DID I BEAR IT LIKE A MAN, WALTER?

IT was nearly one o’clock at night, when the brigantine hove to, off the rock, a boat put off, and the sharp voice of Ned, crying, “Are you there, Walter?” came over the waves. But it was now blowing fresh, the sky obscured by clouds, and no possibility of landing on the rock, which was white with foam, it being so small that the sea ran all round it. The boat, pulled by men who had been all their lives brought up among the surf, and accustomed to working around breakers, was backed in within two seas of the rock, and held there by the oars, while she stood almost on end.

“Now, shipmate,” said Danforth Eaton, standing up in the stern sheets, with a coil of rope in his hand, “look out for the line, and jump for it.”

Walter caught the line, and making it fast round his waist, flung himself into the surf, and was hauled aboard, where he was joyfully received by Ned, to whom one day and a portion of two nights had seemed a week.

When the young captain had received Walter’s information, he complimented him very much for the shrewdness he had manifested; and as all were equally interested (the profits of the voyage being divided in this manner, the vessel, that is, the owners, drew a certain proportion, the captain, mates, and crew another, according to their rank), he spread the whole matter before the ship’s company.

Said the young captain to his crew, “The wind is fair, and plenty of it; the tide also is with us, and sets up the harbor; we should go like a shot; the frigate and sixty-four are out of the way; there is no moon, and it is overcast; if they fire at us, they will have to fire by guess, for they can’t sight over the black cannon; probably we shall not have so many things in our favor again. I am in for trying it to-night; but I want your opinions, for we must run the risk of their broadsides.”

“I reckon,” said Danforth Eaton, “that when we shipped aboard this craft, we knew what we had to kalkerlate on; we expect to get our profit out of our risk; I’m for trying it now.”

His opinion being assented to by the crew, the brigantine, with a spanking breeze and every sail set, was steered directly for the roadstead, a little over two miles distant. It seemed but a moment, so rapid was her progress, before the high lands of Marseilles were throwing their shadows before her path. Walter acting as second mate, his station was in his watch on deck, aft. He, however, still shared Ned’s berth, as the second mate was sick in his own. It was now his watch below; but in the present circumstances, no one felt any inclination to sleep, and he was, with all the rest of the crew, forward. At such a time, it is natural for those most acquainted to get together, and the men were divided into little knots, conversing in low tones. Walter, Enoch Hadlock, and Ben Peterson, having been schoolmates, and grown up together, formed one group, with Ned nestled close to the side of Walter.

“Walter,” said Ben, “do you expect, if we make the run, and a heap of money, to have the second mate’s share, while he’s off duty?”

“No, indeed; I have no right to it. He can’t help having a carbuncle. I wouldn’t take it if it was offered me. I wouldn’t be so mean.”

“But if you’re doing second mate’s duty—”

“The honor pays for that.”

“Perhaps you think it is a stepping-stone. I hope it is.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“We shall soon see what our young captain is made of,” said Eaton, as the dark hull and long masts of the ship of the line began to appear; “I only wish we were well through it.”

A man-o’-war cutter was now seen on the lee bow.

“What ship is that?” was the hail.

“The Severn, supply.”

Thus boats and ships were passed, the night being too dark, and the brigantine going too quick to admit of a close scrutiny. The name of the expected store-ship being given, also completely disarmed suspicion. They were now rapidly nearing the flag-ship, of a hundred guns—the last and most fearful ordeal. A death-like stillness now pervaded the brigantine, broken only by the rushing of the vessel through the water, the straining of the cordage, and the moan of the wind through the rigging.

“Walter,” whispered Ned, “do you feel afraid?”

“No, Ned; do you?”

“I guess not; but I feel as I never did before. I wish we were doing something, and it was not so dreadfully still,” said the boy, putting his arm round his companion’s waist, as they sat side by side on the windlass, gazing through the darkness at the lights of the man-of-war. “Kiss me, Walter.”

He put his arms round his friend, and pressed his lips to his cheek. So dark was the night now grown, and so rapid the passage of the vessel, that the stern lights of the ship bore over the cat-head of the brigantine.

The young captain now took the helm, when a hail came from the ship that thrilled the blood of every man on board.

“What ship is that? Reply, or I’ll sink you.”

“The Severn, store vessel.”

The ports of the man-of-war were triced up, and by the gleam of the battle lantern, the gunners could be seen standing by their pieces.

“Ay, ay. Come to, under the stern, and report on board at six o’clock in the morning.”

“Ay, ay,” was the reply; and “Hard a-lee! Haul aft the main sheet!” were shouted, in loud tones, on board the brigantine.

The officer of the deck, who could distinguish nothing, hearing these orders, was for an instant deceived—an instant that was the salvation of the brigantine, going twelve knots under the combined force of wind and tide. Perceiving immediately that it was a ruse, he gave orders to fire. The horizon was lit up by the flash of guns, and the midnight stillness broken by the roar of cannon. But so well had the brigantine improved her opportunity, that but one or two of the forward guns were brought to bear on her.

As the iron shower came hurtling on, and passed, a groan was heard near the foot of the main-mast. It came from little Ned, who was struck as he came aft with an order from the pilot.

“Bear it like a man, Neddie,” cried Walter, as he held him in his arms. “Are you hurt much?”

“Yes, bad, Walter.” And he fainted.

“Take care of him,” said the captain, “till the vessel is brought to.”

For a few moments every one was exerting himself to the utmost, in order to bring the vessel, under such a press of sail, to anchor under the guns of the castle of St. Nicolas.

She was somewhat disabled, a round shot having cut off her main boom at the jaws to such an extent that it broke and fell on deck, carrying away the rail. Several shot had passed through the sails and bulwarks, one had cut off the tiller-head, and the mate had received a wound in the leg; so that the attention of the captain was fully occupied in taking care of the vessel.

During this period, which, though really but a short time, seemed an age to Walter, he sat with his back against the main-mast, his arms around Neddie’s waist, and felt the warm blood oozing slowly through his fingers.

The artillery now began to thunder from the castle at the boats of the fleet, which, enraged at the audacity and success of the enterprise, endeavored to follow and cut out the brigantine, but, finding the enemy aware of their designs, relinquished it.

A boat was immediately sent to the castle for a surgeon, who, having restored Ned by stimulants, proceeded to examine his hurts, and ascertained that he had received a severe flesh wound in the thigh from a splinter, parts of which still remained in the wound. He had also received a musket ball in the groin, which, passing round the body without breaking the bone, could be felt in the flesh of the back, near the spine. Being just beneath the skin, he pronounced neither of the wounds mortal.

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed the captain.

The surgeon wished to fasten him to the cabin table while he performed the operation; but Ned resisted this, declaring he could bear it if the captain would stand beside him, and Walter would hold his hand. The extraction of the splinters was more painful than even the cutting for the ball; but the little fellow bore it all with firmness, scarcely uttering a groan, and without aid from any of the means now in use to produce insensibility, they being at that period unknown.

“Didn’t I bear it like a man, Walter?” asked Ned, when the operation was over.

“Bravely,” answered Walter.

The captain would not send Ned to the hospital, but hired a room for him in the house of Jacques Bernoux, the fisherman whose acquaintance Walter made on the rock, and sent Walter and Peterson alternately to take care of him, going daily himself to see him.

Ned, who was as sweet-tempered as ambitious, had always been the pet of the crew, most of whom he had known while at Pleasant Cove; they were, therefore, always ready to watch of a night whenever needed, and there were so many of them that the duty was not at all burdensome.

Boys of Ned’s age learn a language with great rapidity, and he soon began to pick up words, and talk with the people of the house. Nothing could exceed the kindness of Peterson to the little wounded fellow. He was so strong he could lift him easily, and, as he gradually recovered, made him many little messes (being a skillful cook) that were very grateful to the convalescent. Ned began to love his black friend dearly, and always called him James.

To the surprise of all but the surgeon, Ned recovered a great deal faster than the first mate, Mr. Rogers, who was only wounded in the leg, the ball passing through. The wound continued to run, and seemed as if it never would heal, while Ned could walk across the floor with the aid of Walter.

One day Ned was sitting in a chair, propped up with pillows, and eating, with the greatest relish, a nice breakfast Peterson had prepared for him. “James,” said he, laying down his knife and fork, “I’m glad I was wounded.”

“Glad you wounded! Glad you hab so much pain, be sick so long, make de cap’n so much trouble, all ob us feel bad! Nebber hear sich ting afore.”

“I didn’t mean I was glad of that, or that I should want to be wounded again; but I’m glad, now it’s over, I’ve been through it.”

“I know what you tink; you tink, when you git home to Salem, farder, mudder so glad cause you wasn’t killed; den, when you walks in de street, all de people say, ‘Dere Ned Gates; he one smart boy; he been shipwrecked, almost starve on a raft; been wounded two times runnin’ de blockade; see what dat boy been through.’ Den all de boys dey open dere eyes wide and stare, say notin’.”

“That is it, James. I have been through a good deal—haven’t I, for a boy no older than I am?”

“Dat de Lord; he carry you through dat cause you good boy.”

“I ain’t a very good boy, James.”

“What de reason? Cap’n say you good boy, mate say you good boy, eberybody say so.”

The brigantine, as she lay under the guns of the fort, was recognized by the officers of the blockading fleet as the vessel they had chased, and so nearly taken, and they determined she should not escape them a second time, therefore kept incessant watch.

The roadstead of Marseilles is exposed to severe gales, during which, the blockading fleet were compelled to run to sea. The captain of the brigantine had made too much money to run any unnecessary risk in getting home; he, therefore, determined to wait for a gale of wind that should drive his antagonists to sea, before he attempted to run out. This gave time for Ned to recover sufficiently to go in the vessel. As the mate, Mr. Rogers, was not well enough to do duty, Walter was put in his place, which offended the second mate very much, who thought, and said to the captain, that the place belonged to him; to which the captain replied, that Griffin had run some risk in volunteering to go on the rock; that it was principally, if not entirely, due to his shrewdness in getting hold of the fisherman, and obtaining the information he did from the English sailor, that their adventure succeeded, and they were not sunk by the man-of-war. He therefore considered promotion no more than a suitable reward, especially as the second mate, though a good seaman, was not a navigator. Thus Walter experienced at the outset the benefit of knowledge, as well as of pluck and principle.