A few boats’ lengths from the quay of the corporation of Exeter, in the port of Topsham, on the morning posterior to the date of the last chapter, there lay several gallant-looking ships, of no ordinary size and burthen.

There were, as has been observed, several of these ships, but only one of them has immediate reference to our history; and, therefore, it is to her alone, at the present moment, that we have to direct attention.

She was a large vessel, and, though fitted up for the purposes both of war and traffic, had evidently been constructed, in the first instance, chiefly with a view to making her a sailer. This was not only manifest in the rounding of her bows, which was, considering the practice of the time, rather sharply turned, but also in a certain slanting in her tall masts, giving her that look which, in nautical parlance, is termed “rakish.” Her rig also, in the main, was adapted to develop her sailing qualities, and was of that hybridous character called “brigantine.” But although her builder had so laboured to make her a fast vessel, she was still roomy, and presented a more extensive interior than one would have expected. Her forecastle was lofty, as was also her after-deck, or poop, rising a good height above her deck; and though she was low midships, or in that part of her hull between the forecastle and poop, this showed her dimensions to disadvantage. There were two brass guns mounted on her forecastle, and two others, of rather a larger bore, on her poop, which was further defended by a long swivel-gun, peeping out on her stern. With this latter part of the ship, where his labours finished, the builder had taken considerable pains, having adorned its outline with a border of relievo flowers, enclosing, about the centre of the elevation, an ingenious representation of three casements. The two outer casements were represented to be open, and here the artist had found room to show his knowledge of details; the ideal aperture of the two casements, by the introduction of some white paint at the top, in contradistinction to the original ground of black, exhibiting the mingled effects of light and shade. Immediately beneath these casements, in large old English characters, was the ship’s name, thus:—

ELIZA.

The day had yet hardly opened at the time we mark the position and general appearance of this goodly ship. Nevertheless, the deck was not vacant, and sounds arose from below, both fore and aft, that proclaimed the whole crew to be up and stirring. In the after part of the ship, in particular, one could distinguish sounds of mirth and festivity, and occasionally there would rise from the cabin a shout of laughter, that no human heart could have heard unmoved. It has been said that the deck was not vacant, and, indeed, it presented, in the fore part of the ship, a very varied picture of human feelings and passions. There might be seen, in the faces of the several persons scattered around, the indications of the most conflicting sentiments—the traces of hope, sorrow, love, eagerness, and expectation. There, among others, stood the father, whispering his parting injunctions to his child; the wife giving her farewell prayers to her husband; the lover pouring hope into the heart of his sobbing mistress; and the daring, thoughtless, and eager adventurer, free from care, and overflowing with buoyancy, caroling some light love-song, and looking forward with impatience to a time of peril and action.

On the after-deck there were but two persons. One of these, who wore the garb of a common seaman, was on the watch, or, rather, as the ship was not at sea, and so kept no regular watch, stood as a sort of sentry, to overlook and preserve the general order. The other person was walking to and fro; and was evidently, to judge from his dress and bearing, of a station superior to any on the deck. Indeed, he was no other than Master Halyard, the lieutenant, or, as he loved to be called for shortness, Master Benjamin Halyard, mariner.

In person Master Halyard afforded little ground for remark. He was of the middle size, and, though somewhat inclined to be over broad, well limbed, and fairly proportioned. His countenance, notwithstanding that it was somewhat weather-beaten, was good-looking—not only because its individual features were good, but because of the lightness, buoyancy, and goodnature that were visible in every line of its general expression. These few words are sufficient to give an idea of his appearance; and his character, so far as it need be mentioned here, may be treated as summarily. Nevertheless, it was not without singularity, or traits that insured it respect and attention. If his manners were rough, his heart was kind and compassionate; and though he was slow to plan, he was prompt to act, and never flinched in the hour of peril. Indeed, he always kept in view, for his guidance through the vicissitudes of life, a maxim that raised him above fear, by reminding him that troubles were but of brief duration, and that good and evil alike must ultimately come to an end. This maxim he had always at hand, and, whenever occasion served, he never failed to set forth, in his very loudest tone of voice, that “life is but short: let us live well on the road, says the gentle shepherd of Salisbury plain.” The spirit of his maxim he enforced, not only by constantly repeating it, but by the effect of his own example, on every one under his control, although his general disposition, to borrow a phrase of his own, was “no ways particular,” and rarely inclined him to interfere with others.

Such was the man who, at the time already specified, walked to and fro on the quarter-deck of the “Eliza,” smoking a short pipe as he passed along. He had, however, taken but two or three turns of the deck, when the look-out man, coming right in his path, brought him to a stand.

“’Tis four of the clock, master,” said the look-out man.

“Ah, Tom Tarpaulin,” answered the lieutenant, quickly, for it was necessary to give his orders with promptitude; “life is but short: let us live well on the road, says the gentle shepherd of Salisbury plain. Strike eight bells!”

“Ay, ay, Sir!” replied Tarpaulin.

Quick as thought, he skipped up the poop, and ran to a frame of wood-work, about three feet high, that stood in front of the compass-box. From this hung a large bell, which he seized round the top; and taking up a hammer that lay beneath, he struck on the inside of the bell eight distinct taps, thereby signifying to the crew, in the manner they best understood, that it was four o’clock.

Hardly had the bell given utterance to the eighth stroke, when Halyard, turning his face towards the forecastle, desired the men forward to give a call for the boatswain. The boatswain, however, being within hearing, forestalled all further calls, and presented himself on the quarter-deck before any voice had been raised but the lieutenant’s.

“Ay, ay, Sir!” he cried.

“Pipe all hands to heave up the anchor,” said the lieutenant.

“Ay, ay, Sir!” answered the boatswain.

And while the accents were yet on his lips, he drew forth an earthenware whistle, gaily trimmed with silver, from the waistband of his canvas trousers, and, raising it to his mouth, made the air ring with its shrill and ear-piercing notes.

All was now bustle throughout the ship. Not only forward, but aft, the summons of the boatswain was obeyed, and four persons came up the hatchway from the chief cabin who wore the garb of gentlemen. Among these were Hildebrand Clifford, the captain, and his friend Sir Walter Raleigh; but the others appeared to have no connection with the ship, and to have come there only as Sir Walter’s friends.

Just as they stepped on the deck, the boatswain brought his whistle to a close, and replaced the pipe, to call it by its nautical name, in the band of his trousers.

“All hands heave up the anchor!” he cried.

Pursuant to this order, the crew all hurried to the quarter-deck, where, directly in front of the poop, at an elevation of about five feet from the deck, stood the capstan, by means of which the anchor was to be raised. This was quickly rigged with some half-dozen levers, about three feet apart, and the sailors planted themselves behind the levers, two or three abreast, and waited the signal to begin.

“Give way, my hearts!” cried Hildebrand, who now took the command: “Give way!”

There was no reply to this order, but the sailors, grasping a firmer hold of the several levers, at once obeyed, wheeling gaily round the capstan, and singing with one voice as they progressed:—

Few of the various by-standers heard their stirring chorus without emotion. In many of them it raised the most bitter pang of tortured affection—it was the knell of separation—the first sad note of departure and parting. Still, after a few moments’ interval, when the first thrills of affection had subsided, it had a cheering influence, and many a pale face around wore a smile, which, though tinged with sadness, plainly showed that the heart was full of hope and expectation.

At length, the cable was all hauled in, and the anchor heaved up to the bows, and there, with the aid of a stout chain, made secure. The goodly bark was at liberty, and all but her gallant crew were now to quit her deck.

In the gangway, preparing to descend into one of the boats that were alongside, stood Sir Walter Raleigh, and his two friends. The two latter had already bidden Hildebrand farewell, but Sir Walter, who was the foremost of the three, held him by the hand still.

“I will bear it in mind, worthy Master Clifford,” he said, in an under tone. “Shedlock shall never know from me, or any but thyself, aught that hath passed, though, by my lady’s hand, I could tear the knave’s heart from his body, if ’twere but to see what ’tis made of.”

“Indeed, ’twould be to my disadvantage just now, noble Sir, that he should know I am thy poor friend,” said Hildebrand.

“It might, it might!” observed Sir Walter. “Have no doubt of my secresy. Farewell, and God keep thee, my friend!”

“Farewell! farewell!” said Hildebrand.

They shook hands again, and, this done, Sir Walter and his friends, without further observation, descended to their boat. All the other strangers had departed before, and none but her proper crew remained on board the “Eliza.”

Once parted from his friends, Hildebrand stepped quickly across the deck, and mounted to the poop. Glancing forward, he perceived that the white sails were all loosened, and were beginning to expand to the wind: the men were scattered in groups, in different parts of the ship; and every eye, from Master Halyard’s downwards, was turned wistfully on him. As he observed the general attention, Hildebrand doffed his plumed hat, and raised it gaily in the air.

“One cheer for merry England!” he exclaimed.

There was a dead pause for a moment: then the welkin rang with a hearty hurrah!