ready for anchoring, and the ship cleared for action. All on board eagerly hoped that they might have work to do, and every telescope was turned towards the stranger.

The Thisbe had hoisted French colours, that her expected antagonist might not take the alarm, and run on shore to avoid her.

It was at length ascertained that the stranger was a flush deck ship, and ten guns were counted on the only side visible. Though she was apparently larger than the Thisbe, and more heavily armed, Captain Headland no longer hesitated, while the master volunteered to take the ship in among the numerous shoals which guarded the entrance of the harbour. Taking his station on the fore-yardarm, guided by the colour of the water, he gave directions to the helmsman how to steer.

The stranger remained quietly at anchor, apparently not suspecting the character of her visitor.

Harry was amused, as he went from gun to gun, to hear the remarks of some of the men who saw the French flag flying at the peak of the corvette.

“I thought our craft was an English ship, and we British tars, and now I see we be turned into mounseers,” said one, cocking his eye at the tricoloured flag.

“If we be, my boy, we will show yonder ship that the mounseers can fight their guns as well as British tars for once in a way,” remarked another who stood near him.

“Never you fear, mate, that gay-coloured flag will come down fast enough before we open fire.”

The last speaker was right—the moment to which all were looking forward was approaching. Every man was at his station. Not a word was now spoken except by the master as he issued his orders from the yardarm.

The stranger gave no signs that she was aware of the approach of an enemy.

“We will run alongside and carry her by boarding; it will save our anchoring, and we shall not injure her spars—an important object, as I hope we may have to carry her off to sea,” observed the captain to his first lieutenant.

The Thisbe was now within 200 yards of the stranger’s bows, when the master gave notice that there was a shoal ahead extending on either hand, while on shore a battery was seen commanding the passage, and several smaller vessels at anchor under it.

Headland instantly gave the order to anchor. The crew swarmed aloft to hand sails, the French colours was hauled down, and the English run up at the peak. At the same moment the stranger opened a hot fire from the whole of her broadside.

“Fire,” cried Captain Headland, and the Thisbe returned the warm salute she had received.

The battery on shore and the small vessels at the same time began peppering away at her.

Broadsides were exchanged with great rapidity between the combatants. The firing calming the light wind which had been blowing, the two ships were soon shrouded in a canopy of smoke. The English crew redoubled their efforts. Several had been struck, yet two only lay dead on her deck.

The Frenchman’s fire, however, at length began to slacken, and in little more than a quarter of an hour down came the tricoloured flag, loud cheers bursting from the throats of the Thisbe’s crew. A boat was instantly sent under the command of the second lieutenant to take possession of the prize, but as he was pulling alongside the Frenchmen were seen lowering their boats, in which a considerable number made their escape to the shore.

The battery continued firing, and Captain Headland directed Harry to land with a boat’s crew and silence it. Jacob accompanied him. The smaller vessels meantime cut their cables, some running on shore, and others endeavouring to make their escape through the intricate passages, where the English ship could not follow them.

Harry, ordering his men to give way, pulled rapidly for the beach, exposed to a hot fire of musketry in addition to that from the heavy guns in the battery. Forming his men, he led the way up the steep bank.

The battery had been rapidly thrown up, and offered no insuperable impediment. Sword in hand he leaped over the parapet, followed closely by Jacob and the rest of his men.

At the same moment a bullet struck him on the shoulder, and a tall French officer, supported by a party of his men, was on the point of cutting him down as he fell forward, when Jacob, with uplifted cutlass, saved him from the blow, returning it with such interest that his assailant fell back wounded among his men.

At this juncture a number of the French who had landed from the ship entered the fort to assist its defenders, and attacked the small party of English who had accompanied Harry. Jacob threw himself across the body of his lieutenant, and defended him bravely from the attacks of the French, who attempted to bayonet him as he lay on the ground. The remainder of the boat’s crew springing over the entrenchments now came to Jacob’s support. The garrison fought bravely, and disputed every inch of ground. Jacob’s great object, however, was to protect Harry, and as soon as the Frenchmen had given way, springing back, he lifted Harry on his shoulders, and leaping over the entrenchments, carried him down to the boat.

In the meantime, Headland suspecting that the fort was stronger than he had at first supposed, despatched another boat to Harry’s assistance. The men sent in her landed just as a party of Frenchmen had come round the hill, and were on the point of intercepting Jacob, who was hurrying down with his burden, regardless of the shot whistling by him.

The Frenchmen on seeing this took to flight, while the last party of English climbing the hill threw themselves into the fort, and quickly cleared it of its defenders. The French flag was hauled down by the young midshipman who had led the second party, and that of England hoisted in its stead.

No further opposition was made, the French seeking shelter in the neighbouring woods, where they were not likely to be followed. A few had been cut down while defending the fort, while others, unable to make their escape, were taken prisoners.

The fort was found to contain six guns landed from the ship, as also a furnace for heating shot.

As soon as the Frenchmen had disappeared, one of the boats was sent back with the wounded lieutenant, and two of the men who had also been hurt.

Jacob carried Harry up the side, evidently considering that it was his duty to attend on him till he had placed him in the surgeon’s hands.

No time was lost in getting the captured vessel ready for sea, while the guns belonging to her, which had been in the fort, were brought on board. A new mast was found on the beach, ready to be towed off. It was soon got on board and stepped, and in a couple of days the Concord, a fine new sloop of 22 guns, was following the Thisbe out of the roads.

The command had of necessity been given to Lieutenant De Vere, as Harry was unable to assume it.

The surgeon looked grave when he spoke to the captain about him.

“We must keep a careful watch over him, for he has a good deal of fever, and in these warm latitudes it is somewhat a serious matter.”

Harry had expressed a wish to have Jacob Halliburt to attend on him, and as it was necessary that some one should be constantly at his side, Jacob was appointed to that duty.

It would have been impossible to have found a more tender nurse, and no one could have attended more carefully to the directions given by the surgeon.

The fever the surgeon dreaded, however, came on, and for several days Harry was delirious. Often the name of “May” was on his lips, and Jacob, as he listened, discovered that his lieutenant loved her.

Several days went by, and Harry appeared to get worse. On his return to consciousness he felt how completely his strength had deserted him, and though the doctor tried to keep up his spirits by telling him that he would get better in time, so great was his weakness that he felt himself to be dying. He was anxious not to alarm his friend Headland; but as Jacob stood by his bedside, he told him what he believed would be the case.

“And I hope, my good fellow, that you will be able to return to your home, and if you do, I wish you to bear a message to your father and mother, and to your sister. I know that she no longer lives with them, and has become fit to occupy a different station in life; but you, I doubt not, love her notwithstanding as much as ever. Tell your parents how much I esteem them, and say to your sister that my love is unchangeable, that my dying thoughts were of her, my last prayers for her welfare. I have done what I could to secure it, and have left her all the property I possess. Mr Shallard, the lawyer at Morbury, will enable her to obtain possession of it.”

“Miss May my sister!” exclaimed Jacob in a tone which aroused Harry’s attention. “I will tell her what you say, sir, if my eyes are ever blessed by seeing her again, but she is not father and mother’s child. Father found her on board a wreck when she was a little child, and though she is now a grown young lady, she does not mind still calling them as she did when she lived with us, and that’s made you fancy she is their daughter.”

This answer of Jacob’s had a wonderful effect on Harry. He asked question after question, entirely forgetting the weakness of which he had been complaining. Jacob gave him a full account of the way May had been preserved, how she had been brought up by his parents, and how the Miss Pembertons had invited her to come and live with them.

At length the doctor coming into the cabin put an end to the conversation.

From that moment Harry began to recover. It seemed to him at once that the great difficulty which he had dreaded was removed, and, ready as he had been to marry May although she was a fisherman’s daughter, he was not the less gratified to hear that she was in all probability of gentle birth although her parents were unknown. How he had not learned this before surprised him. He could only, as was really the case, fancy that the Miss Pembertons and May herself supposed him to be aware of the truth, and had therefore not alluded to it. He thought over all his conversations with May; he recollected that they had generally spoken of the future rather than of the past, by which alone he could account for her silence on the subject.

“How remarkable it is,” he thought, “that my beloved May and Headland should be placed in precisely similar situations, both ignorant of their parents, and yet enjoying the position in life in which they were evidently born.”

Headland was as much surprised as his friend when he heard the account Harry gave him.

“It must indeed be satisfactory news to you, Harry, and I am grateful to young Halliburt for giving it you, as it is the physic you wanted, and has done more than all the doctor’s tonics in bringing you round.”

Harry, indeed, after this rapidly got well, and before the ship with her prize arrived in Calcutta, he was able to return to his duty.

Chapter Forty Four.

A Chase.

The active little Thisbe had been for some time at sea, and had already performed her duty of giving notice of the recommencement of hostilities at the different stations, and to the men-of-war and merchantmen she met with.

Her captain, aided by Harry, had made all the enquiries he could relating to the circumstance in which he was so deeply interested, but without any satisfactory result.

Harry had heard in Calcutta of his uncle, Mr Ranald Castleton, who had gone to Penang soon after its establishment as the seat of government of the British possessions in the Straits of Malacca. He had, however, sailed for England some years before, during the previous war, and the ship had, it was supposed, either been lost or captured by the enemy, as she had not afterwards been heard of. Those who had known him were either dead or had returned home, and Harry could obtain no certain information, except the fact that he had had a wife and children, but that they were supposed to have perished with him.

Still neither Harry nor Headland gave up hopes of gaining the information they wished for.

Harry had, as he promised, kept his eye on Jacob, who, greatly to his satisfaction, had been made a petty officer. As he was becoming a thorough seaman, and read and wrote better than most of the men in the ship, the captain promised, should a vacancy occur, to give him an acting warrant as boatswain or gunner.

The Thisbe had been more than a year on the station. Harry had received no letters from home. How he longed to hear from May and Julia. He thought that both would certainly have written. His mother, too, ought not to have forgotten him; but in those days, when no regular post was established, letters were frequently a long time on their way. He had written several times to Julia, and not less often, as may be supposed, to May. He had enclosed his letters to her to the Miss Pembertons. He suspected she would wish him to do so, and also that they would have a better prospect of reaching her. He told her the satisfaction he felt at discovering that she was not, as he had supposed, Adam Halliburt’s daughter, but in all probability his equal in birth, and that thus the great obstacle in obtaining his father’s sanction to his marriage no longer existed.

He sent messages to Adam and the dame, assuring them that he would look after Jacob’s interests, and he enclosed at different times letters from Jacob himself to his father and mother. Jacob’s letters chiefly contained praises of Lieutenant Castleton and his captain. Though for his father’s sake he regretted having been forced from his home, he was well content with his life, and spoke with enthusiasm of the strange countries and people he had visited, and of his prospects of advancement in the service.

The Thisbe had once more got free of the Straits of Malacca.

Having run down the coast of Sumatra, and touched at Bencoolen, was standing across the Indian Ocean, when towards sunset a large ship was descried from the mast-head, to the south-west. At the distance she was away it was impossible to say whether she was an enemy or friend, whether ship-of-war or merchantman. At all events the captain determined to overhaul her, and made all sail in chase. The great point was to get near enough to keep her in sight during the night, so as to follow her should she alter her course. When the sun went down she was still standing as at first seen, and had not apparently discovered that she was chased.

The night was clear, the sea smooth, and the graceful corvette, with all sail set below and aloft, made good way through the water, and was fast coming up with the chase. The captain’s intention, however, was not to approach too near till daylight, for should she prove an enemy’s man-of-war of much superior force, the Thisbe would have to trust to her heels to keep out of her way, though should she be of a size which he might without undue rashness attack, the captain’s intention was to bring her to action, well knowing that he would be ably supported by his officers and crew.

But few of the watch below turned in, every spyglass on board being turned towards the chase. There were various opinions as to her character, some believing her to be a man-of-war, others a French or Dutch merchantman, and from the course she was steering it was believed she had come through the Straits of Sunda. The dawn of day which might settle the question was anxiously looked for.

At length a ruddy glow appeared in the eastern horizon, gradually extending over the sky, and suffusing a wide expanse of the calm ocean with a bright pink hue, and tinging the loftier sails of the stranger, while to the west the surface of the water still remained of a dark purple tint.

“She has hoisted English colours,” exclaimed Harry, who had his glass fixed on the chase.

A general exclamation of disappointment escaped those who heard him.

“That is no proof that she is English,” observed the captain. “The cut of her sails is English, and though she is a large ship, she is no man-of-war, of that I am certain. We will speak her at all events, and settle the point.”

The stranger was seen to be making all sail; royals were set, and studding sails rigged out, but in a slow way, which confirmed Headland’s opinion of her being a merchantman. This showed that her commander had no inclination to await the coming up of the corvette, of whose nationality, however, he might have had doubts.

Although the chase had now every sail set she could carry, the corvette still gained on her.

“Those heavy tea-chests require a strong breeze to drive them through the water,” observed the master to Harry. “I rather think, too, we shall have one before long. I don’t quite like the look of the sky, and we are not far off the hurricane season.”

The crew were piped for breakfast, and the officers who could be spared from the deck went below. De Vere had been attacked by fever at Bencoolen, and was in his cabin. The master remained in charge of the deck.

Breakfast was hurried over.

When Harry and the captain returned on deck a marked change had taken place in the weather. Dark clouds were gathering in the northern horizon, and fitful gusts of wind came sweeping over the ocean, stirring up its hitherto calm surface, and sending the spoon-drift flying rapidly over it. Still the chase kept her canvas set, having altered her course more to the southward.

“They hope that we shall get the wind first, and be compelled to shorten sail, and that she will thus have a better chance of again getting ahead of us,” observed the master.

Still the corvette carried on. The captain had his eye to windward, however, prepared to give the order to shorten sail. She had come up fast with the chase, which she at length got within range of her guns. A bow-chaser was run out, and a shot fired. The stranger paid no attention to it. A few more minutes were allowed to elapse, when another shot was fired with the same result as at first. On this Headland ordered the English flag to be hauled down, and that of France substituted. No sooner was this done than the stranger, hauling down the red ensign, hoisted the tricoloured flag.

“I thought so,” exclaimed Headland, “shorten sail.”

The studding sails were rigged in, the royals handed. Again the British flag was hoisted instead of that of France, and a shot fired. On this the stranger took in her studding sails and loftier canvas, and, as the Thisbe ranged up alongside, fired a broadside.

The Thisbe’s crew returned it with interest, and before the enemy could again fire they delivered a second broadside, which cut away some of her standing and running rigging, and caused other damage. The stranger again fired, but after receiving a few more broadsides, evidently finding that she had no hope of escaping from her active antagonist, she hauled down her colours.

The wind had during the action been increasing, and the sea getting up, it was necessary to take possession of her without delay, as unless her canvas was speedily reduced, in all probability her masts would be carried over the side.

Harry volunteered to go on board, and a boat being lowered, accompanied by Jacob and seven other men, he pulled alongside.

He had just gained her deck, and was receiving the sword of the officer in command, when the gale which had long been threatening struck the two ships. The Thisbe’s crew having secured their guns were swarming aloft to take in her canvas.

The deck of the prize presented a scene of the greatest confusion. Several of her men lay dead, some were endeavouring to secure the guns, a few had gone aloft to take in sail, but the greater number were running about not knowing what to do. Harry ordered his men to let go everything. The topgallant-sails, which were still set, were in an instant torn into ribbons, the foretopsail was blown out of the bolt ropes, and the mizzen-mast, which had been wounded, was carried over the side, and the prize lay a helpless wreck amid the raging seas which threatened every instant her destruction.

Chapter Forty Five.

A Reverse.

We must return to Texford. Julia had kept to her resolution of not going up to London.

She had soon a reason for remaining in the country, which even her father could not oppose. Algernon had joined a volunteer regiment formed in the country, and the exposure to which he was subjected rapidly tended to increase the pulmonary complaint from which he had long suffered. He was soon confined almost entirely to the house, except when the weather allowed him to be drawn about the grounds in a wheel-chair.

Julia watched over him with the most affectionate solicitude, and all that medical skill could accomplish was done to arrest the fatal malady, but in vain.

Lady Castleton came back from London to assist in watching over him, and she was soon, with a breaking heart, compelled to write to Sir Ralph to tell him that she feared that their eldest son’s days were rapidly drawing to a close. He thought that she was over anxious, and he, absorbed as usual in politics, delayed his journey.

Algernon still retained the pride of the family which had always animated him, and though aware of the fatal character of the complaint from which he was suffering, he was as anxious as ever to prevent his sister from contracting a marriage with a man of unknown birth like Headland.

He had desired to be wheeled out to a sunny spot where he could enjoy a view of the lake. Having sent the servant away to the other side to gather water-lilies, he broached the subject to Julia. He could not, however, have chosen a more inappropriate locality, for it was here that Headland had first declared his love, and she had accepted him.

“My dear sister,” he began, “I may or may not recover from this complaint, but, at all events, it would be a great satisfaction to me to know that you had given up all ideas of marrying Captain Headland. It was a most unfortunate thought of Harry’s to invite him here. Though he may be a very fine fellow, our brother ought to have known that a man of his birth could not be welcome at Texford, and I must say it would have been wiser in you had you inquired who he was before you allowed your fancy to be captivated by him.”

A fit of coughing prevented Algernon from continuing his remarks.

Julia felt deeply grieved. She was afraid of irritating him by replying as her feelings prompted.

“My dear brother,” she answered, “we will not discuss the subject, but believe me I will endeavour to seek for guidance, and trust that I shall be led aright in the matter.”

“But what you think right our father and I may consider very wrong,” exclaimed Algernon, petulantly. “You ought to promise to discard the fellow at once when you know how we object to your marrying him.”

“I have promised our father not to marry Captain Headland without his sanction, and let me entreat you to rest satisfied with that,” answered Julia, looking out anxiously for the return of the servant.

“But I want to be satisfied that you never will marry him,” exclaimed Algernon. “It is still more important, as Harry has taken it into his head to fall in love with this pretty little protégé of our cousins, and he is such a determined fellow that I should not be surprised if he marries her notwithstanding all opposition.”

“I am not surprised that Harry should have fallen in love with her, for she is a lovely girl, and every time I have seen her I have admired her more and more: her love and devotion to our poor cousins is most admirable; but still even she would not consent to marry Harry without our father’s permission, and would not, I think, act in direct opposition to our parents.”

“Whether he does or does not, that will not alter your position with regard to Headland,” said Algernon, returning to the subject from which Julia had hoped to escape. “Harry would raise his wife to his own station; you will be lowered by marrying a man like Headland.”

“That is impossible,” exclaimed Julia, indignantly. “I should be raised to the station which he has gained by his courage and gallantry; no lady in the land could be degraded by marrying him. I did not wish to say this to you, Algernon,” she added, seeing the flush of anger rising on his pale brow.

“I see how it will be,” he said, after he had recovered from another fit of coughing, “you will prove as obstinate as Harry.”

Fortunately the servant returned with the flowers, which the poor invalid let drop by his side after looking at them for a moment. Julia signed to the man to wheel her brother home, for she felt very anxious at the change she had observed since they left the house. He with difficulty reached his room, but never again left it.

Julia, who, since Harry went away, had frequently ridden over to Downside, wrote to Miss Jane, sending the carriage, and asking her to come to Texford. Notwithstanding the neglect with which she and her sister had been treated, sympathising with Julia and Lady Castleton in their grief, she immediately complied. She did her utmost to comfort her cousins, while she faithfully delivered the Gospel message to poor Algernon, wondering that he should be so utterly ignorant of its tenor and object.

Lady Castleton again wrote to Sir Ralph, but when he arrived Algernon had ceased to breathe.

Miss Jane had returned to Downside in the morning. Brave as she was, she did not wish to encounter Sir Ralph. Sir Ralph exhibited no overwhelming grief at the loss of his eldest son; his thoughts seemed immediately to centre on Harry.

“We must write and have him home at once,” he said to Lady Castleton. “I will get him into parliament, and with his nautical experience, he will be able to make a figure on all naval matters, and if he follows my advice, he must inevitably become a leading man. I hope he will have got over his foolish fancy for that pretty girl at our cousins. He must be kept out of her way, and we must take care that he does not come to Texford. You and Julia must do your best to amuse him in London as soon as he arrives. I have written to Fancourt, and he will arrange about his coming home at the Admiralty.”

Julia was still able to remain at Texford after Algernon’s death, as neither she nor her mother could mix in London society. Feeling sure that Harry would prove restive, and not willingly enter into his father’s plans, she did not look forward to his arrival with the satisfaction she might otherwise have done. In her heart she could not wish him to give up May, whom she herself already loved with the affection of a sister.

She had one day ridden over to Downside soon after Algernon’s death, when, the post arriving, a letter was put into Miss Jane’s hands. As she read it, the expression of her countenance changed; it first appeared as if she was about to give way to tears, and then assumed a firm and determined look.

“I must not conceal the contents of this letter from you, Julia, nor can I from Mary and May.”

May, turning pale, gazed anxiously at Miss Jane; the thought that the letter had reference to Harry crossed her mind. She gasped for breath.

“What is it, Jane?” asked Miss Mary, in a calm tone. “From whom is the letter?”

“From Mr Shallard; he writes that the M— bank, in which most of our property is invested, has failed, and he fears that but a small portion will be saved.”

“Oh, how terrible,” exclaimed Julia.

“Not terrible, dear Julia,” said Miss Mary, “though trying. I grieve for others more than for ourselves,” and she turned her sightless orbs towards May. “It will be very sad to have to give up Downside; and oh, dear May, it is sadder still to think that you will be so ill provided for.”

“Oh, do not grieve for me, dear ladies,” exclaimed May, going to Miss Mary’s side, and taking her hand. “Perhaps you will not be compelled to leave Downside. I will work for you with heart and hand; if you have to dismiss your servants, I will serve you instead. I can attend to the house, and to the garden too; surely you will then be able to live on here.”

“My dear, dear child,” exclaimed Miss Mary, “I am sure you will do all you can, but you would soon overtax your strength. We must take time to consider what may be necessary to do.”

“I am sure our dear May will not fail us. As you say, Mary, we must take time to consider, and, at all events, we must be resigned to God’s will,” said Miss Jane.

“Oh, how I wish that I could help you,” exclaimed Julia. “Surely papa will be ready to assist you, his nearest relatives, and I am confident that mamma will gladly do so.”

“We feel grateful to you, Julia, for your sympathy, but we must not expect assistance from others. Mr Shallard says that our property is not entirely gone. As I am thankful to say that we have lived within our income, we may have enough to support us in our old age, without relying on charity,” answered Miss Jane, with a slight tinge of pride in the tone of her voice.

Julia was at length compelled to return to Texford. She was struck with the appearance of cheerfulness which May maintained, while she did everything she could think of to cheer the spirits of her friends.

On her return home, Julia told her mother what had occurred.

“I fear that Sir Ralph will not even offer to assist our cousins; however I will write to him, and suggest the propriety of his doing so.”

Her mother’s answer did not give Julia any strong hopes that she would be successful.

Lady Castleton herself drove over to condole with her cousins. They received her in their usual manner, and not till she introduced the subject did they speak of their loss.

“We are much obliged to you for your sympathy,” answered Miss Jane, “but we do not contemplate leaving Downside for the present. We have dismissed our servants with the exception of our faithful attendant, Susan, who insists on remaining, and though we may be occasionally pinched, it is only what our poorer neighbours constantly are, and we should be ashamed not to bear it as well as they do.”

“My good cousins, you are indeed wonderful women,” exclaimed Lady Castleton. “I suspect that had such a misfortune happened to us, we should have broken down completely.”

“You see we know in whom we trust, and He supports us,” remarked Miss Mary. “You would find the same support were you to seek it.”

Lady Castleton did not quite comprehend her cousin’s remark. Her heart, however, was softened by her son’s loss, and feeling compassion for her cousins, she frequently drove over to see them, and sent presents of fruit and vegetables, believing that she was thus affording them all the assistance in her power. It did not occur to her to limit her own expenses, and thus have the power of offering them more substantial aid. Julia, however, was anxious to do so, but her own allowance was small, and she found that she had saved so little that she was ashamed to offer it, especially as she doubted whether her cousins would accept the gift.

May carried out her intentions as far as she could. Miss Jane would not let her work as hard as she wished, and she herself and Susan attended to the household affairs, while they left May to take charge of Miss Mary.

May, with the numerous duties which now employed her time, was unable to get down as frequently as formerly to see Dame Halliburt and Adam, though the dame never passed Downside on her rounds without leaving a dish of fish for the ladies’ acceptance.

When May, at Miss Jane’s desire, expostulated with her, the good woman replied—

“Tell them it’s they do Adam and me a favour, and it’s no loss to us, for Adam generally catches more fish than we can sell, and if we were to send them a dish every day for the next hundred years, we could never repay them what we owe; so just beg them, with our respects, never to say another word about the matter.”

As may be supposed, this constant supply was really very welcome, and contributed to keep down Miss Jane’s weekly bills. Thus, although their means were greatly straitened, the ladies still hoped to pay the rent of their pretty cottage.

Their lives were spent in a daily routine of duty. Miss Jane visited the poor as she had been accustomed to do, although she had much less to give them than formerly, and May took her daily walks with Miss Mary, and read to her as much as usual, finding time notwithstanding for her other duties.

As soon as Sir Ralph returned to Texford, Lady Castleton and Julia spoke to him about their cousins’ loss of property, and expressed their wish that some means could be taken to increase their now very limited income. Sir Ralph listened to them with more attention than they had expected.

“You are both very kind and charitable ladies,” he remarked, in a tone they did not like. “I will ride over and call on our cousins.”

“Let me accompany you, papa,” said Julia. “I can take a stroll with May in the garden, while you are discussing business matters with the elder ladies.”

“I do not wish you to be on intimate terms with that young person,” answered Sir Ralph; “and as my visit will be on business, I must beg to be favoured with your company when I ride elsewhere.”

Julia felt grieved at her father’s reply.

Sir Ralph rode to Downside. Miss Jane received him with her usual frank and kind manner. She hoped that Algernon’s death might have softened his heart. He sat and talked for some time, addressing Jane and Miss Mary, but, except the formal bow which he gave on entering, not noticing May, though he now and then turned an involuntary glance at her—a tribute to her beauty.

At length he said—

“I must confess, my good cousins, I came over to have a little conversation on business, and if you will afford me your attention in private for a few minutes, I will explain my object.”

“We have no secrets from our dear May,” answered Miss Jane.

“That may be,” said the baronet, “but I wish to address myself to you alone.”

May rose as he spoke, and left the room.

“I have no doubt you have ample reasons for the regard you entertain for that young person,” he began in his most bland tone. “She may be very estimable, and her beauty is, I own, of a high order.”

“It is the least of her excellences, Sir Ralph,” observed Miss Jane, resolved to meet the baronet in his own style.

“That may be,” he answered, with a bow; “it is the quality, however, which has probably attracted my son Harry. You must be aware, my good cousins, however much he may fancy himself in love, I naturally object to his marrying a person of unknown birth and destitute of fortune. I objected when he was my second son, and since he has become my heir, I am doubly opposed to the match, as I wish him to marry a lady of rank and fortune who will contribute to his advancement in life. I am thus candid, that you may understand my motive for the offer I have come to make.”

“We are happy to listen to anything you may have to say, Sir Ralph,” answered Miss Jane, bowing, “though I cannot promise that we shall be ready to accept your offer.”

“You will at all events hear it before you decide, my good cousin. Not to keep you longer in suspense, I will at once place you in possession of my intentions. You have, I understand, lost a considerable amount of your property, which, if I am rightly informed, you had left by will to the young person of whom we have been speaking. Now, I am willing to make up your loss to you so that you may leave her as well provided for as you intended, on condition that she signs an agreement not to marry Harry, and to refuse ever again to see him. He is somewhat of a headstrong character, and it is the only security I can have that he will not on his return to England induce her to become his wife.”

“Is that the offer you have to make?” asked Miss Jane, in a tone of mingled surprise and anger. “I speak for myself and my sister. We certainly cannot accept it, and I am very certain that nothing would induce our dear May to sign such an agreement. She has already refused to marry Harry should you and Lady Castleton withhold your consent. She did so, confident of Harry’s love—in the belief that you would in time relent. But you might as well plunge a dagger in her breast as ask her to abandon the hope which now supports her of some day becoming his wife. I beg, therefore, that you will not expect us to make so cruel a proposal.”

“Very well, my good cousins. I must take other means of preventing Harry from marrying the girl, and you will lose the advantage I have offered,” answered the baronet.

“We at all events shall have the consciousness of having acted rightly,” observed Miss Jane.

Sir Ralph, who was courteous under all circumstances, rose as he spoke, and gracefully putting out his hand, bowed low and quitted the room.

“Abominable,” exclaimed Miss Jane, “he must have formed a strange opinion of us.”

“He holds, I fear, a low opinion of his fellow-creatures generally,” said Miss Mary, “and the sooner we try to forget what he has said, the better.”

The ladies agreed not to let May know of Sir Ralph’s insulting offer as they justly considered it. Miss Jane’s only fear was, that he might, under the belief that she would be induced to consent, make it to May herself. She determined to be on the watch to prevent him, if possible, from doing so.

He did not, however, again appear at Downside. The great event which occurred to break the monotony of their lives was the arrival of a packet from the East containing Harry’s enclosure to May. With what eagerness and delight she read it, what pleasure she felt in being able to give one from Jacob to the dame. May’s heart throbbed as she read Harry’s account of the capture of the French ship. Her woman’s heart was gratified too, when he told her how completely he had loved her for herself alone, and that he had only just discovered that she was not, as he had supposed, a fisherman’s daughter, but might some day be found to be as well-born as himself.

“I cannot help hoping that such will prove to be the case, and then the only bar to our happiness will be removed, dearest May,” he wrote. Other letters came describing the voyage of the Thisbe through the Indian Seas, and then month after month passed by and no more were received. The roses began to fade from May’s cheeks, even the Miss Pembertons became anxious. Neither had Julia nor any of his family heard from him.

Julia told them that Sir Ralph had obtained permission for Harry to return home, and that possibly being on his voyage he had thought it unnecessary to write; but this would not account for the long interval between his last letter and the time when he could have received the Admiralty’s orders.

Whenever Julia went to Downside, she had to give the same answer—“no news from Harry.”

Sir Ralph himself had become anxious, and made frequent visits to the Admiralty to hear whether his son had been heard of. The only information he could gain was that the Thisbe had been sent to the Indian Archipelago and had not returned to Calcutta.

At length news was received that she had arrived after encountering a terrific hurricane, and that she had captured a prize, in which one of her officers and several of her men had been lost.

“But the officer’s name,” asked Sir Ralph of the clerk who was giving him the information.

“I shall find it shortly, sir. Yes, as I feared, it is Lieutenant Castleton.” Sir Ralph staggered out of the Admiralty. At the door he encountered General Sampson.

“I have just come to enquire about my gallant friend, Captain Headland, and your boy Harry,” exclaimed the old soldier, taking the baronet’s hand. “Why, you look pale, Sir Ralph, what is the matter?”

“He has gone, lost in a hurricane,” answered Sir Ralph, with a groan. “I do not believe it; cannot be the case; he would swim through fifty hurricanes,” exclaimed the petulant old general. “The clerks here never have the rights of the story. Come back with me, we will have a look at the despatches. We manage things better at the War Office, I flatter myself.”

“The account was very circumstantial though,” said Sir Ralph, with a sigh. “I wish I could believe there was a mistake.”

“Of course there is a mistake, very sure of it. Come along, and we will soon set it to rights.”

The general dragged Sir Ralph back into the building. The clerk looked somewhat offended at the general’s address.

“I understand that you have told Sir Ralph Castleton that his son is lost. You should be more exact, sir, in the information you give. Just let me see the despatch.”

The clerk hesitated, on which the general desired his name to be taken in to the secretary. He was admitted, and the despatch placed in his hand. His countenance fell.

“Still I do not see that it is certain,” he observed. “The ship was not seen to go down, and if she had, some of the people may have been saved: people often are saved from sinking ships, and there is no proof positive that she did sink. Though the Thisbe may have been in danger, and I am sure if Captain Headland says she was, it must have been of no ordinary character, that is no reason that the prize might not have weathered the hurricane. He speaks of her, I see, as a recapture, and in all probability an Indiaman, and those hulking tea-chests will float when a man-of-war will go down.”

“I trust, general, you are right,” observed the secretary: “I will not fail to inform Sir Ralph directly we receive further information.”

Notwithstanding all the general had said, Sir Ralph felt so greatly dispirited, that, writing to Lady Castleton, he gave her no hopes of Harry’s having escaped.

Unable to speak, she placed the letter in her daughter’s hands. As Julia’s glance fell on the name of the Thisbe, and the words “all the people are lost,” a sickening sensation came over, and her eyes refused to convey to her mind the meaning of the letter. It was dropping from her trembling hands when, by a great effort, she recovered herself, and at length was able to decipher the writing. She read on. The Thisbe and Headland were safe. Poor Harry was lost. She blamed herself for selfishly feeling that this was a relief. Then May, crushed by the agony of her grief, rose before her.

“This blow, sweet creature, will break her heart,” she thought.

“Oh, mother, this is very very sad,” she said aloud, “can it be true?”

“Your father speaks as if he had no hopes; he would have expressed himself differently had he entertained any.”

“Mother, I must go and break this sad news to our cousins and that poor girl; it might kill her were she to hear of it suddenly.”

“Grief never kills in that way, though it may by slow degrees,” said Lady Castleton, with a deep sigh. “It will, however, be kind in you to do as you propose; will you drive or ride over to Downside?”

Julia determined to ride; the air and exercise would nerve her for the trying interview.

Why had not Headland written though? probably he had been prevented by his professional duties.

Attended by the old coachman who generally accompanied her with one of the carriage horses, she reached Downside. May hurried out to meet her. Julia could scarcely restrain her agitation, or keep back her tears, as May, with an inquiring glance, led her into the drawing-room where Miss Mary and Miss Jane were seated.

“What has happened?” asked May, in an agitated voice, taking Julia’s hand, who sank into a chair.

“I will speak to cousin Jane first,” said Julia, as she rose. Unable longer to restrain her feelings, she threw her arms round May’s neck, and burst into tears.

“What has happened?” exclaimed May, her voice trembling as she spoke. “Oh tell me, has Harry been wounded? is he in danger?”

Julia’s sobs prevented her from replying. Miss Jane believing the worst, led May to the sofa as if she considered that Julia’s information most concerned her.

“We must all live prepared to say ‘thy will be done,’” said Miss Jane, seating herself by May’s side, and taking her in her arms.

The colour forsook May’s cheek, and she gazed at her with a glance that showed she was unable to comprehend what was said.

“Where is Harry? is he ill?” she gasped out.

Julia feeling that it would be best at once to speak, told May the contents of Sir Ralph’s letter.

“Let me see it,” she said at length.

Julia, who had brought it, put it into her hands.

“I cannot, I will not believe that he is lost,” she exclaimed; “your father himself is not certain. He will come back, I know he will, and he must never, never go to sea again. How cruel in those who have thus written to say that he is lost when they cannot know it;” and poor May laughed hysterically.

Julia forgot her own grief in attending to her. Miss Jane did her utmost to restore her to herself. She succeeded at length, and May was able to speak calmly of the contents of the letter. She even inspired Miss Jane with the hope that Harry and his ship had escaped destruction.

Julia rode back to Texford with her own mind greatly relieved. May had borne the intelligence much better than she had expected, and she trusted that her father had too readily believed the report of Harry’s loss. She resolved, at all events, not to credit it till she had heard directly from Captain Headland, and she fully believed that she should ere long receive intelligence from him, which would either contradict the report altogether, or strengthen their hopes that Harry, though he might have been in danger, had escaped.

Week after week went by and still no letter arrived from Headland. Julia frequently went over to Downside, and was surprised to find May so calm and cheerful, attending regularly to her various duties. She was paler, it is true, than usual—no longer was there the beaming smile on her countenance, nor did she ever give way to that joyous laugh which seldom failed to inspire those who heard it. Sometimes Julia was almost inclined to doubt whether May could be so much attached to her brother as she had supposed, but then if his name was mentioned there came an expression on her countenance which at once convinced her that the young girl loved him with a devotion as true as ever woman felt for man.

The report of Lieutenant Castleton’s death soon got abroad in the neighbourhood of Texford, and Dame Halliburt being among the first to hear it, feeling naturally anxious about Jacob, hastened up to Texford to ascertain its truth. She found Mr Groocock in his office. He could only assure her that nothing had been said about Jacob, that he knew Miss Julia entertained the idea that Mr Harry was still alive. Since Sam’s death she had become more anxious and nervous than was her wont, and she made up her mind that Jacob must have accompanied Mr Harry, and that if he was lost her son was lost also. She expressed her fears to others, though she endeavoured to restrain her feelings in the presence of May to avoid wounding her: for the same reason she appeared to be more cheerful than she really felt when talking to Adam, who, accustomed all his life to the dangers of the sea, did not allow himself to be influenced by the reports he heard, and declared that Jacob was just as likely to come back again safe and sound as ever.

Still it was generally believed among the Hurlston people that Lieutenant Castleton and Jacob Halliburt had been lost at sea, and sometimes it was reported that the Thisbe herself had gone down with her gallant commander, Captain Headland, and all hands.

Chapter Forty Six.

A French Professor.

Miles Gaffin had long been absent from Hurlston, though he still retained possession of the mill, which was kept going under charge of Dusty Dick. The lugger, however, had not again made her appearance, and it was supposed by some that she had been lost, but others asserted, and among them Adam Halliburt, that during the war time she had plenty to do in procuring information from France, as well as in carrying it to that country from England, for Jacob had told his father of the papers Gaffin had shown him, and Adam saw no reason why he should keep the matter secret. If such had been Gaffin’s occupation, it for some reason or other came to an end; probably both parties found that he could not be trusted, and he, to avoid being hung or shot as a spy, thought it wise to abandon it, and to betake himself once more to smuggling.

He again appeared one morning at his mill. No one knew whether he had arrived by land or by water. It might have been supposed from his manner, when some grist was brought to be ground, that he had never been absent.

“He will soon be at his old tricks again,” observed Adam, when he heard of his arrival. “He has come here for no good.”

The observation was repeated by the dame to Mr Groocock.

“I will tell you what it is, he won’t be here long at all events. His lease is up in a few months, and though the law won’t let us turn him out, it cannot compel us to keep him there longer than we like,” observed the steward. “He will cease at Michaelmas to be the tenant of Hurlston Mill, and if we cannot get a more honest man to take it, it will certainly be hard to find a greater rogue. I have never been quite satisfied in my mind that he had not something to do with the attack on Mr Harry.”

Gaffin soon made himself acquainted with all that had been going on in the neighbourhood. Harry’s supposed death which he heard as an undoubted fact, gave him great satisfaction.

“As there is no longer a rival in the case, my son may now have a better chance than formerly,” he said to himself. “I will write and get the fellow back; girls don’t wear the willow all their lives, and though she may mope and sigh for a time, she will be ready enough to take a presentable young fellow when he offers himself.”

Miles had been left in France, where he was among those who had been detained when the war broke out. His father, however, knew that he should have no difficulty in getting him back. Meantime, he found him useful in obtaining and transmitting information, though the young man ran no small risk. He had, in the meantime, in his own opinion, become a polished gentleman, with all the graces and airs of a Frenchman.

Gaffin accordingly wrote for his son to return, though a considerable time elapsed before he was able to get on board the lugger which had put in to receive him. At last, he one morning made his appearance at the mill. The lugger had not come empty, her cargo having been landed during the night, and stowed away in the vaults. It was not long before Gaffin found an opportunity for re-opening his favourite project. It was evident that he had private information relating to May, but of what nature even his son dared not ask, although his curiosity was more excited than his enterprise. Gaffin now spoke with the more vehemence, having been so long frustrated in his purpose, and he hinted that nothing must now be allowed to stand in his way. Young Miles was startled by his violent language, and felt the courage oozing out at his palms. He declared that he did not want to run the chance of putting his head in a noose for any girl alive, whatever her fortune, but his father’s taunts, as well as the glowing pictures which he drew, stimulated him to make another venture. The plan arranged by the smuggler and his son need not be described.

Young Miles appeared so completely changed in appearance and manners that there was little risk of his being recognised by the inhabitants of Hurlston.

The day after his interview with his father, a post-chaise which had come from the neighbouring town, drove up to the Texford Arms. A Frenchman descended from it. He stated that he was a Royalist who had been some little time in the country, and that he wished to take lodgings in the village, his object being to give instruction in French to the families in the neighbourhood. He was told that there were no lodgings, but that he could be accommodated at the inn. Saying that he wished to be quiet, he persisted in searching for them, and after many enquiries he found that Mrs Brown, whose son sailed as mate of the Nancy, could take him in. She had a neat little room looking out on the sea, with which he was perfectly satisfied, and at once had his portmanteau removed to it. His name he told her was Jules Malin. She was afraid he would not like her English cooking, but he assured her that he should be perfectly contented with anything she could provide, for that in making his escape from France he had been inured to so many hardships, he found himself in a perfect paradise in her quiet cottage.

He seemed somewhat disappointed on hearing that there were but few families in the neighbourhood likely to take advantage of his instruction. Some of the better class of farmers might wish their daughters to learn French. There was also, Mrs Brown said, a young lady at Downside who might be willing to take lessons, and possibly Miss Castleton, at Texford, might also become a pupil, although, having had a French governess she probably understood the language.

Monsieur Malin set out at once with a packet of cards and called on several of the farmers. His terms were very moderate, and they were glad of the opportunity of having their daughters instructed in French. Miss Castleton, at Texford, after speaking a short time to him, asked him whether he was not a German, and on his assuring her that he was not, she informed him that as she did not admire either his pronunciation or idiom, she could not recommend him as a master.

Not in anyway abashed, he made a low bow, and shortly afterwards appeared at Downside. Miss Jane received him very politely, and begging him to be seated in the dining-room, said she would take counsel with her sister on the subject.

“As May has never had the opportunity of speaking to French people, although she, I doubt not, understands French thoroughly, it will be a pity not to give her the advantage of receiving instruction,” she observed to Miss Mary.

May was grateful to her friends for their kind intentions, and was perfectly ready to take lessons. The young Frenchman seemed highly pleased, and was ready to begin at once.

Miss Jane was present. He behaved with great respect, though May was somewhat astonished the way he set about giving instruction, for he seemed to understand nothing about grammar, and she suspected that his pronunciation was far from correct.

“He may nevertheless be of assistance to you,” said Miss Jane, after he had gone, “and as I promised to let him come to-morrow, we will see how he then gets on.”

And so it came about that the audacious Miles again found himself in the presence of innocent May. He was so elated by the success of his first lesson that he could with difficulty maintain his assumed character, and more than once he inadvertently dropped the French accent and addressed his pupil in English. May’s suspicions were gradually aroused, and as he grew more familiar in tone she attentively examined his countenance. Suddenly recognition seemed to flash upon her, and rising quickly she darted out of the room.

“I have been and made a mess of it again,” he muttered to himself, “still I will try and calm the old lady if she says anything, and set matters to rights.”

Miss Jane was not so easily deceived. May told her her suspicions. She entered with a stern brow, and the sum she had promised to pay for the lessons in her hand.

“I do not enquire who you are, but I have to inform you that the young lady does not wish to receive further lessons, nor do we desire again to see you here,” she said, giving the money.

The pretended French master endeavoured to expostulate, but Miss Jane only pointed significantly to the door.

At last, finding that he was not listened to, he took his hat with an ill grace which further betrayed him, and hurried out of the house.

The next day he called intending to apologise, but Miss Jane refused to admit him.

“But will not Miss Halliburt see me just for one minute?” he asked, offering Susan half-a-guinea. “They don’t pay you very high wages here, I guess.”

“Take yourself off, Master Gaffin, and your money too,” exclaimed Susan, indignantly, putting her hands behind her back. “Do you fancy we don’t know you with all your pretended French airs and gibberish. Let me advise you not to show your face inside those gates again.”

Miles sneaked off without attempting to reply. Recovering his audacity on his return to his lodgings he for several days made attempts to see May, who, fearing to meet him out-of-doors, was kept a prisoner within the grounds.

Miles, foiled in his plan, determined to consult his father, but, not wishing to be seen near the mill in daylight, he took a stroll on the Downs, intending to make his way there at dusk.

He had gone some distance, when suddenly the tall figure of Mad Sal, rising as it seemed out of the earth, stood before him. He started back and would have hurried away, recollecting her appearance when he had assisted in the outrage on Jacob Halliburt.

Though others might not have recognised him, she, it was evident, did so, from the way she addressed him.

“What have you done with the hapless lad I saw you bear away over the salt sea, salt sea?” she exclaimed. “I have waited long, but in vain, for his return. Have you sent him wandering far from home and country, or is he fathoms deep beneath the salt sea, salt sea?”

“I don’t know of whom you speak, old dame,” answered Miles, mustering up his courage. “I am a stranger here, and know none of the people. You mistake me for some one else.”

“I take you for the son of the miller of Hurlston,” she exclaimed, laughing loudly. “Go and tell him that I have watched his doings. I know his goings out and his comings in, and ere long the ministers of justice will track him down, and consign him to the fate he so richly merits.”

“What have I to do with the miller of Hurlston? He would be a bold man who would speak to him in that way,” answered Miles, trembling with fear.

“It’s false, it’s false,” shouted the old woman. “You are even now on your way to him. I saw you leave his door not many nights ago, when you thought no one was near. Go, tell him to beware of the fate which will ere long overtake him. Go, I say, go,” and she waved her staff wildly round, compelling Miles to retreat before her. He, at last, having nothing with which to defend himself, and not daring to seize the staff whirled about his head, turned round and fled across the heath followed by the shouts and shrieks of the unhappy creature who seemed to triumph in his discomfiture. He did not stop till he got out of her sight, when sitting down to rest, he tried to recover himself before venturing to enter the mill.

Miles Gaffin listened to his son’s account with a contemptuous sneer on his lips. Another subject was at that moment occupying his thoughts. He had just received notice from Sir Ralph’s steward to quit the mill the day his lease expired.

“It is old Groocock’s doing,” he told his son. “Sir Ralph takes no charge of such matters, though I should expect no favour from his hands. We are old foes, and though he does not know me, I know him. I would be revenged on him, and I would burn Texford over his head without compunction, had I not good reason for preserving the place. Had you succeeded with Maiden May as she is called, the way would have been smoother. Fool as you are, you can keep counsel. Now listen. The Lively will be here again ere long with all her old crew, and a few other bold fellows we have picked up of late. We will make sharp work of it—first embark all the goods stored here, then with a strong hand push on to Texford, take my revenge on Sir Ralph and his chattering old steward, then set fire to the mill, and get on board the lugger before half-a-dozen men can collect to oppose us. I think I may trust you meantime with another piece of work. You shall have half-a-dozen fellows, and you can surround Downside, and may bring on board either of the ladies you like. As the girl is supposed to be hard-hearted, you may secure one of the old ones; I leave that to you.”

“Trust me for the one I’ll lay my hands on,” answered Miles. “If you will give me the men, you may depend that I will not let her slip this time.”

“Well, I think you have got sense enough to do that, and the Lively will not be here many hours before our plan has been carried out, and we are away from Hurlston.”

Chapter Forty Seven.

A Warning Voice.

Poor Maiden May, as her loving friends still delighted to call her, waited day after day, anxious at not receiving a contradiction of the report of Harry’s loss. True it is that “hope deferred maketh the heart-sick;” her cheeks lost their bloom, her step its elastic tread; still she performed her wonted duties, her voice was as melodious as ever when she read to Miss Mary, and she endeavoured, as she led her about, to speak with cheerfulness, and to describe, as she used to do when a young girl, the progress of the vegetation in the garden, the fresh flowers blooming, and the birds and insects as they flitted about among the trees and bushes. How eagerly she looked out for the arrival of the postman at his accustomed hour of passing the house, and her heart sank with disappointment as day after day he went by with no letter for Downside.

Julia, too, surrounded by the luxuries of Texford, was not less to be pitied than May. She, too, was waiting in expectation of receiving a letter, and no letter came. Sir Ralph was angry at her objecting to come up to London, and he informed her that he intended inviting several gentlemen of fortune and position to the Hall, adding, “now understand, Julia, should you receive an offer of which I approve, I must insist on your accepting it. I am resolved never to sanction your marriage with the man who so presumptuously aspired to your hand, and as I shall take care to convince him of this, he will abandon any hopes he may have entertained. As, in consequence of the death of your poor brother, the baronetcy will cease to exist, I am doubly anxious to see Texford possessed by a man of family, who will take our name, and be able, from his wealth, to obtain the title.”

Still Julia did not despair. She felt that no one was more worthy to become the possessor of Texford than Headland, or was more likely, from his merits, to win the title her father wished his son-in-law to obtain.

One morning May saw the postman approaching to put a letter into her hand; it bore only an English postmark, and was addressed to Miss Pemberton. It was from Mr Shallard. He hoped to have the honour of calling on the ladies the following day on a matter of business connected with their ward, as he might venture to call her. They wondered, naturally, what he could have to communicate; it could scarcely be that he had made any discovery regarding her birth, he would have said so had such been the case.

May tried to overcome any curiosity she might have felt, indeed one subject only could interest her. Was he likely to bring her tidings of Harry?

He came at the appointed hour.

“I fear that the matter which has brought me here must prove painful to that young lady,” and he bowed to May, “and, at the same time, to those who have her interest at heart, it cannot fail, in other respects, to be gratifying. Before Lieutenant Castleton went abroad he executed a will, in which he left the whole of his property in trust to you two ladies and myself for the benefit of that young lady, whom I have been very careful to designate in a way which may preclude any mistake, though from the rough notes he drew up, I found that he was under the idea that she was the daughter of Adam and Betsy Halliburt. As Sir Ralph is convinced of the death of his son, I have proved the will, and as the money is invested in the Funds, your signatures only are required to obtain the dividends, when the amount, which I calculate to be about 500 a year, including that arising from the Texford property, will be paid over.”

“Oh, he is not dead, I cannot receive it,” cried May, in a tone of grief which went to her hearers’ hearts, as, hiding her face in her hands, she sank back in her chair, and would have fallen, had not Miss Jane and the lawyer sprung to her assistance.

“I deeply grieve to have wounded your feelings,” said Mr Shallard.

“Oh, do not tell me he is dead, do not,” cried May again.

“My dear young lady, had not his father been convinced of the fact, I should not have ventured to interfere in the matter. He, I trust, may have received wrong information, and I hope Lieutenant Castleton may really be alive, and that he may bestow his fortune on you in a far more satisfactory manner. I have only taken a precautionary step in case the will should be disputed.”

The lawyer knew enough of the female heart to be aware that his remarks were more likely to be beneficial to the interesting young girl than any expressions of condolence he could have uttered.

May looked up with a smile of hope.

“Yes, he will come back, I am sure he will. No one saw the ship go down.”

The lawyer, however, induced Miss Jane to accompany him to the dining-room, and to sign the necessary papers, observing—

“I trust the young gentleman may appear, but it is always right in these cases to be on the safe side. If he reappears, I am sure he will be much obliged to us for acting as he would have wished had he been lost.”

Miss Jane took the opportunity of mentioning to Mr Shallard the arrival of young Miles Gaffin in disguise at Hurlston. The lawyer listened to all she said.

“I will have the gentleman looked after,” he answered. “Information has been laid against the father, and he, in all probability, will be implicated. If it can be proved that he assisted in carrying off young Halliburt, we can lay hands on him at once. If his father gets an intimation of our intentions, we shall require a strong force, as he has a number of desperate fellows at his back, and would certainly protect his son, and endeavour to rescue him.”

“But if so, do you think that we here are safe from his atrocious designs. It never occurred to me before,” said Miss Jane, in some trepidation, as the idea entered her mind, “that he may possibly make some rash attempt upon this house. It is not easy to fathom his motives, but there must be something behind which we do not yet understand.”

“I cannot say that I think you are quite safe,” observed the lawyer. “If I have your authority for stating that you dread an attack from the smugglers, I will apply for a body of revenue officers to be sent to Hurlston, and as we have a body of sea-fencibles at Morbury, I will get my friend, Captain Shirley, to send over a few to support them. A ruffian, such as this Gaffin undoubtedly is, must no longer be allowed to continue his career if the law can lay hands on him.”

The arrangement Mr Shallard proposed greatly relieved Miss Jane’s mind. She had not mentioned her fears either to her sister or to May, and probably they weighed more on her mind on that account.

Mr Groocock had, in the meantime, received authority from Sir Ralph to use force in expelling Miles Gaffin from the mill should he refuse to give it up, and the steward had taken steps effectually to execute his orders. He also had applied for the assistance of the military to carry them out.

The day was approaching when Gaffin’s lease of the mill would terminate.

Mr Groocock thought he had kept his arrangements secret, or he would scarcely have ventured to ride about the country by himself.

Gaffin was now constantly at the mill, and the steward knowing the man’s desperate character, might justly have feared that he would revenge himself on his head. He was one evening returning home later than usual on his steady cob, when passing through a copse not far from the Texford gate, his horse pricked up its ears, and moved to the other side of the road, as if wishing to avoid an object it had discovered. Never since he bestrode it had it been guilty of shying.

“What is the matter, old steady?” he said, patting his steed’s neck.

Suddenly the question was answered by the appearance of mad Sal’s tall figure emerging from the copse.

“Old man,” she said, “I come to warn you that danger threatens your life. You are kind and generous to those in distress. You have cared for and pitied me while others mocked and scorned me, and refused the bread I asked. He who has turned me from his doors with curses and scorn when I asked a crust at his hands, is plotting the destruction of you and those you serve. He thinks that he has been unobserved, but I have dodged his footsteps when he knew not I was near. I have been within the walls of his abode when, had he discovered my presence, he would have strangled me without compunction. I tell you this, lest you think the poor mad creature, as people call her, is talking folly; but I charge you, as you value your own life, and the honour and the liberty of those you serve, to let the officers of justice lay hands on him before he has done the mischief he contemplates. I leave your master to his doom. From me he deserves no favour, but for his hapless wife and daughter I feel as woman feels for woman, as they, too, have lost him they love in the cruel salt sea, salt sea. Be warned, old man, be warned.”

Before even the steward could speak mad Sal had retreated within the shelter of the copse. He had, as she acknowledged, compassionated her forlorn condition, assisted her with food and money; indeed, through his means, and that of other charitable people in the neighbourhood, she had been enabled to exist. He was, therefore, convinced that she had not warned him without cause, though he wished that she had given him more exact information on which to proceed.

He hurried home determined to communicate with Mr Shallard the next morning, and to obtain a sufficient guard at once for Texford, in case Gaffin should really venture to attack it.

Each morning May rose with the hopes that a letter would come from Harry, and not till the postman had passed did her fond heart grow sick again with hope deferred.

The usual hour of his coming had arrived, and as she heard his step on the gravel walk she hastened out to meet him. He held a letter in his hand. It was directed to Miss Pemberton. She gazed at the handwriting.

“Yes, yes it is from him, he is alive,” she exclaimed, with an hysterical cry as she sprang up the steps, and flew into the drawing-room.

Fortunately Miss Jane made her appearance with the required sum to pay the postman.

“Read, read,” cried May, standing trembling in every limb as she gave the letter to Miss Jane, who, tearing it open, handed one to her, directed “to my beloved Maiden May.” Her eyes swimming with tears of joy, she could with difficulty decipher the words. Yet she saw that Harry was alive and well, and in England.

“He would be at Downside the next day, or in two days at furthest. He had met with many adventures. He knew that she must have been anxious at his not writing, but it had been impossible. He had been wrecked, and lived long on a desert island, and finally made his escape on board a slow sailing merchantman, which, after running many risks of capture, had safely reached England. What he considered the best news he had to communicate was the discovery not only of the person who would serve as the missing link by which his friend, Captain Headland, hoped to trace his father; but of that father himself, who was thoroughly prepared to acknowledge his friend as his long lost son. There is some mystery about him,” he added, “but he is so evidently a man of refinement and education, that I am sure there is nothing of which my friend will have cause to be ashamed; I suspect, indeed, that he is a man of title, or the heir to a title, which he, perhaps, may have reason to think will be disputed. I am delighted, too, to find that the Thisbe has been ordered home, and her arrival is every day looked for, so that I hope Headland’s long cherished wish will be accomplished, and he will find that he belongs to a family to which even my father cannot object. And I trust, too, dearest, that this happy event will soften my father’s heart, and that he will no longer object to our union.”

Much more Harry said to the same effect. May, indeed, had full reason to believe that he loved her as devotedly as ever.

Chapter Forty Eight.

Saved from the Wreck.

We must return to Harry and Jacob on board the prize. The young lieutenant well knew the dangerous position in which the ship, now under his command, was placed. All that he could then do was to keep her before the wind, and to try and take in the remainder of the canvas. Few of the Frenchmen seemed inclined to exert themselves, appearing utterly indifferent to their fate. Harry urged the French officer to induce his men to work, for their own sakes as well as his; but he shrugged his shoulders, and declared that he had lost all command over them.

On the ship flew, the hurricane every instant increasing in fury. The topgallant-masts were quickly carried away, and the canvas which had not been taken in was soon flying in shreds, which lashed themselves round and round the yards.

To clear away the wreck of the masts was no small danger. Jacob and two of his companions going aloft accomplished the task. A few of the French crew were shamed into assisting them.

The ship required all his energies and attention, and he had scarcely time to look round to see what had become of the Thisbe. When he did so, he could only just see her dimly far away astern. He knew, however, that if possible Headland would follow and endeavour to lend him the assistance he might require.

Harry now found that the prize was the Culloden, an English ship homeward-bound, which had been captured by a French privateer, and was on her way to the Mauritius. Her officers, with most of the English crew, had been removed on board the privateer.

There was no time, however, at present to visit the passengers who had been left, as all his attention was required on deck. He had at first hoped that the threatened gale would prove of an ordinary character, but it was soon evident that it was to prove a hurricane. Every moment it increased in fury, while the sea got up its white-crested billows, hissing and roaring on either side as the ship clove her way through them.

He had had no time to disarm the French crew, and he could not help fearing that they would rise on him, and retake the ship. As long, however, as the Thisbe was in sight they would not make the attempt.

Fortunately there were several Lascars who had before belonged to the ship, and they were more likely to side with him than with the French. The knowledge of this probably kept the latter in order.

Harry’s difficulties were increased by discovering that the Thisbe was no longer in sight. To bring the ship to the wind, and wait for her was impossible. His only chance of safety consisted in running before it.

The French officer was a young sub-lieutenant, evidently not much of a seaman. Harry pointed out the danger in which the ship was placed, and demanded his word not to attempt to retake her.

“If you give it I will trust you, and you shall be at liberty, but if not, I must be under the necessity of placing you in confinement,” he added.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and replied, “that he would comply with the English officer’s request, though he could not be answerable for his men.”

“I will look after them,” said Harry, and, calling Jacob, told him to keep an eye on the French crew.

He sent for the Lascar boatswain, and obtained his assurance that he and his men would remain faithful to the English. This gave him rather more confidence.

The cabin-steward, who was among the English prisoners, came to announce that dinner was ready. Leaving two of his best men at the helm, and inviting the French officer to accompany him, Harry hurried into the cuddy to snatch a few mouthfuls of food.

The passengers, who were all civilians, crowded round him eagerly asking questions. They had kept below, afraid of the risk on deck from the spars or blocks falling from aloft. They expressed their satisfaction at the recapture of the ship, not appearing to be aware of the danger she was in. Harry, taking them aside, told them that he must depend upon their assistance should the French crew attempt to retake the ship.

“Very little chance of that,” was the answer.

“It is as well to be cautious, however,” he observed.

He was told that there was another passenger ill in his cabin, out of which he had not made his appearance for several days. Harry, however, unwilling to remain longer than was absolutely necessary from the deck, could not then visit him.

The Culloden drove before the hurricane which now blew from one quarter, now from another. Harry had no one on whom he could depend for keeping a correct reckoning. The binnacle had been knocked away, and the other compasses on board were out of order. It was impossible to ascertain in what direction the ship was driving. The Thisbe was nowhere to be seen. A leak was sprung, the pumps were manned, but the water gained on them. The French crew threatened to mutiny, and were with difficulty prevented from breaking into the spirit-room. By the strictest vigilance were they alone kept in order. The Lascars, however, who had belonged to the ship, remained faithful, and readily obeyed Harry’s commands. Day after day went by, the hurricane rather increased than lessened. The masts went by the board, and the Culloden remained a helpless wreck on the stormy ocean. The sea through which she was driving was but little known, but numberless dangers, many of them as uncertain, were marked in the chart. In spite of his anxieties, however, Harry kept up his spirits. He could venture to take but brief intervals of rest, but he could rely on Jacob who took his place when he was below. By great exertions a jury-mast was secured to the stump of the foremast, and a sail was set which kept the ship before the wind, and prevented her from being pooped. Still, should danger appear ahead, it would be insufficient to enable her to avoid it. Several days had passed, the gale had decreased, but the ship was still running on before it. The night was very dark, Harry was on deck. He hoped on the return of daylight to get an after jury-mast rigged, and to heave the ship too. All hands were at the pumps. By keeping them going alone, they well knew, could the ship be prevented from foundering. Suddenly there came a cry from forward of “Breakers ahead.” It was followed by a terrific crashing, rending sound. The next sea lifted the ship to strike with greater force. Several of the passengers who rushed from the cabin, and many of the terrified crew, were carried away by the following sea which swept with resistless force over the deck. Harry and Jacob, with the rest of the Englishmen, clung to the stauncheons and bulwarks, and escaped. The ship still drove on till she became firmly fixed in the rocks. Land could dimly be discerned over the starboard quarter at no great distance, but a foaming mass of water intervened. Some of the Frenchmen and Lascars on discovering it began to lower a boat. Harry in vain ordered them to desist. Before she had got a dozen yards from the ship, the boat and all in her were engulphed. No other boat remained. Still Harry hoped from the way the ship remained fixed that she would hold together should the sea go down, and that in the morning he might be able to establish a communication with the shore.

Finding that nothing more could be done on deck, he made his way to the cuddy to offer such consolation as he could to the passengers.

They thanked him for his exertions, aware that it was from no fault of his the ship had been wrecked.

He went to the cabin of the invalid gentleman. The occupant was sitting up dressed.

“What, wrecked again!” he exclaimed, as Harry appeared. “Is the death I have so often escaped about to overtake me at last?”

“I hope not,” answered Harry, and he expressed his expectation of being able to reach the shore in the morning.

“I ought to be grateful to you, sir, and will endeavour to feel so,” said the invalid. “But bereavements and numberless misfortunes have made me indifferent to life.”

On his return on deck, hoping that the island might be inhabited, Harry ordered a gun to be fired, and blue lights to be burned. As the latter blazed up they cast a lurid glare over the ship and the wild rocky shore, tinging the sheets of spray which still flew over the deck, though the wind had gone down and the sea had much subsided. For a considerable time no answer was returned to these signals. At length a light was seen, and presently a fire blazed up on a spot directly opposite the ship. Still it seemed impossible to carry a rope across the seething cauldron which intervened. Jacob volunteered to make the attempt. Harry, though unwilling to let him risk his life could not refuse his offer.

The fire threw sufficient light on the rocks to enable him to see his way. Fastening a line round his body he lowered himself down and made for the nearest rock. Now the sea appeared to be carrying him away, now he bravely breasted it, till at length the rock was gained. Next instant a sea washed over it, but he clung fast, and as soon as it had passed, he sprang forward and reached the next. Sometimes he was hidden altogether from sight, then again the glare of the blue light showed him still either tightly clinging to a rock, or making his way onwards.

He at length had passed the most dangerous portion. Three men had at first only been seen near the fire, a fourth now appeared, it was Jacob. A loud cheer showed him that his shipmates were aware of his success.

A hawser with another smaller line was then made fast to it, and taxing to the utmost the strength of the four men, hauled at length on shore.

A cradle was next rapidly constructed and fitted with ropes for hauling it backwards and forwards along the hawser. The desired means for conveying all on shore was obtained.

This task had occupied a considerable time, and the rising wind and increased violence of the sea made all on board anxious to gain the shore.

Harry’s men wished him to go first.

“No, my lads,” he answered firmly. “I will see all in safety before I leave the ship.”

The passengers and the greater number of the crew had reached the shore in safety, when Harry recollected that the invalid passenger had not made his appearance.

Having ordered the two men who remained, to secure a large block, and to reeve a rope through it, by which means, when on shore, they could still communicate with the wreck, he hurried into the cabin, where he found the gentleman seated at the table, with a book in his hand, endeavouring to read by the light of the cuddy lamp.

“I was waiting till I was summoned,” he said calmly. “Trusting to your assurance, that there was no danger, I was unwilling to expose myself to the wetting spray longer than was necessary.”

“I was mistaken, there is no time to be lost,” exclaimed Harry. “I must beg you to come without delay,” he exclaimed. “At any moment this part of the ship may break up, as the bows have already begun to do.”

The gentleman leaning on Harry’s arm, proceeded with him on deck. Even in those few minutes the danger had increased. Only one man remained.

As Harry with his charge reached the side, he was surprised to hear Jacob’s voice.

“I came back by the last trip, to lend you a hand, sir,” he said. “If you will take charge of the gentleman, I will wait on board till you are safe on shore; he cannot go by himself, that’s certain.”

There was no time for expostulating, Harry, therefore, securing the gentleman in the cradle, placed himself by his side, and those on shore began hauling away on the line.

Scarcely had he left the wreck, than a heavy sea washed over it. He still, however, could distinguish Jacob clinging to the bulwarks.

The cradle seemed now to taughten, now to be lowered so much, that he and his charge were nearly submerged by the foaming water. He dreaded every moment that the wreck would part, and his faithful follower be washed away.

At length the rock was reached, and his companion was lifted out of the cradle. The cradle was quickly run back to the wreck. The darkness prevented them seeing whether Jacob was still there. A minute of intense anxiety elapsed. At length a tug at the rope was given, the signal to haul in. His shipmates gave a loud cheer when Jacob, by the light of the fire, was seen in the cradle as they dragged it to the shore.

“All right, Mr Castleton,” he exclaimed, “though I did think, as I was stepping into this basket, that I might have had to take a longer cruise than I bargained for.”

“Castleton,” exclaimed the invalid gentleman. Harry, however, did not hear him speak, as at that moment the three strangers introduced themselves.

They had been long living on the island, they said, having been wrecked some years before, since when no ship had come near the spot. There was water and wood in abundance, and fish and birds could be caught. This was satisfactory news.

“Well, my friends,” said Harry, “the first thing we have to do is to get up shelter, and in the morning, if the ship holds together, we must try and obtain provisions. In the meantime, if you will take the gentleman I brought on shore, with some of the other passengers, who can least stand exposure, to your hut, I shall be obliged to you.”

“It is some way off, sir,” answered the man who had spoken, “but we will do our best to look after the gentleman.”

Though the invalid expressed his readiness to walk, Harry believing that he was ill able to do so, had a litter constructed with two light spars and a piece of a sail which had been washed on shore; and Jacob and three of the other men carried it. Most of the passengers accompanied them.

The daylight soon afterwards broke and Harry set the men to work to collect whatever was washed up by the sea. He was chiefly anxious to obtain provisions, the bales of rich silks and other manufactures of the east were of little value to men in their situation.

The wind had again increased, and sea upon sea dashing with terrific violence against the wreck, she in a short time broke up, her rich cargo being scattered far and wide over the waters and cast upon the beach.

A number of casks of provisions, bags of rice and other grain, and a few cases of wine, some chests of tea and other articles, were however saved.

The islanders, as the men found on the island may be called, now returned and advised that the stores should be removed from the bleak and rocky bay, in which the ship had gone on shore, to the more genial situation, where they had formed their settlement.

Harry shouldering a heavy load, the men followed his example, and the stores were soon conveyed to the settlement.

It was a picturesque spot at the head of a valley extending down to the sea, with a stream of water running through it, descending from a high hill which rose in the centre of the island. On one side was a grove of trees, and on the other where the ground was level, the men had cultivated a garden of considerable size with a field of Indian corn.

A suitable spot was selected on which the party set to work, to put up huts formed partly of pieces of the wreck and some sails which had been washed up; and partly of the branches of trees which were cut down for the purpose.

Harry had been struck by the superior intelligence and activity of one of the islanders. He showed from the first especial skill in erecting huts and the other men soon learned to follow his directions. Harry enquired of Jacob if he had heard anything about the man.

“Not much, sir, except that he is a man of war’s man. His mates call him Jack and that’s all I know, except that he is a right sort of fellow.”

Harry had had as comfortable a hut as could be erected arranged for the invalid gentleman who had hitherto remained in that of the islanders. He had also designed a larger hut for the other passengers; he himself having slept under such temporary covering as the canvas which had been saved afforded. He found however on his return from an excursion to the scene of the wreck that Jacob and Jack had erected another hut.

“You have been only thinking of us sir,” said Jacob, “but Jack and I thought of how you ought to have a house to yourself, so we took the liberty of putting it up, and we hope you will find it comfortable. The Lascars and Frenchmen have been building others for themselves, and as soon as we have finished this we are going to turn to and get one up for ourselves, and then we shall all have palaces like kings.”

With the aid of some mattresses and the bales of cotton and silk which had been saved sufficiently comfortable bedding was arranged for the invalid gentleman as well as for the other passengers. He seemed grateful, and appeared mostly to mourn the loss of his books.

At length the first arrangements for their residence on the island were completed. A flagstaff was put up on a neighbouring height, and an English flag was hoisted as a signal to passing vessels.

Harry had now to consider the means for obtaining food for the settlement and for giving occupation to the inhabitants.

Chapter Forty Nine.

Sailor Jack.

Harry had gone to his hut after the labours of the day were over,—and was about to lie down and rest when Jacob appeared at the entrance.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “may I speak a few words with you.”

“Yes,” answered Harry, “what are they about?”

“Why, sir, I have been having a talk with Jack, and he has been asking me questions which I can’t answer, but which I’ve a notion you can; and if you’ll let him he’d like to see you, sir.”

“What is it about, Jacob?” asked Harry.

“Why, sir, he was telling me how he was serving on board a man-of-war, how the boat he belonged to was cut off by the savages and every soul on board killed except himself; and how after he had been for several years made to work like a slave he escaped and got on board a Dutch merchantman. He was working his passage home in her when she was cast away on this island, and only he and two other Englishmen were saved. But that’s not what I was coming to. When I happened to be talking of Captain Headland he seemed wonderfully interested. ‘Why Jacob,’ he said, ‘that’s my name.’ I then told him that he and you, sir, were old shipmates, and that you knew much more about him than I did, sir. Jack asked me if I would come and speak to you, for he is just like a man out of his mind, he is so eager to know who the captain is.”

“Tell him I shall be glad to speak to him at once,” said Harry, much interested in what he had heard, and Jacob hurried off to call Jack.

Jack soon reached the hut, showing his man-of-war’s-man manners by doffing his hat and pulling one of his long locks. His countenance, though burned and bronzed almost to blackness, and somewhat frizzled by age and exposure, wore the same honest, kind expression which Headland had described.

“Sit down, my friend,” said Harry, giving him one of a couple of stools he had manufactured. “Halliburt has been telling me that you wish to hear about Captain Headland.”

“Ay, that I do, sir, and if you knew how my heart is set on him, for I am sure it must be him, you would not wonder that I make bold to axe you. I never had a son, but if I had, I could not love him better than I did that lad, whom I watched over ever since he was a small child just able to toddle about the decks by himself. I took charge of him when there was no one else to see that he did not come to harm, and I may say, though there is nothing to boast of in it, I saved his life more than once when he would have been drowned or burned to death, or carried away by the savages. It was a proud day when I saw him placed on the quarter-deck with a fair chance of becoming an admiral, as I am very sure he will be, and there was nothing so much went to my heart when I was made a prisoner by the rascally Malays as the thought that I could no longer have an eye on him, and maybe help him a bit with my cutlass in boarding an enemy or in such like work. And then, when I at last got away from the Malays and was coming home to hear about him again, as I hoped, it was just the bitterest thing that could have happened to me to find myself wrecked on this desolate island without the chance that I could see of getting off again. And then, after all, to have some of his ship’s company and his greatest friend, as Jacob tells me you are, sir, cast ashore here to tell me about him, almost surpasses my belief and makes my heart jump into my mouth for joy.”

“I will not ask if you are Jack Headland of whom my friend has spoken, and for whose faithful care he has expressed the warmest gratitude, for I am very sure you must be,” exclaimed Harry. “He has told me all the circumstances you have described and nothing will give him greater satisfaction than to find that you are alive and well. He is more than ever anxious to discover his parents, and you are the only person alive that he knows of who is able to help him to do so.”

Harry then gave a brief account of Captain Headland’s career from the time since his faithful friend had been parted from him.

“Thank you, sir, for telling me all this,” exclaimed Jack. “I have often and often puzzled my head to call to mind the name of the craft aboard which I first saw him, and the place she sailed from; do you see, sir, I had no learning and was a thoughtless lad at the time, and I never asked questions about the place we had come to, and all I remember is that the name of the craft seemed pretty nigh to break the jaws of all who attempted to speak it. Still, where there’s a will there’s a way, maybe somehow or other it will come back to me.”

“At all events I am sure you will do your best if we can manage to get away from this place; and Captain Headland will certainly not leave these seas without looking for us,” answered Harry.

The conversation was so interesting that it was not till a late hour that Jack returned to his hut in which Jacob had been invited to take up his quarters. The two warm-hearted sailors had so many qualities in common that they had been especially drawn to each other, though they probably were not aware of the cause. Utter freedom from selfishness was the chief characteristic of them both. No sooner had Jacob Halliburt discovered Harry’s love for May than he was ready to sacrifice even his own life if it were necessary for May’s sake, to preserve that of his lieutenant, without a thought about the destruction of his own vain hopes, while honest Jack’s whole soul was wrapped up in the boy he had preserved from so many dangers.

The invalid gentleman had recognised Jacob as the seaman who had returned on board the wreck, and had assisted in his escape by placing him in the cradle. Jacob had since then been attending to him and looked in every now and then to enquire if he wanted anything: he had besides helped to fit up his hut. He had not from the first associated with the rest of the passengers who professed not even to know his name. Some pronounced him proud and haughty, and others expressed their opinion that he was not right in his mind; although, except that he had kept himself aloof from them, he had done nothing which would warrant such an assertion.

Jacob was attending on him the first day he had occupied his hut.

“Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?” asked Jacob, who had brought him his share of the evening meal cooked at the general fire, for Harry had established a system by which all shared alike.

“Thank you, my man, there is nothing more I require; but as your appetite is probably better than mine, if you will wait a few minutes you can carry off some of my rations,” answered the gentleman, looking at the mess with the eye of an invalid, as if it was not especially to his taste, “I fear I have no other means of repaying you for the trouble you are taking on my account.”

Chapter Fifty.

Mr Hastings.

Jacob had from the first constituted himself the attendant of the invalid gentleman, and daily brought him his food from the common stock.

“By-the-bye, my man,” he said, looking up at Jacob, “I heard your officer spoken of as Lieutenant Castleton, do you know to what Castletons he belongs?”

“I don’t know exactly what you mean, sir, but I know that his father is Sir Ralph Castleton of Texford, because I come from Hurlston, which is hard by there; and mother lived in the family of Mr Herbert Castleton near Morbury, so you see, sir, I know all about the family.”

“Ah, that is remarkable,” observed the gentleman, as if to himself. “Has Sir Ralph Castleton been long at Texford?” he asked.

“Let me see, it’s about a matter of three or four years since he came there, when his uncle Sir Reginald Castleton died. There was an elder brother, I have heard mother say, Mr Ranald Castleton, who was lost at sea, so Mr Ralph became to be Sir Ralph and got the estate.”

“Has Sir Ralph many children?” enquired the gentleman, who appeared much interested in Jacob’s account.

“Yes, sir; besides Mr Harry there is his eldest son Mr Algernon, and their sister Miss Julia, a young lady who, I have heard mother say, is liked by everyone in those parts.”

The gentleman asked whether Lady Castleton was alive, and made many other enquiries about Texford, and its neighbourhood.

“If you will give me your name, sir, I will let Lieutenant Castleton know what you have been asking, as he can tell you more about the family than I can.”

The gentleman made no reply and for some minutes appeared lost in thought.

“Yes,” he said at length, “you may inform him that my name is Hastings—that having once known some members of his family, on hearing his name, I was curious to learn whether he was related to them, and that I shall be happy to see him at any time he has leisure to look in on me.”

Jacob delivered the message, and next day Harry paid Mr Hastings a visit. He found him, as his appearance betokened a man of education and refinement, but his spirits appeared greatly depressed. He received Harry in a friendly way, and soon threw off the formal manners he had at first exhibited.

Harry, though naturally somewhat curious to know more about him, afraid of appearing inquisitive did not venture to question him in the way he might otherwise have done.

“I fear, sir, you feel greatly the misfortune that has happened to us,” observed Harry, “it must have been a bitter disappointment indeed, when you had every reason to hope that you would, after we had retaken the ship, been able to proceed on your voyage to England.”

“My young friend, I am inured to misfortunes and disappointments,” answered Mr Hastings. “For years past I have been accustomed to them. I have been deprived of all I held dear in life. I had resolved long ago to return to Europe, soon after the last war with France broke out. I was on my way to England, when the ship in which I had taken my passage, was captured by the French and carried into an island in the Indian Ocean, with which no English seaman was acquainted. Here I with many others was detained a prisoner. Some were liberated, every means being taken to prevent them from becoming acquainted with its position. I unfortunately was known to have ascertained it from some observation I had been seen taking, and I was therefore detained till the termination of the war. My health gave way and I had given up all hopes of recovery, when I was taken to Batavia. Here I remained till long after the commencement of the present war, but was at length, however, allowed to sail for Bencoolen. I was again detained till the arrival of the Culloden, on board which I embarked, and she, as you know, was captured by a French frigate, and it seems to me that my prospect of reaching England is as far off as ever.”

Harry endeavoured to cheer the unfortunate man, assuring him that he felt certain Captain Headland would, as soon as he possibly could, come to look for the Culloden, and that he would without fail visit their island.

“I wish that I possessed your hopefulness, my young friend,” answered Mr Hastings, with a look of melancholy.

Harry after this conversation with Mr Hastings often visited him, and was always received with a warm welcome. Instead of having suffered from the exposure to which he had been subject on the night of the wreck, he, from that day, appeared to gain strength, and was soon able to walk about, and to visit different parts of the little island. Whatever he might have appeared to the passengers he showed no haughtiness when, as was frequently the case, he entered into conversation with the men. He never failed, when he met Jacob, to have a talk with him, and make more enquiries about Texford and Hurlston. At last one day Jacob said:—

“I think, sir, you must know the place.”

“You forget, my friend, that you have already told me so much about it, that I might easily describe it as well as if I had been there,” was the answer.

By Harry’s judicious arrangement, good discipline was maintained among the community over whom he was called to govern, while he induced them to add to their stock of provisions by fishing and snaring birds, and by collecting eggs among the cliffs, and shell-fish from the rocks. Fortunately a cask of hooks had been saved from the Dutch ship, as also a box of seeds. The islanders had cultivated a considerable plot of ground which produced vegetables of all sorts, and this was now much increased by the new comers.

Every evening after their return from fishing and bird catching, the men collected round the common fire which had by general consent been lighted in the middle of the village. Here they employed themselves in cooking and eating the fish and birds they had caught. It soon became the general meeting place of the whole community. At first the passengers had kept aloof, but by degrees they were induced to come and listen to the seamen’s yarns, and to join in the conversation.

Harry and Mr Hastings sometimes came near to the fire and joined in the conversation, though they more frequently sat at a little distance, listening to what was going forward, and often not a little amused by the remarks of their companions.

They were thus seated when the evening meal having been served out, the men as usual amused each other by narrating their adventures. Jack was appealed to, to give his, for he was supposed to have gone through more than the rest.

“Do you mean, mates, how I got away from the Malays, and was wrecked on this island?” he asked.

“No, no, Jacob has been telling us that you were wrecked long before that time, and had to live among savages ever so long,” answered one of the men. “Can’t you begin at the beginning; let us hear all about yourself since you first came to sea.”

Jack at first modestly apologised for talking about himself, but in a short time Harry heard him giving an account of his early days when he first found himself on board a ship, knowing no more about the sea than did one of the sheep of the flock he had been wont to attend. He went on exciting the interest of his hearers till he arrived at that part of his history which he had already given to Harry.

“You see, mates, as I wanted to part from the skipper, and the skipper wanted to part from me, I was not sorry to ship on board another craft, little thinking what was about to happen to her. She had a strange name, had that craft, so strange that neither I nor any one else, I should think, could manage to speak it.”

Jack then went on to describe how the little boy had been brought on board, how the mate seemed to have especial dislike to the child, and then how the vessel was wrecked.

Mr Hastings who had before been lying down, sat up, and bending forward, listened with the greatest attention to what Jack was saying.

Suddenly he exclaimed in a tone of the deepest interest, rising and coming up to Jack, “Was the name of the craft you sailed in the Bomanjee Horrmarjee?”

“That was the name, sir,” exclaimed Jack, “and if you are not the gentleman who brought the little boy aboard, you are just like him, though to be sure as a good many years have passed since then, that would make the difference.”

“I am the person you suppose, and the father of the little boy; and tell me, my friend, was he saved from the wreck? Is he still alive? What has become of him?”

“This is indeed wonderful,” exclaimed Harry, who had accompanied Mr Hastings. “I can answer your questions. Your son has long been my most intimate friend, and is now my captain. He commands the Thisbe, and I trust before many weeks are over that the earnest desire of his heart will be fulfilled, that he will have the happiness of meeting the father he has so long desired to find. When I discovered Jack Headland, the faithful guardian of his early days, I congratulated myself that the only existing clue, as I supposed, on which my friend could depend for tracing his parents had been found, though I little thought that it would be so rapidly followed up. I can assure you, sir, that you will have every reason to be proud of your son, for a more noble and gallant fellow does not exist; and that he is your son I have not the shadow of a doubt.”

Mr Hastings, begging Jack to follow, retired to his hut accompanied by Harry, that he might learn from the honest seaman fuller particulars of everything relating to the boy he had brought up.

Jack seemed to rejoice as much as he did, and to be fully convinced that he was right in his conjectures. Jack at length retired, leaving the two gentlemen alone.

“It is, indeed, wonderful, Mr Castleton, that you and my son should thus have been brought together, and I trust that whatever may occur, your friendship will continue as warm as ever.”

“There is little doubt about that, sir;” answered Harry, “especially as I hope we shall some day become nearly related, as my friend is engaged to marry my only sister, though my father objects to the match on grounds which I consider very insufficient—his ignorance of his parentage; but now I trust that will no longer be an impediment.”

“If my son is really attached to your sister, I have very little doubt when I plead his cause that your father will give his consent,” said Mr Hastings, in a tone which somewhat puzzled Harry. “It maybe a satisfaction for you to know that my family is in no way inferior to yours. More I need not say, as I have reasons for not entering into particulars.”

As may be supposed, Harry was now doubly anxious for the arrival of Headland, contemplating the joy and satisfaction the discovery of his father would give him, and he longed also to be able to write to Julia to tell her the news which would, he knew, tend so much to banish her anxieties for the future.

Still day after day went by, and no sail appeared to cheer the sight of the shipwrecked party.

Chapter Fifty One.

First Greetings.

Day after day passed by, and Harry and his shipwrecked companions began to despair of escaping from the island. If Jack Headland had lived there so many years without seeing a ship, it was possible that they might have to continue an equal length of time unless they could build a vessel in which to make their escape; but no wood was procurable, nor did they possess tools fit for the purpose.

A gale of almost equal violence to that which wrecked their ship was blowing, when Jacob, who had been on watch at the hill, rushed into the camp with the intelligence that a sail was visible in the offing. Most of the party hurried up to have a look at her. The general opinion was that she had made out the island, and was endeavouring to give it a wide berth.

“I am afraid that is more than she will do,” observed Jack. “She is fast driving towards the shore.”

“Can she be the Thisbe?” exclaimed Jacob.

“I think not,” observed Harry, “her canvas has not to my eye the spread of a man-of-war.”

As the stranger drew nearer, most of the party agreed that Lieutenant Castleton was right, she was certainly not a man-of-war.

Their flag blew out distinctly in the gale.

Their anxiety for the ship’s safety were at length set at rest. She weathered the outermost point of the reef, but now they began to fear that she would pass by and leave them to their fate.

Scarcely had she cleared the reef, however, than the sound of a gun gladdened their ears: their flag was seen, and the ship hauling her wind stood along the shore till she gained a shelter under the lee side of the island.

The gale had by this time considerably abated, and it was hoped that a boat might be sent on shore. They hurried across the island.

Just as the beach was reached a boat was seen leaving the ship. She soon landed with the first officer, who no sooner heard Lieutenant Castleton’s name than he greeted him with a hearty welcome. It had been feared, he said, that he and his boat’s crew had been lost, for that the Thisbe had herself been in great danger, and had with difficulty, after suffering much damage, got back to Calcutta. He added that his ship was the Montrose, homeward-bound, and that after touching at Bencoolen, she had been driven by the hurricane out of her course, when the island had been sighted in time to weather it, though no one on board was before aware of its existence.

As the wind might change, the captain was anxious to be away as soon as possible, and the whole party therefore hurried on board.

Fortunately, soon after the Montrose got into her proper course, she fell in with an outward-bound fleet, and by one of the ships Harry sent a despatch to Captain Headland, which he hoped might prevent the Thisbe from sailing in search of him and his companions. In it he also communicated the important information of his discovery of his friend’s old protector Jack Headland, and of his wonderful meeting with Mr Hastings on board the Culloden. Mr Hastings also wrote a private letter to Captain Headland, the contents of which he did not allow Harry to see.

“From the high character you give of your friend, I have spoken to him of matters in a way I should not otherwise have ventured to do, and which I do not wish to make known to any one but my son,” he observed to Harry. “That he is my son I have not the slightest doubt, and I feel confident that I can convince your father of the fact.”

The Montrose continued her homeward voyage. She was fortunately a good sailer, and a bright look-out being kept she escaped the enemy’s cruisers, and arrived safely in the Downs. Here Harry and Mr Hastings with Jack Headland and Jacob, landed and proceeded at once to London.

Harry knowing how anxious Adam and the dame would be to see their son, sent Jacob off immediately by the coach expecting that he would reach Hurlston soon after the ladies at Downside had received a letter he had written from Deal.

The captain and passengers of the Montrose had pressed on Harry and Mr Hastings the loan of as much money as they would accept, so that they had no difficulty about their expenses.

It was late in the evening, when after rattling through the ill-lighted streets they drove up to the Golden Cross, then the principal inn in the West end of London.

“I will remain here while you go and announce your arrival to your father, Mr Castleton,” said Mr Hastings. “As many years have passed since I travelled by land, I am weary with my journey, though I shall be happy to accompany you to-morrow, to renew the acquaintance which existed between us long ago, and for my son’s sake I am anxious to do so. I must beg you however not to mention my name, or if you do you can tell your father that you have reasons to believe it is an assumed one and that with my real name he is well acquainted.”

Harry had gone into the coffee-room while waiting for a coach which he had directed the porter to call for him. He was walking through the centre when a person started up from one of the stalls and grasping his hand exclaimed.

“What, Harry my boy, is it you, sound in limb and present in body instead of being buried fathoms deep beneath the ocean wave? I said so, I was sure of it, I knew we should see you again. I am heartily delighted, my dear boy.”

Harry having recognised in the speaker his old friend General Sampson, briefly explained what had happened and said that he was on the point of starting to see his father.

“I will save you the trouble then; he left town this morning for Texford, where he has invited me to join a party of friends—three or four marrying men high born and wealthy; but between ourselves I suspect that their visit will be in vain as far as the object the baronet may have in view is concerned.

“Well, it is fortunate I fell in with you, as I have saved you a long drive and a visit to an empty house. I was just taking a chop before going to see the great stars of the theatrical world John Kemble and Mrs Siddons act Macbeth and his wife; but I will give up my intention for the pleasure of passing the evening with you unless you will accompany me.”

Harry confessed that even those great performers could not attract him, and begged the general to come to his private room, being assured that his friend Mr Hastings would be happy to make his acquaintance.

“I left him about to retire to his chamber to rest, but I daresay he will join us during the evening. In the meantime I have a matter of much interest to talk to you about,” he added as he led the way upstairs.

“I never believed that you were lost, though your father and all the family went into mourning for you,” said the general, as they proceeded. “Your sister never gave up hopes of seeing you again, nor from what she wrote me, did another young lady who is interested in your welfare. Mr Shallard as in duty bound proved your will, but I understand she would not consent to touch a penny of the fortune you left her. If however you have a fancy for making her take it, all you have to do is to go to sea again and get killed or drowned in reality.”

“Thank you for your advice, general,” answered Harry laughing. “I trust that I may find a more satisfactory mode of settling the question.”

“I hope so, my boy, and I promise you I will lay siege to your father, and it will not be my fault if I do not compel him to surrender at discretion should he refuse to capitulate on honourable terms.”

As soon as they were seated, Harry told his old friend of the various occurrences with which the reader is acquainted.

The general was delighted.

“For my part I believe that any man would be glad to claim your friend as his son. But I am doubly pleased at the thought that your father will no longer object to Headlands marrying your sister.”

The general was still rattling on asking Harry questions and describing late public events when Mr Hastings entered the room. Harry introduced the general as a friend of his and Captain Headlands.

“I am happy on that account to make General Sampson’s acquaintance;” said Mr Hastings, “perhaps indeed we may have met in our younger days.”

“Very likely we have,” said the general. “Your features and figure are familiar to me. In fact, I could almost swear that I knew you, though upon my life I cannot tell where it was.”

“Perhaps you may have met me in company with Sir Ralph Castleton; indeed I am sure of it, as I confess that I recollect you. I say this as you are his friend, and, that should you have a suspicion who I am you may be careful not to express it to others.” While Mr Hastings was speaking, the general was scanning his countenance with a look of the greatest surprise. The former continued, “As Lieutenant Castleton has begged me to come to Texford, perhaps if you are going there you will favour us with your company on the road. I should wish to set off to-morrow, but as I require longer rest and have some matters to settle in London, I must defer starting till the following day, if that will suit you.”

“It will exactly do, sir,” answered the general. “I promised Sir Ralph to go down on that day, and will join you here in the morning. At what hour do you propose leaving London?”

“We must not start later than six, and shall then scarcely reach Texford till some time after nightfall,” answered Harry.

“No indeed,” observed the general, “I always take two days, for I have no fancy to travel in the dark, and run the risk of being ordered to ‘halt and deliver.’”

The general at a late hour wished his friends good-night, and returned to his lodgings.

Mr Hastings drove out the next morning alone, and was absent for most of the day. He also paid a visit accompanied by Harry to Captain Headland’s agent, who, without hesitation shewed the locket and other articles which had been deposited with him. Mr Hastings at once recognised them. “Had I entertained any doubts, these would have convinced me that their owner is my boy,” he said turning to Harry. “And I am convinced from what I know of you, that you will assist him in obtaining his inheritance.”

“That I will most gladly,” exclaimed Harry, “though I do not see how I can help him except with my purse.”

“More than you may suppose,” answered Mr Hastings significantly.

Harry had during the day called at the Admiralty, to report his return to England. He heard that the Thisbe’s arrival was every day looked for. He left a letter for Headland, urging him to ask for leave, and to come directly to Texford. “Mr Hastings would wait for you,” he wrote, “but he seems anxious on your account to see my father without delay, and as you may not arrive for some weeks he does not wish to defer his visit.”

At the appointed hour the general appeared at the inn, and the three gentlemen set off on their journey, in a coach and four, with Jack Headland on the coach box, not omitting to provide themselves with firearms.

Chapter Fifty Two.

Visitors.

Sir Ralph Castleton arrived at Texford in the middle of the next day after he left London. He was surprised to see his servants in their usual liveries, and still more so when Lady Castleton and Julia came out to greet him in coloured costume, instead of the black dresses they had lately worn.

“What means this?” he exclaimed. “You show but little respect to the memory of our boy by so soon discarding your mourning.”

“We have no reason to mourn for him,” said Lady Castleton, “he is alive and well, and will be here in a day or two at farthest.”

She then briefly gave the account Harry had written from Deal. Sir Ralph expressed his satisfaction, though his words sounded cold to the ears of his wife and daughter.

“Let me see the letter,” he said, “I can scarcely even now believe what you tell me.”

Lady Castleton very unwillingly produced Harry’s letter. A frown gathered on Sir Ralph’s brow as he read it.

“I thought a few months would have cured him of his infatuation; but he still speaks of that girl as if I were of so yielding a character that I should ever consent to his committing so egregious a folly. And I see, Julia, that he alludes to Captain Headland. Clearly understand me that if he returns to England I must prohibit his appearance at Texford. I have every reason to believe that you may become a duchess if you act wisely; and I cannot allow a penniless adventurer to stand in the way.”

Julia had learned that ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath,’ or, that if that cannot be uttered, ‘silence is the best.’ She adopted the last resource, and left her father and mother alone.

“I am thankful our boy has escaped, and I can only hope that he will be induced to act with wisdom and discretion. I am placed in rather an awkward position with regard to the Duke of Oldfield. Under the belief of Harry’s death, I have arranged to forward a match between the Marquis of Underdown and Julia. The duke assured me that he admired her greatly when they last met in London, and believing her to be my heiress, he was ready to sanction his son’s offer, because he frankly told me that the Marquis must marry a girl of fortune, though he should object unless she was of good family. Underdown will arrive here to-day, and Sir John and Lord Frederick, and the other men I asked, were merely to act as foils, though I should not object to either of them, should the Marquis fail; but I believe that a ducal coronet will carry the day with any girl not excluding our daughter Julia.”

“I never venture to oppose your wishes, Sir Ralph, and my earnest endeavour has been to secure Julia’s happiness,” said Lady Castleton humbly. “I fear, however, that her affection for Captain Headland is too deeply rooted to allow even the Marquis any prospect of success.”

“But when the marquis finds that Harry is alive, his prudence will probably make him beat a rapid retreat, or at all events the duke will recall him,” remarked Sir Ralph, with a sneer. “You will thus see my wisdom in asking the other gentlemen, and I must insist that you use every effort to induce our daughter to give up this naval officer, and accept either of them who comes forward. We must at all events manage her, though we may find Harry more obstinate than his sister.”

“I can only do my best,” said Lady Castleton, endeavouring to suppress a sigh.

Sir Ralph enquired about the Misses Pemberton, and hearing that they were at Downside, remarked—

“I wish they with their ward could be induced to go away again, they have been thorns in my side since I came to Texford. It would have been wiser had we at once ignored their existence, and Harry would have had no excuse for visiting them.”

The expected guests arrived, and were cordially greeted by Sir Ralph, who watched the countenance of the young marquis as he was informed of the fact of Harry’s existence. From its expression the keen man of the world argued that the young nobleman would not long honour him as his guest.

Julia, who was in very good spirits, received the visitors with her usual frank and easy manner. She had greater difficulty next day to maintain her composure, as she was looking forward to the arrival of Harry and his mysterious companion, the father of Headland.

Lady Castleton received in the morning another letter from Harry, which he had written that she might show it to his father. He stated what he had already done to Julia, adding that he hoped Sir Ralph would give a warm greeting to his friend, who assured him that they had formerly been well acquainted.

“Who he can be I have no conception,” exclaimed Sir Ralph. “I wish Harry had told me. We must ascertain who he is first. It is possible he may be some impostor who has discovered his anxiety to find a father for his friend. I shall be very careful how I trust him.”

Chapter Fifty Three.

Attacked.

Mr Groocock, afraid of alarming the ladies, had not informed them of the warning he had received, but as soon as he had an opportunity of speaking to Sir Ralph he told him what had occurred; and of the precautionary measures he had taken.

“I suspect the old mad woman has practiced on your credulity,” observed Sir Ralph. “However, do as you think fit, it may be as well to be prepared, in case that fellow Gaffin should venture on so daring a deed. With so many gentlemen in the house, backed by the servants, he will not think of attacking the hall.”

“I suspect, Sir Ralph, that desperate as he is, there is nothing he would not dare to do.”

The steward, fearing that some mistake might occur had ridden over to Morbury, to beg that Mr Shallard would see that the men he had applied for were sent in time. It was fortunate that he went, for Mr Shallard had been away from home though expected back every minute. Mr Groocock anxiously waited his return. He arrived at length, when the steward explained his object, and asked if he had not received a letter he had sent about it. Mr Shallard found it on his table with several others.

“Here is also a requisition,” he said, glancing at another letter, “from the Misses Pemberton to obtain protection for Downside. She has been warned as you were, by an old mad woman, and she assures me that she feels confident the warning should not be disregarded. Though I have no great fears on the matter, my gallantry compels me to ride over there at once to afford the ladies such security as the presence of a gentleman can give; and I will beg that a body of fencibles may be sent to arrive soon after dusk. If no more men can be spared, we must obtain a few cavalry, as fortunately some troops arrived here a few days ago, and are to remain a short time to obtain recruits in the neighbourhood. I will see their commanding officer, and take care that they are sent off in time to reach Texford by dark. You may go home, therefore, Mr Groocock, with your mind at rest on the subject. They will soon be at your heels, and you will, I daresay, look after them and see that they are provided with a supply of good cheer, such as soldiers expect under the circumstances.”

“No fear of that, Mr Shallard,” answered the steward. “I must no longer delay, for I am already late, and with my own good will I would rather not be out after dusk, considering the sort of people likely to be abroad.”

“By-the-bye, I have not congratulated you on Lieutenant Castleton’s safe return. I received the news from Miss Pemberton just as I was leaving home yesterday, and nothing has given me greater pleasure in life. A fine young fellow your future baronet, and I heartily wish that all difficulties in the way of his happiness may be overcome. He will prove a worthy successor to his excellent uncle. I have no doubt about that, though neither you nor I, Mr Groocock, can properly wish him to come into possession for many years.”

“I wish that all were like him. He will make a kind master whoever serves him, but my head will be laid at rest before then,” answered the steward, with a sigh. “However, I must be on my journey,” and Mr Groocock, shaking hands with the lawyer, mounted his cob and rode back towards Texford.

The family at Texford were assembled in the drawing-room. Dinner had been put off, as they were every minute expecting the arrival of Harry and his friends, and Sir Ralph, usually so calm, kept moving about the room, frequently expressing his surprise that they had not come.

“I hope nothing has happened to them,” he said to himself. “Is it possible that they can have encountered that fellow Gaffin and his ruffian crew?”

Julia in vain endeavoured to understand what the Marquis and Lord Frederick were saying to her, but could only give the vaguest of replies.

The window of the back drawing-room, which looked towards the park, was open. Sir Ralph had looked out several times in the hopes of hearing the carriage wheels. He rang the bell, and a servant appearing, he ordered dinner to be served.

“By-the-bye,” he asked, “has Mr Groocock returned from Morbury?”

“No, Sir Ralph,” was the answer.

“Let me know when he comes,” said the baronet.

At that instant the sound of a shot was heard; it came from the direction of the park gate. It was followed by several others.

“What can that mean?” asked most of the gentlemen in a breath.

Sir Ralph, without answering, rang the bell violently, when the butler hurried into the room with a look of alarm.

“Tell the servants to get their arms, and have the shutters of all the lower rooms closed. Gentlemen,” he added, turning to his guests, “if any of you have firearms or swords, pray get them. I received a warning that the house was to be attacked by a desperate gang of smugglers, but took no notice of it, though I fear from these sounds I ought to have done so.”

Most of the gentlemen, who had fowling-pieces or pistols with them, hurried off to get them ready. Lady Castleton sank on the sofa, another lady fainted, and two shrieked out in their terror, believing that the next instant they should see the ruffians breaking into the house. Julia endeavoured to calm her mother and their guests, while Sir Ralph went to the front door to see that it was bolted and barred. At that moment he heard carriage wheels rolling at a rapid rate up the avenue. Again several shots were heard much nearer than the first. He ordered the door to be opened. The horses, panting and foaming, were pulled up by the postillion, and Harry sprang out of the chaise, followed by General Sampson. They both turned round to assist out another person, while a fourth leaped from the box.

“Drive round to the coachyard, and tell the grooms to close the gates,” cried Harry, while he led the stranger up the steps. On seeing his father he greeted him affectionately.

“We were fired on by a band of ruffians, but as we returned their salute briskly, they did not venture to come to nearer quarters. They may, however, be following, and we should be prepared for them.” Sir Ralph was on the point of giving some further directions to the servants, when General Sampson and his companion reached the hall. Sir Ralph started, and gazed with a bewildered look.

“Who are you? Speak. I well remember those features,” he exclaimed.

“And I remember yours, Ralph,” said the stranger, stepping forward and taking his hand. “However, we will say no more on the subject at present. Your son and General Sampson know me as Mr Hastings; let me retain that name till we can converse in private. In the meantime, continue your preparations to receive the ruffians, who are close at hand. Thanks to the speed at which we were driving, the volley they fired did us no harm.”

Sir Ralph seemed scarcely to comprehend what Mr Hastings said, but continued gazing in his face without replying.

General Sampson, at once comprehending the state of affairs, took upon himself the command of the garrison, and ordered the servants to see that all the other entrances to the house were closed. He then requested those who had firearms to load them with ball, and to be ready to make use of them if required. Scarcely had he done so than a thundering knock was heard at the door, and a man from the outside announced himself as a sergeant from the — Dragoons, who had been sent over from Morbury with a party of fifteen men to guard the Hall.

On this the door was opened, when a fine soldier-like fellow appeared, who requested to know where he should post his men.

“My orders are to remain here if Sir Ralph Castleton wishes it, but if not, to proceed to Downside Cottage, at Hurlston. As the smugglers, or whatever they are, caught sight of us just as we entered the avenue, they are not likely to attack this place.”

Harry, who had just been receiving his mother’s and sister’s embraces, heard what was said.

“Let some of your men accompany me, and I will show them the way to Downside,” he exclaimed; and he directed one of the servants to bring a horse round without a moment’s delay.

“Where are you going, Harry?” exclaimed Sir Ralph, recovering himself, on seeing Harry hurrying down the steps. “The troopers will look after the ruffians.”

“To assist those who require protection,” answered Harry. “There is no time to be lost.”

“Just like him,” cried General Sampson. “The ruffians won’t stand a charge if he leads it. I’ll be after you, Harry. One of you get me a horse.”

“Thank you, general,” exclaimed Lady Castleton, “We cannot tell what these desperate men will venture to do, and you may be of the greatest assistance.”

“I must not wait though for you, general,” said Harry, mounting. “What is the matter?” he asked of the groom who assisted him on his horse.

“Oh sir,” said the groom, “there has been murder, we fear, already. Mr Groocock’s cob has just galloped in from across the park with blood on his saddle, and it’s too clear that the steward has been killed, or the animal would not have come home without him.”

“This is terrible,” said Harry; “poor old man. Go some of you and search for him. I must not delay.” Turning to the sergeant, he added, galloping on—“Do you and your men accompany me.”

The sergeant mounted his horse and followed him. The troopers were found drawn up at the entrance of the avenue, while in the distance were seen a large band of wild-looking fellows armed in a variety of ways, some on horseback, and others on foot, apparently watching the movements of the soldiers, by whose timely arrival they had been prevented from entering the park.

The sergeant ordered his men to follow.

“Those are the fellows who fired at the carriage, and were nearly overtaking it when we came up, I can swear to that,” he said.

“We must seize their leader, and as many as we can get hold of, or they may still attack the Hall,” answered Harry.

“The sooner we are at them the better, though I fear they will not stand us,” cried the sergeant. “Charge, my lads, and get hold of the fellow on the black horse. I saw him fire two shots.”

And putting spurs to their horses, they dashed on.

As they were galloping along, and before they had gone many paces, Harry, to his grief, saw the apparently dead body of the steward lying close by the road-side, where he had, it seemed, fallen when shot. He could not stop to ascertain whether he was dead or alive.

The smugglers still held their ground not two hundred yards off. Harry recognised Miles Gaffin, who, by his actions, was evidently endeavouring to induce his followers to advance to the encounter. As the well disciplined little band drew near them, the ruffian’s courage gave way. The men on foot rushed off on either side. The horsemen stood a moment longer, and at Gaffin’s command fired a volley, but directly afterwards, though superior in numbers, knowing well how ill able they were to resist the charge of the troopers, they wheeled round their horses, and galloped off in the direction of Hurlston. Gaffin was the last to turn. He quickly overtook the rest, and pushing through them on his fleet and powerful horse, soon took the lead. Though vastly superior in a charge, the troopers’ horses were ill able to come up with the active steeds of the lightly-armed smugglers. The latter kept well ahead, though Harry urged his companions not to spare the spur. As openings occurred free of trees, first one of the smugglers rode off, then another, others following, some going on one side, some on another, till a small band only held together, led by Gaffin, who had, however, distanced them considerably. Believing, probably, that he was going to desert them, the remainder, swearing loudly at his cowardice, following the example of the first, began to disperse, several throwing themselves from their horses, and making their way through the thick brushwood, where the troopers had little hopes of overtaking them.

“Keep the fellow on the black horse in sight,” shouted Harry. “He is the man, I doubt not, who murdered the steward. Let some of your men accompany me, and follow him with the rest.”

The sergeant gave the order as Harry requested, and half the men continued on with Harry towards Downside, while Gaffin was seen to be making by the nearest road for the mill. His object apparently was to take shelter within it, and to sell his life dearly, or he might hope to conceal himself till he could make his escape by some secret passage, or by other means with which he alone was acquainted.

The thickening gloom of evening rendered all objects indistinct. The sergeant and his men, however, kept the smuggler in sight till they saw him reach the downs on which the mill stood, where his figure was distinctly visible against the sky. It was but for a moment, for at the same instant, a party of the sea-fencibles who had been concealed behind the mill, started up, and several shots were fired at him. It was not seen whether any had taken effect; the horse and rider disappeared, at it seemed, over the edge of the cliff. The troopers expected as they reached the spot to see him dashed to pieces on the sands, but he had reached the bottom in safety by a pathway which a desperate man alone would have ventured to take. They caught a glimpse of him as he galloped along the sands towards the south.

“We must follow him, my lads, or he will escape after all,” said the sergeant, though, as no one dared descend the path Gaffin had taken, the troopers were compelled to take their way round by a circuitous road till they could gain the level of the beach. By that time the daring smuggler was lost to sight.

In the meantime, the foot soldiers hurried along the top of the downs to stop him should he desert his horse and attempt to escape by climbing up the cliffs and make his way across the country.

The sergeant and his men made comparatively slow progress over the sands. They discovered too that the tide was rising, and had good reason to fear that they might be caught under the cliffs, and be carried off by the sea which was rolling in with a sullen roar.

The sergeant at the same moment fancied he could discern the figure of a horseman at some distance ahead, close under the cliffs, and already surrounded by water. The steed was plunging and rearing, while the rider in vain endeavoured to urge him forward. Presently, both together disappeared, overwhelmed by a sea which rolled in, and broke in masses of spray against the foot of the cliff. Not far off a dark object, which might have been a boat, was seen.

However, the advancing sea warned the sergeant that he and his men must beat a rapid retreat, or run the risk of losing their horses, if not their lives. They had, indeed, to plunge through the sea up to their horses’ girths before they regained the end of the cliff, where they were once more in safety.

Chapter Fifty Four.

Surprises.

Since we last met Adam Halliburt the Nancy had shared the fate of other craft; her stout planks and timbers gradually yielding to age, she had become too leaky to put to sea, and had been broken up for firewood. Adam having no sons to help him, had taken to inshore fishing in a small boat which he and a lad could manage. The dame’s baskets were, however, still well supplied with fish.

Honest Jacob, to his parents’ joy, had arrived at home. Adam was about to set out on his daily fishing.

“I will go with you, father,” he said; “maybe with my help you will sooner be able to get back.”

The dame, glad that Adam should enjoy his son’s company, was willing to wait till their return, to hear all Jacob had to tell them.

They stood away under sail to the south, where the best fishing ground lay.

Seldom had Adam been so happy as he was listening to Jacob’s account of his adventures, and not often had he been more successful in making a good catch of fish.

The evening was drawing on, and it was time to return, when the wind shifting, headed them, and they were compelled to take to their oars, Jacob and the boy pulling, while Adam steered. They kept close in shore to avoid the tide, which was running to the southward. The wind increased too, and they made but slow progress, so that night overtook them before they had proceeded half the distance.

There was still light sufficient to enable Adam to see a man on horseback galloping along the beach under the cliff, the water already reaching up to the animal’s knees.

“What can he be about?” exclaimed Adam. “He must be mad to try and pass along there; he will be lost to a certainty if he moves a few fathoms further on.”

Adam shouted at the top of his voice, and waved his hat, but the horseman neither saw nor heard him.

Presently, as Adam had anticipated, the horse began to struggle violently in a vain effort to escape from a soft quicksand which prevented it either from swimming or wading. The next instant a sea rolling in washed the rider from its back. He struck out boldly, making a desperate effort for life. Jacob and the boy pulled with all their might towards him, but before they could reach him a sea had dashed him against the cliff. By a mighty effort he got clear of it, when a receding wave carried him towards them. Before the boat reached him, however, he had ceased to struggle, and was sinking for the last time when Adam caught him by the collar, and with Jacob’s assistance hauled him into the boat. Jacob had at once to resume his oar, for they were so near the cliff that the boat might, in another instant, have been dashed against it. They got clear, however, but the tide had drifted them to the south.

“He is still alive,” said Adam, “but seems much hurt, and I fear will die if we don’t soon get him before a warm fire. We are just under Mad Sal’s hut, and the best thing we can do will be to carry him up there.”

“It will be a hard matter to land though, father, won’t it?” said Jacob, “and we may risk the loss of the boat.”

“Worth risking it for the sake of a human life, even if the man was our greatest enemy. There is a little creek in there, and if I can hit it, the boat will be safe enough. Stand by to jump out when I tell you.”

Jacob and the boy pulled on, and in another minute a sea lifted the boat, and though the surf broke on board she floated on, and dropped down safely into a pool, where there was no danger of her being carried away. Adam and his companions jumping out, hauled the boat up on the beach. Leaving the boy in charge of her, he and Jacob then carried the man they had rescued, and who was still insensible, towards Mad Sal’s hut, which could just be distinguished on the side of the ravine by the glare of light coming through the chinks in the window and door.

Adam knocked loudly.

“Who comes to disturb me now?” exclaimed the old woman from within. “Is my solitude constantly to be broken in upon by strangers?”

“We bring you a well-nigh drowned man, who will die if you refuse him your aid, good dame,” said Adam. “In mercy do not keep us outside.”

The door was opened.

“What! another victim murdered by the cruel salt sea,” exclaimed old Sal, as she saw the burden Adam and Jacob carried.

“We must have off his wet clothes, and warm his hands and feet, or he soon will be dead,” said Adam, as they carried the man into the room.

The sight seemed to calm instead of agitating the old woman, for she set about attending to the man in a more sensible way than might have been expected. While Adam and Jacob took off the man’s wet clothes, she brought a blanket that they might wrap it round his body. She then, kneeling down, assisted them in chafing his hands and feet. A deep groan showed that their efforts were successful, and the man soon opened his eyes, and gazed wildly at them. The old woman threw some sticks on the fire, which blazing up now for the first time, revealed his features more clearly than before.

“Why, father, he is Miles Gaffin,” exclaimed Jacob.

“I knew that,” answered Adam, “when we hauled him into the boat.”

“Miles Gaffin,” cried Mad Sal, “the bloodthirsty and wretched man shall not live out half his days; yet, as the sea refused to keep him, we must not be more cruel.”

Gaffin made no answer, but continued to glare wildly at the faces bent over him. He occasionally groaned and muttered a few unintelligible words.

“He seems to have lost his senses,” whispered Adam to Jacob.

Such, indeed, was evidently the case. Several times he tried to sit up, but he had received some severe injuries, and each movement made him shriek with pain.

What now to do was the question. Adam was unwilling to leave him alone with the poor mad woman, yet he was naturally anxious to return home. The sound of the wind, which howled and whistled up the glen, warned him that he could scarcely hope to continue his voyage.

Telling old Sal that they would speedily return, Adam and Jacob went down to the beach, and made safe their boat and fish. Then they sent the boy quickly to Hurlston, with instructions to tell the dame that they hoped to be home in the morning. The lad being warned to keep away from the edge of the cliff, set off without fear. Adam and Jacob, carrying up a few fish and some bread, returned to the hut.

As they entered they heard Gaffin’s voice raving incoherently. Mad Sal stood like a statue, the light of the fire falling on her pale features, gazing at him with a look of mingled astonishment and dread. They stopped to listen to what Gaffin was saying.

“Who are you?” she exclaimed at last, gasping for breath, and advancing towards the unhappy man.

“Who has a right to ask me that?” he shrieked out. “Martin Goul I was once called. They tell me I broke my father’s heart, that my mother threw herself from the cliffs, and that the only being I ever loved was laid in the cold grave. So I went forth to do battle with the hard world, to live in hopes of revenging myself on those who had scorned and wronged me. Each time, though I missed my aim, I thought the day of vengeance would come at last, but again and again have I been mocked by the cunning devil who deceived me.”

“Martin Goul! who speaks of him,” exclaimed the old woman, moving a step nearer the man.

“Let me be at peace, old hag; why torment me with questions?” shrieked out Gaffin.

“Young Martin Goul has long been fathoms deep beneath the ocean wave; and you tell me that you bear that name,” said Mad Sal, in a hollow frightened voice.

“No one else would dare to claim it,” cried Gaffin. “When my son marries the heiress of Texford, I will shout it out to all the world. She will be his bride before many hours are over, and then those who have scorned me will have to ask favours at my hand. They did not know that I possessed the secret of her birth, that it still lies locked up in the chest guarded safely in the vault beneath the mill, and that it will be beyond their reach before to-morrow. Ah! ah! ah!” and he broke out into a cry of maniac laughter.

The old woman passed her hand across her brow, and took another stride which brought her close to where Gaffin lay.

“Answer me, I adjure you; again I ask you, are you the Martin Goul who years gone by was pressed and carried off to sea?”

“Yes, I am that Martin Goul, the pirate, smuggler, spy, murderer,” he shrieked, out raising himself. “There are no deeds I have not dared to do. I, by forged letters, kept Ranald Castleton from his home, and willingly would I have allowed his innocent child to perish. Now I have answered you, what more would you learn from me? Ah! ah! ah!” he shouted out, as if impelled by an uncontrollable impulse to utter the very things he would have desired to keep secret.

“It’s false, it’s false,” cried the unhappy woman. “My son was wild and extravagant, but he could not have been guilty of the crimes you name. I was the mother of young Martin Goul; he was the only being on earth I loved. Oh the salt, salt sea.”

“You my mother, you,” shrieked out the wretched man, and he again burst forth into a fit of hideous laughter, which froze the hearts of Adam and his son. “Begone, old hag, begone, begone,” he shouted, and endeavoured to raise himself up, but his strength, from some internal injury, was fast giving way. The effort produced a paroxysm of pain. He shrieked out, and sinking back on the bed no longer moved.

The old woman gazed at him like one transfixed. Suddenly the fire sent up a bright flame, which fell on his face.

“Yes, yes,” cried the unhappy creature, “I know you now, you are my son, my boy Martin.” But the person she addressed no longer heard her. His spirit had fled to stand before the Judge of all men. She waited as if expecting him to reply, then suddenly she became aware of what had happened, and lifting up her hands fell forward over his body.

Adam and Jacob sprang to assist her, for they feared from the force with which she fell that she must have injured herself. She neither moved nor groaned. They endeavoured to lift her up.

“Poor creature, she is dead!” said Adam. She had survived but a few moments her unhappy son.

Adam and Jacob placed her body by his side, and closed the eyes of both. As they could no longer be of assistance they would gladly have set off for their home at once, but the night had become very dark, the storm raged furiously, and as they had their fish to carry, they would have found it difficult to make their way over the downs. They therefore agreed to wait till daylight.

Adam had noted what the dying man said with regard to the chest and the little girl.

“Could he have been speaking of our Maiden May, and how came he to call her the heiress of Texford?”

“He did call her so, there is no doubt about that,” observed Jacob. “He cannot tell us now, though, what he meant.”

“But the chest may. I was always sure that Gaffin had visited the wreck, and carried off something of value, but little did I think all the time that he knew who our Maiden May was,” said Adam.

“If we can get the chest we shall soon know all about that father; and it will be the thing of all others that Lieutenant Castleton will like to know, and I shall be glad to help him find it out.”

As neither Adam nor Jacob felt disposed to go to sleep after the scene they had witnessed, they sat up discussing the subject till dawn. The wind having shifted, and the sea gone down, they launched their boat and sailed before the wind for Hurlston. As they passed close under the mill they saw a vessel cast on the beach, which they recognised as Gaffin’s lugger. They afterwards discovered that having been left with only two or three hands on board she had been driven on shore, and, like the Nancy, having seen her best days, had been quickly knocked to pieces by the heavy sea which had for a short time broken on the coast.

Young Jack had arrived safely, and delivered the message Adam had sent the dame, so that she had not been anxious about them. But she had a terrible account to give of the events which, according to report, had taken place at Texford and Downside, and which had caused her the greatest alarm, and she was only waiting their arrival to set off to ascertain the truth.

Adam agreed to accompany her, as he wished to give Lieutenant Castleton the information he had obtained, and thought it probable that he might be at Downside. He had besides to give notice of the deaths of Martin Goul and his mother.

Chapter Fifty Five.

On the Defence.

Harry and the dragoons after Gaffin’s escape galloped rapidly to Downside. He would soon have distanced them had he not feared that they might lose their way. He kept urging them to spur on with greater speed. The gate was opened, and as they approached the house a thundering sound was heard, and he caught sight of several men endeavouring to burst in the front door. The noise they were making prevented them from hearing the approach of the horses. One of them turning, however, caught sight of the dragoons, when, he shouting to his companions, they let the log fall and rushed down the steps, two or three of them as they did so firing the pieces they carried. The soldiers fired in return, when two or more of the gang were wounded. Their companions, however, dragged them off, and scrambling over the hedges, they made their escape before the dragoons could overtake them.

Harry announced his arrival.

“Stay, it may only be a trick,” he heard Miss Jane observe.

“Oh, I am sure it is Harry. I know his voice. I am not afraid of opening the door,” exclaimed May.

The bars and bolts were quickly withdrawn, and the next instant Harry pressed May to his heart. He quickly narrated all that had happened, and Miss Jane and Miss Mary were very grateful for his coming so opportunely to their rescue.

“And I, too, am glad to greet you, Mr Castleton,” said Mr Shallard, stepping forward. “It is far more satisfactory than having had to act as your executor; indeed, this young lady most obstinately, as I thought, refused to allow me to do so.”

Much more to the same effect was said, when the lawyer remarked that he must go and look after the dragoons.

“You maybe surprised at our calmness,” he observed, “but the truth is, I expected every moment the arrival of a party of the sea-fencibles, and fully believed that they would come in time to stop the ruffians in their attempt to break into the house, and to capture the whole of them into the bargain. Till they appear, it may be prudent to retain the dragoons.”

Harry willingly allowed Mr Shallard to do as he proposed.

Shortly afterwards a party of the fencibles arrived, who by some mistake had been sent to the mill instead of coming first, as was intended, to Downside. The dragoons were then sent down to the Texford Arms.

Though Harry felt that he ought to return home, he could not leave the cottage while there was a possibility of the smugglers rallying. He was not sorry at having a good excuse for remaining.

Miss Jane, on hospitable thoughts intent, was much troubled at being unable to offer beds to her guests, but they both assured her that they should prefer sitting up, that they might be ready for any emergency.

Susan having recovered from her alarm, set to work to get supper ready, and, in the meantime, Miss Jane declaring that she and her sister had business to settle with Mr Shallard, left May and Harry in the drawing-room.

Those were joyous moments to the young lovers. The clouds had not entirely cleared away, but they both saw, they believed, the dawn of a brighter day.

Harry and Mr Shallard sat up as they had proposed, though the lawyer very soon fell asleep, with outstretched legs, long before the young sailor closed his eyes.

Nothing occurred during the night to disturb the household.

The dragoons had started at daybreak to scour the country, but did not succeed in capturing a single smuggler. They had discovered, however, in a cottage, a man dying from a gun-shot wound, and from the description given of him, Harry had little doubt that he was young Gaffin.

May appeared at breakfast, looking as bright and fresh as ever. As soon as the meal was over, Harry and Mr Shallard, assured that the ladies were in no further danger, were on the point of setting out for Texford, when Adam and Dame Halliburt arrived.

After the dame had expressed her joy at seeing May and the ladies safe, Adam described to Harry and Mr Shallard the events which had occurred on the previous evening, and gave them the information he had obtained from the dying man. May listened with breathless eagerness. Was indeed the secret of her birth to be at length disclosed? The heiress of Texford! That seemed impossible. It must have been a fancy of the dying smuggler. She might, indeed, be proved to belong to a noble family, and Sir Ralph’s objections to her might be removed; or, on the other hand, her birth might be such, that still greater obstacles might arise, or the proofs, had they existed, might have been removed. Fears and hopes alternately gaining the mastery, she in vain endeavoured to calm her agitation. Miss Mary stood holding her hand, her sightless eyes turned towards the speakers, listening to all that was said; while Miss Jane every now and then threw in a word, gave her advice, or cross-questioned Adam with an acuteness which won the lawyer’s admiration.

As they were still speaking, a dense wreath of smoke, with flickering points of flame rising beneath it, was seen in the direction of the cliff.

“The mill has been set on fire,” exclaimed Mr Shallard. “Men ought to have been stationed to guard it. We may yet be in time to save the chest. Not a moment, however, must be lost.”

The gardener having been despatched with an order to the fencibles to hasten to the mill, the lawyer, with Harry and Adam, set out in the same direction.

“Oh, Harry, do not run any risk in searching for the chest; far rather would I let the secret be lost,” exclaimed May, as Harry sprang down the steps to overtake Mr Shallard and the fisherman.

They met the fencibles on their way to the mill. As they reached the neighbourhood, they found a number of fishermen and others collected round the burning building. There appeared, however, but little prospect of saving it. The flames had got possession of the interior woodwork, and the long arms of the sails were already on fire.

“Never mind the mill,” cried a voice from the crowd. “It is the house we must look after,” and Jacob appeared with several young men carrying a heavy piece of timber.

A few blows burst open the door, and, in spite of the clouds of smoke rushing out, and the masses of burning wood which came crashing down, breaking through the roof already in flames, Jacob and his party boldly dashed in, still carrying their battering-ram. Harry with others followed. They were attacking an interior door. That quickly gave way.

Then suddenly, in the midst of the confusion, several men were seen emerging with a heavy chest, which they carried between them.

“We have got it, Mr Castleton, we have got it,” cried Jacob, as several of the bystanders sprang forward to his assistance.

In another minute the whole house was in a blaze, and the rafters which supported the vault catching fire, the tall mill fell with a loud crash, and a huge fiery mass alone marked the spot where it had stood.

Enquiries were made for Dusty Dick. No one had seen him issue from the mill, and it was generally supposed that, following his master’s orders, he had set fire to it, and perished in his attempt to escape.

“If you will restrain your curiosity for a short time, Mr Castleton, we will have the chest carried up to Downside, and examine it there,” said Mr Shallard. “It will be a fitter spot than the open Downs.”

Plenty of bearers were found, and the old lawyer had some difficulty in keeping pace with them, as, followed by half the population of Hurlston, they bore it up to the Miss Pembertons’ cottage.

Chapter Fifty Six.

Sir Ranald Castleton.

Harry, as he galloped off from Texford with the dragoons, had left the party in the house in a state of considerable anxiety.

Several of the other gentlemen had hurried out on foot towards the park-gates, near which they found General Sampson dismounted, and bending over the steward.

“He is alive, I am thankful to say,” said the general; “and as I shall have no chance of overtaking Castleton and the dragoons, I shall be of more service in looking after this worthy man.”

Mr Groocock was accordingly carried to the Hall by the general, the two noblemen, and Sir John, a footman who had followed them leading the former’s horse.

“Oh, is it Harry?” cried Julia.

No sooner had she uttered the words than Lady Castleton started forward, and would have fallen fainting to the ground had not her husband and Mr Hastings supported her.

Julia’s alarm for her brother’s safety was soon set at rest by the arrival of the party, but it was long before Lady Castleton recovered.

A groom was in the meantime sent off for the surgeon. The general having examined the steward’s wounds, pronounced them not likely to prove serious.

The attack of the smugglers, and the pursuit, had aroused Sir Ralph Castleton’s keenest interest, but the presence of Mr Hastings still more disquieted him. There was something in his presence which made a more intimate conversation imperative, and now the baronet, who was unusually pale and agitated, had invited his guest to meet him in his study.

What transpired during the conversation was not known.

The surgeon arrived sooner than expected, the groom having fortunately met him on the road. He corroborated the general’s favourable opinion of Mr Groocock’s wounds.

“The old man seems highly flattered at the way he was brought back to the house by the general and his friends, and I believe it will contribute greatly to his recovery,” he observed, smiling.

Lady Castleton appeared, however, much to require the surgeon’s attention. She had remarked the agitation Mr Hastings’ appearance had caused her husband, and dreaded the effect it might produce on him. She frequently inquired whether he had yet come out of the study, and Julia could with difficulty prevent her from attempting to get up, and join him there.

The general, who had been bustling about the house, giving directions to the servants, and trying to entertain the other guests, at length entered the drawing-room to which Lady Castleton had been conveyed. There she lay, still unable to move, on a sofa.

“Oh, General Sampson, who is that terrible man?” she exclaimed, catching a glimpse of the general, who, not aware that she was there, was about to retire.

“They tell me that he is a ruffian called Gaffin, but my friend Harry and the dragoons will soon give a good account of him, I suspect,” answered the general, not understanding her question.

“The person who is now with Sir Ralph,” cried Lady Castleton; “he called himself Mr Hastings.”

“I beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons,” answered the general. “I had no idea of whom you were speaking. There is nothing terrible about him; he is a most gentlemanly refined person, has evidently mixed in good society all his life. He tells me that I knew him in our younger days, and he is certainly an old acquaintance of Sir Ralph’s.”

Julia was perfectly ready to believe the general’s account, and assisted him at length in sufficiently calming her mother’s fears to induce her to retire to her chamber.

At last the hungry guests, whose dinner had been so long postponed, assembled in the dining-room, where they were joined by the master of the house and Mr Hastings. Sir Ralph still looked nervous, and instead of exhibiting his usual self-possession, his manner was subdued, and his mind evidently distracted, as he appeared frequently not to have heard the remarks made to him. He treated Mr Hastings with the most marked attention, while he seemed almost at times to forget the presence of the marquis and his other titled guests. Julia excused herself from coming downstairs on the plea of having to attend to her mother.

The general tried to make amends for Sir Ralph’s want of attention to his guests, and talked away for the whole party.

“I hope, Mr Hastings,” said the general, drawing him aside after dinner, “you have convinced my friend Sir Ralph that your gallant son is a fit match for his fair daughter, Miss Julia. I should like to be able to give the young lady a hint to calm her anxiety on the subject.”

“I think, my dear general, that her father will no longer object to the match; but I have agreed to retain my incognito till the arrival of my son, whose ship was announced as having reached Spithead yesterday evening, and as I obtained leave for him at the Admiralty, he will come on here at once.”

The general, who was as much at home at Texford as at his own house, found means to communicate with Julia, and to give her the satisfactory intelligence.

He was too good a soldier to neglect placing sentinels on the watch during the night, which, however, passed without any appearance of the enemy in the neighbourhood of the Hall.

Next morning the marquis and Lord Frederick, who had not been unobservant of what was taking place, though somewhat puzzled, were prepared for the hint which the general conveyed to them, that the heart and hand of Miss Julia Castleton were engaged. Regretting that their stay should have been so short, they paid their respects to the master and mistress of the house, and took their departure, much to Sir Ralph’s satisfaction.

Julia, who had become somewhat alarmed at not hearing of Harry, was much relieved during the course of the morning by receiving a message from him, saying that he was at Downside, and hoped shortly to return to Texford. She hurried to Lady Castleton to inform her, and then went to Sir Ralph, who was alone in his study, engaged in writing. He was so absorbed that he scarcely noticed her entrance. She had to repeat what she had said.

“Foolish boy!” he exclaimed, without expressing any satisfaction. “If he knew the position in which I am placed, he would see that I have greater reason than ever for objecting to his making that match. If a proper pride, and a sense of what is due to his family no longer restrains him, let him understand that his father is a mere beggar, dependent on the will of another, though you have nothing to fear, as I may tell you that he acknowledges your lover as his son, and insists on my sanction to your marriage.”

“My dear father,” exclaimed Julia, “I had hoped, indeed, that all impediments to my happiness would be removed, but how can that affect you or Harry?”

“You shall know all in time,” answered Sir Ralph, gloomily. “Till the arrival of Captain Headland, I am prohibited from saying more. Leave me now, only if you have any feelings of affection and duty you will use your influence with Harry. I do not wish to make an enemy of my only son, but tell him while I live I will never be a party to his committing the rash act he contemplates. Go, girl, go,” and Sir Ralph waved his daughter from the room.

She returned to her mother, who had sufficiently recovered to come downstairs. The guests had gone into the grounds with the exception of Mr Hastings and General Sampson. The general came hurrying into the drawing-room from the hall, exclaiming—

“A post-chaise is driving up the avenue,” and taking Mr Hastings by the arm, he added, “I do not know whether you or Miss Castleton should be the first to greet the occupant; I must leave you to decide.”

“Let my future daughter have that happiness,” answered Mr Hastings, by a violent effort calming his evident agitation.

He imprinted a kiss as he spoke on the young lady’s brow.

“Go and bring my son to me when you have exchanged greetings. Do not detain him long.”

Julia hastened to the ante-room, scarcely daring to hope that the general was not mistaken. From the window she saw the carriage approaching. She had not long to wait. Captain Headland sprang from it, followed by another person whom her eyes, from the mist which stole over them, failed to recognise. She heard his step in the hall. In another minute he was supporting her and listening to the account she had to give. She led him into the drawing-room, where Mr Hastings was seated alone.

“I require no one to tell me you are my son,” he said, embracing them both.

They spoke for some time. Julia would have retired to leave the father and his son alone, but the former detained her.

“For your sakes alone should I desire to resume my name, and take the title which is lawfully mine,” he continued. “I am your father’s elder brother, my dear Julia, but I know that when you become my son Ranald’s wife, you will endeavour to console him and your brother Harry for the loss of an empty title of which I may be compelled to deprive him. But I am happily able to leave him in possession of a fortune equal to that which he at present enjoys.”

“Believing that you did not desire to hold the baronetcy, I would gladly have resigned my future right to it in favour of Harry,” said Headland. “As, however, you gave me leave to consult any friend in whom I had confidence, I at once went to my old captain, Admiral Fancourt, who, of all people, as my uncle’s brother-in-law, was the most capable of giving me advice. I placed the whole matter before him, and he assures me that should my uncle desire a baronetcy, Government will readily grant him one for his political services, so that he will consequently not be deprived of the rank he prizes. Having known me from my early days, and being convinced of the truth of the account I gave him, he accompanied me here that he might satisfy my uncle’s mind, and assist in arranging matters.”

As Headland, or rather Captain Castleton, ceased speaking, the door opened, and Admiral Fancourt entered the room. He at once recognised Sir Ranald Castleton, as Mr Hastings was henceforth to be called, and expressed his satisfaction at his return, assuring him that he would have no difficulty in establishing his claims.

Lady Castleton shortly afterwards joined the party, and having been introduced to her brother-in-law, warmly welcomed her nephew.

Headland received a still more enthusiastic welcome from the old general, who quickly made his appearance.

“And here comes Harry and another gentleman galloping along the avenue as if the fate of the kingdom depended on their speed,” he exclaimed.

Julia and the captain went out to meet them, and in another minute returned accompanied by Harry and the lawyer. Harry could scarcely speak. Julia knew by the way he embraced her and his mother, that his heart was bounding with joy.

“She can no longer be looked upon as unworthy of marrying a Castleton, for she is a Castleton herself, though all my May desires is to bear my name,” he exclaimed at length; “but Mr Shallard will explain the discovery we have made more clearly than I can. Our good cousins promise to bring her here as soon as a carriage can be obtained.”

Sir Ranald, as may be supposed, listened to this announcement with the deepest interest, as he did to the account given by the lawyer.

Mr Shallard, after briefly describing the discovery of the chest which had been so long hid by Martin Goul in the old mill, then went on to state that, having examined the documents in it, he had no doubt whatever that the little girl who had been rescued from the wreck on board which the chest had been found, was the child of the long lost Ranald Castleton. This was corroborated by the locket with the initials of M.C. which she had on, and with the dress which had been carefully preserved by Dame Halliburt, while several of the articles in the chest had the Castleton arms and crest.

The eyes of those who knew Sir Ranald were turned towards him.

“Through the mercy of heaven my two children have been restored to me on the same day,” he exclaimed. “I had embarked for England after her mother’s death, with my little daughter and her native nurse. While we were still in ignorance that the war had broken out, we were captured by a French privateer. A heavy gale was blowing at the time, and I, with other passengers, had just been removed, when all further communication between the ships was prevented by the fury of the wind and sea. I was almost driven to despair when I found that the ships had separated during the night. It was the opinion of our captors that only a few men having been put on board, the crew had risen and retaken the vessel. They searched in vain for her. It was believed, with savage satisfaction by the French, that a wreck we fell in with two days afterwards, which went down before she could be boarded, was her. I had no reason to doubt that they were wrong in their suspicions, and mourned my child as lost to me for ever.”

All listened with breathless interest to what Sir Ranald Castleton was saying. Harry’s satisfaction can better be imagined than described.

“I am very sure that you are Sir Ranald Castleton; those who doubt it have only to examine your picture in the study. Though I recognise you, I doubt not so will the old steward, Mr Groocock, and many others who knew you in your youth,” said Mr Shallard, as Sir Ranald warmly greeted him as an old friend.

Harry, after a satisfactory interview with his father, could no longer restrain his eagerness. He set off again for Downside. He had not to go far, however, before he met the carriage. Returning with it, he had the happiness of handing out his beloved Maiden May, and introducing her to her father and brother.

Two weddings shortly afterwards took place by special licence at Texford Hall, Sir Ranald and Sir Ralph giving their daughters away.

A fête was held in honour of the occasion in the park, to which the Miss Pembertons came, where Adam and Dame Halliburt, with their two sons, for Sam had just returned from sea, were among the most honoured guests.

“I knew our Maiden May was a real young lady, though little did I think she would one day be Lady Castleton,” said Adam.

Sir Ranald, who the dame had at once recognised, insisted on settling an annuity on old Adam and his wife.

Honest Jack Headland, the only one now of the name, not unwilling to remain on shore, was appointed to a post at Morbury, suited to his taste, though the comfortable income settled on him by Sir Ranald Castleton, might have enabled him to enjoy a life of ease and idleness to the end of his days.

Though the young officers, while the war continued, again went afloat, they did not object to being employed on home service, and Harry, who had purchased Downside on the death of his cousins, spent a portion of every summer at the place which was so endeared to him and his beloved and still blooming May.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Woodcutter of Gutech"

Chapter One.

A traveller was making his way through the Black Forest in Germany. A pack was on his back, of a size which required a stout man to carry it, and a thick staff was in his hand. He had got out of his path by attempting to make a short cut, and in so doing had lost his way, and had been since wandering he knew not where. Yet he was stout of heart, as of limb, and a night spent in the depths of the forest would have concerned him but little had he not set a value upon time. “I have lost so much in my days of ignorance and folly,” he kept saying, “that I must make up by vigilance what has been thus misspent. I wish that I had known better. However, I am now ready to spend all, and be spent in the work of the Good Master I serve.”

The ground was uneven, his load heavy, and the weather warm. Still he trudged bravely on, consoling himself by giving forth, in rich full tones, a hymn of Hans Sachs of Nuremburg, the favourite poet of Protestant Germany in those days.

Thus he went on climbing up the steep side of the hill, out of which dark rocks and tall trees protruded in great confusion. At last he got into what looked like a path. “All right now,” he said to himself; “this must lead somewhere, and I have still an hour of daylight to find my way out of the forest. When I get to the top of this hill I shall probably be better able to judge what direction to take.” He trudged on as before, now and then stopping to take breath, and then once more going on bravely. At length the sound of a woodman’s axe caught his ear.

“All right,” said he. “I should not have allowed my heart to doubt about the matter. The Good One who has protected me hitherto will still continue to be my Guide and Friend.”

He stopped to listen from which direction the sounds came. The loud crash of a falling tree enabled him better to judge, and by the light of the sinking sun, which found its way through the branches of the tall trees, he made directly towards the spot. He soon caught sight of an old man, stripped to his shirt and trousers, who with his gleaming axe was hewing the branches of the tree he had just felled. Not far off stood a young boy with a couple of donkeys, which he was beginning to load with fagots, near a pile of which they stood.

“Friend woodman,” said the traveller, as he got up to him, and the old man stood for a moment leaning on his axe, with an inquiring glance in his eye. “Friend woodman, I have lost my way; can you help me to find it?”

“Not to-night, friend traveller,” answered the woodman. “If I was to attempt to put you on your way, you would lose it again in five minutes. This is no easy country for a man ignorant of it to pass through without a guide, and neither I nor little Karl there have time just now to accompany you. But you look like an honest man, and if you will come with me to my cottage, I will help you as far as I can to-morrow morning.”

“Thank you,” said the traveller. “I accept your offer.”

“Well then, I have just made my last stroke,” said the old man, lifting up his axe. “We will load our asses and be off. We have some way to go, as I live farther up the valley of Gutech, and even I prefer daylight to darkness for travelling these wild paths. If you had not found me I cannot say when you would have got out of the forest.”

Without further waste of words, the old man and young Karl set to work to load the asses, strapping on the huge fagots with thongs of leather, while the patient animals, putting out their fore-legs, quietly endured all the tugs and pulls to which they were subjected.

“That pack of yours seems heavy, friend traveller,” said the old man, glancing at his companion; “let me carry it for you.”

“No, no! Thanks to you,” answered the traveller. “I am strong and hearty. I would not put that on your shoulders which I feel burdensome to my own.”

“Then let us put it on the back of one of the asses,” said the woodcutter; “it will make but little difference to our long-eared friend.”

“A merciful man is merciful to his beast,” said the traveller. “The poor brutes seem already somewhat overloaded, and I should be unwilling to add to their pain for the sake of relieving myself.”

“Then let Karl, there, carry it; he is sturdy, and can bear it some little way, at all events,” said the old man.

“I would not place on young shoulders what I find tire a well-knit pair,” said the traveller, glancing at young Karl. “But perhaps he may like to get some of the contents of my pack inside his head,” he added.

“Down his mouth, I suppose you mean,” said the old man, laughing. “Is it food or liquor you carry in your pack?”

“No, indeed, friend,” answered the traveller. “Yet it is food, of a sort food for the mind, and better still, food for the soul. Is your soul ever hungry, friend?”

“I know not what you mean,” answered the old man. “I have a soul, I know, for the priest tells me so; and so have my relatives who have gone before me, as I know to my cost; for they make me pay pretty roundly to get their souls out of purgatory. I hope Karl there will in his turn pay for mine when I die.”

“Ah, friend, yes, I see how it is,” said the traveller. “Your soul wants a different sort of nourishment from what it ever has had. I have great hopes that the contents of my pack will afford it that nourishment.”

The traveller was walking on all this time with the old man and Karl, behind the asses. Karl kept looking up in the former’s face with an inquiring glance, the expression of his countenance varying as the traveller continued his remarks.

“I will not keep you in suspense any longer,” said the traveller. “My pack contains copies of that most precious book which has lately been translated into our mother tongue by Dr Martin Luther, and from which alone we have any authority for the Christian faith we profess. I have besides several works by the same learned author, as also works by other writers.”

“I wish that I could read them,” said the old man, with a sigh; “but if I had the power I have not the time, and my eyes are somewhat dim by lamplight. Karl there was taught to read last winter by a young man who was stopping at my cottage, and whom I took in, having found him with a broken leg in the forest.”

“Oh, grandfather, why he taught you also to read almost as well as I do!” said Karl. “All you have been wishing for has been a book in big print, and perhaps if the merchant has one he will sell it to you.”

“We will examine the contents of my pack when we get to your cottage, my friend, and I daresay something will be found to suit you,” observed the traveller. “If you have made a beginning, you will soon be able to read these books, and I am sure when once you have begun you will be eager to go on.”

Chapter Two.

The gloom of evening was settling down over the wild scene of mountain, forest, rock, and stream, when the traveller reached the woodman’s hut. “You are welcome, friend, under the roof of Nicholas Moretz,” said the old man, as he ushered his guest into his cottage.

Karl mean time unloading the asses, placed the fagots on a pile raised on one side of the hut.

“Here you can rest for the night, and to-morrow morning, when we proceed into the town to dispose of our fagots, you can accompany us without risk of losing your way,” the woodcutter observed, pushing open the door.

As he did so, a young girl ran out to meet him, and throwing her arms round his neck, received a kiss on her fair brow. She drew back with a bashful look when she saw the stranger.

“Sweet one, you must get another bowl and platter for our guest,” said the old man. “As he has travelled far with a heavy load on his back, he will do justice to your cookery, Mistress Meta. She and the boy, my grandson,” he added, turning to the traveller, “are my joy and comfort in life, now that my poor daughter has been taken from me.”

The traveller unstrapped his heavy pack from his shoulders, and placed it on a bench by the side of the wall; after which Meta brought him a bowl of fresh water and a towel, that he might wash his hands and face, which they not a little required. While he was performing this operation she placed the supper which she had prepared upon the table, which, if somewhat coarse, was abundant.

By this time Karl came in, and the whole party took their seats on stools round the table. “Let us bless God for the good things He bestows on us, and above all for the spiritual blessings He has so mercifully prepared for us,” said the traveller.

“I suppose you are a priest,” said Moretz, when the stranger had concluded. “I thank you for the prayer you have offered up for us.”

“No, my friend, I am no priest,” answered the traveller. “My name is Gottlieb Spena. I am a humble man with a small amount of learning; but I am able to read God’s blessed word, and that is my delight every day I live. My wish is to serve Him, and I feel sure I can best do so by carrying this pack of books about the country, and disposing of them to those who desire to buy.”

“This is a new thing, surely,” observed Moretz. “I should like after supper to see some of these wonderful books you speak of, and to hear you read from the one you call ‘God’s word;’ and if I find the price is not too great, perhaps I may purchase one for Meta and Karl.”

The young girl’s eyes sparkled as her grandfather spoke. “Oh, I should like to have that book!” she exclaimed. “I have heard of it, though I knew not that it was to be sold, or that people were allowed to read it. I thought it was only for the priests to read.”

“Blessed be God, for us unlearned ones who cannot understand the language in which it is written, it has been translated into our native tongue; and God has sent it as His message of love to all human beings, young and old, rich and poor. It is so easy, that he who runs may read. The youngest child may understand the message it gives, while it is equally suited to the wisest philosopher, and to the most powerful king on his throne.”

The young people hurried through their suppers while their guest was speaking, so eager were they to see the package opened. In those days thousands and tens of thousands of people in so-called Christian lands had never seen a Bible, though the translation made by Dr Martin Luther was being spread in every direction throughout the length and breadth of Germany by men like Gottlieb Spena, who carried packs filled with the sacred volume on their shoulders. They did the same afterwards in France, where the name of colporteurs (see Note) was in consequence given to them.

Meta waited anxiously till her grandfather and their guest had finished their suppers, and then as rapidly as possible cleared away the bowls and platters which they had used. The book-hawker with a smile observed her anxiety, and placing his pack on the table, opened it, and exhibited to the admiring eyes of the spectators a number of volumes. “This,” he said, taking out one, “is the Old Testament, or God’s first message to man; and this is the New Testament, His last message, in which He shows Himself to us as a God of love, mercy, and pity, though by no means less a God of justice than He does in the Old Testament. But here He shows us clearly how His justice can be amply satisfied, without the sinner being punished as he deserves; how our sins may be blotted out by the One great Sacrifice offered up. Do you understand me, my friends? The sacrifice has been offered up, the debt has been paid, the obedience has been fulfilled by Jesus Christ, who came on earth and took upon Himself the body and nature of man, sin excepted. He was obedient in all things—first by God’s wish coming on earth, and then dutiful and loving to His parents, merciful and forgiving to those who persecuted Him, ever going about and healing their infirmities, and teaching them the way of salvation. The good Saviour allowed Himself to be hung upon the cross; His hands and feet and sides were pierced; His blood was poured out for us,—ay, for us,—for you and me,—for the vilest of sinners. All this was done by the Just One for the unjust. God tells us to believe in Jesus, and that through believing we are saved,—in other words, that we should take hold of it by faith, and thus accomplish what that loving God, through the Holy Spirit, said: ‘The just shall live by faith.’”

The young people drew in their breath, and gazed steadfastly at the speaker. To hear of sin and the cross was not new to them, for they had been at churches sometimes at holy days; but it was all a mummery and spectacle, with which the priests alone seemed to have to do. The truths now uttered were assuredly gaining some entrance into their minds.

“I do not understand quite what you say, friend Spena,” said the old man; “but surely God does not intend to give us the blessings of heaven without our doing anything to merit it? He intends us to labour, and toil, and pay the priests, and perform penances, and go to mass, and make confession of our sins to the priests, before He could think of letting us into that blessed place.”

“I once thought as you do,” answered the book-hawker. “When I read God’s word, I learned to think very differently.”

As he spoke he opened the Testament. “Listen. The Holy Spirit says through the book, ‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ Here He says nothing about penances, or doing anything of that sort. Listen again: A ruler of the Jews, a learned man, paid a visit once to Jesus, to ask Him about the way of salvation, and His answer was, ‘Ye must be born again.’ He does not say you must do anything, or you must try to mend your ways, or you must alter your mode of living, you must go to confession, or pay for masses, or anything of that sort. The ruler could not at first at all understand the answer. Our blessed Lord then explained it in these words: ‘As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.’ Now in the Old Testament we read of a circumstance which happened when the Israelites were travelling through the desert, on their way out of the bondage of Egypt to the land of promise. They were there bitten by fiery serpents, whose bite caused certain death. They felt themselves dying, and cried to be saved. God told Moses to make a brazen serpent, and to raise it up in the midst of the camp, and directed him to inform the people that all those bitten by the serpent who looked up at the serpent should be saved. Every one of them, without exception, who did thus look, was cured. You see, my friend, by putting the two accounts together, we see clearly what our Lord means,—not that we are to do anything in a way of obtaining merit, but simply look to Him who hung on the cross, was thus lifted up for us, and is now seated on the right hand of God, pleading as the only Mediator all He did for us. A king, when he bestows gifts, gives them through his grace. It is an insult to offer to purchase them. Far more does God bestow His chief gifts as an act of grace. I do not say that He does not expect something in return; but He gives salvation freely, and will allow of nothing to be done beforehand, but simply that the gift should be desired, and its value appreciated, or partly appreciated; for we never can value it as it deserves.”

The woodcutter and his grandchildren listened earnestly to these and many other simple truths, as their guest went on reading and explaining portion after portion. Nor did he omit to pray that God, through the Holy Spirit, would enlighten the minds of his hearers, and enable them to comprehend what he was reading and what he was saying. Hour after hour thus passed by. Several times did Meta rise and trim the lamp.

“Must you hasten on your journey? or can you not rest here another day, and tell us more of those glorious things?” said the old man, placing his hand on Spena’s shoulder, and gazing earnestly into his face.

“Yes, I will stay, friend,” answered the book-hawker, “if by so doing I can place more clearly before you the way of salvation.”

At length the inmates of the cottage and their guest lay down to rest on their rough couches, and angels looked down from heaven, rejoicing at what they there saw and heard.

Note: Colporteurs, literally “neck-carriers;” because their packs were strung round their necks, or, rather, the strap went round their chests.

Chapter Three.

Gottlieb Spena was much the better for his day’s rest, and the following morning set out with old Moretz and his grandson on their weekly journey, when they went into the neighbouring town to dispose of their fagots.

“And how came you to undertake this good work, friend?” asked the old man, as they journeyed.

“In a few words I can answer you,” said the book-hawker. “I was once a monk, a lazy drone. Our convent was rich, and we had nothing to do except to appear for so many hours every day in church, and repeat or chant words, of the sense of which we did not for a moment trouble ourselves. Copies of the blessed gospel, however, were brought among us, and certain works by Dr Martin Luther, and friends of his, which stirred us up to read that gospel, and to see whether we held the faith it teaches, or were leading the lives it requires. First one and then another, and finally almost all of us came to the conclusion that we were not in any way living according to God’s law, and that the whole system we supported was evil and wrong; and we all agreed to go forth into the world, and to become useful members of society. Some, who had the gift of speaking, after a time became preachers of the gospel. As I had not that gift, and had but a small amount of learning, I resolved, by the advice of Dr Martin Luther, to put a pack upon my shoulders, and to go forth and to distribute the written word through the land, and to speak a word in season, as God might give me opportunity. If the Pope or Tetzel can catch me I have no doubt that they will burn me as they burned John Huss. But I have counted the cost, and I am prepared for that or anything else that can befall me. I have placed myself in God’s hands, and fear not what man can do to me.”

“You are a brave man,” said old Moretz, grasping the book-hawker’s hand; “and whatever you may say of yourself, I should say that you are a true preacher of God’s word, and I pray that there may be many others like you going forth throughout our country.”

“Amen,” said Spena, as the old man and he, warmly shaking each other’s hand, parted.

“I hope there may be very many better men than I am;” and he went on his way, selling his books and speaking a word in season; and thus a humble instrument, as he thought himself, bringing many souls to the knowledge of the truth, and to accept the free offers of eternal life through a simple, loving faith in Christ Jesus.

We must here observe that before leaving the woodcutter’s hospitable hut, Gottlieb Spena delivered the precious book into the custody of Meta, bidding her an affectionate farewell, with the prayer that it might prove a blessing to her soul and to those dear to her. Meta never failed to pass every moment she could steal from her daily avocations in perusing the New Testament. When her grandfather and brother returned home from their work, she had always some fresh account to give them of which she had read; and from henceforth the old man and Karl passed a part of every evening in reading it, while the great part of that day which God has given to toiling man as a day of rest was passed in gaining knowledge from its precious pages.

Old Moretz had now got what he never before possessed. He understood the way of salvation through Jesus Christ, whom he loved and desired to serve. The more he saw of the love of God the more he felt his own sinfulness and unworthiness, and felt the need of a better righteousness than any good works of his own. The Holy Spirit was teaching him this and other truths from the Scriptures. Meta and Karl also were daily growing in knowledge and grace. They had before been contented and cheerful, but it was the mere happiness of health and freedom from sorrow. Now they possessed a joy which nothing could take away from them. They relied with simplicity and confidence on God’s word. They knew that which He said He would do. “If grandfather is taken from us, or you are taken, Karl, I know we shall be parted but for a short time. We shall meet again and be happy, oh, so happy!” exclaimed Meta, as Karl came in one day when his work was over, and found her ever and anon glancing at her Bible, which lay open on the table, while she was engaged in some business about the cottage.

Moretz soon found that those who hold to the truth are often called upon to suffer for the truth. So it has been from the beginning. God requires faith, but He desires us to prove our faith. Other men, like Spena, were traversing the country, not only like him distributing books, but openly preaching the principles of the Reformation. They did so in many places, at great hazard to themselves. The papists, where they could, opposed and persecuted them, as the Apostle Paul before his conversion did the Christians he could get hold of, haling them to prison, to torture, and to death.

Moretz often went into the town of Hornberg to sell his fagots. Even he was not without his enemies. As he and Karl were one day driving their asses laden with wood into the town, they encountered a long string of pack-horses which had brought in their cargoes and were now returning. Behind them rode a big, burly man, dressed as a farmer, on a stout, strong horse. He scowled on Moretz, who was about to pass him, and roughly told him to move his asses and himself out of the way. He had an old grudge against Moretz, who had resisted an unjust attempt to seize some land to which the rich man had no right.

“With pleasure, Master Johann Herder. I would not wish to occupy your place, as I doubt not you would not wish to fill mine.”

“What does he mean?” exclaimed Herder; but Moretz had already done as he was bid, and got quickly out of the way. Herder went on some little distance, muttering to himself, and then stopped and looked in the direction Moretz had taken. Ordering his servants to proceed with the animals, he wheeled round his horse and slowly followed the woodcutter.

Moretz quickly disposed of his fagots among his usual customers, and was about to return home when he saw a large crowd in the square assembled round a man who was addressing them from a roughly-raised platform. Moretz could not resist the temptation of joining the crowd, for a few words which reached his ears interested him greatly. He got as close up to the speaker as he could with his asses, on the backs of which he and Karl were mounted. The preacher wore a monk’s dress, but instead of a crucifix he held a book in his hand, which Moretz and Karl guessed rightly was the Bible. He argued that it being God’s revelation to man, it was sufficient for all that man requires to show him the way by which he might get out of his fallen state and obtain eternal happiness. “Are we then,” he asked, “to be guided by this book, or to be directed by men who say things directly opposed to this book? The priests have taught you that there is a purgatory. It was a notion held by the heathen nations, but God’s ancient people, the Jews, knew nothing of it, and this book says not a word about it. A man has been going about the country, sent by the Pope, selling bits of paper, which he tells the people will get the souls of their friends and their own souls out of this purgatory. He makes them pay a somewhat high price for these pieces of paper, and if we look at them at their real value, a prodigiously high price. Now the Bible says, ‘The soul that sinneth it shall surely die.’ ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ It nowhere says if we are ever so great sinners, and die in our sins, our friends may buy the means by which we can escape the consequence of sin. It does, however, say that however great a sinner you are, if you turn to Jesus Christ, and trust to Him, you will be saved; and it gives us the account of the thief on the cross, who, even at the last moment, trusting to Jesus, was saved.”

Thus the preacher continued arguing from the Bible, showing from it numberless falsehoods put forth by the Church of Rome. Then he put very clearly and forcibly the simple gospel before the people,—man’s fallen state; the love of Christ which induced Him to come on earth to draw man out of that fallen state, if he would accept the means freely offered to him. Still, unhappily, man continued to “love darkness rather than light, because his deeds are evil;” and thus do the cardinals and bishops and priests, who are the ruling powers of the Church of Rome, endeavour to keep the minds of people in ignorance, that they may draw money from the pockets of their dupes, and continue to live on in indolence and vice.

Chapter Four.

While he was speaking a large body of people, led on by a man on horseback, and accompanied by several priests, were seen advancing at the farther end of the square. Many of the people fled, but the preacher boldly kept his ground, as did Moretz and Karl, who, indeed, scarcely heeded the movement of the people surrounding him. In another minute Moretz found himself dragged from his pack-saddle by a couple of men, and looking up, he saw Johann Herder frowning down upon him. He struggled to free himself, for his muscles were well-knit, and he had lost but little of his vigour. He succeeded in getting near enough to Karl to whisper, “Fly away home and look after Meta. God will take care of me. Do not be afraid. Keep up your spirits, Karl. Off!—off! quick! quick!”

He had scarcely uttered these words before he was again seized by two additional men, who set on him, and he saw that to struggle further was useless.

“Bring him along,” said Herder, “with the other prisoners. The magistrates will quickly adjudge the case. I knew that I should some day have my revenge,” he whispered into the old man’s ear, “and I intend to make you feel it bitterly.”

Moretz was thankful to see that Karl had made his escape, and without opposition followed his captors to the hall where the magistrates were sitting. They had resolved to prevent any public preaching in their town.

While the magistrates’ officers were making prisoners, several men rallied round the preacher, and before he could be seized, got him down from the platform in their midst, and then retired down the street, no one venturing to attack them.

Moretz, with six or seven more prisoners, was placed before the magistrates, several priests being present, eager to obtain their condemnation. Moretz was asked how he dared stop and listen to an heretical preacher, and whether he thought the preacher was speaking the truth, or falsehood?

“Had I thought he had been speaking falsehood, I would not have stopped to listen to him,” answered the old man, boldly. “He spoke things, too, which I know are to be found in the word of God, and I am sure that all in that book is true.”

“Evidently a fearful heretic!” exclaimed the magistrates. “We must make an example of him, and put a stop to this sort of thing. In the meantime, to prison with him!”

“Stay,” said one. “Though guilty of listening, perchance he will recant, and acknowledge himself in error.”

“Indeed I will not,” answered the old man. “I believe God rather than man, and will not deny the truths He has taught me.”

“Off with him!—off with him! You see there is no use discussing matters with a heretic,” exclaimed some of the other magistrates.

The other prisoners were now tried. Two or three only of them, were, however, committed to prison, the others acknowledging themselves in error. Of these, however, several as they went away muttered words complimentary neither to their judges nor to the Pope and his cardinals.

Moretz, with several other prisoners, was marched off under a strong guard to the prison. It was a dark, old, gloomy building, which had been a castle, but having been partly dismantled, had been fitted up again for its present purpose. It contained several long passages, both above ground and under ground, leading to arched cells with strong oak doors plated with iron.

Into one of these dungeons Moretz was now thrust. There he was left in solitude. There was but little light, but he discovered a heap of straw in one corner, on which he sat himself down. “Well,” he thought, “other people have been shut up in prison cells worse than this, and Christians too.” And then he thought of Paul and Silas in the prison at Philippi, and how they had spent their time in praying and singing praises to God. “That is just what I ought to do,” he said to himself; but he did not pray so much for himself as for his dear little Meta and Karl, that God would take care of them, and deliver him in His own good time, if it was His will to do so. Then he began to sing, for Spena had left a book of hymns, the words of several of which he had already learned by heart. “The feet of Paul and Silas were in the stocks,” he said to himself, “then surely I am better off than they were; I ought to praise God for that;” and so he sang on right cheerfully. However, not being accustomed to sit long, he soon got up and walked about his cell. He could make but few paces without turning. A gleam of light came through an aperture in the upper part of the wall. “I am not much below ground, at all events,” he observed; and it set him thinking, always lifting up his heart in prayer to God.

Chapter Five.

Meanwhile Karl had returned home with the donkeys. Poor Meta was greatly grieved and alarmed when she heard the sad news. “Those cruel men will be killing dear grandfather, as they killed John Huss,” she said, looking with tearful eyes at Karl. “We can pray for him, however, that is one comfort.”

They did not fail to do as Meta said; not only night and morning, but several times during the day; before Karl set off on his expedition into the forest to cut wood, and when he returned, or when he went into the town to sell his fagots. “When grandfather told me to run away, he intended that I should work hard to support you, Meta, and so I will.”

Meta was accustomed to be alone. She was a happy-hearted girl, and used to sing and amuse herself very well, when she knew that her grandfather and brother would soon return to her. The case was very different now. Her great comfort was reading the Bible. She had more time to do that than formerly. Without it she felt sure she would have broken down altogether. Still, occasionally, she felt her spirits sink so low that she could not help wishing to accompany Karl into the forest. “I can take the book and read to him when he stops to rest or to eat his dinner; and I can talk to him and cheer him up, for he must feel quite as sad as I do, I know.”

Karl gladly agreed to her proposal, so the next day, shutting up the cottage, they set out together. The way was rough, but Meta was well accustomed to tread it, and without encountering any danger they reached the part of the forest in which Karl usually laboured. Meta carried out her plan just as she had proposed, and Karl, though he rested longer than had been his wont, got through more work than usual. For several days she did the same, very much to her own and Karl’s satisfaction. On one occasion she was seated on a piece of timber, with her book on her knees, reading, while Karl sat on the ground at her feet, eating his frugal meal, but slowly though, for every now and then he looked up to ask her the meaning of certain passages, or to make some remark.

They were thus employed, entirely absorbed in the subject. Some slight noises reached their ears, but if their attention was drawn to them they thought they were caused by the asses which were browsing near brushing among the bushes. Meta read on. At length she stopped, when, looking up, she saw standing near her, and gazing with a look of astonishment, a gentleman in a rich hunting suit, a short sword by his side, a horn hung round his neck, and a jewelled dagger in his belt. His white beard and moustache, and his furrowed cheeks, showed that he was already advanced in life, though he looked active and strong. A pleasant smile passed over his countenance, as Meta, littering an exclamation of astonishment, gazed up at him. Karl started to his feet, and instinctively put himself in an attitude of defence.

“Do not be alarmed, my young friends,” said the gentleman. “I wish to serve you rather than to do you any harm. What is that book you are reading from, little maiden?”

“The Bible, sir, God’s word,” answered Meta, without hesitation.

“A very blessed book, and a very blessed message it contains,” observed the gentleman. “But how came you young foresters to possess it, and to learn to read it?”

“I learned at Herr Gellet’s school,” answered Meta, “and a good man who came by this way, sold us the book at a small price. It is worth ten times the sum we gave, I am sure of that.”

“And where do you live?” asked the gentleman.

Meta told him.

“And is your grandfather sick, that he is not with you?” he inquired.

“Alas! he has been cast into prison for listening to a preacher of God’s word,” said Meta, “and we know not what they are going to do with him, whether they will burn him, as they have done others, or keep him shut up.”

The nobleman, for such by his appearance they supposed him to be, continued looking with great interest at Meta, while she was speaking. Having made further inquiries about the old woodcutter, he joined several of his companions who had been standing all the time at a little distance, scarcely perceived till now by Meta and Karl. One of them had been holding his horse, which he mounted, and rode away, conversing with him through the forest.

Karl having made up his fagots, proceeded homewards, talking with Meta as they went, about the interview with the nobleman, and wondering who he could be. “I wonder whether he is the Count Furstenburg, whose castle is, I know, some short distance off, though I have never been up to it. I have several times seen the tops of the towers over the trees. Yet whenever I have heard his name mentioned he has been spoken of as a fierce, cruel lord, tyrannical both to his dependants and even to those of his own family. I know I have heard of all sorts of bad things about him, but grandfather never likes to speak of him.”

“Then I am sure that noble cannot be the Count Furstenburg,” said Meta: “he spoke so gently and looked so kindly at us.”

Scarcely had they entered their cottage than they heard horses’ hoofs approaching it. Karl ran out to see who it was, while Meta was preparing the supper.

“Oh, Meta!” exclaimed Karl, running back, “it is that dreadful man, Johann Herder, our grandfather’s great enemy! His coming bodes us no good.”

They consulted whether they should bolt the door, but Meta advised that they should show no alarm; and as Herder could easily break open the door, it would be useless to try and keep him out.

In another minute Herder entered the cottage. He cast a frowning glance around him. “Where is your grandfather?” he asked.

“I am afraid, sir, he is in prison,” answered Meta.

“Why is he there?” he asked again.

“Karl says, because he was listening to a preacher of the gospel,” answered Meta.

“He was assisting in creating a disturbance rather,” observed Herder.

“I am sure grandfather is not the man to do that,” exclaimed Karl. “I was with him, and he was as quiet as any man could be.”

“Then you ought to have been taken prisoner too,” exclaimed the farmer. “I must see to that. And what book is that you have by your side, maiden?” he asked, glancing at Meta’s Bible, which she was prepared to read.

“God’s word, sir,” said Meta, firmly. “We always read it before sitting down to meals. It is by reading it that we learn of salvation. This book says, ‘Faith cometh by hearing,’ or reading God’s word, and by faith we are saved.”

“Those are strange doctrines you are speaking,” said the rough man, yet feeling, perhaps, more than he was willing to acknowledge, the force of her words, and greatly struck by her calmness and bravery.

“They cannot be new, sir,” answered Meta, “for they were written by the apostles themselves, nor are they strange, for the same reason.”

“I came not to discuss such matters,” said Herder, turning away. “My reason for coming here was to tell your grandfather that he must move out of this cottage, as I have bought it. As he is not here, I give you the notice, and let me tell you that the opinions you utter are very dangerous. They are not such as to please the priests or bishop; take care, therefore, what you are about.” Without further words, Herder turned round, unwilling it seemed to look any longer on the young girl and her brother who had so boldly confronted him. Leaving the cottage, he mounted his horse and rode off.

The young people could not help being alarmed. It would be a sad thing to have to leave their old home, and for their grandfather, when he got out of prison, to be obliged to seek for a new one. His other threats also boded them no good. They had, however, strength the rough man knew nothing of. As soon as they were again alone, they knelt down and prayed for protection, nor failed to obtain the comfort prayer will always bring. They then returned to the table and partook of their yet untasted supper. Before it was finished, a knock was heard at the door.

“Shall I open it?” asked Karl. “Perhaps it is Herr Herder come back again.”

“Oh, no!” said Meta, “he would not knock. We should not be afraid to open the door.”

Karl withdrew the bolt, and who should he see but the book-hawker, Gottlieb Spena! They recognised him at once. He entered, and saluting them, kindly inquired for their grandfather. “I trust he has not been taken from you,” he said, with an expression of anxiety.

“Indeed he has, sir,” said Meta, “but not by death;” and in a few words she explained what had happened.

“That is very sad, but God will protect you, my children,” he observed, placing his pack, as he had before done, in a corner of the room. “We must try and obtain his liberation. The people of Germany will no longer submit to persecution. However, I trust that, by some means, your grandfather’s liberation may be obtained.”

Meta and Karl warmly thanked their friend, and begged him to partake of their humble fare. This he did, seeing that there was abundance. Suddenly he exclaimed, “I have thought of a plan. I will endeavour to gain admittance to your grandfather, and if so, I trust the means may be given him to escape from the prison.” As it was somewhat late, the book-hawker gladly availed himself of the shelter of the hut for the night, while he amply repaid his young hosts by reading and expounding the Scriptures to them, greatly to their satisfaction.

Chapter Six.

The old woodcutter sat in his cell, his spirits yet unbroken, and resolved, as at first, to adhere to the faith. Still, accustomed as he had been to a life in the open air, his spirits occasionally flagged and his health somewhat suffered. Often and often he thought to himself, as he examined the walls of his prison, “If I had an iron tool of some sort, I doubt if these walls would long contain me.” But everything he had possessed had been taken from him when he was first brought to prison, and not even a nail could he find with which to work as he proposed. He was seated on his heap of straw, and the gaoler entered with his usual fare of brown bread and water.

“I have a message for you, old man,” said the gaoler, who, though rough in appearance, spoke sometimes in a kind tone. “A holy monk wishes to see you, and bade me tell you so.”

“I have no desire to see a monk,” answered Moretz. “He cannot make me change my faith, and it would be time lost were he to come to me.”

“But he brings you a message from your grandchildren,” said the gaoler. “He bade me say that if you refused to see him—”

Moretz thought an instant. “Let him come then,” he answered.

The gaoler nodded and took his departure. In a short time he returned, ushering in a sturdy, strong-looking man in a monk’s dress. The gaoler retired, closing the door.

“You do not know me, friend Moretz,” said his visitor, in a low voice. “I have been admitted, that I might give you spiritual comfort and advice,” he said, in a louder tone, “and I gladly accepted the office.” His visitor talked for some time with Moretz, producing from under his dress a book from which he read, though not without difficulty, by the gleam of light which came in through the small opening which has been spoken of. From another pocket he produced two iron instruments carefully wrapped up, so as not to strike against each other. “Here is a strong chisel,” he said, “and here is a stout file. I have heard of people working their way through prison walls with worse instruments than these. Now farewell, friend Moretz. The time I am allowed to remain with you is ended, and the gaoler will be here anon to let me out of the prison.”

“I fear you run a great risk,” said Moretz, warmly thanking his visitor.

“For the Lord’s people I am ready to run any risk,” was the answer, and just then the gaoler was heard drawing back the bolts. The friar took his departure.

The old woodcutter was once more left alone. He had piled up his straw on the side of the wall on which the opening was placed. He now carefully drew it back, and began working away at a stone which had before been hidden by it. His success surpassed his expectations. There had been a drain or a hole left for some purpose, carelessly filled up. Thus hour after hour he scraped away, carefully replacing the straw directly he heard the gaoler’s step near his door. What a sweet thing is liberty! The woodcutter’s chief difficulty was to hide the rubbish he dug out, the straw being scarcely sufficient for that purpose. As he was working, however, he let his chisel drop. He thought the stone on which it dropped emitted a hollow sound. He worked away in consequence, to remove it, and great was his satisfaction to find beneath a hole of some size. He was now able to labour with more confidence. In a short time he had removed the stone from the wall, giving him an aperture of sufficient size to pass through. The earth beyond was soft. And now he dug and dug away, following up the hole in the pavement. He was afraid sometimes that his hands covered with earth might betray him, but the gaoler’s lantern was dim, and he managed always to conceal them as much as possible when the man entered.

At length he felt sure from the height he had worked that he was near the surface of the earth on the outside. He now feared lest it might fall in during the daytime, and this made him hesitate about working except during the hours of the night. He had saved up as many crusts of bread as his pockets would hold, in order, should it become necessary for him to lie concealed for any length of time, that he might have wherewith to support life. And now the time arrived when he believed that he should be able to extricate himself altogether. He waited till the gaoler had paid his last visit, and then watched anxiously till the thickening gloom in his cell showed him that night was approaching. He had all along of course worked in darkness, so that it being night made no difference to him. He now dug away bravely, and as he had not to carry the earth into the hole, he made great progress. At length, working with his chisel above his head, he felt it pierce through the ground. Greater caution was therefore necessary, lest the falling earth should make a noise.

The fresh air which came down restored his strength, and in a few minutes he was able to lift himself out of the hole. He did not, however, venture to stand up, but lying his length on the ground, gazed around him. The dark walls of the old castle rose up on one side. On the other, at the bottom of a steep bank, was the moat, partly filled up, however, with rubbish. Beyond, another bank had to be climbed, and beyond that again was the wild open country, the castle being just outside the walls of the town. He quickly formed his plan.

Slowly crawling on, he slid down the bank, and then stopped to see what course he should take. There appeared to be no sentries on the watch on that side of the castle, it being supposed probably that escape of any prisoners was impossible. He was thus able more boldly to search for a passage across the moat. The night was cloudy and the wind blew strong, which, though he was in consequence not so well able to find his way, prevented him being seen or heard. At length, partly wading and partly scrambling over the rubbish, he reached the opposite bank. He waited to rest, that he might the more rapidly spring up the bank. He gained the top, when looking back and seeing no one, he hurried along the open ground. He stopped not till he had obtained the shelter of some brushwood, which formed, as it were, the outskirts of the forest. He was well aware that, as at daylight his escape would be discovered, and that he could easily be tracked, he must make the best speed his strength would allow. He knew the country so well that he had no difficulty in finding his way even in the dark. He could not, however, venture to return to his own cottage. There was no lack of hiding-places where he might remain till the search after him had somewhat slackened.

At length, weary from his exertion, and having overrated his strength, he sat himself down to rest, as he thought in safety, for a few minutes. His eyelids closed in slumber, and, unconsciously to him, hour after hour had passed away.

The sound of horns and the cries of huntsmen were heard in the forest. They awoke old Moretz from his sleep. He started up, but it was too late to conceal himself. A horseman in a rich costume, which showed his rank, was close to him. “Whither away, old friend?” he exclaimed, as Moretz instinctively endeavoured to conceal himself in some brushwood near at hand. He stopped on hearing the voice of the huntsman.

“My lord,” he answered, “I throw myself upon your mercy. I am guiltless of any crime, and was cast unjustly into prison, from which I have made my escape. If I am retaken, my life will be forfeited.”

“That is strange,” exclaimed the nobleman. “I will do my best to protect you, but I cannot venture to dispute with the law, as I might have done once on a time. As we came along we met a gang of persons, hunting, they told us, for an escaped prisoner. There is no time to be lost. Here!” and the nobleman called to one of his attendants, a tall man, very similar in figure to the woodcutter. “Here; change dresses with my old friend, and do you, as you are a bold forester and a strong, active young man, climb up into the thickest tree, and hide yourself as best you can till these hunters of their fellow-men have passed by.”

The nobleman’s orders were speedily obeyed, and Moretz, dressed in his livery, mounted the groom’s horse and rode on with the party. The groom, meantime, who had put on the old man’s clothes, affording no small amusement to his companions, climbed up into a thick tree, as he had been directed to do by his master.

“We will send thee a livery, my man, in which thou may’st return home soon, and satisfy thy hunger, which may be somewhat sharpened by longer abstinence than usual,” said the count, as he rode on.

Scarcely had these arrangements been made, when the party from the gaol in search of the fugitive came up. “Has the Count Furstenburg seen an old man in a woodcutter’s dress wandering through the forest?” inquired their leader, in a tone which sounded somewhat insolent.

“The Count Furstenburg is not accustomed to answer questions unless respectfully asked,” replied the noble; “and so, master gaoler, you must follow your own devices, and search for your prisoner where you may best hope to find him.” Then sounding his horn, he and his whole party rode on together through the forest, taking care to keep old Moretz well in their midst. Making a wide circuit, the count led them back to the castle.

Chapter Seven.

The woodcutter’s astonishment at hearing who had rescued him, and where he was to find shelter, was very great. He had always entertained a great dread of the count, who, from common report, was looked upon as a cruel tyrant. The count’s first care on reaching the castle was to send a servant with a livery in which the groom might return home, directing him in the same package to bring back the old woodcutter’s clothes. He gave him also another message: it was to visit the cottage on his return, and to give little Meta and Karl the joyous information that their grandfather was out of prison and in safe keeping.

“And now, my friend, I will have a few words with you in my private room,” said the count, as the old man stood, cap in hand, gazing at him with astonishment. “I know you better than you suppose,” he said, as Moretz entered the room; and he told him of the interview he had had with his grandchildren. “I rejoice to see the way in which you are bringing them up. How is it you have taught them so to love the Bible? Do you know about it yourself?”

Moretz seeing no cause for concealment, told the count of the visit of Gottlieb Spena, the book-hawker.

“That is strange indeed,” said the count. “From the same Gottlieb Spena I also, my friend, have learned the same glorious truths. You have, I doubt not, always heard me spoken of as a bad, cruel man. So I was, but I have been changed. God has found me out, and in His love and mercy has showed me the way by which I may escape the punishment most justly due to my misdeeds; and not only that, but due also to me had I never committed one-tenth part of the crimes of which I have been guilty.”

It was strange to hear the once proud count thus speaking to the humble woodcutter, as to a brother or a friend.

For many weeks the old man was sheltered safely within the walls of the castle. Not only had the count, but all his house, abandoned the faith of Rome, many of them having truly accepted the offers of salvation. At length, so widely had spread the doctrines of the Reformation, that the authorities at Hornberg no longer ventured to persecute those who professed it, and Moretz did not, therefore, require the count’s protection. Meta and Karl had remained at the cottage, notwithstanding the threats of Herr Herder. Every day, however, they had been expecting to receive another order to quit their home.

One morning, as they were seated at breakfast, before Karl went out to his work, a knock was heard at the door. Karl ran to it, wondering who it could be at that early hour. A shriek of joy escaped Meta’s lips as, the door opening, she saw her grandfather, and the next instant she and Karl were pressed in his arms.

Great changes had of late taken place in Germany, and the authorities who had imprisoned Moretz no longer ventured to proceed as they had before done. The peasants, oppressed for centuries by the owners of the soil, and treated like slaves, had long been groaning for the blessings of civil liberty. On several occasions they had revolted against their lords, but their rebellions had always been put down with bloodshed and fearful cruelties. Once more the same desire to emancipate themselves had sprung up in all parts of the country. This desire did not arise in consequence of the progress of the Reformation. It had existed before, and Luther and the other reformers who had been aware of it had used every means to induce the people to bear their burdens, and to wait till, in God’s good time, a better heart should be put into their rulers, and they should be induced to grant them that liberty which was theirs by right. Unhappily, however, men are too fond of attempting to right themselves rather than trust to God. While, as has been said, this desire for civil liberty was extending, so also was the Reformation making great progress. Many abandoned popery without embracing the gospel, and these were the people especially who desired to right themselves by the sword. Scarcely had old Moretz returned to his hut, than he was visited by several of the peasants, small farmers and others, who came to urge him to join the band they were forming in the neighbourhood. His imprisonment and its cause had become known, as had also the way he had escaped. Among others, greatly to his surprise, his old enemy, Johann Herder, rode up to his door.

“We were foes once, but I wish to be your foe no longer, and I have come to invite you to join our noble cause.”

“I am thankful to see you, Master Herder,” said Moretz, “but I cannot promise to join any cause without knowing its objects.”

“They are very simple,” answered his guest. “We consider that all men are equal. We wish to right ourselves, and to deprive our tyrants of their power.”

“But if they refuse to agree to your demands, how then will you proceed?” asked Moretz.

“We will burn their castles and their towns, and put them to death,” was the answer.

“That surely is not the way to induce people to act rightly,” answered Moretz. “The Bible nowhere says that we should not be soldiers, but the gospel does say very clearly that we should do violence to no man—that we should love our enemies and do good to them that persecute us. Burning houses and putting people to death is not in accordance with the will of God: of that I am sure.”

“But the gospel gives us freedom, and we have accepted the gospel, and therefore have a right to liberty,” answered Herder.

“The liberty of which the gospel speaks is very different from that which you desire, my friend,” said Moretz. “The freedom which that gives us is freedom from superstition, from the tyranny of Satan, from the fear of man, from the dread of the misfortunes and sufferings to which people are liable. No, friend Herder, I cannot join you.”

Much more was said on both sides. Moretz remained firm; and Herder went away, indignant that one to whom he had offered to be reconciled—very much against his own feelings—should have refused to join what, in his smaller knowledge of the gospel plan, he considered right and justifiable. Herder had become a Protestant, and knew enough about the truth to be aware that Christians are bound to forgive their enemies. He also was convinced that the saints cannot hear prayer, that purgatory is a fiction, and that confession should be made to God and not to man. But he had no grace in his heart. He prided himself greatly on having visited old Moretz and expressed himself ready to become his friend. Moretz, on the other hand, had accepted not only the letter but the spirit of the gospel. He knew himself by nature to be a sinner. He had given his heart to God. He desired to please Him by imitating the example of His blessed Son, and he trusted for salvation alone to the complete and perfect sacrifice made on the cross.

Moretz soon found that the proposed rebellion had commenced in various districts, and that already several peasant bands had proceeded to acts of violence. Immediately he thought that the castle of the Count of Furstenburg might be attacked, and he accordingly set out to warn him of the danger. Had he been able to write he would have sent Karl, but he was sure that his warning would more likely be attended to if he went himself. He was aware that he ran a great danger if he were to encounter any of the peasants, who would look upon him, should they discover his object, as a traitor to their cause. He therefore made his way across the country, avoiding all public paths, and keeping as much as possible out of sight of anybody he met. He at length reached the castle in safety. The count could at first scarcely believe the information he gave him. It was impossible that the peasants should dare attack the castles of the nobles. Moretz convinced him, however, at last. He sat for some time without speaking, while he rested his head on his hands, bending over the table. His lips were moving in prayer.

“I will not oppose these poor people,” he said, at length. “I will rather reason with them, and bring them to a knowledge of their error. If I were to defend the castle I might kill a good many, and perhaps succeed in driving them away. If I cannot persuade them to give up their enterprise, I may perhaps come and pay you a visit. I would rather abandon my castle than slay my fellow-creatures. I am grateful to you, my friend, for bringing me the warning, as it will give me time for consideration how to act.”

Chapter Eight.

Moretz returned, as he had come, to his cottage. Karl soon after arrived, having gone out into the forest for wood. He reported having seen large bodies of men armed in every possible way collecting at a distance, but he kept himself out of sight, for fear they might compel him to accompany them.

In the meantime the count remained, as he had determined, at his post. The day after Moretz had visited him, the report was brought that a large body of men were approaching the castle. Acting according to his resolution, in the plainest dress he ever wore he mounted his charger and rode forward to meet them. As he appeared he was welcomed with a loud shout, and several persons, detaching themselves from the crowd, approached him.

“We have come, friend Furstenburg,” they said, “to invite you to join our noble cause. We will give you military rank, and make you one of our leaders; but we can allow no nobles among us, and therefore it must be understood that you will sink your title.”

“This is a strange proposal to make to me, my friends,” answered the count, after the insurgents had explained their objects and plans. “You profess to be guided by God’s word, and yet you undertake to act in direct opposition to it. When the Israelites were led forth to attack their enemies they were under the guidance of God, and made especial instruments for the punishment of evil-doers, who had long obstinately refused to acknowledge Him. You, who have no right to claim being led by God, take upon yourselves to punish those whom you choose to consider your enemies. When Christ came a better law was established, and by that law we are taught to forgive our enemies, and leave their punishment to God, and not to attempt to take it into our own hands.”

Again and again the insurgent leaders urged the count to accept their offers, refusing to listen to his arguments. He saw, by the gestures and the expressions they used, that they would probably take him by force. To avoid this was very important, and he therefore requested further time to consider the matter. Some of them evidently desired to enter the castle with him, but this he declined; observing that if he was to act freely, he must be left at liberty. Fortunately they were persuaded to allow him to depart, and he safely reached the gates of his castle.

The insurgents on this marched off in the direction of other castles, whose owners they hoped to enlist in their cause. The count, on entering, ordered the gates to be closed, and then summoning his retainers, told them that he had resolved to abandon the castle, rather than kill any of the misguided people who might come to attack it. He gave them their choice of remaining within the open gates, or obtaining safety by concealing themselves in the neighbourhood. “I have no children, and my distant heir has no right to blame me for my conduct,” he said, when remonstrated with for this proceeding. “I have, besides, One to whom I am first answerable, and He I am sure approves of it.” There was, however, a large amount of plate and valuables of various sorts in the castle: these he had carried to a place of concealment, such as most buildings of the sort in those days were provided with. These arrangements were not concluded till nearly midnight. He then set out unaccompanied, and took his way to the hut of old Moretz.

The next day, when the insurgents returned, they found the castle of Furstenburg deserted. Some of their leaders urged them to burn it to the ground, in consequence of having been tricked, by its owner. They were about to rush in, when an old man, who had remained concealed close to the gates, presented himself before them.

“What are you about to do, my friends?” he exclaimed. “Is this the way you show your love of liberty? Because a man does not approve of your mode of proceeding, are you right in destroying his property, and injuring him in every way you can? You speak of the tyranny of your rulers—is not this greater tyranny? I am one of yourselves, and know what you all feel. I feel the same. I desire that our people should have their rights; but I am very sure that by the way you are proceeding you will not obtain them. A just cause cannot be supported by unjust means.”

Moretz, for it was he, spoke more to the same effect. Happily, Herder was not with the party, or his success might have been different. At length they were convinced by his arguments, and consented to depart without destroying the castle. After they had gone to a considerable distance, Moretz hurried back to the count with the good news.

“Alas!” said the old noble, “it matters, in truth, but little to me. I am childless, and almost friendless; for with those I once associated I have no longer a desire to mix; and, except that I may live a few years longer, and forward the noble cause of the Reformation, I should be ready even now to lay down life.”

“Count,” said the old man, rising and standing before him, “you say that you are childless—but are you really so? You once had a daughter?”

“I had, but I cruelly drove her from my door; but I know that she is dead; for, having taken every possible means for her discovery, I could gain no tidings; and I am very sure, knowing her disposition, that ere this, had she been alive, she would have sought a reconciliation. Of the death of her husband I received tidings. He died fighting in the Spanish army against Barbarossa, and on hearing that my child was left a widow, my heart relented towards her. But tell me, friend, have you any tidings of my daughter?”

“You surmise too rightly, count, that your daughter is dead,” answered the woodcutter. “She died in this humble cottage, and in these arms; but before she died she had given birth to a child,—a girl,—who was brought up by my poor daughter, till she herself was also carried to the grave, leaving behind her a son,—young Karl yonder.”

“And my grandchild? Where is she?” exclaimed the count, casting a glance at Meta.

“You see her there, count,” answered the woodcutter. They were seated in the porch of the cottage. Below it ran a stream, where Meta, aided by Karl, was busily washing. The first thing, perhaps, in the once proud noble’s mind was:—

“And can a descendant of mine be thus employed?” The next instant, however, rising from his seat, he hurried down the bank, calling Meta to him. She was quickly by his side. “Child,” he said, “which of us is your grandfather, think you?” As he spoke he drew her towards him, and gazed in her face. “Yes, yes, I recognise the features of my own lost daughter!” he exclaimed. “We will ever love old Moretz, and be grateful to him,” he said, pressing a kiss on Meta’s brow. “But I am your grandfather, and you must try and give me some of the love you bear him.”

Again and again the count expressed his gratitude to old Moreu. “And above all things,” he added, “that you have brought her up as a true Christian Protestant. Had you returned her to me as an ignorant Papist, as I was long ago, my happiness would have been far less complete.”

It was some time before Meta could understand the change in her circumstances, never having indeed been told who was her mother, and believing always that she was Karl’s sister. The poor lad was the only one whose spirits sunk at what he heard, when he was told that he should lose his companion. A right feeling, however, soon rose in his bosom, and he rejoiced at Meta’s change of fortune.

The peasant-army meantime increased in numbers, and a vast concourse, under a fanatical leader, Thomas Munser, marched through the land, burning castles and towns which refused to admit them, and committing all sorts of atrocities. There were several similar bands. The people in the Black Forest rallied round John Müller of Bülgenbach. Wearing a red cap and a red cloak, he rode from village to village, ordering the church bells to summon the people to his standard. Several noblemen were compelled to join them. Among others, the famous Geotz von Ber Lichengen was forced to put himself at the head of the rebel army. Many towns, unable to withstand them, opened their gates, and the citizens received them with acclamations. Dr Martin Luther and many other leaders of the Reformation exerted all their influence to induce the peasants to return to their homes. They wrote, they preached, and showed how such proceedings were opposed to the principles of the gospel. At length a large army, raised by the Ex-Emperor of Germany, was sent against the insurgents, while the nobles, in every direction taking courage, banded together to put down the insurrection. Fearfully did they retaliate on the unhappy people for the insults they had received. Seldom could the insurgent bands withstand the well-trained forces sent against them, and a large part of the country was deluged in blood, the fugitives in most instances being slaughtered without mercy.

Chapter Nine.

The band which set forth from the neighbourhood of Gutech was not more successful than others. Although at first they captured and burned a number of castles and entered several towns, in which they levied contributions from the inhabitants, they at length encountered the imperial forces. Not an instant could they withstand the well-trained troops of Germany, but fled before them like chaff before the wind. On reaching the neighbourhood of their own homes they, gathering courage, showed a bolder front than before. It would have been happier for the misguided men had they continued their flight. Old Moretz would not consent to eat the bread of idleness, and had declined the bounty freely offered him by the count. He and Karl had gone farther from home than usual on their daily avocation, when their ears were attracted by what appeared to be the din of battle in the distance. They climbed a height in the neighbourhood, whence, from between the trees, they could look down on an open space in the distance, with a rapid stream on one side. Here a large body of peasants were collected, while another body in front were desperately engaged with some imperial troops, as they appeared to be by their glittering arms and closely serried ranks.

“May God have mercy on them!—for they will have no mercy on each other,” exclaimed Moretz, as, leaning his hand on Karl’s shoulder, he stood gazing eagerly down on the raging fight, and scarcely able to retain the young lad, who, had he been alone, would probably have rushed down and joined it. The peasants who had hitherto borne the brunt of the battle—being evidently the best armed and bravest—were now driven back on the main body. The latter, seized with a panic, gave way, the imperialists pursuing them, cutting to pieces with their sharp swords, or running through with their pikes, all they overtook. Moretz and his grandson watched the fugitives and their pursuers. The latter, like a devastating conflagration or a fierce torrent, swept all before them, till they disappeared in the distance.

“We may be able to help some of the unfortunate people who may yet survive,” observed the old man.

“Oh, yes—yes. Let us hurry on, grandfather,” exclaimed Karl. “I fancy that even at this distance I have seen more than one attempt to rise, and then fall back again to the ground.”

Moretz and Karl soon reached the spot where the conflict began. From thence, far, far away, was one long broad road covered thickly with the dead and dying and badly wounded. The old man and boy moved among the ghastly heaps, giving such assistance as they were able to those who most needed it. Karl ran to the stream to bring water, for which many were crying out, while Moretz, kneeling down, bound up the poor fellows’ wounds. He had thus tended several of the unfortunate men, when he saw a person at a little distance trying to lift himself up on his arm. He had several times made the attempt, when he once more fell back with a groan. Moretz hurried towards him. In the features, pallid from loss of blood and racked with pain, he recognised those of Herr Herder.

“Ah, old man! have you come to mock at me?” exclaimed the latter, as he saw Moretz approaching.

Moretz made no answer, but kneeling down, lifted up the farmer’s head, and put the bowl of water he carried to his lips. Herder eagerly took a draught of the refreshing liquid.

“Where are you hurt?” asked Moretz, “that I may wash and bind up your wounds.”

Herder pointed to his side and then to one of his legs.

Aided by Karl, who now came up, Moretz took off Herder’s clothes, and with the linen which he had collected from the slain, having first washed his wounds, he bound them carefully up.

“We must carry you out of this, for the imperialists returning, will too likely kill all they find alive,” said Moretz.

“You cannot carry me,” said Herder, faintly: “you would sink under my weight.”

“I will try,” answered Moretz. “Karl will help me.”

With a strength of which the old man seemed incapable, he lifted the bulky form of the farmer on his shoulders, and telling Karl to support his wounded leg, he hurried towards the hill from which he had lately descended.

“But you can never carry me up that hill,” said Herder, as he gazed at the height above their heads.

“No,” answered Moretz; “but there is a cave near its foot. I can there conceal you till your enemies have gone away; and I will then get some friend to assist me in carrying you to my hut. You will be safe in the cave, at all events, for few know of it; and as soon as the soldiers have disappeared I will get the assistance of a friend to carry you on.”

Old Moretz, as he staggered on, had several times to stop and recover strength, for the farmer’s body was very heavy. At length, however, he reached the cavern he spoke of. Having deposited his burden, and left Karl to watch him, he climbed the height, whence he could observe the proceedings of the imperialists. He had not long to wait. As he had seen them advancing like a rushing torrent, now they returned like the ebb of the ocean. As he had feared, they appeared to be slaughtering those they found still stretched alive on the ground. On they went, till there were none to kill, and then, the trumpet collecting them in more compact order, they marched onwards in the direction whence they had come. Moretz, having found a neighbour in whom he had confidence, he returned to the cavern, and together they carried Herder up to his cottage.

“I have but poor fare to offer you, Herr Herder,” he said, “but such as it is I freely present it to you.”

“What makes you thus take care of me?” said Herder, scarcely noticing the remark. “I never did you any good. I have been your enemy for many years.”

“God’s blessed word says—‘Love your enemies, do good to them who hate and ill-use you.’ If you had treated me far worse than you have done, still I should desire to help you.”

“Ah! you conquer me, Moretz,” said Herder, after a long silence. “I have no doubt that the Bible says as you tell me; but I did not think that any one would thus act according to its commands.”

“Nor would they,” answered Moretz, “unless the Holy Spirit had changed their hearts. The natural man may read the commands over and over again, but he takes no heed of them.”

Thus Moretz frequently spoke to his guest. Karl also often read the Bible to him. One day they received a visit from Gottlieb Spena. He was on his way to the castle of Furstenburg. Before he left the woodcutter’s hut Herder declared that he now understood how Christ had died to save him from the just consequences of his sin.

Meta grew into a noble-looking young lady, and married a Protestant baron, who ever stood up boldly for the faith. She never forgot her kind guardian nor her foster-brother—Karl. She provided a comfortable house for old Moretz, and watched over him affectionately till, in extreme old age, he quitted this world for one far better.

Karl became the head steward of her estates, and ever proved himself a true and faithful man, as he had been an honest and good boy. Spena was greatly instrumental in spreading the glorious truths of the gospel throughout the country, but at length, venturing into a part of Europe where the papists were supreme, he was seized and accused of being a recreant monk. Refusing to abjure the faith, he—as were many others at that time—was condemned to the flames, and became one of the noble army of martyrs who will one day rise up in judgment against that fearful system of imposture and tyranny which condemned them to suffering and death.

There was one district where the insurrection was put down without bloodshed. It was that of the truly pious and Protestant prince, the Elector of Saxony. The power of the word there produced its effect. Luther, Friedrich Myconius, and others went boldly among them, and, by their eloquent arguments, induced them to abandon their designs. Thus, at length, peace was restored to the land of Luther, although these proceedings of the misguided peasants for a time greatly impeded the progress of the Reformation.

The End.