Ben now jumped into his canoe, and gave chase to the one who had jumped overboard, and was swimming with all his might for the shore. On coming out of the water he ran for the woods, but meeting Sally (who, afraid to stay among the groaning, bleeding sufferers, had set out for the beach), he flung himself at her feet, and, clinging to her dress, begged for mercy.

“Don’t touch him, Ben,” cried Sally, flinging her arms round him; “don’t you see he’s but a child, and hasn’t been in the thing at all?”

Ben, who had been blinded by rage, now saw that he was, as she said, a pale, slender-looking boy, and stayed his hand.

The poor boy, on his knees, pale as death, the tears running down his cheeks, exclaimed, “O, don’t kill me, sir! I’m only a poor, friendless little boy, and haven’t done any wrong. I ain’t to blame for what the others did; truly, sir, I’m not a bad boy.” “If you are an honest boy, how came you in the company of such villains?”

“Indeed, sir, I didn’t know what kind of men they were till I got on board; I’ve been ever since trying to get away, and can’t.”

“Why didn’t you run away?”

“They watch me too closely; and when they can’t watch me, they tie or lock me up, and tell me if they catch me trying to run away they will shoot me.”

“Let me talk to him, Ben,” said Sally; “you frighten him; don’t you see how he quivers every time you speak?”

“What is your name, my boy?”

“Charles Bell, marm.”

“Where do you belong?”

“In England.”

“Are your parents there?”

“No, marm; they are dead. I have no kindred in this country, nor any friends.”

“Well,” replied Ben, whose passion was rapidly cooling, “I shall let you off; but I advise you next time to look out how you get into bad company. Come, Sally, let’s go to the house and clear these ruffians out.”

When they returned to the house, they found it presenting the appearance of a butcher’s shambles, although none of the occupants were dead, as Sally had supposed.

The leader still lay insensible on the hearth; and the blood had run from him the whole length of the room. The one Ben had flung against the wall lay on the bed, the sheets and pillows of which were soaked in blood that issued from his nose and mouth. The one he threw into the fireplace still lay on his back across the andirons, with his head in the ashes, for Ben told them, if one of them moved, when he came back he’d make an end of them.

“Here, boy,” said Ben, giving him the key of the cuddy, “go and let those fellows loose, and tell them to come up here and take away their comrades, and bear a hand about it, too, or I shall be after them.”

The men came, pale and trembling, bringing with them a hand-barrow, such as is used by fishermen to carry fish. On this they laid the captain, and carried him on board. The others were able, with assistance, to stagger along. Sally wanted to wash the captain’s face, and pour some spirit down his throat, to bring him to; but Ben would not allow her, saying, “He is not fit for a decent woman to touch; and if he dies there’ll be one villain less in the world.”

“But he’s not fit to die, Ben.”

“That’s his lookout,” was the stern reply; “away with him.” The boy still lingered, though he eyed Ben with evident distrust, and shrunk himself together every time he spoke. But as soon as the men were all out of the house, Ben assumed an entirely different appearance; his voice lost its stern tone, the flush faded from his face, his muscles relaxed, and he asked the trembling boy to sit down, as it would be some time before the vessel would float that he came in.

Sally now gave him some water to wash his hands, that were bloody from handling his comrades, combed his hair, and gave him a piece of bread and butter.

“Here comes John Strout,” said Ben, looking out at the door.

“O, dear!” said Sally, “what a looking place for anybody to come into!”

“What’s all this?” said John, looking at the blood on the floor and bed-clothes; “have you been butchering?”

“Almost,” replied Sally.

“What schooner was that in the cove, Ben?” “I don’t know.”

“Where does she hail from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they fishermen?”

“No; thieves.”

“What did they come here for?”

“To see what they could get of me.”

“How many of them have you killed?”

“Well, I haven’t killed any of them outright; but there’s one of them never’ll do much more work, I reckon.”

He then told John the whole story. “I’m sorry I hurt that fellow so much; there was no need of it, for I could have handled them without hurting them so much; but they frightened Sally so, and used such language to her, that I got my temper up, and then they had to take it.”

“These same chaps (at least I think they are the ones) went to a house on Monhegan, and frightened a woman who was in a delicate condition, so that she afterwards died. Boy, what is that vessel’s name?”

“The Albatross, sir.”

“That’s the name; I remember now. Pity you hadn’t killed him.”

“Come, Ben,” said Sally, “you and John go out doors and talk; I want to clean up here; and when it’s dinner-time I’ll call you.”

“I can’t stop,” replied John; “I came to borrow your menhaden net, Ben, to catch some bait to-night, for I must go out in the morning.”

“Well, then, just stay where you are to-night; when the flood tide makes, there will be any quantity of menhaden round the Little Bull, and I’ll help you sweep round the school, and then you can go off as early as you like in the morning.”

When they left the house, the boy offered to assist Sally in cleaning the floor, brought her wood and water, and put the dishes on the table.

When he saw how different Ben appeared, now that his anger had cooled, he shrank from the idea of leaving them and going back to his prison. The tide was fast making, and the vessel would soon be afloat; and as he looked out of the door and saw that the vessel, which had lain on her broadside on the beach, had now righted up, he approached Sally, and, with tears in his eyes, said, “Mrs. Rhines, I don’t want to go with those men. I’m afraid some time when they are drunk they’ll kill me; I don’t want to be with such bad men. Can’t you let me stay with you? I’ll do all the chores; and I can catch fish, cut wood and bring it in, and do anything that I am able, or that you will show me how to do.”

Sally, who had taken to the boy the moment she had a good look at him, and heard him speak, was deeply moved by his distress. She reflected a moment, and replied, “I should be willing, with all my heart; I will see what Mr. Rhines says. Ben,” said she, going out to where he was talking with John, “that boy wants to stay with us; he is, I believe, a real good boy; he is afraid those fellows will kill him, or will be hauled up for their wickedness, and he shall have to suffer with them.”

“There’s a great risk in taking up with a boy like that; we can’t know anything about him; they all tell a good story.”

“I know that’s a good boy, Ben; I feel it in my bones.”

“It will make you a great deal of work, Sally; you will have to spin and weave, make clothes, knit stockings, and wash for him.”

“And he’ll bring in wood and water, churn, feed the hogs, and help me. I know what it is to take care of a boy; I’ve taken care of all ours. I made every stitch of clothes that our Sam wore till I was married; besides, when you begin to plant and sow, such a boy will be a great help.” “That is all true, Sally; and I would not hesitate a moment if I knew he was a good boy; but suppose he should turn out like that Pete, Uncle Smullen and his wife did so much for, and got no thanks for; and even if he is good, boys that have got a notion of running about can’t stay long in a place, and settle themselves down to steady work; they want to be among folks, and with other boys. Now, we might take him, and you go to work, as I know you would, and clothe him all up, and then he get lonesome on this island, get on board some vessel, and run off.”

“It seems to me, Ben, that this poor little boy, without ‘kith or kin,’ has been thrown into our hands by the providence of God, and, if we let him go back to these wretches, when we can keep him just as well as not, and drive the poor little harmless, trembling thing from our threshold, with the tears on his cheeks, that we shall not prosper, and ought not to expect to.”

“Enough said; I’ll take him.”

“You’ll be kind to him—won’t you? because he trembles so every time you speak to him.”

“I’ve not altered my nature, Sally, because I treated those villains as they deserved.”

When Sally came back, she wanted to press the wanderer to her heart; but she recalled Ben’s caution, and merely said, “My husband is willing you should stay with us, and I hope you will try and be a good boy.”

A flush of inexpressible joy lit up the pale features of the forlorn boy at these words, and, too full to speak much, he said, “O, how much I thank you!” and sitting down, covered his face with his hands, while tears of joy ran through his fingers from an overcharged heart, that had shed so many tears of bitter agony that day.

The vessel was now afloat, and, spreading her sails, was soon out of sight, to the great relief of the boy, who could hardly believe himself safe as long as she remained in the harbor.

Ben and John took him with them when they went to sweep for menhaden, and found that he could pull an oar, was handy in a boat, and knew how to dress the fish for bait. The nights were now cool, and the boy had brought in a good pile of wood. They made a cheerful fire after supper, and Ben asked him some questions in respect to his history. He told them his father was a basket-maker; that all their people had followed that business, which was good in England, where wood was scarce; and baskets and sacks were used to transport everything, instead of barrels and boxes, as in this country. They made a comfortable living, his father employing several hands; and he was sent to school till he was eleven years of age; then his father put him to work in the shop to learn the trade.

“I should not think it was much of a trade,” said Ben; “I can make a good basket.”

“But not such baskets as they make there,” replied the boy. “The basket-makers there make a great many other things besides. My father was pressed into the navy, and, before the vessel had got out of the channel, was killed in an action with a French frigate. My mother had a brother in St. John’s. She sold her effects, put the younger children out, and spent nearly all the money she had to pay our passage; but when we got over, my uncle had gone to Melbourne. Soon after that my mother took sick and died.”

“Was she a Christian woman?” asked Sally.

“Yes; she belonged to the Wesleyan Methodists; so did my father. If my poor mother had died at home, she would have had friends to take care of her, and to follow her to the grave, for everybody loved her; but there was nobody but me to do anything for her; and only myself and the Irish woman we hired a room of went to the grave. It took all but one pound to pay the rent, and expenses of my mother’s funeral. The landlady permitted me to sleep on the foot of her bed, with my head on a chair, because I carried her washing home, and her husband’s dinner to him, for he worked in a foundery.”

“Couldn’t you find any work?” said Ben.

“No, sir; no steady work: I wandered about the streets and wharves, getting a day’s work now and then, till my money was all gone, and then I was glad to ship in the Albatross as cook.”

“Who owned the vessel?” asked Ben.

“They said the captain bought her; he seemed to have money enough. She was an old condemned fisherman; if we pumped her out dry at night, the water would be up to the cuddy floor in the morning.”

“Where did they belong?”

“I don’t know, sir; the captain was Portuguese; his name was Antonio. They had all been together in a slaver, and the captain was mate of her; and from things they used to say, I think they must have been pirates.”

“How did they treat you?”

“They treated me very well when they were sober, but when they were drunk I used to be afraid they would kill me. They would hold me, and spit tobacco juice in my eyes, and pour liquor down my throat, and make me drunk, which was the worst of all, for I had promised my mother I would never drink.”

“If they poured it down your throat against your will, that wasn’t breaking your promise,” said Sally.

“One night I was so afraid of them that I jumped overboard and swam under the stern, holding on to the rudder; and I heard them talking, and the captain began to cry and take on at a great rate. After they had gone to sleep, I swam to the cable and got on board.”

“Why didn’t you swim ashore?”

“It was too far; we were way off on the fishing ground; the water was cold, and I should have been chilled to death. My mother, before she died, told me to read the Bible, and pray to God when trouble came, and He would take care of me; but I think He must have forgotten me, for though I have prayed to Him every day, I have found nothing but misery ever since she died; and now I’m friendless and alone in a strange land.”

“No, you ain’t!” cried Sally, drawing him towards her, and kissing his forehead, “for I will be a mother to you.”

At this, the first word of kindly sympathy the poor boy had heard since his mother died, he hid his face in her lap, and sobbed aloud. Sally flung her apron over his head, and patted him, and in a few moments, worn out with all he had passed through that day, he fell asleep. As they had but two bedsteads in the house, one in the corner of the kitchen, where Ben and his wife slept, and the other a spare bed in the front room, which was partly filled with shingles and staves, and was parlor, bedroom, and workshop, Sally had made a bed for him in the garret, and Ben, taking him carefully in his arms, carried him up and placed him on it.

“It’s my opinion, Ben,” said John, “that is a good boy, and that it will be a good thing for you and him both that he has fallen in here; that boy never was brought up on a dunghill, I know; he’s smart, too. Did you see how handy he takes hold of an oar? Why, he can dress a fish as quick as I can.”

“I took him at first,” replied Ben, “for one of these Liverpool wharf-rats, that are rotten before they are ripe; but his story holds together well, and he tells it right; he don’t make out that he belongs to some great family, or call upon God Almighty, as such ones generally do when they are going to tell some great lie.”

“He looks you right in the face, too,” said John; “I like that; yes, and then he didn’t begin to pour out blessings on your head; perhaps he’ll show his gratitude in some other way.”

Sally had made a piece of nice fulled cloth that summer, and from it she soon made Charlie breeches and a long jacket. She also made him a shirt from some cloth, part linen and part woollen; and as the weather was coming cool, and she had no time to knit a pair of stockings, she made him a pair from some of Ben’s old ones. She then cut his hair, and knit him a pair of mittens, and Ben made him a pair of shoes.

He almost worshipped Sally, calling her mother, and being every moment on the watch to oblige her, and anticipate her wishes. But in respect to Ben, he seemed timid, always calling him Mr. Rhines, or captain, and starting nervously oftentimes when he spoke to him. He evidently could not forget the terrible impression made upon his mind when he supposed Ben would kill him.

Sally felt grieved at this, and she saw that it worried her husband. One evening, when he patted him on the head, and praised him for something that he had done that day, Sally made a sign to Ben that he should take the boy on his knee, which he did, when Charlie put his arms around his neck (that is, as far as they would reach), and ever after that called him father.

When John came to bring the net home, Charles met him at the shore.

“Good morning, Captain Strout!”

“Good morning, my lad; how do you like Elm Island?”

“It is such a nice place! O, I’m as happy as the days are long! I hope I’ve had all my sorrows!”

“If you have, you’ve had good luck; better than most people; for you’ve got through before the most of people’s trials begin. Now, my lad, you have a chance to make something of yourself. If you stay here, and fall into the ways of our people, it will make a man of you, and you will find friends, for everybody is respected here that works. I have known Mr. Rhines ever since he was a boy; have been shipmate with him, and owe my life to him. Though he’s a hard master to such reprobates as those you came with, he is kind to everybody that does right.” “I think, captain, that he is like some of those good giants I’ve heard my grandmother tell about in England, that went about killing dragons, wicked giants, and robbers, and protecting innocent people.”