The coble was a poor sea boat and very heavy for its size. The piece of timber that Gervase used was a wretched substitute for an oar, and while the tide carried him rapidly down he could see that he made little progress towards the ships. If he should drift past them it was impossible that he could ever make his way against the current, and he must be carried out to sea. Fortunately the night was clear, and the wind blew in fitful airs, coming from the shore. Notwithstanding his utmost exertion the boat hardly seemed to move, and when he looked round it was already two hundred yards from the shore. He knew that he was still far from being safe from pursuit. He could still easily be seen from the shore in the broad moonlight, and once observed his pursuers would have no difficulty in finding a boat in which they might easily overtake him. He put his heart into every stroke, till the perspiration began to run from his brows and his arms ached till he could almost have cried out for the pain. But he was making his way, however slowly; he could now see the vessels and the yards with the sails flapping idly against the masts. Over the water came the sound of a bell, perhaps calling up the watch, and for the first time he realized how near he was to safety. But the boat seemed to him to go more slowly, and to have grown more difficult to move. Then he looked down and saw that the water was almost up to the thwarts. There was nothing for it but to abandon the paddle and bale out the water, which proved a long and laborious task. When he had accomplished little more than half the work, he saw that a little more delay would bring him opposite to the ships and still far from being within hail. Again he seized his paddle and strained every nerve to make up the way he had lost. His mind was almost distraught with fear; he worked like one possessed; nearer indeed, he came, but Oh! how slowly. The boat would not move in this sea of lead; his muscles were beginning to refuse to act, and to his eyes the sea had grown red, like a sea of blood. His last hope was dying in his heart. To be so near the end of his journey, to have passed through such perils, and to have failed after all--the thought was maddening. Still he would not give way, and he knitted his brows and set his teeth hard. Then as he bent forward the paddle slipped from his hand, and went floating away astern. With a despairing cry, weakened as he was, he fell down in the bottom of the boat, and covered his face with his hands. It was all over; he was beaten at last, and had failed as the others had failed before him. For a minute or two he lay overcome by his despair; the sense of hopeless failure swallowed up every other feeling. The thought of present danger did not present itself to his mind; he had seen too many brave men meet their death in these latter days not willingly to adventure his own life lightly. His head reeled, his mouth was parched, and his eyes throbbed with an intolerable pain. Then almost without knowing what he did, he rose to his feet and tried to call out. At first he could not articulate the words, but his voice died away in a feeble murmur. How near he seemed! the spars stood out plainly against the sky, and the lights were burning clear and bright. He thought once he could hear the sound of the mariners calling as they lay out on the spars of the brig that was riding nearest to him.

Again he called out--"Ship Ahoy!" and this time his voice came strong and full, but though he stood and listened there was no response to his shout. A third time he called out, and then to his inexpressible delight he heard a hoarse voice coming over the water, “Ahoy! what boat is that?”

Rising once more to his feet he called through his hands, “Help! Help!” and sank exhausted in the bottom of the boat, incapable of making any further effort. He waited anxiously but there came no further response, and the little boat went drifting down with the tide. He began to fear that they had not heard his second call. Then--hours after it seemed--he heard the measured sweep of oars and the sound of voices coming nearer. But for his life he could not raise himself above the gunwhale; his strength had left him, and he was as feeble as a child.

But they had caught sight of the little craft where it tossed about in the space of moonlit water, and in a minute or two the ship´s boat was alongside. Gervase was trying without success to answer the questions the mate of the brig was putting to him. Divining at a glance his condition they lifted him into the boat, and one of the seamen with kindly pity threw his rough jacket over him as they rowed to the brig. He lay in the bottom of the boat utterly helpless and unable to move; but his heart was full of inexpressible emotion, for he had accomplished his work and saved the city.

He remembered rowing round the brig and seeing the words “Phoenix of Coleraine” painted in large white letters on the stern, but he fainted away as they lifted him over the side of the boat, and knew nothing more till he found himself lying in the round-house of the brig.

“What piece of goods have ye got there, McKeller?” the master said, standing by the shrouds, and looking over the bulwark as they lifted Gervase aboard.

“As fine a lad as ever I saw in my life, but thin as a whipping-post--a messenger I think, from Londonderry. Gently, my lads, easy with his head. Six feet two of manhood, and I guess a rare good one with his whinger if he had his senses about him.”

They carried him to the round-house, and laying him on the floor, poured a dram of aqua-vitÆ down his throat, but for a long time he showed no sign of life. Then they noticed the letter where it was secured.

“You were right, McKeller,” said the master, as he handed the case bottle to the mate, “the youngster comes from Londonderry, and he brings the message with him. Mayhap ´twill stir up the Colonel at last, and I trust it will, for the sake of Tom Robinson and my sister Marjorie. My God! what that young fellow must have come through; and a gentleman too, as I judge by the gewgaws on his finger.”

“Ay,” answered the mate drily, “and you have given him a pint of pure spirits by way of welcome. You´ll hardly hear about Tom Robinson for a while after that.”

“Never fear; these long-legged fellows stand a lot of moistening. I wouldn´t for half my share in the good ship Phoenix have missed hearing the lad´s hail this night; he never would have lived through a night in the boat--but he´s beginning to come round.”

Gervase showed signs of returning consciousness. His first action was to feel for the precious letter, and then he opened his eyes and looked round him with a gaze of vacant inquiry. “Where am I?” he said.

“Why, just aboard the brig Phoenix, Andrew Douglas, Master, hailing from Coleraine, and bound with the help of God, for the port of Londonderry; and among your friends if you are what I take you to be. Now don´t trouble your head but just take a drop more of this.” The kindly shipmaster put the bottle to his lips and insisted on his drinking.

“Ye´ll kill him,” said the mate; “ye think that everybody has the same stomach for strong waters as yourself. It´s food he wants, I´ll warrant, not drink.”

“And food he´ll have,” cried the master excitedly, “when I´ve brought back the colour to his cheeks, and he´ll be on his legs in a twinkling. Here, Jack, you skulking rogue, set out the best there is on board, and make us a bowl of punch, for by ----, I´ll drink the health of the bravest fellow I´ve clapt eyes on for a twelvemonth.”

“You would drink with less provocation than that,” said the mate, lifting Gervase to his feet and helping him to a seat. “Now ye can tell us the news from Londonderry, lad, if it´s true ye come from there.”

“I came thence to-day--yesterday,” said Gervase. “They can hold out no longer. Where is Colonel Kirke? I must see him immediately.”

The master looked at his mate with a broad grin on his face. “Faith ye´ll not see the Colonel to-night, nor early in the morning either. If he´s not abed by this time and as drunk as a lord, he´s on the fair way to it, and swearing like a dragoon with a broken head. He´s a terrible man in his cups, is Kirke, and they keep it up rarely on board the Swallow. I love the clink of a glass sometimessometimes myself, but--hoot! there´s no use talking. If you´re able, spin us your yarn while they´re getting you something warm, for you must want a heap of filling out to look like the man you were.”

Gervase told his story shortly as well as he was able, interrupted repeatedly by exclamations of wonder and horror by the captain and the mate, and when he had finished they sat staring at him open-mouthed.

“That is the tale as briefly as I can tell it,” said Gervase, “and you will not wonder that I would put the letter in Kirke´s hands with all the haste I can. Next Wednesday there will not be a scrap of food in the city, and if you wait till then you may lift your anchors and go back to where you came from. For God´s sake, tell me what you are waiting for?”

“Till Kirke has emptied his puncheons,” said the mate bitterly.

“Not a soul on board the fleet thought it was going so hard with you, but you had better see Leake, who is a plain-spoken man with some authority. I hear he is all for making up the river, and your story will help him to move the scarlet-coated butcher who is but half-hearted in the business.”

“Colonel Kirke I must see first,” said Gervase; “my message is to him, and when he reads Walker´s letter he can hesitate no longer. All that is wanted is the wind and the tide. There need be no fear of the guns, for in Londonderry we have learned what they can do.”

The skipper had said nothing, but sat leaning his head on his horny hand. Then he seemed to awaken from his fit of abstraction. “And poor Tom is gone, you tell me? He was a younger man than myself by half a score of years, and as likely a fellow as ever lived when I danced at his wedding nine years syne. A putrid fever, you say. Odds, I would like you could have told me how it is with Marjorie and the young ones.”

“He chanced to be of my regiment,” said Gervase, “and that is how I came to know his end. But many a brave fellow has fallen into his last sleep yonder, and all for want of a little manhood here.”

“For God´s sake tell me no more of your story,” said the master, “but even fall to on the boiled beef, and don´t spare the liquor. For myself, please Heaven, I´ll drink the taste of your yarn out of my mouth, though belike it will take a hogshead at the least to do it.”

The master was as good as his word; while Gervase and the mate sat down at the lower end of the table, he produced a great bottle from a locker, and poured out a large measure of spirit, which he drank at a draught without any dilution of water. He filled the glass a second time and drank it without a word. It was clear that he was determined to drown his grief, and as Gervase glanced at him from time to time in amazement, he went on steadily until the bottle was nearly empty. The mate said nothing, only shaking his head as though the sight was not a novel one and remonstrance was out of the question. “He´ll maunder a bit by-and-by,” he said in an undertone, “and then he´ll turn in; ´tis the way of him--he´s a good Christian and a rare seaman, but liquorish. We´ve all our faults and he was born with a thirst. Surely ye haven´t finished? why, man, I thought ye were starved yonder, and ye haven´t done more than nibble at the good meat!”

“Try the punch,” said the master, by this time some way in his cups, with his face shining like a furnace; “try the grog, and never mind McKeller; I have to do his drinking and my own as well, and ´tis devilish hard work, let me tell you. No man can say that Andrew Douglas ever shirked his duty.”

“When it came in the shape of rum puncheons,” said the mate. “Now ye´ll just turn in, and I´ll see that the young gentleman is made comfortable.”

The master was induced to retire with a good deal of difficulty, while Gervase and the mate sat down to a long talk together, as the result of which Gervase came to the conclusion that all his difficulties were not yet over. Then he turned in and forgot all his troubles in a sound and refreshing sleep.