Chapter Nine.

Some time had passed since the “Grecian” had entered the Mediterranean. We had not been idle during the time—now cruising along the coast of Spain and France, now down that of Italy, now away to Malta, sometimes off to the East among the Greek Islands. We had taken a good many prizes; indeed, I may say that all our expeditions had been planned with judgment, and carried out with vigour. I had a very happy time on board, for the men treated me with kindness, and I was so young that even the officers took notice of me. To Mr Bramston, especially, I became much attached. As he had known me in my childhood, he took more notice of me than anyone else. It has been my lot through life to lose many kind friends, but I must acknowledge that they have been as often replaced by others. When Mr Schank heard from home, he never failed to send for me or my mother, to give us an account of the Little Lady; indeed, Mr Bramston and others, as well as our Captain, took a warm interest in her, and always seemed glad to hear that she was going on well. Altogether, we were looked upon as a very happy and fortunate ship. However, a dark reverse was to come.

We were returning from Malta, and had run some way along the coast of Italy, when the look-out from the mast-head discovered a sail on the lee-bow. It was just daybreak. The sun rising over the distant land, which lay like a blue line on our starboard side, shed his beams on the upper sails of the stranger. The frigate was kept away a little, and all sail made in chase. We continued standing on for a couple of hours, when the wind drew more aft, and with studden-sails rigged on both sides we glided rapidly over the smooth water, gaining considerably on the chase. She must have discovered us, for she was now seen to rig out studden-sails, and to make every attempt to escape. She was pronounced to be a large polacca ship; and from the way she kept ahead of us, it was very evident she was very fast. This made us more eager than ever to come up with her. The general opinion was that she was a merchantman, very likely richly-laden, and would undoubtedly become an easy prize. Our people were in high spirits, making sure that they were about to add a good sum to their already fair amount of prize-money. I cannot say that these thoughts added much to my pleasure, considering the very small share which would fall to my lot, but my father would probably be very much the richer. In those days, it was no uncommon thing for a seaman to return from a cruise with a couple of hundred pounds in his pocket; and of course, under those circumstances, the share even of a warrant officer would be very considerable. Mr Schank, I doubt not, was thinking of the many comforts he would be able to afford his family at home; and Mr Bramston, who had another reason for wishing to add to his worldly store, was hoping that he might be able to splice his dear Mary all the sooner, and leave her better provided for when he had to come away again to sea.

Hour after hour passed by. There was the chase still ahead and though we had gained considerably on her, still there were many probabilities of her escaping. The fear was that we might not get up to her before nightfall, and that then in the darkness she might escape. The men were piped to dinner, and of course the conversation at the mess-tables ran on the probabilities of our capturing the chase.

Some time afterwards, just as the watch on deck had been relieved, the main topsail gave a loud flap against the mast. The other sails, which had before been swelling out, now hung down.

“The wind is all up and down the masts,” I heard my father remark, with a sigh; and going on deck, such we found indeed to be the case. Scarcely a cat’s-paw played over the surface of the water, while our canvas hung down entirely emptied of wind. It was a time when Captain Cobb would have almost cracked his cheeks with blowing for the purpose of regaining it. Captain Oliver, however, did no such thing, but, taking his glass, directed it towards the chase.

“She is in our condition,” he observed to Mr Schank.

“She is not likely to get away from us, at all events,” remarked the First-Lieutenant, taking a look at her also.

“I think, Schank; we may, however, make sure of her with the boats,” observed the Captain. “It will not do to give her a chance of escaping, and she may get the breeze before we do.”

“Certainly, sir,” answered Mr Schank. “It will be as well to secure her, for fear of that.”

“Well, as there is no great glory to be gained, I will let Mr Mason and Bramston go in the boats,” said the Captain.

The frigate’s boats were accordingly called away. The two lieutenants and my father and a couple of midshipmen went in them, with altogether about seventy men. It was a strong force, but the ship was very likely to have sweeps, and even a merchantman might offer some resistance unless attacked by overpowering numbers. The people cheered as they pulled off, and urged them to make haste with the prize. Never did an expedition start with fairer prospects of success, and we fully hoped, before many hours were over, to have the chase under English colours. She was between four and five miles away at the time; but though the pull was a long one, the men laid their backs to the oars for fear of a breeze springing up before they could get alongside. My mother had shown considerable anxiety on former occasions when my father had gone away on dangerous expeditions, yet, in the present instance, she seemed quite at ease, as there appeared to be no danger or difficulty in the enterprise. Though no man ever loved his wife better than my father did my mother, yet this never prevented him volunteering whenever he felt himself called upon to do so, however hazardous and trying the work in hand. As may be supposed, no one thought of turning in that night. All hands were on the watch, expecting to see the ship towed by the boats, or some of the boats returning with an account of their capture. The Captain and First-Lieutenant walked the deck with easy paces, every now and then turning their night glasses in the direction of the ship, hoping to see her, but still she did not appear. At length the men began to wonder why the ship had not come in sight, or why the boats did not return to give notice of what had occurred. Afterwards they grew more and more anxious, and they imparted their anxiety to my mother. Our gunner, Mr Hockey, who was somewhat superstitious, now declared that he had dreamed a dream which foreboded disaster. The substance of it I never could learn, nor did he say a word about the matter till some time had passed and the boats did not appear. He was a man of proverbs, and remarked that “a pitcher which goes often to the well gets broken at last,” by which he insinuated that as we had been hitherto successful in our expeditions, a reverse might be expected. All the boats had been sent away. The Captain’s gig was under repair, but there was a small dinghy remaining. Mr Hockey went aft, and volunteered to pull in the direction the ship had been seen, in the hopes of ascertaining what had become of the boats. The Captain was as anxious apparently as he was.

“Certainly, Mr Hockey,” he answered.

Just then the sound of oars in the distance floated over the calm water.

“Stay, there are the boats,” he said.

They approached very slowly. At first it was hoped that they might be towing the ship; but though they were evidently drawing near, no ship could be distinguished. At length they came in sight. The Captain hailed them. The voice of a young midshipman answered: “Sad news, sir! Sad news!”

“What has happened, Mr Hassel? Where is the ship?”

“Beaten back, sir, beaten back!” was the answer, and the speaker’s voice was almost choked. The boats, as they got alongside, were seen to be full of people, but they were lying about over the thwarts in confused heaps, those only who were at the oars appearing to move. My mother was at this moment fortunately below. The gunner came down and entreated her to remain there. I, however, had gone up on deck, and was eagerly looking about, expecting to see my father arrive. Mr Hassel was the first to come up the side. He staggered aft to the Captain to make his report. Meantime whips were rove, and, one after one, those who that afternoon had left the frigate in high health and spirits were hoisted up dead and mangled in every variety of way. Nearly thirty bodies were thus brought on deck. Many others were hoisted up and carried immediately below, where the surgeon attended them, and of the whole number only seven were able to walk the deck steadily. I eagerly looked out for my father. He was not among those unhurt. Among the dead I dared not look. I hurried below, hoping to see him under the hands of the surgeon, but neither was he there. My heart sank within me. I hastened to the main-deck. There, with a lantern, I met my poor mother frantically scanning the faces of the slain, who were laid out in a ghastly row. Eagerly she passed along, bending over the pallid features of those who a few hours before had been so full of life and courage, jokes escaping their lips. Now as she looked at one, now at another, a glance told her that the corpse was not that of her husband.

“Oh! Mother! Mother! Where is father?” I cried out at length, as I caught sight of her.

“I know not, my boy, I know not,” she answered. “Oh! Burton, Burton! Where are you? Has no one seen my husband? Can anyone tell me of my husband? Where is he? Where is he?” she frantically exclaimed, running from one to the other, when she found that he was not among those brought on board.

“The boatswain!” said some one. “Bless her poor heart, I don’t like to utter it, but I saw him knocked overboard as he was climbing up the polacca’s side. He would not have let go had it not been for a thrust in his shoulder, and he was hit, I know, while he was still in the boat.”

“Who is that you speak of?” asked my mother, hearing the man’s voice.

“Bless your heart, Mrs Burton, but I am sorry to say it,” answered Bill Houston, one of the few who had escaped unhurt. “I was close to him, but he fell by me before I could stretch out a hand to help him, and I doubt, even if we had got him on board, it would have been much the better for him, he seemed so badly hurt. I did not hear him cry out or utter a sound.”

The lantern my mother had been holding dropped from her hand as she heard these words. All hope was gone. “Oh I give me back my husband I give me back my husband!” she shrieked out. “Why did you come away without him?”

“Oh! Mother! Mother! Don’t take on so!” I exclaimed, running up to her. She put her hands on my shoulders and gazed in my face.

“For you, Ben, I would wish to live, otherwise I would rather be down in the cold sea along with him.” Then again she cried out frantically for my poor father. Her grief increased mine. Seeing the state she was in, Bill King, who had remained near her, hurried down to fetch his wife, who was attending on the wounded. She did her best to soothe my poor mother’s grief, and not without difficulty she was led away to my father’s cabin; and there, placed on his bed, she found some relief in tears. I did my best to comfort her, but I could do little else than weep too. Perhaps that was the best thing I could do; there is nothing like sympathy.

“Oh! My boy! My boy!” she exclaimed, “you are still left to me; but the day may come when you will be taken away, as your poor father has been, and I shall be all alone—alone! Alone!”

Then she burst forth in an Irish wail such as I had never heard before. It was curious; because, though an Irish woman, her accent, under ordinary circumstances, was but slightly to be detected. Mrs King, having done all she could, returned to her duties among the wounded, of whom there were upwards of thirty, several of them mortally.

From Bill Houston, who had come to inquire for my mother, shortly afterwards, I learned the particulars of what had occurred. The boats approached the ship, all hands being fully persuaded that they had little more to do than to climb up her sides and take possession. As, however, they drew near her, and were just about to dash alongside, a tremendous fire of grape, musketry, and round-shot was opened on them from her ports, which were suddenly unmasked. In spite of this, although numbers were hit, Mr Mason ordered them to board the ship. Scarcely had he uttered the words than a shot laid him low, poor Mr Bramston being wounded at the same time. Still the attempt to board was made, but as they climbed up the sides they found that boarding nettings were triced up the whole length of the ship, while pikes were thrust down on them, and a hot fire of musketry opened in their faces. Again and again they attempted to get on board, and not till nearly all were killed or wounded did they desist from the attempt. Young Mr Hassel, the midshipman, being the only officer left alive, then gave the order to retreat, though it was not without difficulty that they could push off from the ship’s sides. The darkness of the night saved them from being utterly destroyed. The enemy, probably, had not been aware of the tremendous effect of their own fire, and expected another attack from our men, or they would undoubtedly have continued firing at the boats after they had shoved off. Some distance had been gained, however, before the ship again commenced firing, and the aim being uncertain, very few of her shot took effect.

The next day was the saddest I had ever known. Our kind young Captain felt the loss more than anyone. Really, it seemed as if his heart would break as he walked along the main-deck, where our dead shipmates were laid out. He paid a visit also to my mother, and endeavoured to comfort her as well as he could.

“I owe your brave husband much, Mrs Burton,” he said. “We have been shipmates a good many years altogether, and he more than once saved my life; I cannot repay him, but I can be a friend to your boy, and I will do my utmost to be of assistance to you. I cannot heal your grief, and I cannot tell you not to mourn for your husband, but I will soothe it as far as I can.”

Then came the sad funeral. Had the frigate been engaged in a desperate action with a superior force we could scarcely have lost so many men as we had done in this unfortunate expedition. I thought the Captain would break down altogether as he attempted to read the funeral service. Two or three times he had to stop, and by a great effort recover his composure. There were the two lieutenants and a young midshipman, and upwards of twenty men all to be committed to the ocean together. Curiosity brought me up to see what was going forward, and though I looked on quietly for some time I at length burst into bitter tears. I thought there is my poor father—he had to go overboard without any service being read over him.

Chapter Ten.

Soon after the funeral was over I was sent for into the Captain’s cabin. I found him and Mr Schank seated there.

“Ben,” he said, “my boy, we have been talking over what we can do for your poor mother. The best thing, I think, will be for her to return to her home on the first opportunity, and I daresay we shall find a ship homeward-bound at Malta, on board which she can get a passage, while we will do our best to raise funds to place her as much as possible at her ease as to money matters. Now, Ben, I wish to stand your friend; but you are very young still to knock about at sea without a father to look after you, and I propose, therefore, that you should return with your mother. After you have had schooling for a year or two on shore, you shall rejoin this ship or any other I may command, and then your future progress will much depend on your own conduct. You will behave well, I have no doubt you will; but if not, I cannot help you forward as I desire.”

I did not quite comprehend what the Captain proposed, but I understood enough to know that I had a friend in him, and I accordingly thanked him for his good intentions. I was still standing hat in hand in the cabin, for the Captain seemed disposed to ask me further questions, when the surgeon entered to make his report of the state of the wounded.

“What, more dead I more dead!” exclaimed the poor Captain, as his eye glanced on the paper.

“Yes, sir,” was the answer. “Turner and Green have both slipped their cables. I had very little hopes of either from the first. There are one or two more I am afraid will follow them before many days are over.”

The Captain hid his face in his hands, and a groan burst from his bosom. “I would that I had gone myself. It would be better to be among the sufferers than have this happen,” burst from his lips.

Mr Schank tried to console him. “No blame, sir,” he said, “could be attached to you. It was very unlikely that such a ship should have made so determined a defence, and no forethought could have enabled you to act differently.”

“Yes, yes,” answered the Captain, “but to lose all these brave fellows in such a way,” and again he groaned.

No one spoke for some minutes, till at length the surgeon observed that he hoped Mr Hassel would do well, as his wounds, though severe were not dangerous.

“From what I can learn, sir,” he observed, “he behaved with great judgment and courage, and I believe it was through him that the boats got away without further damage.”

When the surgeon had gone, the Captain once more addressed me, and made inquiries about my mother’s family and the place of their residence. I, of course knew very little, but I gave him all the information I possessed.

“But, perhaps, Mr Schank,” I said, “you will let us go and pay your family a visit. Those were happy times we had there. I think my mother would rather go there than anywhere else.”

Mr Schank who was not at all offended by the liberty I took, replied that he thought the idea a very good one. When, however, my mother was asked, she said that she would rather go and be among her own people, if they would receive her. The truth was, I think I remarked, that her friends were much above my father’s position; and now that she would have a pension, and a good deal of prize-money, she felt that she could return and be on an equality with them, as far as fortune was concerned. These ideas were, however, not on her own account as much as on mine, as her great ambition was that I might rise in the world. It was, I truly believe, her only weakness, if weakness it could be called, for she was proud of me, and I suspect thought a good deal more of me than I deserved. After this misfortune, we shaped a course for Malta, for the purpose of replacing the officers and men we had lost, and from thence the Captain intended to send home my mother and me. Towards evening, three or four days after the occurrences I have described, several sail were perceived inside of us, that is to say, to the east. As we were to windward, we stood down towards them till we made out a line-of-battle ship, two frigates and a brig. As there was no doubt they were enemies’ ships, our Captain determined to watch them during the night, to ascertain in what direction they were proceeding. They, however, objected to this, and were soon seen crowding all sail in chase. We had now to run for it; and though the “Grecian” was a fast frigate, we well knew that many of the Frenchmen were faster, and that, short-handed as we were, it was too certain that we should be captured if they came up with us. Fortunately the breeze continued, and we made all sail the frigate could carry. But not only could we distinguish the enemy still in chase, but the opinion was that they were rapidly gaining on us. I remember coming on deck and looking out, seeing on our lee-quarter, far away through the gloom, their dark outlines as they came on in hot chase. I, saw that everybody was anxious, and I heard several of the men talking of Verdun, and the way prisoners were treated there. For the men this was bad enough, but for the officers to be made prisoners was sad work. Unless they could make their escape or get exchanged, all prospect of advancement was lost, as was the case with many; the best part of their years spent in idleness. I understood enough, at all events, to be very anxious about the matter.

I went below, I remember, and told my poor mother; she, however, seemed indifferent as to what might occur. Indeed her grief had stunned her, and she was incapable of either thinking or speaking. As morning approached the wind fell, and when daylight broke the sails hung up and down against the masts. We were in a perfect calm, while not three miles off appeared the French squadron. All hopes of escape seemed over, and the men began putting on additional clothing and stowing away their money in their pockets, as seamen generally do when capture is certain, and often when they expect to be wrecked. The officers walked the deck looking very anxious, but the Captain and Mr Schank kept their eyes about on all sides. At length a few cat’s-paws were seen playing over the water. The First-Lieutenant pointed them out to the Captain. His eyes brightened somewhat. They came faster and faster. And now the sails once more felt the power of the wind, and away we went pretty quickly through the water. Ahead of us lay a small island, towards which the frigate steered. As we approached it we saw the ship-of-the-line still following us, while the two frigates and corvette stood away round the west side. Their object was very clear. They hoped thereby to cut us off.

“We may still disappoint them,” I heard Mr Schank observe.

“I trust so,” said the Captain; but though he kept up his confidence, his countenance was very grave. For some time we kept well ahead till we reached the southernmost end of the island, when once more the wind falling we lay almost becalmed. We could see to the east the two frigates and the corvette, their canvas filled by a strong breeze, but the line-of-battle ship was out of sight, hid by a point of land. The former might have been five or six miles off, but they were coming up at the rate of six knots an hour. There was no sign of the breeze reaching us. Our escape seemed almost impossible. Mr Schank’s courage, however, never failed—at least, it never looked as if it did, and he seemed to be saying something to the Captain which gave him encouragement. One of the frigates was considerably ahead of the rest. At all events we were not likely, therefore, to yield without striking a blow, and if we could by any means cripple her before her consorts could come up, we might afterwards be better able to deal with them. Still there was the line-of-battle ship, and she would be down upon us before long. A French prison in very vivid colours stared even the bravest of our men in the face. The officers were looking at their watches. Within little more than half-an-hour, unless we could get a breeze, we should be hotly engaged, and then, unless we could beat our enemy in ten minutes, there would be little prospect of getting away. On she came over the blue ocean. Looking at the land, we could see a line, as it were, drawn between us. On our side the water was smooth as a mirror; on the other, still crisped by the fresh breeze, and glittering in the sunlight. It was very tantalising. On the leading Frenchman came, faster and faster. Still the breeze did not touch our sails. At length we could clearly count her ports, and she appeared in the pure atmosphere even nearer than perhaps she was. Suddenly she yawed. A white puff of smoke was seen, and a shot came whizzing across our bows. Another followed. It struck us, and the yellow splinters were seen flying from our sides. The men stood at their quarters ready to begin the fight.

“Not a gun is to be fired till I give the order,” cried the Captain.

“That will not be long, I fancy,” I heard one of the men say, as I with other boys brought up the powder from below.

The frigate still held the breeze and was approaching. Yet our Captain let her get nearer and nearer. In vain, however, our people waited for the order to fire. Several more shots came flying over the water, and the Frenchmen seemed now convinced that they had got us well within range. Suddenly luffing up, the enemy fired her whole broadside. The shot came flying about us, but did no great damage.

“Trim sails!” cried the Captain, and we edged away towards the blue line I have mentioned, the wind just then filling out our canvas. Meantime the Frenchman remained involved in a cloud of smoke. Again and again she fired her broadside, only hiding herself more completely from view; while her sails, which had hitherto been full, were now seen to flap against her masts, and away we went with an increasing breeze. We could just see the line-of-battle ship hull down on one side, and the two frigates and corvette becalmed on the other, utterly unable to move, while we were slipping through the water at the rate of seven or eight knots an hour.

“I thought it would be so!” exclaimed Mr Schank, increasing the rapidity of his strides as he paced the deck, and rubbing his hands with glee. On we went. In a short time not a trace of the Frenchmen could be discovered, nor did we sight another enemy till we entered Malta harbour.

Captain Oliver and Mr Schank were as good as their words. They mentioned among the inhabitants the circumstance of my father’s death, and that his widow and child were on board, and very soon collected a considerable sum of money, which they presented to my poor mother. Her excessive grief had now subsided, and a settled melancholy seemed to have taken possession of her. An armed store-ship which had discharged her cargo at Malta was returning home, bound for Cork; and on board her our kind friends procured a passage for my mother and me. We had a sad parting with our numerous shipmates. The men exhibited the regard they had for my mother by bestowing on me all sorts of presents; indeed, the carpenter said he must make me a chest in which to stow them away. My mother felt leaving our kind friend, Mrs King, more than anything else. It was curious to see the interesting young woman, as she still was, embracing the tall, gaunt, weather-beaten virago, as Mrs King appeared to be.

“Cheer up, Polly, cheer up,” said the latter. “You have lost a kind husband, there is no doubt of that, but you have got your boy to look after, and he will give you plenty to think about—bless his heart! The time will come, Polly, when we will meet again, and you will have grown more contented, I hope; and if not, we shall know each other up aloft there, where I hope there will be room for me, though I cannot say as how I feel I am very fit for such a place.” Mrs King went talking on, but my poor mother could make no answer to her remarks, sobs choking her utterance. Her tears did her good, however, so Mrs King observed, and told her not to stop them. I was glad to find that the Captain had appointed Bill King as acting boatswain of the frigate. The midshipman, Mr Hassel, who had been seriously injured in the unfortunate expedition, took a passage home in the store-ship. Who should we see on going on board but my old friends Toby Kiddle and Pat Brady. Pat was overjoyed at seeing us, though he looked very sad when he heard of my father’s death.

“Arrah, it’s a pity a worse man hadn’t been taken in his stead,” he observed, “but it can’t be helped, Polly. Better luck next time, as Tim Donovan said when he was going to be hung!”

Pat had been to see his friends, he said, in the West of Ireland, and Toby Kiddle had been wrecked on the same coast, and having found his way across to Cork had there, with his old messmate, entered on board the store-ship. She was to return to Cork, which was very convenient to us, as my mother could thus more easily travel to the West of Ireland where her family resided.

The name of the vessel was the “Porpoise,” and she was commanded by Captain Tubb. He put me very much in mind of Captain Cobb, except that he was considerably stouter. We sailed with a convoy of some fifty other vessels of all sizes and rigs; the larger portion having generally to lay to for the “Porpoise,” which, with her Captain, rolled away over the surface of the Atlantic in the wake of the rest. Captain Tubb declared that his ship was very steady when she had her cargo on board, but certainly she was very much the contrary under the present circumstances, and Toby Kiddle remarked that it was a wonder she did not shake her masts out of her.

My poor mother could very seldom be persuaded to come on deck, but lay in her cabin scarcely eating anything, or speaking to anyone except to me, and even then it seemed a pain to her to utter a few words.

From the account I gave Toby and Pat of Captain Oliver, they were very eager to serve again with him, and they promised that should they ever have the chance of finding him fitting out a ship, they would immediately volunteer on board.

I was very glad to hear this, because I hoped they would do so, and that I again should be with them. We had not a few alarms on our homeward voyage from the appearance of strange sails which it was supposed were enemies’ cruisers. We, of course, should have been among the first picked out. However, we escaped all accidents, and at length arrived in the Cove of Cork. As may be supposed, Toby Kiddle made many inquiries about the Little Lady. When my mother got to Cork, her heart somewhat failed her at the thought of going among her own kindred under the present circumstances, and she began to regret that she had not agreed to pay a visit in the first place to Lieutenant Schank’s family, where she would have had the consolation of looking after the little girl. However, it was now too late to do that. We therefore prepared for our journey to the West. Pat insisted on escorting us, declaring that he had plenty of money and did not know what else to do with it. Toby, however, remained on board the old “Porpoise,” intending to go round in her to Portsmouth, where she was next bound with provisions. It was no easy matter making a journey in the West of Ireland in those days. There were the coaches, but they were liable to upset and to be robbed.

Although, therefore, posting was dear, Pat settled that such was the only becoming way for the widow of the “Grecian’s” late boatswain to travel. My mother at length consented to go part of the way in a coach, performing the remainder in a chaise, when no coach was available.

The place for which we were bound was Ballybruree, a town, it called itself, on the west coast of the green island. Her father, Mat Dwyer, Esquire, he signed himself, and her mother, were both alive, and she had a number of brothers and sisters, and a vast number of cousins to boot. But I must reserve an account of our reception at Rincurran Castle, for so my grandfather called his abode, for another chapter.

Chapter Eleven.

“Ben, my boy, you are approaching the home of your ancestors,” exclaimed Pat Brady, who was seated on the box of the old battered yellow post-chaise, on the roof of which I had perched myself, while my poor mother sat in solitude inside. “They are an honoured race, and mighty respected in the country. You will see the top of the ould Castle before long if you keep a bright look-out, and a hearty welcome we’ll be after getting when they see us all arrive in this dignified way—just like a great foreign ambassador going to court. It is a fine counthry this of ours, Ben, barring the roads, which put us too much in mind of our run home in the ‘Porpoise’. But we have mighty fine hills, Ben. Do you see them there? And lakes and streams full of big trout, and forests. But the bogs, Ben, they beat them all. If it was not for them bogs, where should we all be? Then the roads might be worse, Ben. Hold on there, lad, or you will be sent into the middle of next week. But Ben, my boy, as the song says:—

“‘If you’d seen but these roads before they were made,
You would have lift up your hands and blessed General Wade’.”

Thus Pat continued running on as he had been doing the whole of our journey. It was certainly hard work holding on at the top of the chaise, as it went pitching and rolling, and tumbling about over the ill-formed path, which scarcely deserved the name of a road. Still every now and then I sprang to my feet to look out for the castle which he talked about. I had seen of late a good many castles on the coast of the Mediterranean, Gibraltar, and Malta besides. I had some idea that Rincurran Castle must be a very fine place.

“Arrah! Ben, and there it is as large as life. Sure it’s a grand mansion, barring it’s a little out of repair!” shouted Pat, as, turning an angle of the road, we came in sight of a tall, stone, dilapidated building, with a courtyard in front, and two round pillars on either side of the entrance-gate. The pigs had possession of the chief part of the yard, which was well littered for their accommodation, leaving but a narrow way up to the entrance-door.

I quickly scrambled down from the roof to assist Pat Brady in helping my mother out of the chaise. Poor dear, overcome by her feelings, she was leaning back, almost fainting, and scarcely able to move. At length the door opened, and an old gentleman appeared in a scratch wig, with an ominously red nose, and clothed in a costume which, in its condition, greatly resembled his habitation. An old lady followed him, somewhat more neatly dressed, who, on seeing my mother, hastened to the door to receive her.

“What! Is this our daughter Mary?” exclaimed the old gentleman; “and that young spalpeen, can that be her boy?” he added, looking at me in a way which did not seem to argue much affection.

“Of course it is, Mat; and is it you, Mat, the head of the Dwyers, not remembering your childer?” exclaimed the old lady, casting on him a scornful glance. On this my grandfather gave my mother a paternal kiss, a repetition of which I avoided by slipping round on the other side, where Pat caught me, and presented me to the old lady. She then took me in her arms and gave me an affectionate embrace. The tears dropped from her eyes as she looked at my mother’s pale countenance and widow’s dress.

“I don’t ask what has happened, Mary,” she said; “but though the one for whom you forsook all is gone, you are welcome back to the old home, child.”

“Ay, that you are, Mary!” exclaimed my grandfather, warming up a little. “To be sure, grand as it once was, it has been inclined for many a day to be tumbling about our ears. But it will last my day, and there is small chance of your brothers, Jim, or Pat, or Terence, ever wishing to come and stop here, even if it’s living they are when I am put under the green turf.”

While Pat was settling with the post-boy, my grandmother conducted my mother and me into the parlour. The more elegant portions of furniture, if they ever existed, had disappeared, and a table, with a number of wooden-bottomed chairs and a huge ill-stuffed sofa, were all that remained. A picture of my grandfather in a hunting-suit, and a few wretched daubs, part of them of sporting scenes and part of saints, adorned the walls. Such was the appearance of the chief room in Rincurran Castle. My aunts were not at home, two of them having ridden to market, and the others being on a visit to some neighbours. At length two of them came riding up on rough, ungroomed ponies, with baskets on their arms. Having taken off the saddles, they sent their animals to find their way by themselves into the open stable, while they entered the house to greet my mother. They were not ill-looking women, with rather large features, and fine eyes, but as unlike my mother as could well be. So also were my other two aunts, who shortly after came in. They all, however, gave their sister Mary a hearty welcome, and, with better tact than might have been expected, made no inquiries about her husband, her dress showing them that he was gone. I found that she had been brought up by a sister of her mother’s—a good Protestant woman, residing near Cork, where my father had met her. My grandfather was a Romanist, though my grandmother still remained as she had originally been, a Protestant. The rest of her daughters attended the Romish chapel. My mother had not been at home since she was quite a girl, and I soon found had entirely forgotten her family’s way of living, and their general habits and customs. She therefore very soon began to regret that she had not accepted Lieutenant Schank’s invitation to visit his family. Pat Brady made himself very agreeable to his cousins, and had such wonderful stories to tell them that he was a great favourite. I had plenty to amuse me; but there seemed very little probability of my getting the education which Captain Oliver had recommended. The castle also was not over well provisioned, potatoes and buttermilk forming the staple of our meals, with an over-abundance of pork whenever a pig was killed; but as it was necessary to sell the better portions of each animal to increase the family income, the supply was only of an intermittent character. My grandfather made up for the deficiency by copious potations of whisky; but as my mother objected to my following his example, I was frequently excessively hungry. I was not surprised therefore that my uncles did not often pay the paternal mansion a visit; they all considering themselves above manual labour, in consequence of being sons of a squireen, were living on their wits in various parts of the world, so I concluded from the bits of information I picked up about them.

I could not help remarking the contrast between Rincurran Castle and Mr Schank’s neat little cottage in Lincolnshire—the cleanliness and comfort of one, and the dirt and disorder and discomfort of my grandfather’s abode. My mother, who had sufficient means to live comfortably by herself, had had no intention of remaining long with her parents, but had purposed taking a cottage in the neighbourhood. When she discovered the state of things at home she had offered to assist in the household expenses, and having done this her family were doubly anxious to retain her. As however, she found it impossible to mend matters, she resolved to carry out her original intention. The search for a house was an object of interest. In a short time she discovered one at the further end of Ballybruree, which, if not perfection, was sufficient to satisfy her wishes. Here, at the end of a couple of months, she removed, in spite of the disinterested entreaties of her relatives that she should take up her permanent abode with them. Her health soon improved, and I grew fatter than I had been since I landed on the shores of old Ireland.

Our new abode, though very much smaller than Rincurran Castle, was considerably neater, yet not altogether such as would be considered tidy in England. The roof was water-tight, and the chimneys answered their object of carrying up the smoke from the fire beneath. The view from the front window was extensive, ranging down the broad and unpaved street, along which I could watch the boys chasing their pigs to market, seated on the hinder parts of donkeys, urging them forward by the blows of their shillalahs. Now and then we enjoyed the spectacle of a marriage party returning from the chapel, at the further end of the street, or still more boisterous funeral procession; when, of course, as Pat Brady observed, “It ’ud be showing small honour to the decased if all the mourners weren’t respectably drunk, barring the praist, and bad luck to him if he could not stand up steady at the end of the grave. Sure he couldn’t have a head for his office.”

Such, however, as was our new house, my poor mother was glad to get it. We had been located there two or three weeks, and my mother had now time to give me some instruction in the arts of reading and writing. She was thus engaged, leaning over the book placed on her lap by the side of which I stood, when we were startled by a voice which said, “Top of the morning to you, Mistress Burton.”

We looked up, and there stood in the doorway a rubicund-nosed gentleman, in a green coat and huge wonderfully gay coloured cravat, leather breeches, and top-boots, with a hunting-whip under his arm, a peony in his buttonhole, and a white hat which he flourished in his right hand, while he kept scraping with his feet, making his spurs jingle.

“Your servant, Mistress Burton. It is mighty touching to the heart to see a mother engaged as you are, and faith I would not have missed the sight for a thousand guineas, paid down on the nail. Ah! Mistress Burton, it reminds me of days gone by, but I won’t say I have no hopes that they will ever return,” and our visitor twisted his eyes about in what I thought a very queer way, trying to look sentimental.

“To what cause do I owe this visit, Mr Gillooly?” asked my mother, perhaps not altogether liking his looks, for I rather think his feelings had been excited by a few sips of potheen. Her natural politeness, however, induced her to rise and offer him a chair, into which, after a few more scrapes and flourishes of the hat, he sank down, placing his beaver and his whip upon it by his side.

“It is mightily you bring to my mind my dear departed Mistress Gillooly,” he exclaimed, looking very strangely I thought at my mother. “She was the best of wives, and if she was alive she would be after telling you that I was the best of husbands, but she has gone to glory, and the only little pledge of our affection has gone after her; and so, Mistress Burton, I am left a lone man in this troublesome world. And sure, Mrs Burton, the same is your lot I am after thinking, but there is an old saying, ‘Off with the old love and on with the new;’ and, oh! Mistress Burton, it would be a happy thing if that could come true between two people I am thinking of.”

My mother might have thought this very plain speaking, but she pretended not to understand Mr Gillooly, and made no answer.

“Is it silence gives consent?” he exclaimed at last with one of those queer turns of his eyes, stretching out his hands towards my mother.

“Really, Mr Gillooly, seeing I have been a widow scarcely a year, and have seen but little of you at my father’s house, I cannot help thinking this is strange language for you to use. I loved my husband, and I only wish to live for the sake of our boy, and I hope this answer will satisfy you.”

“But when you have seen more of me, Mistress Burton, ye’ll be after giving a different answer,” exclaimed our visitor. “Ye’ll be after making a sweet mistress for Ballyswiggan Hall, and it’s there I’d like to see ye, in the place of the departed Molly Gillooly. It was the last words she said to me—‘Ye’ll be after getting another partner when I’m gone, Dominic, won’t ye now?’ and I vowed by all the holy saints that I would obey her wishes, though to be plain with you, Mistress Burton, I little thought I could do so to my heart’s content, as I did when I first set my eyes on your fair countenance.”

Much more to the same effect did Mr Gillooly utter, without, however, I have reason to believe, making any impression on my mother’s heart. Without rudeness she could not get rid of him; and he, believing that he was making great way in her affection, was in no wise inclined to depart. Mr Gillooly, I may remark, was a friend of my grandfather’s, a squireen, with a mansion of similar description to Rincurran Castle, though somewhat less dilapidated. His property enabled him to keep a good horse, drink whisky, wear decent clothes, attend all wakes, marriages, and fairs, and other merrymakings, and otherwise lead a completely idle life. Mr Gillooly’s visit had extended to a somewhat unconscionable length, when a rap was heard at the door, and my mother told me to run and open it; observing as she did so, “It’s not all people who so want manners as not to knock before they intrude into a lone woman’s house.”

This severe remark of my gentle mother showed me that she was by this time considerably annoyed by our visitor’s continued presence. The person who now entered wore a brown suit, with a low crowned hat on the top of his curled wig. I recognised him as Mr Timothy Laffan, one of the lawyers of Ballybruree. Though short, he was a broad-shouldered, determined-looking man, with a nose which could scarcely be more flattened than it was, and twinkling grey eyes which looked out knowingly from under his shaggy eyebrows. He cast an inquisitive glance round, and then, paying his respects to my mother, took the seat which I had brought him.

“A good boy, Ben,” he said, patting my head. “I came to see how you were getting on in your new house, Mrs Burton, as is my duty as a neighbour. Your servant, Mr Gillooly. I was after thinking that the next time you came into Ballybruree ye would be giving me a call to settle about that little affair. There’s nothing like the present time, and may be you will stop at my office as you go by, and arrange the matter offhand.”

The lawyer’s eyes twinkled as he spoke. Mr Gillooly began to fidget in his chair, and his countenance grew redder and redder. He cast a glance at his whip and hat. Suddenly seizing them, he paid a hurried adieu to my mother, and turning to the lawyer, added, “Your servant, Tim Laffan. I will be after remembering what you say”; and away he bolted out of the door.

I almost expected to hear the lawyer utter a crow of victory, for his comical look of triumph clearly showed his feelings. I had reason to believe that he also was a suitor for the hand of my mother, but I do not think he gained much by his stratagem. Her feelings were aroused and irritated, and at length he also took his departure, after expressing a tender interest in her welfare.

Chapter Thirteen.

I was describing, at the end of my last chapter, my uncle’s uninvited guest—Jonas Quelch—dead drunk, with his head on the table. I sat at the further end of the room watching proceedings. Peter Crean gave a well-satisfied nod, and then left the room. In a short time he returned with Pat Brady, and a bundle of papers in his hand. Without much ado, they commenced an examination of the pockets of the stranger, and produced from them several documents. One of them, as Peter ran his eyes over it, seemed to excite his excessive indignation. However, producing one from among his own papers, of a similar size and appearance, he sat down and wrote off several paragraphs, which seemed to afford him and Pat infinite amusement. This, with some other papers, which he had taken from the stranger’s pockets, he then returned to them. This done, he and Pat—having removed the provisions and jugs—left the stranger still sleeping, with his head resting on his arms, as before, I soon got tired of watching, and made my way into the banqueting hall, from which shouts of boisterous merriment were proceeding. His guests were, indeed, doing ample justice to my new uncle’s good cheer, and speeches and songs were succeeding each other in rapid succession. Sometimes, indeed, two or three of the guests seemed disposed to sing or speak at the same time, one exciting the other, and adding not a little to the Babel of tongues. At this state of affairs the ladies took their departure, though not without several gentlemen rushing after them to bring them back. “Are ye after leaving us without a sun in the firmament!” exclaimed one. “The stars are going out, and we shall be in darkness presently,” cried another. “A garden without roses is a sorry garden, by my faith!” exclaimed a third. “What shall we do without those beautiful eyes beaming out on us?” shouted a fourth. However, in spite of the flatteries and efforts of Mr Tim Gillooly and his companions—for he was among the most demonstrative of the party—the ladies made their escape to an upper room. Curiosity at length prompted me to go back and see what had become of the stranger. As I entered the room, he lifted up his head and looked about him, evidently wondering where he was. At length he rose to his feet, and with unsteady steps began to pace backwards and forwards.

“This won’t do,” he said to himself. “I am not in a fit condition, I have a notion, to execute this writ. However, it must be done. That liquor was not bad, or I should not feel as comfortable as I do. If now I can get a basin of water, and pour some of the cold liquid down my throat, I shall be soon all to rights again. I wonder when that foolish old steward will come back. He seemed to fancy that I had some favour to bestow on his master by the way he treated me. However, these Irish have very poor wits, and it is no hard matter to impose on them.”

While he was speaking, Peter opened the door. The stranger made his request, with which he promised to comply. In a short time, Pat appeared with a basin and a jug of water. “I am your man now,” exclaimed Mr Quelch, having dipped his head several times in the cold water, “and shall be happy to pay my respects to your master.”

“To be sure, sir, to be sure,” answered Pat. “He is with his friends in the great hall, and you will be welcome as all gentlemen from England are sure to be. You have only to go in and make your bow and give your message, and depend upon it you will get a civil answer, whatever else you get, and be requested to sit down and make yourself happy with the rest.”

Peter, on this, led the way, followed by Mr Quelch. He did not observe that a number of women and others who had been feasting outside brought up the rear. A large party followed him into the hall, where he enquired for Mr Kilcullin, as he said, that he might make no mistake. “There he is to be sure, at the end of his table, where a gentleman, with a beautiful wife always should be,” answered Peter, pointing to the lord of the mansion, who, with his guests, appeared to be enjoying himself amazingly without any consciousness of the approach of a bailiff.

“Your servant, sir,” said Mr Quelch, advancing towards him, and drawing from his pocket a long document.

“The same to you, I beg your pardon, what is your name?” said Mr Kilcullin, with a complacent smile. “You are welcome to Ballyswiggan, as all honest men are, and if they are not honest, by the powers they had better keep away! And what is that paper with which you are about to favour me?”

“Perhaps, sir, you will read it,” said Mr Quelch, with a somewhat doubtful expression in his countenance.

“Certainly!” exclaimed my new uncle, “with the greatest pleasure in the world. Now listen, friends and gentlemen all. This is to give notice to all present that the bearer—Jonas Quelch—has come across the Channel to the west side of ould Ireland, on a fool’s errand. There are many more like him, may be, but he must understand that he will have to go back the way he came, or else consent to be deported forthwith to the coast of Africa, to live henceforth among the black sons of the soil, for whom alone he is a fit associate.”

The astonishment of Mr Quelch on hearing this knew no bounds. Scarcely recovered from the effects of his ample potations, the little sense he possessed entirely forsook him. He began to storm and swear, and declared that he had been vilely tricked. Loud peak of laughter from the guests present were the only answer he received.

“Come, come, Mr Quelch!” exclaimed Peter Crean, touching him on the shoulder. “You have your choice, my boy, but, by my faith, if you go on abusing Irish gentlemen in this fashion, you will be sent off sooner than a Kilkenny cow can leap over the moon to the country where the niggers come from, and it will be no easy matter for you to find your way back again, I’m after thinking.” This answer only increased the anger of the unhappy bailiff. The consequence was that he found himself seized by several of the men around, and amid the varied cries of the guests quickly hurried out of the hall. Derisive shouts of laughter followed the unhappy man as he was carried away. Most of the guests had, in their time, taken part in a similar drama to that which was about to be enacted, and knew full well how the man was to be treated. The carouse continued till it was time to clear the room for the ball. Several of the guests had to be borne off, and their heads bathed in cold water to make them fit companions for the ladies in the dance. Meantime, Jonas Quelch was carried back to the room he had left, where Crean plied him with a further supply of whisky under the excuse of keeping up his spirits.

“Faith, my friend, we bear you no ill-will,” observed the steward, “but you should have known that in this part of ould Ireland it’s against the law to execute writs. Such a thing never has been done, and it would be contrary to our consciences ever to allow it to be done, and, therefore, though it’s your masters are to blame, it’s you who will have to bear the consequences.”

Mr Quelch, however, by the time these remarks were made, was scarcely in a condition to understand their full meaning; and he was shortly again reduced very much to the condition in which he had been before he had gone into the hall. At this juncture a party of men entered the room, one of them telling him that they had come to conduct him on board the ship which was to convey him to the coast of Africa. In vain he urged that he had no wish to go there, and that he would do anything, even to going back to the country from which he had come, if that would satisfy them. No excuses, however, were available. Away he was carried, in spite of all his struggles, down to the sea-shore, where a boat was waiting, as he was told, for him. As I preferred remaining to see the dancing, I can only give the story as I afterwards heard it. In spite of his struggles he was placed in the boat, which immediately pulled off into the bay, where he quickly found himself transferred on board a vessel which lay there at anchor. He was carried down below, and placed in a small cabin by himself.

“We will treat you decently,” said one of the men, who appeared to be the leader of the party. “There are just two things you will have to do, you must understand, or have a chance of being knocked on the head. You must not attempt to get out, and you must ask no questions. It is to the coast of Africa we are going to carry you, and to the coast of Africa you must go. The voyage will not be a long one if we have a fair breeze, and they are dacent sort of people where we are going to land you; may be they will make you a prince of their country, and let you marry a princess, but you will understand that if you love your life, on the shores of ould Ireland again you will never venture to set foot.”

The unfortunate Mr Quelch could make no resistance. All his expostulations were in vain. He heard, as he fancied, the anchor being got up and sail made, and was fully under the impression that he had begun the voyage which was to carry him away for ever from his native land. The man who had first spoken to him again came below.

“We wish to treat you as a jintleman, though may be it’s more than you deserve,” he said, “so we will not stint you in liquor. You shall have as much as you can pour down your throat, for I have a notion you will not get an over abundant supply when you reach Africa. It’s a fine country, I am told, though a little more sandy than ould Ireland.”

As may have been discovered, one of Quelch’s failings was his fondness for liquor, and he soon imbibed enough to bring him into a state of unconsciousness. He thus had very little idea how the time passed. As soon as he awoke he found another bottle placed by his side. Thus he could not tell whether he had been days or weeks on board the ship. All that he knew was, that he had been fearfully tossed about, and often horribly uncomfortable. It had not occurred to him to feel his beard, in so confused a state was his mind. At length he heard the Captain’s voice calling him.

“Come up, if you please, Mr Quelch, we are off the coast of Africa, and it is time for you to be on shore. We will just see you comfortably landed, and then wish you farewell.”

The shades of evening were just settling down over the land, when Mr Quelch made his appearance on the deck. He could not distinguish objects distinctly, but he saw before him high hills and a sandy beach. On looking over the side he discovered a boat with six black men in her.

“Good-bye, Mr Quelch,” cried the friendly Captain, as he took Mr Quelch’s arm. “Good luck go with you. May be the niggers will look after you when they have put you on shore, but don’t trust them too much, for it’s small love they have for white men.”

Poor Quelch did not feel very comfortable on hearing this, but though inclined to resist, the butt end of a pistol which was sticking out of the Captain’s belt, and which that gentleman significantly began to handle, reminded him that resistance was useless. With a trembling heart he stepped into the boat. He was soon conveyed on shore. From the suppressed laughter of the crew, and from the broad grin which, as far as he could distinguish, appeared on their countenances, he had an idea that they were inclined to be amused at his expense.

“Dare, massa,” said one of them, “step on shore. Welcome to Africa. Make yourself at home. De king of de country come and see you by-and-by. He very fond of eating men, but no eat you, me hope.”

Poor Jonas was compelled to obey, and being placed on shore, the boat again pulled away. Soon after she had disappeared round a rocky point he heard loud shouts coming from inland, and looking up he saw, to his horror and dismay, several black men dancing and shrieking, and showing by their gestures their intention of coming down, and of making him the chief article of their supper. He was now utterly overcome with terror, and dared not leave the shore lest he should fall into the hands of his enemies. Yet, as he had not been supplied with food or water, he was under the dread of dying from hunger or thirst. He sat himself down disconsolately on a rock. The shouts continued round and above him, which made him shrink within himself for fear.

“Oh, if ever I get back home to England it is the last time that I will undertake to serve a writ in the West of Ireland, at all events,” he said, over and over again to himself. Still the savages did not descend, though he every instant expected to see them rushing towards him. At length the sounds ceased, and he sat himself down on the rock, where he remained all the night long, afraid of moving lest he should find himself attacked by them.

The morning broke. He saw a large ship in the offing, and after some time a boat left her side and came towards the spot where he was sitting. “Oh!” he thought to himself, “if I could get on board that ship how happy I should be.” No sooner did the boat’s bow touch the sand than he ran towards her. “Oh! Take me on board! Take me on board out of this savage land!” he exclaimed. “I will do anything to serve you! I will make myself generally useful on board! There is nothing I will not do. Oh! Take me away out of the power of these blackamoors!”

“You may enter as a seaman, perhaps,” answered the midshipman, in command of the boat. “If you will promise to do that, we will take you on board, but we have no idlers, and if you do not know your duty you must learn it as quickly as you can.”

Without further ado Quelch was lifted into the boat, which soon returned to the frigate. He found that she was the “Grecian” frigate, and that she was standing on and off the land, waiting to take the Captain and some of the officers on board. He, however, was at once regularly entered, and found himself speedily transferred into a man-of-war’s-man. Scarcely had he signed the papers, than loud peals of laughter broke from the seamen round him. None, however, would explain the cause of their merriment. At length once more the frigate put about and stood towards the land. As he gazed at the shore, he could not help fancying that its appearance was very much like that of the neighbourhood of Ballyswiggan. At length he put the question to one of the people standing near him.

“Why, my boy,” was the answer of an old quarter-master, “you have been nicely bamboozled. This comes of attempting to serve a writ in this part of the world. As to the coast of Africa, you have never been nearer it than you are at this present moment, nor much further from the place from which you started. However, take my advice; many a better man than you has found himself on board a man-of-war, and has had no cause to regret having done his duty.”

Jonas Quelch had the sense to see the wisdom of this counsel, and fortunately, being an unmarried man, made the best of his case, and, I can answer for it, became a very fair sailor in a short time, though his besetting sin occasionally interfered with his happiness and liberty, and brought him more than once into difficulties.

Chapter Fourteen.

I interrupted my narrative with an account of Mr Jonas Quelch’s adventures, with which I shortly afterwards became acquainted. I wish I could describe the ball which followed the dinner I have already mentioned; how perseveringly the ladies danced country dances and jigs, and how furiously the gentlemen flung about, sprang here and there, rushed up and down the room, and performed antics of every possible description, such as might have astonished the more sober professors of the art across the channel. My mother stole into a corner of the room, where she could see without being observed, and nothing would induce her to go further. Although Captain. Oliver found her out, and entreated her to join in what was going forward, she refused to dance even with him.

“I could not resist joining in the fun as you do, Mrs Burton,” said Mr Schank, “but I am afraid the ladies would object to my hopping up and down the room, lest I should come down upon their tender feet with my timber-toe, so I am obliged to abandon the sport I delighted in in my younger days.” Mr Gillooly, also, at length discovered her, and was far more persevering in his efforts to induce her to take part in the dance, though with no more success.

“Sure, Mistress Burton, you would not be after breaking a jintleman’s heart, which is as soft as butther whenever he is thinking of you!” he exclaimed, pressing his hand on his bosom and looking up with an expression which he intended to be extremely captivating.

“Indeed, Mr Gillooly, but it is more likely that any heart you have got would be after melting rather than breaking,” remarked my mother, observing the fiery countenance and the violent perspiration into which her swain had thrown himself. “My dancing days are over, and had I not supposed that the gentlemen here would have had the good taste not to press me to do what I dislike, I should not have ventured into the room.”

Nothing abashed, however, by this answer, Mr Gillooly continued to pour out his compliments into my mother’s ear, and she had to be still more explicit before he would receive a refusal. At length he left her, and was soon afterwards seen rushing about, as before, with one of my aunts, or with some other young lady of equal powers of endurance. Captain Oliver, after this, sat himself down by my mother’s side.

“Your boy has grown into a fine big lad,” he observed, “and though he is somewhat young, still I think he is strong enough to hold his own in a midshipman’s berth, and if you are disposed to let him go, I am ready to take him.”

“A midshipman’s berth!” exclaimed my mother, and a choking feeling came into her throat. “Surely you cannot intend such advancement to my boy—the boatswain’s son. I never wished him to be above his station, and if he were to rise to be a boatswain like his dear father, I should be well contented.”

“Do not say that, Mrs Burton. His father was a fine seaman, and would have been an honour to the quarter-deck himself. I promised to befriend your boy, and I can do so far more if he is in the rank of a midshipman than if he is simply one of the ship’s boys. From what I see of your relations and friends, indeed, though to be sure some of their doings are a little eccentric compared with our English notions, yet their position is such that their young relative should be placed in the rank of a gentleman. Say no more about it, I will assist him, and so I am sure will Mr Schank, in procuring his necessary outfit. That matter, therefore, need not trouble you, and I hope in a short time that he will pick up so much, prize-money that he will be able to support himself till he attains the rank of Lieutenant.”

Of course my mother could offer no objection to this very generous proposal. All she pleaded was, that I might remain a short time longer with her on shore. Lieutenant Schank then came in with a proposal which he had to make. It was that she should return to his mother’s house, where I might employ my time to advantage in obtaining the instruction which I could not get at Ballybruree. This offer she gladly accepted. Indeed, she told me that she had herself thought of returning to Whithyford, in order to avoid the persevering addresses of Mr Gillooly and her other admirers. The frigate was to remain on the coast for a week or ten days, after which time she had been ordered to go round to Portsmouth to refit. Captain Oliver, therefore, kindly offered my mother and me a passage, should she in the meantime be able to make arrangements for her departure. For this proposal she was very grateful. A journey across the whole width of Ireland and England was both difficult, hazardous, and very expensive, if performed in a comfortable manner. I was delighted with the thoughts of meeting again the Little Lady with the kind Misses Schank; for I must confess that the habits and customs of my relatives did not suit my taste much more than they did that of my mother. As to the ball, I need not further describe it. The ladies who came from a distance occupied all the upper rooms in the house, while the gentlemen were stowed away in the lower rooms and out-houses, many of them, however, little knowing how they got to bed or where they were.

Great was the lamentation her friends expressed when my mother’s determination of going to England was made known; indeed, some considered that a decided insult was offered to her native country. Mr Gillooly, indeed, made some remarks as to her motives, which certainly did not further his cause.

We set off the next day for Ballybruree with the rest of our party, my uncle and aunt inviting us to return to Ballyswiggan, there to remain till the frigate was ready to take us on board. Mr Tim Laffan, who showed much good feeling, undertook to dispose of my mother’s few possessions, and in the course of a few days placed in her hands a sum which she considered even more than their value.

“Well, Mrs Burton, I had hoped other things,” he said, as he shook her warmly by the hand, as she was mounting her pony to proceed to Ballyswiggan, “but I know enough about ladies’ hearts to be aware that they are more difficult to manage than the toughest lawsuit.”

Dan Hogan was away on duty, and we were off before he returned, but Captain Michael Tracy insisted on walking by my mother’s side all the way to Ballyswiggan; indeed I could not help thinking that if anyone was to win her heart, he was likely to be the happy man. We had a somewhat moving scene when bidding farewell to my grandfather and grandmother.

The old gentleman, indeed, wept bitterly as he was apt to do, especially after his tenth tumbler of whisky and water, provided it was of the full strength. I need not say anything more about him at present. We reached Ballyswiggan Castle in safety, the small amount of property my mother wished to retain following us in a cart. Mr Kilcullin was very kind, and my aunt promised to write occasionally, and let us know how the rest of the family got on. She was, indeed, the only one of her sisters who was much practised in the art of penmanship, the others having spent most of their time in gaining a knowledge of horseflesh, in riding up and down the country, and in practising certain very useful domestic duties. I certainly did feel very proud, and so I think did my mother, when the boat from the frigate came to fetch us on board, and we were seated in the stern sheets with our boxes in the bows, a young midshipman in a fresh bright uniform steering. A short, somewhat stout man pulled the stroke oar. He looked at my mother very hard. At length a beaming smile came over his broad countenance, and he could no longer help giving her a look of recognition. I thought I knew him. He was no other than my old friend Toby Kiddle. Still, as the midshipman treated us with so much respect, he evidently thought it did not become him to address us. Our friends on shore, I should have said, saluted us with loud shouts as we pushed off. “Long life to Ben Burton!” cried a voice. “May he live to be an admiral, and an honour to old Ireland, and may he never forget the land of his ancestors.” My mother waved an adieu. Her heart was too full with a variety of emotions to speak.

“Is Ben Burton your name?” said the midshipman, looking at me. “I understand you are going to join us. You are a lucky chap, for our ship is a happy one, and we are likely to see a good deal of service.”

When we got on board, one of the first people I set eyes on was Pat Brady.

“I could not help it, Ben,” he said. “Some of the boys got round me and talked of old times, and faith, though I was living on shore like a gintleman, after all I could not resist the look of the trim frigate, and the thoughts of the fighting and the fun on board. But, Ben, I hear you are to be one of the young gintlemen, and I know my place too well and your interests ever to be claiming relationship with you. You will understand that, Ben. If ever you can do me a good turn I am sure you will, and I need not tell you that when we are boarding an enemy’s ship, and you are in the thickest of the fun, Pat Brady won’t be far off your side. Just tell your mother that, for may be I may not have an opportunity of speaking to her as I would wish.”

“He is a good honest fellow, that cousin of ours,” said my mother when I told her. “It is just like him, and I am very thankful to think that you have so true a friend among the men. If you behave wisely and kindly to them, depend upon it you will always be able to get work done, when others much older than yourself will fail, and that more than anything else will gain you the approval of your superior officers.”

The Third-Lieutenant of the frigate had gone home on sick leave, and his cabin was given up to my mother. She told me she felt very strange occupying a berth aft when she had been so long accustomed to one in the fore-part of the ship. It was satisfactory to see as much attention paid her as if she had always occupied the position of a lady. Indeed I may say with satisfaction that she was well deserving of all the attention paid her, while in her manner and conversation she was thoroughly the lady. I was said to take after her, and, at the risk of being considered vain and egotistical, it is satisfactory to believe I did. “It would be a shame not to place that boy on the quarter-deck,” I heard the Captain observe to Mr Schank one day, when he was not aware how near I was. “He looks, and is, thoroughly the gentleman, and will make a smart young officer, depend on that.”

I was delighted to find myself on board ship again, and if the choice had been given me I suspect that I should have remained rather than have accompanied my mother back to Whithyford. After we had doubled Cape Clear a sail hove in sight, to which we gave chase. She was a large brig, and soon showed us that she had a fast pair of heels, by keeping well ahead. All sail was pressed on the frigate, and yet, after chasing several hours, we appeared to be no nearer to her. Still Captain Oliver was not a man to strike to an enemy, or to give up a chance of making a prize as long as the slightest possibility of doing so remained. All night long we kept in her wake; she probably expecting a fog, or a change of wind, or some other circumstance to enable her to alter her course without being perceived by us. The night, however, was very clear, and when morning broke there she was still ahead. It was evident, also, that we had gained on her considerably.

“I say, Ben, our skipper and First-Lieutenant are licking their lips at the thoughts of the prize we shall pick up before the day is many hours older,” observed my friend Tom Twigg, the midshipman who steered the boat which brought us on board; he had ever since then marked me as an object of his especial favour. He was a merry little fellow, with the funniest round face, and round eyes, and round nose possible. He often got into scrapes; but he declared that, like a hedgehog or slater, or woodlouse, he always managed to roll himself out of them. “I rather think the skipper has entered you on the books that you may have a share in the prize we are going to make,” he observed. “It will not be very great, but it is something, and no man on board will grudge it you.” About noon we got the brig under our guns, when she hauled down her colours, and proved to be a richly-laden Letter of Marque. It was very pleasant returning into port with her, and this circumstance put everybody on board in good humour, the Captain and Lieutenant Schank especially, who of course had large shares.

“I wish I could accompany you, Mrs Burton,” said Mr Schank, when we reached Portsmouth; “but that is impossible. You must let me frank you up, however, to my mother’s. I dare say by this time you pretty well know how to manage on the road. Pay the postboys well, and take care that youngster does not tumble off the roof and break his neck.” Of course my mother thanked the Captain and all the officers for the kindness she had received on board. They insisted on her saying nothing about the matter; indeed, they declared they had not done enough, and would not let her go till they had made her accept a purse of gold, which they declared would have been my father’s share of the prize just taken had he been alive. Lieutenant Schank had written on before to announce our coming. The old lady, therefore, and the three Misses Schank were on the look-out for us as our post-chaise drove up to the cottage, while I saw poor Mrs Lindars looking out at an upper window from the room she occupied, and there in the midst of the ladies downstairs was the Little Lady, a perfect little fairy she looked among the three mature Misses Schank. Miss Anna Maria held her up in her arms, and the little girl cried out, “Oh! Mamma, mamma, I know you are my mamma, though I have got four other mammas here.” She had grown very much, and instead of going off in beauty, had become one of the most perfect little creatures I ever set eyes on. Nothing could be more hearty than the welcome we received, and the dear old lady told my mother that she must look upon herself as one of the family, and only help the other ladies just as much as she felt inclined. Mrs Lindars, soon after we arrived, begged we would come up, and the Little Lady, taking me by the hand, led the way. There was something very striking in the affectionate and tender way the Little Lady addressed Mrs Lindars; indeed it for the moment struck me that they were something alike, though one was somewhat advanced in life, and the features of the other were scarcely yet formed. Mrs Lindars welcomed my mother very kindly. “And Ben has indeed grown into a fine lad,” she observed. “And Emily, too, you see her greatly improved, Mrs Burton. Ben, you must be her champion if she requires one. Alas! I fear she will. I trust her fate may be happier than mine.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will fight for her, that I will,” I answered, looking at Emily; “not that I think anyone would ever be so wicked as to try and harm her.” The poor lady smiled sadly and shook her head.

“Beauty is rather a snare than a protection,” she observed.

Of course I did not exactly understand her meaning; I heard afterwards, though I think I have already alluded to the fact, that the poor lady had, at a very early age, married a foreigner, calling himself Lindars, and that she had one child, a girl. Her husband, after frequently absenting himself, returned to Whithyford, when one day he and the child disappeared. The poor mother was left in an agony of doubt as to what had become of her infant, persuading herself that it had been murdered. A letter, however, at length reached her from her husband, saying that he was on the point of leaving England, and that he purposed carrying the child with him. From that day she had never received the slightest intelligence of her husband or daughter. Her brother Jack had been absent from home at the time of her marriage, and five years passed away before he again returned, so that he had been unable to assist her in her inquiries. I was placed for instruction under the care of an old gentleman residing in the village, who had formerly been a schoolmaster. He was well able to impart to me the knowledge I most required, and as I was very anxious to learn, I made considerable progress. My spare time was spent almost entirely in the company of little Emily. I was never tired of attending on her. As was then the custom, she wore a little red mantle as a walking dress. One day we were out in the fields, when she ran off in chase of a butterfly. At the further end of the field a bull was grazing, having been turned out to indulge his sulky humour by himself. The sight of the red cloak fluttering over the green meadow suddenly excited his rage, and with a loud roar he came rushing up towards it. I saw the little girl’s danger, and quick as lightning darted towards her. The cloak was fortunately secured by a very slight string. I tore it off and told her to run on; while, seizing the cloak, which I at once guessed was the cause of the bull’s rage, I darted off in a different direction. The animal followed, as I had expected. On he came, however, at a speed which was likely soon to bring him up to me. It was some distance to the nearest hedge. Towards that, however, I made my way, as the best means of escape. The bull was not five yards from me. The hedge was thick and high. Into it or over it I must go, or run the certainty of a toss. I sprang towards the hedge. Just at the spot I reached was the stem of a small tree; one branch alone had escaped the pruner’s hatchet. Throwing the cloak against the hedge, I seized the bough and sprang to the top—not a pleasant position, considering the brambles of which it was composed. The bull, with a loud roar, dashed into the hedge below me, into which he fixed his head, tearing up the ground, and making the bushes shake all round. I looked out and saw that Emily had reached the gate in safety; but how to descend was now the difficulty, for if I jumped back into the field out of which I came the bull would probably again attack me, whereas, on the other side, I could not descend without the risk of tearing my clothes and scratching myself with the brambles.

“Thou be a brave lad; I seed it all!” exclaimed a voice near me, and looking down I saw a person who appeared to be a farmer, standing on the further side of the hedge.

“Jump into my arms, I’ll catch thee, lad,” he added, seeing the predicament in which I was placed. I willingly did as he bid me, and, caught by his arms, reached the ground in safety. “We must have the little maiden’s cloak, though,” he said, laughing. “I will bring up some of my men, and we will soon handle the old bull.” He was as good as his word. Five or six farm servants soon made their appearance with a stout rope, which they threw over the bull’s neck and led him quietly off, while, accompanied by the farmer, I passed through a gate a little way on, and, securing the cloak, crossed the field to where Emily, still in a great fright, was waiting for me. The farmer insisted on accompanying us home. He was well-known, I found, to the ladies, and with great glee he recounted to them my exploit, bestowing more praise on me, I thought, than I deserved. Emily, however, declared that he was right, and that if it had not been for me, she was sure the bull would have tossed her up into the moon, or at all events as high as the moon.

My mother was now busily employed in preparing my outfit, and many a tear did she shed over her work when she thought that I was soon to be separated from her. A letter came at length from Captain Oliver, saying that the frigate was ready for sea, and that I must come at once down to Portsmouth. Fortunately my friend Farmer Cocks was going up to London, and undertook to escort me thus far, and from thence he was to see me off in the coach for Portsmouth. I will not describe my parting. There was a good deal more crying than I like to think of, and the dear Little Lady wept till her heart seemed about to break. However, her tears probably soon dried up, but my poor mother’s sorrow was likely to be far more enduring.

“Thou art a brave, honest lad, Ben Burton,” said the good farmer, pressing a five-pound note into my hand as I was about to mount on the top of the Portsmouth coach. “Thou wilt have plenty of use for this in getting thy new clothes for sea; but if not, spend it as thou thinkest best. I have no fear that thou wilt squander it as some do, and mark thee, shouldst thou ever want a home to come to, thou wilt always find a warm welcome at Springfield, from my good dame and me.” I pocketed his gift with a sincere “Thank you,” and he wrung my hand warmly, again and again, until I got fairly out of his reach on to the top of the coach.

Chapter Sixteen.

Our prize—a ship of six hundred tons, and mounting fourteen guns—called the “Santiago,” proved to be of considerable value. A prize crew being put on board, we steered for Saint Helena, where it was possible we might find a purchaser, and if not, Captain Oliver resolved to take her to the Cape. Fortunately, at Saint Helena we found the officers and crew of an Indiaman, which had been burnt at sea; and the Company’s agent there was very glad to purchase our prize, and send her on, most of the goods being suitable to the Indian market. On concluding the bargain, the agent presented the Captain with a couple of young tigers. They were somewhat inconvenient pets, though they would have been valuable had we been going home. However, as we had no others on board, he accepted them, thinking they might serve to amuse the ship’s company, and having an idea, I believe, that they might be perfectly tamed. We in the midshipmen’s berth welcomed them with glee, and at once began to teach them to perform all sorts of tricks. They would let us ride on their backs, and they learned to leap through hoops and over ropes, and they would rush round and round the deck at a rapid rate, and soon they became the most playful, engaging creatures possible. Oldershaw was the only person who expressed doubts about their amiability.

“If I were the Captain, I would clip their claws and draw their teeth before I would let them play with you youngsters,” he observed. “Their tricks may be playful now, but they will serve you a scurvy one before long, or their nature is more changed than I believe it to be.”

Of course we laughed at his prognostications, and continued to amuse ourselves with our pets as usual. The Cape was reached. We took on board a supply of live and dead stock, having now a long run before us across the Indian Ocean, into that part of the world where I had first seen the light—the China Seas. We had several sheep and a supply of hay to feed them on. Some of the men had an idea that our tamed pets would gladly feed on the hay, but their carnivorous teeth refused to munch it. They, however, turned suspiciously hungry glances towards the newcomers. Oldershaw observed it, “They have probably never eaten sheep or midshipmen,” he observed, “but the nature to do so is in them, and depend upon it their nature will have sway if we give them the opportunity.” However, as the animals were tolerably well-fed, and were carefully caged, they gave no exhibition when anyone was watching them of their evil propensities, if they possessed them. When our stock of fresh meat was exhausted, first one sheep and then another was killed to supply the Captain and officers’ tables, a portion falling to the lot of some of the men’s messes. Their skins, which were peculiarly fine, were cleansed and prepared by the armourer, who happened also to understand the trade of a currier. Two of them were hung up to dry, when it came into the brains of Tom Twig and Dicky Esse to clothe themselves in the skins, and in high glee they came prancing about the deck, baa-ing away, imitating two frolicsome lambs, with a tolerable amount of accuracy. They afforded much amusement to us, their messmates, and not a little to the men who happened to be on deck. Not content with amusing us, off they went, into the neighbourhood of the tigers’ cage. It ought to have been shut, and generally was shut. So exact was their imitation of nature that the beasts, after watching them with great eagerness for some moments, could no longer resist their natural propensities. With fierce leaps they rushed against the door of their cage. It gave way, and out they sprang. One bound carried them on to the backs of their expected prey. In another instant Tom and Dicky Esse would have been torn to pieces, had they not, in a way midshipmen alone could have done, slipped out of their skins, and rolled pale with terror across the deck. The animals, finding only the dry skins, were about to make another spring, when the man who had charge of them and had witnessed the scene, came rushing up with his stick of office, and several other men coming to his assistance with ropes, the savage creatures were forthwith secured. Both the midshipmen were rather more frightened than hurt, and in consideration of their terror they escaped any further consequences of their conduct which was looked upon by the First-Lieutenant as somewhat derogatory to the dignity which they were in duty bound to maintain.

After leaving the Cape, we were constantly becalmed, and then, getting further east, fell in with a hurricane, from the effects of which nothing but first-rate seamanship, under God’s Providence, could have preserved the frigate. We were now getting much in want of water, and Captain Oliver, unwilling to go out of his way to any of the settlements to obtain it, resolved to search for a supply at the first island we should fall in with. At length we came in sight of a large island, with yellow sands, and green palm trees waving in the breeze. Nothing could be more attractive, but it appeared that nobody on board had been there before. The master knew the existence of the island on the chart, but whether it was inhabited or not, or by whom, he could not say. As no anchorage was found, the ship was hove to, and three boats, with casks, under the command of the Second-Lieutenant, and my friend Oldershaw, and Pember, were directed to go on shore. I went with Oldershaw, and Twigg and Esse went in the other boats. We pulled into the bay abreast of the ship, where, between two projecting rocks, we found an excellent landing-place, and not far from it a stream of water, clear and limpid. As no natives appeared, the opinion was that that part of the island, at all events, was uninhabited, and this made us somewhat careless. All the casks being filled, the boats were sent back for a fresh supply, as we could not hope to find a better place for filling up with that important necessary. Pember, directing Tom Twigg to take charge of his boat, invited Dicky Esse and me to accompany him meantime on a stroll to see the island farther inland. He directed Toby Kiddle and Pat Brady to follow with a couple of muskets.

“Not that they will be wanted,” he observed; “but if we do fall in with any natives, it will make them treat us with respect.”

“If I were you, Pember, I would not go far from the bay,” observed Oldershaw, as he shoved off.

“You are always uttering warnings, old Careful,” muttered Pember; and, leading the way, he turned his back on the sea and proceeded inland.

The country was very beautiful. We soon came to a grove of cocoa-nuts, when Pember proposed that we should procure a supply. This, however, was more easily thought of than done. Pat Brady, who was the most active of the party, declared that he could manage it after the native fashion. He and Kiddle having placed the muskets against a tree, were considering the best way of mounting. We went first to one tree and then to another, to find one which seemed most easy to climb, with a satisfactory reward at the top of it for our trouble. Having made a band of sufficient strength with our handkerchiefs, Pat commenced his ascent. He had got some way up, Kiddle having helped him as far as he could reach, when suddenly a dozen dark-skinned savages sprang out from among the trees, and before we could draw our pistols they had brought us all to the ground. Forthwith they proceeded to bind our arms behind us. Pat, seeing there was no use going higher, came gliding down the tree, and was secured in the same manner. We endeavoured to make them understand that we had desired to do them no harm, and that if the cocoa-nuts were theirs, we should be happy to pay for them. Whether they understood us or not I cannot say, but without more ado, three of them attaching themselves to Pember, and a like number to each of the other men—one black fellow, however, only taking charge of Dicky and another of me—they dragged us off into the interior. In vain Pember struggled and expostulated. The fierce gleam of their dark eyes, and the keen blades of their glittering creeses which they flourished before us, showed that it would be dangerous to dispute the point with them. All we could do, therefore, was to move forward as they insisted, hoping that, when our absence was discovered, a strong party might be sent in pursuit of us, and that we might be recovered. We had not gone far when they were joined by another band of a similar number, and we could not help suspecting that they had been watching us all the time, but seeing so many armed men round the boats had not ventured to attack us. This made us still more regret our folly in having ventured alone into the country. On, on we went. We had great reason to fear that they had no intention of restoring us. At length they stopped at a village of bamboo huts, covered with cocoa-nut leaves, from which a number of women and children came forth to gaze at us. The children went shrieking away when they saw our white skins, while the women advanced cautiously and touched us, apparently to ascertain whether the red and white would come off.

“Faith, they take us for white niggers!” said Pat Brady, observing the look of astonishment, not unmixed with disgust, with which the women regarded us. “It’s to be hoped they won’t set us to work as we do the blacks, though, to be sure, it would be better than eating us, and I don’t like the looks of those fellows at all, at all.”

“Depend upon it, if they don’t eat us they will make us work, or why should they otherwise carry us off?” observed Kiddle. “These Malay fellows make slaves of all the people they can lay hands on. If it was not for that they would cut our throats.”

These remarks made Dicky Esse and me feel very uncomfortable, till Pember observed that perhaps they had carried us off in the hopes of obtaining a ransom. This idea kept up our spirits a little; but as they continued to drag us on further and further into the country, our hope on that score greatly decreased. At length we reached another village, in which was a large hut. Under the shade of a wide-spreading verandah in front of it an old chief was seated on cushions; a dozen half-naked savages with drawn swords standing behind him. He was dressed in a dark-coloured turban, with a shawl over his shoulders, a belt, in which were three or four formidable looking daggers with jewelled hilts, and a curved sword by his side. His dark countenance was unpleasantly savage and morose, and we felt that our lives would be of little value if they depended upon the amiability of his disposition. Our captors arranged us before him, and then appeared to be explaining how they had got possession of us. He smiled grimly at the narration. As Pember, Dicky Esse, and I were placed in advance, it was evident that our captors looked upon us as of more value than the men. This made us hope that they were entertaining some thoughts of allowing us to be ransomed, for in every other way the men were likely to prove more useful to them than we should.

After our captors had said all they had to say, the old chief made a few remarks in return. Before he had ceased speaking, several of his guards advanced towards us with their sharp-looking swords glittering in the sunbeams. It was a moment of intense anxiety. It seemed evident they intended to kill us. We could, however, neither fly nor defend ourselves.

“I say, Ben, have you said your prayers?” whispered Dicky to me. “If not, it is time to begin.”

Pember prepared to meet his fate with dogged resolution, his dark red countenance turning almost to an ashy hue. Kiddle and Brady, as I cast my eye on them, were evidently preparing to show fight.

“Knock the fellow next you down, Pat,” said Toby, “and get hold of his cutlash. I will treat mine the same, and if we cannot get away we will die game.”

Suddenly our expected executioners stopped, and stood waving their weapons at a short distance from our necks. The chief continued haranguing for some time, and when he ceased others stepped forth from the crowd and addressed him. Whether or not the chief had intended to kill us, we could not ascertain, but having kept us in most disagreeable suspense for half-an-hour or more, though it seemed several hours, the men with the swords faced about, and marched back to their former position. Our guards then carried us off to a hut at a little distance, into which we were all thrust, several men standing outside as a guard over us. After some time they brought us a mess of grain of some sort, well seasoned with pepper.

“I suppose they don’t intend to kill us, or they would not give us this,” observed Pat, taking a handful from the bowl, as, of course, we were left to feed ourselves, with our fingers. “Faith, it’s not so bad, after all.”

His example was followed by Dicky and me, and after a time Pember and Kiddle, unable any longer to restrain their appetites, also commenced eating. A supply of dry leaves and long grass, with several carpets, were brought in, and we were given to understand that they were to serve us as beds. This sort of treatment again raised our hopes that our captors might give us our liberty on receiving a ransom. Our difficulty would be to communicate with the ship.

“They cannot expect any very large sum for us,” observed Pember, who, deprived of any stimulant, was getting sadly out of spirits. “The Captain would not consent to pay much for me, I am afraid, and you two youngsters are worth little enough.”

“Speak for yourself,” answered Esse. “I rather think the Captain sets a higher estimation on me than you do.”

“Whether or not, for the honour of the flag they will not desert us,” I observed.

Pember on this gave a faint sickly laugh.

“Few inquiries would be made at the Admiralty as to what had become of an old mate and two youngsters. Expended on a watering party—killed by savages. Such would be our epitaph, and the matter would be settled to the satisfaction of all parties.”

No wonder, considering the circumstances, that our conversation did not take a more lively tone. Pat Brady, to be sure, did his best now and then to get up a laugh, but with very poor success.

“Keep silence, man!” exclaimed Pember, at last, in a surly tone. “You will be singing out in a different way to-morrow morning when they get the ovens ready.”

“Faith, I suppose they would be after making me into an Irish stew, or a dish of bubble and squeak!” exclaimed Pat, whose spirits were not to be quelled even with the anticipation of being turned into a feast for cannibals. I had an idea, however, that the people into whose hands we had fallen were not addicted to such practices, and was, therefore, not much influenced by the remarks which Pember occasionally made as to our probable fate. We were allowed to pass the night in quietness, and next morning another bowl of food was brought to us, with a basket of fruit of various sorts, very acceptable in that hot climate. We waited anxiously, expecting the arrival of a party from the frigate, either to rescue us by force, or to offer a ransom for our liberty; but no one appeared, nor did any of the natives, except the man who brought the food, come to the hut. Once, during an interval of silence, Esse declared he heard firing, but though we listened with all our might, the sounds reached no other ears. After a time, indeed, we all fancied we heard the boom of great guns, but even of that we could not be quite certain. Night again came round, and no one had come to look for us.

Chapter Seventeen.

Several days passed by; we were still prisoners, and all hope of being rescued by our friends vanished. We came to the conclusion that they supposed we were killed, especially as Kiddle told us he had known of several boats’ crews having been cut off by the natives in those seas. What was to be our fate we could not tell; it was not likely to be a pleasant one, at all events. One day the whole village appeared to be in commotion; loud shouts were heard, and presently the door of our hull was thrown open, and several men entered, who dragged us out into the midst of a large crowd collected in the open space in front of it. Among them was the old chief whom we had seen on the day of our capture; a number of the men had hoes and other implements of agriculture. After a good deal of palaver, a hoe was put into Pember’s hands, and signs were made to him that he was to go to work with it. Toby and Pat had hoes given to them also. Esse fancied that we should be allowed to escape.

“They think us too little to work, I hope,” he observed; but scarcely were the words out of his mouth than we both of us had implements put into our hands, and a pretty heavy whip being exhibited, signs were made to us that we should join our companions. We were forthwith marched off to a field where several natives were already at work. Apparently it belonged to the old chief, for he sat on a raised spot at the further end, under an awning, watching the proceedings with a complacent air which especially excited Pember’s wrath. When, also, at times the old mate relaxed in his labours, a dark-skinned fellow with a turban on his head, who seemed to act the part of an overseer, made him quickly resume them by an unmistakable threatening gesture. Thus we were kept at work till late in the evening, when we were all allowed to knock off and go back to our hut, where a larger amount of food than usual was awarded us. Next day we were called up at early dawn, and the hoes again were put into our hands. Sometimes the overseer, and sometimes one of the other men, came and showed us how to use them. All day long we were kept at work with the exception of a short time, when we were allowed to rest and take some food which was brought to us in the fields. We could no longer enjoy any hopes of regaining our liberty. It seemed as if we were destined to be turned into slaves, and to be worked as hard as any negroes in the West India plantations. At first Pember was very miserable, but abstinence from his usual liquor at length, I think, did him good, and he grew fatter and stronger than he had been since I first knew him. Still he persisted that he was dying, and should never again see the shores of England. The rest of us did our best to keep up our spirits, Esse and I told stories to each other, and formed plans for escaping. Some of them were very ingenious, and more or less hazardous; most, in reality, utterly impracticable, because, not knowing where we were, and having no means of getting away from the coast, even had we made our way to the shore, we should very soon have been brought back again. I might spin a long yarn about our captivity, but I do not think it would be interesting. Our days were monotonous enough, considering we were kept at the same work from sunrise to sunset. What a glorious feeling is hope! Hope kept us alive, for in spite of every difficulty we hoped, some time or other, to escape. At length one day as we were working, the old chief as usual looking on, a stranger arrived, and, going up to where he was seated, made a salaam before him. After a palaver of some minutes, which I could not help thinking had reference to us, the old chief called the overseer, and sent him down to where we were working. He went up to Pember, and made signs to him to go to the chief.

“Sure that’s a message for us!” exclaimed Pat Brady. “Arrah, Ben, my boy, you will be after seeing your dear mother again; and the thought that she has been mourning for you has been throubling my heart more than the hard work and the dishonour of labouring for these blackamoors. Hurrah! Erin-go-bragh! I am right sure it’s news that’s coming to us.”

By this time the overseer had spoken to Kiddle, and finally we were all conducted up to the chief. What was our astonishment to see the stranger produce a letter and hand it to Pember. It was written by the captain of a frigate, stating that having heard that some British seamen were detained by a petty chief, he had gone to the Rajah of the country, who had agreed that they should be liberated. The letter was addressed to any officer, or the principal person who was among them, advising them to follow the messenger, who could be trusted. The old chief seemed very indignant, but the envoy was evidently determined to carry out his instructions.

“Sure he need not grumble,” observed Pat Brady, “the big thief has been getting a good many months’ work out of us, and sure that’s more than he had any right to. Still we will part friends with him, and show him that we bear him no ill-will.” On this, Pat, not waiting for the rest, went up and insisted on shaking the old chief cordially by the hand; the rest of us, with the exception of Pember, did the same. I need scarcely say that it was with no little amount of satisfaction that we began our march under the guidance of the Rajah’s envoy. I doubt if any of our friends would have known us, so changed had we become during our captivity. Rice and other grain diet may suit the natives of those regions, but it certainly does not agree with an Englishman’s constitution. We were all pale and thin, our hair long and shaggy, our clothes worn and tattered. We had darned them and mended them up as best we could with bits of native cloth, but in spite of our efforts we officers had a very unofficerlike appearance; while the two men might have served for street beggars, representing shipwrecked sailors, but were very unlike British men-of-war’s men. Eager as we were to get on, we made little progress across the rough country, and not till nearly the close of the second day did we obtain a glimpse of the bright blue sea. Our hearts bounded with joy when we saw it. Still more delightful was it to gaze down from a height which we reached on the well-squared yards and the white deck of a British frigate which lay at anchor in the harbour below us. Pat threw up his hat and shouted for joy. He was the only one of us who retained anything like a hat; only an Irishman, indeed, would have thought of preserving so battered a head-covering.

“Sure it serves to keep my brains from broiling,” he observed, “and what after all is the use of a hat but for that, and just to toss up in the air when one’s heart’s in the mood to leap after it?” So near did the frigate appear that we felt inclined to hail her to send a boat on shore, though our voices would in reality have been lost in mid-air, long before the sound could reach her decks. We should have hurried down to the shore, had not our guide insisted on our proceeding first to the Rajah’s abode, where he might report our arrival in safety and claim a reward for himself, as well as the better to enable the Rajah to put in his own claims for a recompense. We were still standing in the presence of the great man, when a lieutenant and a couple of midshipmen with about twenty armed seamen made their appearance in the courtyard. Dicky Esse and I no sooner caught sight of them than, unable to restrain our eagerness, we rushed forward intending to shake hands with them.

“Hillo, what are these curious little imps about?” exclaimed one of the midshipmen, as we were running towards them.

“Imp?” exclaimed Dicky. “You would look like an imp if you had been made to hoe in the fields all day long with the sun right overhead for the best part of half-a-year. I am an officer like yourself, and will not stand an insult, that I can tell you!” This reply was received with a burst of laughter from the two midshipmen; but the lieutenant, guessing who we were, received us both in a very kind way, and Pember with Kiddle and Pat coming up, he seemed highly pleased to find that we were the prisoners he had been sent to liberate. The frigate, he told us, was the “Resolution,” Captain Pemberton, who, having heard through some of the natives that some English seamen were in captivity, had taken steps to obtain our release.

“We told the Rajah that if any of you were injured, or if his people refused to restore you, we would blow his town about his ears—a far more effectual way of dealing with these gentry than mild expostulations or gentle threats. And now,” he added, “if there are no more of you we will return on board.” In a short time we were standing on the deck of the frigate. Her captain received us very kindly, and soon afterwards we made sail. The frigate being rather short of officers, we were ordered to do duty till we could fall in with our own ship. Pember grumbled somewhat, declaring that he ought to be allowed to rest after the hardships he had gone through. People seldom know what is best for them, nor did he, as will be shown in the sequel. Both Dicky Esse and I were placed in the same watch, as were our two followers. The “Resolution” had not fallen in with our frigate, and therefore we could gain no tidings of any of our friends, and as she, it was supposed, had sailed for Canton, we might not fall in with her for some time. We cruised round and about the shores of the numberless islands of those seas, sometimes taking a prize, and occasionally attacking a fort or injuring and destroying the property of our enemies whenever we could meet with it. One night, while I was on watch, I found Kiddle near me. Though he did not hesitate to speak to me as of yore, yet he never seemed to forget that I was now on the quarter-deck.

“Do you know, Mr Burton,” he observed, “that I have found an old acquaintance on board? He was pilot in the ‘Boreas,’ and he is doing the same sort of work here. I never quite liked the man, though he is a fair spoken enough sort of gentleman.”

“What! Is that Mr Noalles?” I asked.

“The same!” and Toby then gave me the account which I have before noted of that person.

“That is strange!” I said. “I really fancied I had seen him before. Directly I came on board it struck me that I knew the man, and yet of course I cannot recollect him after so many years.” He was a dark, large-whiskered man, with a far from pleasant expression of countenance. The ship had been on the station some time, and rather worse for wear and tear. We had not been on board long, when one night as I was in my hammock I felt it jerk in a peculiar manner, and was almost sent out of it. I was quickly roused by a combination of all conceivable sounds:—the howling of the wind, the roar of the seas, which seemed to be dashing over us. The rattling of ropes and blocks, the creaking of bulkheads, the voices of the men shouting to each other and asking what had happened, were almost deafening, even to ears accustomed to such noises.

“We are all going to be drowned!” I heard Dicky Esse, whose hammock slung next to mine, sing out. “Never mind, Dicky,” I answered, “we will have a struggle for life at all events, and may be, as the savages did not eat us, the sea will not swallow us up.”

Finding everybody was turning out, I huddled on my clothes as best I could, and with the rest found my way on deck, though I quickly wished myself below again, as it was no easy matter to keep my footing when I was there, and preserve myself from slipping into the sea, which was dashing wildly over our bulwarks. The ship was on her beam-ends. By the light of the vivid flashes of lightning which continued incessantly darting here and there round us, I saw the Captain half-dressed, with his garments under one of his arms, shouting out his orders, which the lieutenants, much in the same state as to costume, were endeavouring to get executed, their voices, however, being drowned in the tempest. For some minutes, indeed, even the best seamen could scarcely do anything but hold on for their lives. One thing appeared certain: either the masts must be cut away, or the guns hove overboard. It seemed impossible, if this could not be done, that the ship would continue above water. Suddenly with a violent jerk up she rose again on an even keel with her topmasts carried away, and the rigging beating with fearful force about our heads.

“Clear away the wreck!” shouted the Captain. Such was now the no easy task to be performed. The officers, however, with axes in their hands, leading the way, sprang aloft, followed by the topmen. Blocks and spars came rattling down on deck to the no small risk of those below. At length the shattered spars having been cleared away, head sail was got on the ship, and off she ran before the hurricane, the master having ascertained that we had a clear sea before us. When morning dawned, the frigate, which had looked so trim at sunset, presented a sadly battered appearance, her topmasts gone, the deck lumbered with the wreck, two of the boats carried away, a part of the lee-bulwarks stove in. The carpenter too, after going below with his mates, returned on deck and reported that the ship was making water very fast. “We must ease her, sir,” I heard him say, “or I cannot answer for her weathering the gale.” The Captain took a turn or two along the quarter-deck, his countenance showing the anxiety he felt.

“It must be done,” I heard him say. “Send Mr Block aft.” He was the gunner. “We must heave some of our upper-deck guns overboard, Mr Block.” The gunner seemed inclined to plead for them.

“It must be done,” said the Captain. And now the crew, who would have sprung joyfully to the guns to man them against an enemy, began with unwilling hands to cast the tackles loose in order to launch them into the ocean. Watching the roll of the ship, first one gun was sent through the port into the deep—another and another followed.

“By my faith it’s like pulling out the old girl’s teeth, and giving her no chance of biting,” observed Pat Brady, who was standing near me.

“We will keep a few of her grinders in though, Pat,” observed Kiddle: “we must handle them the smarter if we come alongside an enemy, to make amends for those we have lost.”

The heavy weight on her upper-deck being thus got rid of, the frigate laboured less, and the pumps being kept going, the water no longer continued to gain upon us. However, it was necessary to work the chain pumps night and day to keep the water under. At length we arrived at Amboyna, where we remained some time repairing damages and refitting the frigate as far as we were able.

“I wish we were aboard our own ship again,” said Kiddle to me one day, “for I don’t know how it is, but the crew of this ship declare that she is doomed to be unlucky. I don’t know how many men they have not lost. They have scarcely taken a prize, and they are always getting into misfortune. It’s not the fault of the Captain, for he is as good a seaman as ever stepped, and the officers are all very well in their way, and so there’s no doubt it’s the ship’s fault. Some of the people, to be sure, don’t like Mr Noalles, the pilot. They don’t know who he is or where he came from, though that to my mind has nothing to do with it, for it’s not likely he would be aboard here if he was not known to be a right sort of person.”

At length we once more sailed for a place called Booroo, where we got a supply of wood and water, as well as refreshments and stock, and then sailed for the Straits of Banca. As we were standing along the coast, when daylight broke one morning, we saw towards the land a number of vessels, which were pronounced to be pirate prows. In their midst was a large brig, which they had apparently captured. We were standing towards them when the land-breeze died away, and we lay becalmed, unable to get nearer. On this the boats were ordered out, and two of the lieutenants, the master, and a couple of mates took the command. Dicky Esse and I accompanied the Second-Lieutenant. Our orders were to board the prows, and if they offered any resistance, to destroy them. The water was smooth and beautifully blue, while the rising sun tipped the topmost heights of the lofty hills, which rose, as it were, out of the ocean, feathered almost from their summits to the water’s edge with graceful trees. There lay the brig, while the prows were clustered like so many beasts of prey around their quarry. The pirates seemed in no way alarmed at our approach. Our leader, however, had made up his mind, in spite of their numbers to board the brig, and then, should the prows interfere, to attack them. As soon as this resolution was come to, we dashed forward to get on board her without delay. The pirates seemed scarcely aware of our intention, and before any of the prows had lifted an anchor we were on board. Some forty or fifty dark-skinned, villainous-looking fellows had possession of the brig, but they were probably unable to use the big guns, and though they made some little resistance, we soon drove them forward, a considerable number being cut down, the rest jumping overboard, and attempting to swim towards the prows, which, instantly getting out their sweeps, began to approach us.

Chapter Nineteen.

When I came to the surface, I found myself amidst a mass of wreck, and several human beings struggling desperately for dear life. Some were crying out for help, others clutching at fragments of timber which floated near, and others striking out and keeping themselves afloat by their own exertions. I had become a pretty good swimmer, and seeing a part of the wreck above water not far from me, I made towards it. On my way I saw a person clinging to a spar a couple of fathoms off. “Who is that?” said a voice. It was that of Dicky Esse. “Burton,” I answered. “Oh! Do help me!” he cried out. “I cannot swim, and I cannot hold on much longer, and if I do not reach the wreck I shall drop off and be drowned!”

“Hold on,” I shouted, “and perhaps I may be able to tow the spar up to the wreck. I will try at all events; but do not let go, Dicky! Do not on any account!”

I swam to the spar, and, partly resting on it, shoved it before me towards the wreck, but still I made but slow progress. I was afraid that I should be obliged, after all, to give it up, as I felt my strength going, when a man swimming powerfully reached us. “Help! Help! Do help me!” I cried out. He said nothing, but just touching the spar with one hand, so as not to sink it deeper in the water, he shoved it on till we reached the wreck. The hammock nettings were just above water, and afforded us a better resting-place than we could have expected. “Thank you! Thank you!” I said, as the man hauled Dicky and me into this place of refuge. “What shall we next do?”

“Wait till morning, and if we are then alive, we must get on shore as best we can,” he answered. I knew by the voice and accent of the speaker that he was Mr Noalles. The bright stars shining down from the sky gave us sufficient light to distinguish objects at a considerable distance. As we looked out we saw several other persons still alive, some swimming, others holding on to bits of timber. We shouted out to them, lest they should not be aware that they could obtain a place to rest on, at all events, until morning. A voice not far off answered us. “Who is that?” I cried out, for I thought I recognised it. “Toby Kiddle, sir,” was the answer. He was swimming up towards us. “I have just passed Mr Pember clinging to a piece of the wreck. I will go back and try to bring him here.”

“I will go with you,” I said.

“No, no, youngster, stay where you are,” observed Mr Noalles; “you will be drowned if you make the attempt; I will go!” The next instant he was striking out in the direction in which Toby was now swimming.

Esse and I watched them anxiously as they disappeared in the gloom. I was very thankful to think that Toby Kiddle was alive, but I could not help wishing that Pat Brady had escaped also, as I knew that he had been on deck and close to Kiddle. While we were looking out for the return of our shipmates, another man, one of the seamen, reached the wreck. He said he was greatly scorched, and it seemed surprising that he should have been able to swim so far. There were yet a number of people floating about alive, and when we shouted several voices answered us. Among them I thought I recognised Pat’s. “Brady, is that you?” I cried out. “By the powers it’s myself, I belave,” answered Pat, “but where I have been to, or what I have been about, or where this is happening bothers me particularly. And how I am ever to get to you is more than I can tell.”

“I must go to help him,” said I to Esse, “for he will be drifted away, even if he manages to cling to whatever he has got hold of.”

“But surely he is drifting towards us,” observed Esse. “He has got nearer since he began to speak.” Such indeed was the case, and even before Kiddle and Mr Noalles returned with Pember, not only Pat, but two or three other men had been drifted up to us. Pat had helped himself along by striking out with his feet, though he was but a poor swimmer; indeed, I have scarcely ever met an Irish seaman who could swim. We could make out other people still floating at some distance. Now and then a cry was heard. We shouted in return, but there was no reply. It was the last despairing utterance of one of our shipmates, before he sank below the surface. Those on the wreck were already so exhausted that no one could go to their assistance. There were rather more than a dozen altogether, I believe, clinging to the wreck. Several of them, from the exclamations they uttered, I found were suffering from scorching, or the blows they had received from falling pieces of the wreck.

Morning at length dawned upon us poor human beings—the sole survivors of the ship’s company, who but a few hours before were I enjoying life and strength. Just then the words which I had heard at the funeral came across my mind—“In the midst of life we are in death.” How true it had proved to them. It might prove true to us also, for our prospects of escape were small indeed. Pieces of the wreck were floating about around us, and I thought I made out two or three people still holding on to the fragments, but I could not be certain. In the far distance were the shores of the island. It seemed so far off, that we could scarcely hope to reach it; yet reach it we must, if our lives were to be saved. The sea was smooth, and the warmth of the water prevented our being benumbed from being so long in it. Still, as the sun rose, all hands began to complain of thirst. Something must be done, however. I asked Pember what he would advise, as he, being the highest in rank among us, would have to take the command; but his drinking habits had unnerved him, and he answered, incoherently, “We must swim, I suppose, if we cannot get the wreck under way.” Esse and I then turned to Mr Noalles. He had occasionally uttered a deep groan, as if in pain. I found that he was severely hurt, partly from the fire, and also from the blows he had received. At first, apparently, he had not been aware how seriously he had been injured. “We must build a raft, lads,” he answered at length. “See! Here is the main-yard alongside of us, with the main-sail and plenty of rope hanging on to it. We shall have no lack of materials, but there are not many of us, I am afraid, fit for the work.” He spoke too truly. Esse and I had escaped the best. Kiddle, also, was only slightly injured, and two of the ship’s company had escaped, while all the rest were more or less hurt, two or three of them very badly. It seemed a wonder they could have got on to the wreck, while Pember, either from external injury or the shock his nerves had received, was likely to be of little use.

While we were looking out for the spars and pieces of timber to form our raft, a round object appeared at a little distance. “It’s a pumpkin!” cried one of the men. I darted into the water and struck out for it. Thankful, indeed, was I to get such a prize. I soon brought it back. It was meat and drink to us, and though, divided into so many, there was little for each, yet it might assist in saving our lives. A double share was awarded me, but I declined taking more than the rest. It revived us greatly, and with our strength somewhat restored, we began the building of our raft. Those who could swim every now and then struck off to get hold of pieces of wood to serve our purpose. Among other things the jolly-boat’s mast was found, and it was agreed that it would serve us well for a mast for the raft. It was hard work getting up the canvas which hung down in the water, but at length with our knives we cut off a sufficient quantity for a sail. The rope served as for lashing the spars which we had collected together. At length we managed to get a frame-work formed. Across this we lashed other spars and planks, but it was a very slow business, for some of the men could only use one hand. Others had their legs so injured that they could not move from where they sat; while so greatly diminished was the strength of everyone of us, that we were unable to secure the lashings as thoroughly as was necessary.

“It is to be hoped no sea will be after getting up, or all our fine work will be tumbling to pieces entirely,” observed Pat, as he surveyed what we had done.

“This will never do as it is,” observed Mr Noalles. “We must build a platform on the top of it, to keep us out of the water.”

There was no lack of materials to do as he proposed, and we, therefore, immediately set about building the platform. Its weight brought the lower part of the raft deeper into the water, but that could not be helped. Some hours passed by while we were thus engaged, and again thirst attacked us. We had only eaten half the pumpkin. Some of the men entreated that they might have the remainder. “Give it them—give it them,” sang out Pember, “and give me a piece. It is the last morsel we shall probably put into our mouths.” The fruit was cut up into twelve small slices, and distributed evenly. Even now I recollect the delight with which my teeth crunched the cool fruit. Every particle, rind and all, was consumed, as may be supposed. We now stepped our mast, and got a sail ready for hoisting. As the raft was small for supporting so many people, great care was necessary in balancing ourselves on it. Mr Noalles, who was evidently suffering greatly, and three of the men who were most injured, were placed on the platform in the centre. The rest of us ranged ourselves round them, Kiddle steering with a spar, which we had rigged as a rudder. There was very little wind; what there was, was blowing in the direction of the low land of Sumatra, which we calculated to be about four leagues off. Mr Noalles told us that some fifteen or twenty leagues to the north of it was a Dutch settlement. If we could reach it, we might there obtain assistance. By this time Pember had roused up a little, and was able to assume the command of our frail craft, for when he had his proper wits about him he was a very good seaman. Noalles, meantime, was getting worse and worse. It was nearly two hours after noon before our task was accomplished. We had picked up everything we could find floating about the wreck, but not a particle of food appeared, nor did a cask of water pass near us. What would we not have given for that. All this time the sun, in burning splendour, had been beating down upon our unprotected heads, for most of us had lost our hats. I secured a handkerchief round my head, and Esse did the same.

“Are you all ready, lads?” asked Pember. “Ay! Ay! Sir,” was the answer. “Then shove off, and I pray we may reach yonder coast before dark.” We glided slowly on. For some time we appeared to be approaching the land. Then, from the way we moved, we discovered that a current was running, and was carrying us to the southward, rather away from than nearer the point we hoped to reach. Mr Noalles, who was just able to sit up, saw what was happening.

“I thought so,” he muttered. “With so great a wretch as I am on board, there is little chance of the raft reaching the shore. If the people were wise they would heave me overboard; but, oh! I am not fit to die. I dare not face death and that which is to come after it!”

These words were said in so low a tone that I alone, who was sitting close to him, could understand him.

“Die! Did I say? And yet how often have I faced death, without a moment’s thought of the future, or a grain of fear!”

“What makes you then think so much about it now, sir?” I asked. “I hope we shall get on shore, and that you will recover.” I was anxious to calm the feelings of the poor man, though I was scarcely surprised to hear him speak as he did.

“Is that you, Burton?” he said, hearing my voice. “They tell me that we have been shipmates before, and that I was on board the ship when you were born; but I don’t remember the circumstance.”

“I have been told so,” I said, “and the man steering, Toby Kiddle, remembers you.”

“Ah! Yes, I think I have an idea of your mother—a pretty woman. Where is she now?” And I told him that she was living with Mrs and the Misses Schank, and I added, “There is another sister—a Mrs Lindars, whose husband deserted her.”

“Mrs Lindars?” he said slowly, “and is she still alive?”

“Yes,” I answered, rather astonished at the question.

“I have been saved another crime!” he muttered between his teeth. He was silent for some minutes. Then he abruptly addressed me. “Burton, I believe I am dying. I should like to make a clear bosom before I go out of the world. A viler wretch than I am has never been borne shrieking through the air by demons to the place of torment. You speak of Mrs Lindars. She is my wife, for that is my real name. I have borne many since then. I was young then, and so was she—very young and very beautiful, I thought. I wished to run away with her, but she would not consent, and we married. At first I thought I could settle down in the country, and support myself by my literary and musical talents. I soon found that this would not bring me a sufficient income to supply my wants, for I had somewhat luxurious tastes. My wife gave birth to a child—a daughter. She was a sweet little creature. I loved her in a way I never loved anything before. Each year she increased in beauty. At length I had an opportunity of obtaining a large sum by committing a crime. A fearful crime it was, and yet I did not hesitate. It was necessary to fly the country. I could not bear the thoughts of leaving my child behind me. It was a cruel act to desert my wife, and still more cruel to carry away the child, for I knew that her mother loved her as much as I did. My wife was ill, and I pretended to take the child to see a relation, from whom I told her I had expectations. I knew she could not follow me. Changing my name, I crossed to France where I had relations. I never cared for gambling, or I should probably quickly have got through my ill-acquired wealth. I had followed the sea during the early part of my life, and soon again I got tired of remaining on shore. I was eager to start on a new expedition, but what to do with my daughter in the meanwhile I could not decide. I ought in common humanity to have sent her back to her poor mother; but had I done so, I was afraid I should not be able again to see her. She was so young when I took her away that she did not know her real name. I therefore carried her to Jersey, to which island my family belonged, and there left her, pretending that her mother was French, and had died soon after her birth. The arrangement having been made, I came out to the Indian Seas and China, and, engaging in the opium trade, made a considerable sum of money. I lost, however, the larger portion, and then once more, seized with a desire to see my child, I returned to Jersey. I found her grown into a beautiful girl. A new undertaking had presented itself to me. I would go out to India, and make my fortune by serving under one of the native princes. I had several times visited that country during my wanderings. My daughter, I knew, would materially aid me in my undertaking. As I placed before her the advantages to be gained in the most glowing colours, and hid what I knew would be objectionable, she willingly consented to accompany me. Her beauty, I felt sure, would enable me to secure a wealthy marriage for her, but, as that might not assist my views, I secretly resolved to throw her in the way of some native prince, and she, once becoming his favourite wife, I felt very sure that I should rise to the highest offices in his court. The degradation to which I was dooming my child did not deter me; indeed, I persuaded myself that I was about to procure a splendid position for her, which she might well be satisfied to gain.”

Chapter Twenty.

Mr Noalles, as I will still call him, spoke with difficulty, but some secret impulse, it seemed, made him anxious to disburden his mind. “I make these confessions to you, Burton,” he said, “because I want you to convey to my poor wife, should you ever return to England, the expression of my sorrow for the way I treated her; and if you can by any means discover my daughter, that you may tell her, her miserable father died blessing her; though, alas! I feel that blessings proceeding from such lips as mine may turn to curses. But I did not tell you that mercifully she escaped the dreadful fate to which I devoted her. Among the passengers on board the ship in which we went out to India was a young writer. He was pleasing in his manners, but far more retiring and silent than his companions, and I did not for a moment suppose that he was likely to win the affections of my daughter. He had already been in India some years, and was returning after a short absence. He therefore knew the country, and immediately on landing proceeded to his station. I flattered myself that I had got rid of him, for latterly I had observed that my daughter was more pleased with his society than with that of anybody else on board. We remained some time at Calcutta, where, as I expected, my daughter was greatly admired. I, meantime, was perfecting myself in Hindostanee, and gaining information to guide my further proceedings. At length we got off up the country, but on the way I was taken seriously ill. It happened to be at the very station where Mr Bramston was residing. He heard of my being there and instantly called, and very naturally pressed his suit with my daughter. Believing that I was dying, I consented to his becoming her lawful protector, for otherwise I dreaded lest she should be left in the country alone and destitute. Scarcely, however, had the marriage taken place than I recovered, and all the plans I had designed were brought to nothing. I found that my character was suspected, and hastening back to Calcutta, I took a passage on board a ship bound for Canton, again changing my name to that by which you know me. From that time forward I have knocked about in these seas in various capacities, just able to support myself, but ever failing to gain the wealth for which I had been ready at one time to sell my soul. Of the child I had loved so dearly I had never heard. If she wrote to me, her letters must have miscarried, and from that day to this I have received no tidings of her. Often and often I have thought of returning to India, but the dread of being recognised has deterred me, and I felt that my appearance would more likely produce shame and annoyance than afford her any satisfaction or pleasure. Thus all my plans and schemings have come to an end, and such fruits as they have produced have been bitter indeed; I cannot talk more, Burton. Promise me that you will try to find out my daughter and her husband. Bramston, remember, Charles Bramston of the Civil Service—the Bengal Presidency, and his wife bore the name of Emily Herbert. Herbert was the name I then assumed. She often asked me questions about her childhood, but I invariably led her off the subject, so that of that she knew nothing. Tell her that you saw her father die, and that his last thoughts were of her.”

I entreated the unfortunate man to keep up his spirits. I pointed out that we were approaching the shore, and that before many hours had passed we should probably land on it; when, although the Dutch were our enemies, our forlorn condition would assuredly excite their compassion, and induce them to afford us all the relief we could require. “Do not trust too much to them,” he answered slowly. “Besides, the natives on this coast are savage fellows, who would scruple very little to put us all to death, and as to getting on shore at all, you will not be there for many hours, depend on that!”

He ceased; appearing very much exhausted from having spoken so long. His sufferings, indeed, also, had become very intense, for the salt water and the heat of the sun had greatly inflamed his legs, which had been severely burnt. His voice, in a short time, almost failed, but his lips continued to move, and I heard him murmuring, “Water! Water! Oh! Give me but one drop to cool my tongue! Where am I? Is this hell begun already? Water! Water! Will no one have compassion on a burning wretch?”

Still, so strong was his constitution, that in spite of his sufferings he lingered on. Another poor man, apparently not more hurt than he was, in a short time sank under the injuries he had received. The man had been sitting up trying to catch a breath of air, when suddenly he uttered a low groan, and fell back on the platform.

“The poor fellow is dead, I am afraid,” said Esse, taking up his hand, which fell helpless to the position from which it had been raised. “Can we do anything to restore him?”

“There is no use,” said Pember, putting his hand on the man’s mouth, “he will never speak again. The sooner we heave him overboard the better.”

He was the first of our number we had to launch into the deep. The body floated astern for some time, and we could scarcely help casting uneasy glances at it. “Oh! Look! Look! He was alive after all!” exclaimed Esse. We turned round. The body seemed to rise half out of the water, the arms waving wildly. Then down it sank and disappeared from view. We also expected to hear a shriek proceed from it. “Oh, Pember!” I exclaimed, “why did you let us throw him overboard? What a dreadful thing!”

“Save your sympathy for those who want it, youngster,” answered the old mate. “He was as dead as a door nail. Don’t fear that. Jack Shark had got hold of his heels, and that made the body rise suddenly out of the water, as you saw him. Well! It will be the lot of more of us before long. I do not like the look of the weather. I wonder what Mr Noalles thinks of it.” Noalles, however, was unable to speak. The wind was increasing, and the sea had already got up considerably, making the raft work in a very unsatisfactory manner. We had the greatest difficulty in holding on, while the smaller pieces of timber, which had been less securely lashed to the frame-work, began to part. Still we ran towards the island, our sail helping us considerably. As the sea increased, steering became more difficult, while the lower part of the raft was so completely immersed in the water, that we had the greatest difficulty in preventing ourselves being washed off, when the foaming seas came rolling over it. We held on as best we could, by the beckets, which had been secured to the raft for this purpose. We had all now reason to dread that we should lose our own lives; for though the raft appeared to be still approaching the shore, yet so furiously was it tumbled about by the fast rising seas, that we could with difficulty cling on to it, while we could scarcely hope that it would hold together. Noalles, as I have said, had been with Pember and two other men on the platform. A foam-covered sea came roaring towards us. We all held on to the main part of the raft. The sea struck it, and before we could make any effort to secure it, away it was carried, to a considerable distance from us, with our three shipmates still resting on it. It seemed surprising that they should not have been washed off. The same sea carried off one of our number, thus leaving six of us only clinging to the main part of the raft. At the same moment our mast and sail were carried away, and we were left at the mercy of the seas. In vain we endeavoured with the paddles, which we had saved, to get up to the other raft. It appeared to be receding further and further from us, when another sea, similar in size to that which had torn it from the main part, struck it with full force, and hid it from our view. We looked again. The few fragments of the wreck could alone be seen; but our late companions had sunk beneath the surface of the troubled waters, which now leaped, and foamed, and raged above their heads. We had little time to mourn their fate, for we were compelled to look after our own safety. Night was coming on. A dreary prospect was before us. Still Pat Brady kept up his spirits wonderfully. “Sure, Mr Burton, old Mother Macrone of Ballynahinch was after prophesying you would become an admiral one of these days, and sure if we was drownded, we should not live to see it, nor you neither for that matter; and so sure as Mistress Macrone is an honest woman, and spoke the truth, we need not be after throubling ourselves about not getting to land. It will be some time before we can manage to reach it, however.” I cannot say that Paddy’s remarks had much effect on us, although I fully believe he spoke what he thought to be the truth. We were still a long way from the land, when darkness settled down upon us, and the shattered raft continued tossing up and down on the foaming seas. Every instant we thought would be our last, for we knew that the spars to which we were clinging might be torn from the frame-work, and we might be deprived of our last remaining support. Still, life was sweet to all of us. We who had escaped were the least injured of the party. Twelve had left the wreck, six now alone remained alive, two only of the crew of the ill-fated frigate—Smith, an Englishman, and Sandy McPherson, from the North of the Tweed. They were both brave, determined fellows, but Sandy’s spirit was troubled, not so much, apparently, by the fearful position in which we were placed, as by what he called Pat Brady’s recklessness and frivolity. Even when thus clinging to our frail raft, now tossed high up on a foaming sea, now sent gliding down into the bottom of the trough with darkness around us, almost starved, and our throats parched by thirst, Brady’s love of a joke would still break forth. “Arrah, but it’s illegant dancing we’re learning out here!” he exclaimed, “though, faith, I would rather it were on the green turf than footing it on the top of the green waves, but we will be safe on shore before many hours are over.”

“Ay, laddie, but it’s ill dancing o’er the graves of your friends,” observed Sandy. “Just think where they are, and where we may be not ten minutes hence. You will not keep the breath in your body half that time under the salt water, and we may, one and all of us, be fathoms deep before five minutes have passed away.”

Sandy spoke what we all knew to be the truth, but still we would rather have shut our eyes to the unpleasant fact. It is extraordinary that men should be able to disregard the future, even when on the very brink of the grave. Is it apathy, or stolid indifference, or disbelief in a future existence that enables them to do so? I speak of those without the Christian’s hope—men who lead profligate lives; men stained with a thousand crimes; men who have never feared God, who seemed scarcely to have a knowledge of God. I have thought the matter over, and have come to the conclusion that some men have the power of shutting out thought. They dare not let thought intrude for a moment. They struggle desperately against thought. Sometimes thought conquers, and then fearful is their condition. Then the terrors of hell rise up, and they would give ten thousand worlds to escape the doom they know well they have merited. Even now I do not like to think of that night. Slowly the hours dragged on. We fancied as we rose to the top of the sea, that the wind was blowing with even greater force than before, and our frail raft was dashed here and there, with even greater violence than it had yet endured. We felt it breaking up. With a desperate grip we held on to the larger portions of the timber which composed it. At length it parted, and Kiddle and I were left clinging to one part, while our four companions held on to the other. We could scarcely hope finally to escape. The two portions, however, continued floating within hailing distance of each other. We shouted to our friends to hold on. Pat Brady answered with a cheerful “Ay! Ay!” It cheered our spirits somewhat, though not very greatly, it must be owned. From that moment the sea appeared to be going down, and gradually daylight, which we thought had been much further off, stole over the world of waters. Fortunately there were some thin boards still secured to the portion of the raft which supported Kiddle and me. We agreed to tear them up, and with them to paddle towards our friends.

After a considerable amount of labour we reached them, and immediately set to work, as the sea had again become almost smooth, to repair our raft. So thirsty had we become by this time, that it was with difficulty we could avoid drinking the salt water. We counselled each other, however, not to do so, well knowing the ill effects which would be produced. We felt now the loss of our sail, for the wind was setting directly on shore. Still, slight as was the breeze, it assisted us along, when we stood up, which we did by turns, while the rest laboured with the paddles we had constructed. We gazed anxiously at the land, but the current still appeared to be sweeping towards the south. Suddenly it changed, and we advanced with far more rapidity than we had hitherto done. We could now distinguish objects on the shore. We looked out eagerly. No houses or huts were to be seen, nor any vessels at anchor. A heavy surf, however, was setting on the beach, and Kiddle urged us on no account to attempt to land there. This was tantalising, but the danger of having our raft upset and being carried out to sea was too great to be encountered. With might and main, therefore, we continued to paddle along the shore, hoping to find some place into which we might stand with less danger. We had to continue for some distance, till at length we got round a point by which the land on the other side was completely sheltered. We could scarcely hope to find a better place. And now, exerting ourselves to the utmost, we made towards the beach. With thankfulness did we hear the timbers grate against the sand. Esse and Brady, who were nearest the shore, attempted to spring on to the beach, but so weak were they, as we all were, that in doing so they fell flat on their faces. Had we not kept the raft off with our paddles, the next sea which came up would have thrown it over them. By great exertions they worked themselves up, however, out of the reach of the water, and the rest of us crawled on shore with more caution. We looked round. No one was to be seen. Our first impulse was to throw ourselves down on the sand and rest, but scarcely had we done so when the sensation of thirst came over us, and weak as we were we set out at once to search for water. The trees came down very nearly to the shore, here and there rocks appearing among them. We soon separated, each one going in the direction in which he hoped he should find the longed-for fluid. I went forward almost as in a dream. My eye at length caught sight of a rock at a little distance. I had a feeling that water would be found not far off. A sound struck my ear—a low, soft, trickling. Yes! It was water, I was sure of it—I almost fell in my eagerness to hurry on. I cannot easily forget the delight with which my eye rested on a natural fountain—a rocky basin, into which a bright stream flowed from a crevice in the rock. I rushed on shouting out “Water! Water!” Eagerly I put my mouth to the pure fountain-head. Oh! How deliciously sweet I found it! I let it run over my face, parched and cracked by the hot sun and salt water. Brady, who was nearest to me, heard me shout. “Hurrah, lads! Hurrah, lads! Here’s water!” he cried out, making a few attempts at leaps, as he rushed forward. The others took up the cry, till the whole six of us were putting our mouths to the fountain, for scarcely had I withdrawn mine than I returned again for a fresh draught, the others doing the same thing. It is surprising that we did ourselves no harm by the quantity we swallowed. Brady declared that he heard it fizzing away as it went down his throat, from the heat of his inside.

Chapter Twenty One.

Having quenched our burning thirst, our next impulse was to seek for rest. Since we had been sleeping on the deck of the ill-fated frigate, not one of us had closed his eyes. Collecting, therefore, a quantity of dried leaves and boughs, we made a bed, on which we threw ourselves, the boughs forming a shade overhead. In an instant almost I was asleep, and so, I believe, were most of my companions. We had escaped the dangers of the sea, but we had a good many more to encounter. The thoughts of them, however, could not drive away sleep. I was awakened by feeling a gnawing sensation of hunger. It was not so painful, perhaps, as thirst, but it was very trying. I could have eaten a raw lizard had I found it crawling over my face. My companions soon awoke from the same cause, but nothing eatable, animal or vegetable, could we find. We hurried down to the beach, and searched about for shell-fish. Not one could we see.

“It will not do, lads, to stop here to starve,” observed Kiddle. “What do you say, Mr Burton? Had not we better push on along the shore, while we have a little strength left, and try and find some natives who may give us food?”

Esse and I agreed at once to Toby’s suggestion, and returning once more to our fountain for another draught, we set out along the coast. Esse and I had on shoes, but, after being so long in the salt water, they became shrunk and shrivelled when they dried, and were rather an inconvenience than any assistance in walking. The rest of the party had no shoes, and the hot sands burned and blistered their feet. We dragged ourselves on for about a mile, or it might have been more, when, turning a point, we saw before us in the deep bay a prow at anchor. She was so close in shore, that should we continue in that direction we could scarcely hope to escape the observation of those on board. Should she prove to be one of the fleet with which we had had the scratch a few days before, her people might not be inclined to treat us very civilly. Still, hunger made us desperate. We pushed on, therefore; when, surmounting a rocky height and looking over the ridge, we saw down below us a party of dark-skinned natives, collected at a short distance from the shore, while three or four other prows were at anchor a little further on. Some of the people were squatting round a fire cooking, others were repairing a boat, and others lying on the ground. An old man with silvery beard, whom we took to be a chief, was seated on a carpet, under the shade of a tree, smoking his long pipe, while two or three men squatted at a little distance, apparently ready to obey his commands. We discovered that they had each of them some ugly-looking weapons in their hands, and it suddenly occurred to us that should we make our appearance together, they might, without asking questions, use them upon our heads. I, therefore, undertook to go forward by myself, advising my companions, if they saw me killed, to make the best of their way off in an opposite direction.

“By the powers, though, but that will never do!” exclaimed Brady. “If anybody’s to be killed, I’m the boy, and so just let me go forward, if you plase.”

“No, no,” I said, “I am young, and much less likely to excite their anger than you would be.”

Pat still demurred. At length I had to exert my authority, and directed him to stay quiet while I went forward. I shall not forget the poor fellow’s look of anxiety as he saw me creep away down the hill, for I was anxious that the Malays should not discover from what direction I came. I confess that I did not feel quite comfortable about the matter, but I thought to myself, it is just as well to be killed outright as to die by inches from starvation. The Malays were not a little astonished at seeing an English midshipman in their midst, although I certainly had very little of the smart look which belongs to the genus. The guards in front of the old Rajah, as soon as they cast eyes on me, started to their feet with uplifted weapons, at which I halted, and made a profound salaam to the old gentleman beyond them. It had its due effect, for directly afterwards they lowered their swords, and their looks became much less threatening. I thought, therefore, that I might venture to approach, and advancing slowly, I made another salaam. As I could not speak a word of Malay, I had to explain by signs the intelligence I wished to convey. I therefore pointed to the sea, and then put my hands together, rocking them up and down, in imitation of a vessel, and then making the sound of an explosion, I endeavoured to explain that my ship was blown up. Next, I pointed to myself, holding up one finger, adding five others, and then, moving the palm of my hand from the sea toward the shore, indicated that we had just landed. I judged from the expression of the spectators’ countenances that they understood me, and, making another salaam, I asked permission of the Rajah to go and fetch my companions. He nodded, and I hurried off. I could not, however, resist the temptation of passing near the fire where the men were cooking. On it was boiling a large pot of rice. I held out my hands, and entreated that the cooks would put some of their food into them. They understood me, and I presently had my hands filled with hot rice, so hot, indeed, that I nearly let it fall. In spite, however, of the heat, my mouth was soon embedded in it. Before I had gone far, I had eaten the whole of it. I made signs that I should like to take some to my companions, but the Malays in return signified that they must come and fetch it themselves. Pat Brady’s delight on seeing me knew no bounds. Followed by the party, I quickly returned. We were none of us objects to excite fear. Malay pirates are not much addicted to feelings of pity. Such we believed to be the occupation of the gentry before us. Smith, I found, could speak a little Malay, and, putting him forward as interpreter, we explained more clearly to the Rajah what had happened, and begged him to help us to reach some European settlement, whence we could find our way back to our ship. This request made him cast a suspicious look at us.

“Are you Dutch?” he asked us suddenly.

Smith assured him that we were British.

“He says, sir, it is fortunate we are so,” observed Smith to me, interpreting the Rajah’s reply. “They vow vengeance against the Dutch, whom they say tyrannise over them, and declare that if we had been Dutch they would have cut the throat of every mother’s son of us.”

“If they have any doubt about the matter,” exclaimed Brady, “tell them that I will dance an Irish jig, and, by the powers, that’s more than any Dutchman could ever do. But I say, Bill, before I favour them with a specimen of my talents, just hint that a little provender will be acceptable down our throats.”

Smith explained that we had a great dancing-man among us, an art in which the chief in his sagacity must be aware the Dutch did not excel, and he hinted that not only to the dancing-man but to the rest of us some food would be very acceptable. The Rajah in reply told him, if we would sit down, our wants should soon be supplied. By this time the messes over the fire were cooked, and, with more liberality than I had expected, the Malays placed before us a couple of bowls full of fish and rice. Without ceremony, we plunged our hands into the food, which disappeared with wonderful rapidity down our throats.

“Take care the bones don’t stick in your gullets, boys,” cried Pat, every now and then turning round to the Rajah and making him a bow. “I say, Smith, just tell his Majesty, or whatever he calls himself, that as soon as I have stowed away as much as I can carry, I will give him a specimen of the jintalist Ballyswiggan jig that he ever saw in his life before.”

Paddy was as good as his word, and no sooner was our meal finished than, jumping up, forgetting all his fatigue, he began dancing a real Irish jig with wonderful agility, making the music with his own voice, crying out to us, every now and then, to strike up an accompaniment. The effect was at all events very advantageous to us, for the old Rajah looked on with astonishment and approval as Paddy continued his performance. When he ceased, the chief called Smith up to him, and spoke a few words.

“He asks where you learnt the art of dancing,” said Smith.

“Oh! Jist tell his honour, or his riverence, if that title plaises him the better, that it comes natural to an Irishman with his mother’s milk. I have danced ever since I put foot to the ground. Just as natural, tell him, as it comes to him and his friends to go out robbing and murdering, and such like little divartisements.”

I rather fancy Smith did not give an exact interpretation of Brady’s answer; at all events the performance put the old pirate into a very good humour. Seeing the condition of our clothes, which were the worse for having been soaked in salt water so long, he sent a boat aboard his prow, which returned with a supply of Eastern garments. How they were come by we did not inquire. They had never been worn, and were most probably part of the cargo of some captured trader. We very thankfully put them on, and the chief then told Smith that if we liked to lie down and sleep, we should have another meal when we woke up again, provided our dancing-man would undertake to give more of his performances, as he would then have a few other friends as spectators.

“Tell his honour I will do it with all the pleasure in the world,” answered Brady, making a salaam at the same time towards the Rajah, who seemed highly pleased with his good manners. The chief then pointed to a shady spot, on which his attendants spread some carpets. Here we thankfully lay down, and I do not think I ever slept more soundly in my life, forgetting all the hardships I had gone through. When we awoke the sun was well-nigh dipping into the ocean, and the Malays had finished the repair of their boat. The old chief was, however, still seated on his carpet, with four or five other individuals, habited much in the same way, and all gravely smoking. As soon as we sat up, another bowl of rice and fresh meat was brought us. After we had partaken of it, the Rajah called to Smith, who told Paddy that he was expected to begin his performance.

“With the greatest pleasure in life!” he exclaimed, springing up, “but you must all come and support me, and sing and clap your hands, and toe and heel it, too, every now and then. It will make my dancing go off better, and show the old boy that we wish to do our best to please him.”

Paddy’s strength having been completely recruited by his sleep and ample meals, he far outdid his morning’s performance, and elicited the warmest signs of approval from the spectators of which Orientals are capable. When it was over, all hands got into the boats, the Rajah taking us with him on board his vessel. We had from the first suspected, as was the case, that the prows did not belong to this part of the country. It being evident that the pirates did not intend us any harm, we went to sleep again soon after we got on board, in spite of our afternoon snooze. At daybreak the fleet of prows made sail for the spot where the frigate had blown up. No part of her was, however, now above water. A few seamen’s chests were seen floating about, and pieces of the wreck; and the saddest sight of all, here and there, the corpses of some of our late companions. From the way we were treated, we concluded that our friends did not form part of the fleet with which the boats of the “Resolution” had been engaged a few days before, and of course Smith wisely forbore to mention the subject. Finding that nothing more was to be picked up from the wreck, the pirate fleet continued their cruise along the coast, looking out for trading craft, from China, Java, and other parts. At night, when the weather was fine, we kept under way, like a pack of wolves, hoping to come suddenly upon a quarry. In the day-time the fleet would lie hid behind some point of land, so that they might dart out on any unwary passer-by. I learnt a lesson from their mode of proceeding, from which I hoped some day to benefit, should I, in the course of service, be ever sent to look after such gentry. What were their intentions regarding us all this time we could not tell. The old chief, though ready enough to ask questions of us, was not very communicative in return, and Smith could learn nothing from him.

“Perhaps he intends to demand a ransom for us,” I observed.

“He may, sir, but I rather think that he will keep us until some day he is hard pressed by any of our men-of-war, and then he will threaten to cut our throats if our friends do not let him get off, and it is my belief he would do it, sir. These sort of people are very civil as long as you please them, but just get on the other tack, and they will not scruple a moment to knock their best friend on the head.”

This was not a pleasant piece of information, but it did not greatly damp our spirits. We had all recovered from the effects of our exposure on the raft, but were getting somewhat weary of our long detention on board the prows. That Smith was right in the description of our hosts, we had soon too clear evidence. It was night. We were gliding calmly over the moon-lit ocean when suddenly we came upon three native craft. Smith said they were Javanese. The prows boarded, one on each side of the strangers. In an instant the Malays threw themselves on board. There was very little resistance, and they returned almost immediately, each man laden with a bale of goods. With wonderful rapidity the more valuable part of the cargo was transferred on board the prows. The chiefs prow remained at a little distance, ready to render assistance apparently if required. Esse and I were watching what was taking place. Presently we saw a figure appear at the stern of the prize. The next instant there was a plunge, and the waters closed over the man’s head. Another and another followed. The prow then cast off, and a bright flame burst forth from the merchant vessel. The materials of which she was composed ignited rapidly, and in another instant she was one mass of fire; one after the other was treated in the same way. We had got half-a-mile from the scene before all the vessels taken had burned to the water’s edge and sunk, leaving not a trace behind, while we sailed away with the goods which had lately filled their holds. I confess I did not feel quite as comfortable in the society of our friends after this occurrence as I had done before. We had been nearly six weeks on board, and the pirates had taken a considerable number of prizes, when Smith told us that he suspected, from the conversation he overheard, that they were about to return to their own stronghold, to which traders were wont to resort for the purchase of their goods. Our best chance of escape will be to make a bargain with one of the captains, and get him to buy us of the Rajah, we promising to repay him. Esse and I talked over the matter, and, though it did not appear very promising, we of course agreed to attempt it, if we could find no other way of escape. Two nights after this we were at sea, with the wind aft, and the water smooth, though the sky was overcast. Now and then the moon came forth, soon again, however, to be obscured. Our prow was leading. A small vessel, apparently a trader, appeared ahead, and we gave chase. She must have seen us, and made all sail to escape. We pursued eagerly. Now we saw her, now the darkness hid her from sight. On we went. The night was hot, and Esse and I, with our companions, were on the fore-part of the deck watching the chase, hoping heartily she would escape.

“She’s distancing us, sir,” observed Kiddle. “She’s in luck, for I don’t think the black fellows will have her this time.”

Suddenly the moon beamed forth.

“Hillo! Why, what is that?” exclaimed Esse.

We all eagerly looked out. A little on the starboard-bow, the rays of the bright luminary fell upon the white canvas of a tall ship standing across our course.

“She’s a man-of-war, or I am a Dutchman!” exclaimed Kiddle, “and a frigate too.”

“Perhaps she is the Orion herself, after all,” cried Esse. “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Chapter Twenty Three.

Old England was reached at length. I need not give the particulars of the passage home. Nothing very particular occurred. Portsmouth was a very busy place in those days. Ships fitting out or paying off kept up a constant bustle. The water was alive, the streets were alive with human beings, and the inns were full of them. We were several days paying off, but at length were once more free. I was eager to go and see my mother, and the Little Lady, and our kind friends. Mr Schank, having business in Portsmouth, told me to go on before him, promising to follow in a few days.

“Give my love to my mother and sisters, and my very kind regards to your excellent mother,” he said.

I thought he looked somewhat oddly as he spoke, and I have an idea that a more ruddy glow than usual came over his features; but that of course might have been fancy. Oldershaw, who lived a little to the north of Whithyford, agreed to accompany me, and Dicky Esse and Tom Twig happened to be going up to London the same day. We therefore all took our places on the coach together. Oldershaw had secured the box seat; we three took our places behind him. There was one other spare place, and we were wondering who would occupy it, when a stout, large-whiskered, middle-aged man climbed up and took the seat. By the way he stepped up, and by his general appearance, I saw at once that he was a seaman. Whether he was an officer or not I could not exactly make out. The guard’s horn sounded, and off we dashed up Portsmouth High Street. I had by this time grown into a tall, well-made lad. I looked indeed, as I was, quite a young man, particularly contrasted with my companions, who, though really older, were both remarkably small for their age. We were not too old, however, to be up to all sorts of midshipmen-like pranks, and Oldershaw had some difficulty in keeping us in order. Dicky and Tom were somewhat inclined to play their tricks on our companion, and made several attempts to sell him. He took their jokes, however, in very good part, and always turned their batteries upon themselves. I was sitting on the opposite side to him.

“Take care what you are about,” I whispered to Esse. “He may be a post-captain or an admiral, and you will find he is one of your examining captains when you come to pass.”

“They do not travel on the top of stage coaches,” answered Dicky. “Only small fry enjoy that privilege—lieutenants, mates, and midshipmen.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” I said. “At all events, you may find him the First-Lieutenant of the next ship you join, and he may not forget your free and easy style.”

“If he is worth his salt he will not harbour revenge for what I have said or done,” persisted Dicky.

However, I observed that both he and Twig were more careful than before in their way of addressing the stranger. I heard them telling him where we had been and some of the adventures we had gone through.

“Have you ever been out in those parts, sir?” asked Tom.

“Yes, and I know something about them, but it is a good many years ago, probably before any of you young gentlemen were born, or so much as thought of,” answered the stranger.

“Have you been away from England lately?” asked Tom.

“For a good many years, young gentleman,” answered the stranger.

“To a distant station, I suppose—to North America or the West Indies?”

“No,” answered the stranger; “I have been where I hope you may never be, and where I may never be again—kept from all you love or care for on earth. I have been inside the walls of a French prison.”

“I hope not, indeed,” said Tom. “Parlez-vous FranÇais, Monsieur?”

“As to that, I may understand a few words, but it is no pleasant matter to learn the lingo of one’s enemies, and I felt something like an old master who was shut up with me, and declared he would never prove such a traitor to his country as to learn one single French word all the time he was in prison.”

In a very short time Dicky and Tom got back to their chaffing mood. I was sorry not to have some conversation with the stranger. The latter, however, did not seem inclined to exchange jokes with them and became silent, every now and then, however, speaking a few words with Oldershaw, behind whom he sat. We separated in London, where Oldershaw took us to a respectable lodging-house with which he was acquainted, and early the next morning we started by the coach for Lincolnshire. Oldershaw and I occupied the only two places outside.

Just as the coach was starting, who should we see but the stranger who had come up with us from Portsmouth.

“There is one place inside if you do not mind taking it,” said the guard. “Very sorry, otherwise you will have to wait for the night coach, or to-morrow morning.”

The stranger stepped in and the coach drove off. I need not describe the incidents of the journey. It was dusk when we arrived at Whithyford. At length the light from the window of the little inn, at the end of the lane where I purposed getting down, appeared in sight. Begging the coachman to stop, I wished Oldershaw good-bye, and descended from my perch on the roof. My chest and bag were handed down, and the coach drove on.

“I cannot believe my eyes, Master Burton, sure it’s not you!” exclaimed Mrs Fowler, the landlady of the “Wheatsheaf.”

I assured her that I was no other than little Ben Burton, though somewhat increased in bulk during the five years I had been absent.

“And my mother?” I asked. “Is she well? And her kind friends?” The answer was satisfactory. The Misses Schank had, however, gone out to a tea party at Mr Simmon’s the lawyer.

“And my mother?” I asked, “is she there too?”

“Oh! No, Lor’ bless you, she never goes to such gay doings. She would be stopping to look after the old lady, who keeps up wonderfully. And I should not be surprised but what you find somebody else there. There was a strange gentleman came over from Ireland some days gone, and has been stopping in my house. He is a free and easy spoken sort of man, though I do not understand all he says, for he speaks in the Irish way, but he is a good customer at the bar, and is liberal-handed enough. However, Master Burton, I do not know as I should advise your mother to go and do it. You see if he was to ask me, it would be a different matter. I could hold my own. Besides, I am accustomed to such doings as his. When my good man that’s gone, Simon Fowler, was alive, he was not happy till he had got a few quarts of beer in his inside—not to speak of gin and rum. But do you see, your dear mother is a different sort of person, and it would not do for her to take up with a gentleman with such habits.”

I now began to comprehend the drift of the landlady’s remarks.

“What!” I exclaimed, “is there a person such as you describe wanting to marry my mother?”

“Well, that’s the plain matter of fact,” answered Mrs Fowler; “and what is more he swears he will have her. He has come all the way over from Ireland, and is not going back nonplussed.”

I was greatly concerned at hearing this, for although, had my mother wished to marry again, I should have been very thankful if she could have found a suitable protector, yet I was sure that such a person as Mrs Fowler described would make her miserable. There was another person I was longing to ask about, but I own, from a somewhat different feeling, I hesitated. “And Miss Emily?” I asked at length, trying to get out of the light of the candle as I spoke. “How is she?”

“Oh! She is the light of the house—the most beautifullest and brightest little creature you ever did see,” answered Mrs Fowler, with enthusiasm. “Whether she’s the captain’s daughter, or anybody else’s daughter, it does not matter to me, but I know she is a blessing to all around her.”

“Thank you, Mrs Fowler, thank you,” I answered, scarcely knowing what I said. “I am anxious to see my mother. Take care of my chest; I will take my bag with me.” Saying this, I darted out of the house and hurried down the lane. I well knew how delighted my mother would be to see me, and I had an undefined feeling that the sooner I could be with her the better. Passing through the wicket I found the house-door partly open, and heard a voice proceeding from the back parlour. It was a somewhat loud one too:

“Oh! Mistress Burthen! Mistress Burthen! Ye will be after breaking my heart, ye will; and me waiting for you these long years, and now at last come all the way over from old Ireland to find ye as hard and obdurate as the blacksmith’s anvil in the corner of Saint Patrick’s street, in Ballybruree,” were the first words that caught my ear. “Shure you will be afther relenting and not laving me a disconsolate widower, to go back to Ballyswiggan all alone by myself.”

“Indeed, Mr Gillooly, I feel that your constancy—your pertinacity shall I call it?” and there was a slight touch of sarcasm in the voice,—it was my mother who spoke, “deserves to be rewarded; but at the same time I confess that I cannot bring myself to undertake to recompense you as you desire. All I can do is to give you my best advice, and that is to try and find some other lady who is more disposed to receive your addresses than I am.”

I did not wish to be an eaves-dropper, and at the same time I scarcely liked suddenly to rush unnoticed into the room. Old Mrs Schank would, I concluded, be in the front parlour, and perhaps Emily might be with her, and I would ask her to break my arrival to my mother. Again Mr Gillooly pleaded his cause. I began to fancy, from the tone of my mother’s voice and the answers she made, that she was somewhat relenting. I knew enough of the world to be aware that even sensible people sometimes marry against their convictions, and I thought it was now high time for me to interfere. Just then I heard my mother exclaim:

“Who’s that? I saw someone at the window. It is impossible; yet— Oh! Mr Gillooly, you are very kind, you are very generous, but I cannot, I cannot marry you. After what I have just now seen, it is impossible!”

“It’s on my knees, then, I implore you, widow Burthen!” exclaimed Mr Gillooly. “Oh! Say, would you render me a desperate man and send me forth to join the Ribbonmen, or Green Boys, or other rebels against King George? It’s afther killing me ye’ll be by your cruelty; and it’s more than Jim Gillooly can stand, or has stood in his life, and so by the powers, Mistress Gillooly, you shall be, in spite of your prothestations and assartions, and—”

I now thought it high time to interfere, and rushing into the room, presented myself to the astonished gaze of Mr Gillooly, who was on the point of rising from his knees, with anger depicted on his countenance, and a gesture sufficient to alarm even a less timid person than my mother. She was staring with eyes open and lips apart towards the window which looked into the garden. The light from the lamp on the table fell on the face and figure of a man whom I at once recognised as my fellow-traveller from Portsmouth.

“Who are you?” exclaimed Mr Gillooly, as he saw me advancing. “That lady’s son,” I answered.

“Then out upon you for an impostor. That lady can have no big spalpeen of a son like you!” exclaimed Mr Gillooly, rushing towards me with uplifted fist. I could easily have escaped him by flight, but that I disdained to do, though his blow was likely to be one capable of felling me to the ground. My mother uttered a scream. At that instant the window was flung open, and in sprang the stranger. The scream arrested my assailant. He turned his head and discovered the stranger, a man of powerful frame, rushing towards him.

“Murther! murther! I’m betrayed!” shouted Mr Gillooly. “Oh! Widow, it’s all your doing, and you have led me into an ambush! Murther! Murther!” and without stopping to pick up his hat or whip he rushed from the door and out through the garden and along the lane, so I concluded, as I heard his heavy footsteps growing less and less distinct as he gained a distance from the cottage.

Chapter Twenty Four.

I left my mother, at the end of the last chapter, standing in the middle of the back parlour of Mr Schank’s cottage, her Irish admirer, Mr Gillooly, scampering up the lane as fast as his two legs would carry him, the stranger who accompanied me from Portsmouth having just before, most opportunely for me, sprung through the window and saved me from the effects of that worthy’s anger.

I had no disposition to follow him; indeed, I had a matter of far more interest to occupy my attention at the moment. My mother sank into a chair. I sprang forward to embrace her, and while she threw one of her arms round my neck, she pointed at the stranger, exclaiming:

“Is it real, or am I in a dream? Who are you? Say! Say! Do not mock me!”

“Polly, you are my own true loving wife, and I am your live husband—your faithful Dick Burton!” exclaimed my father, for he it was in reality, as he came forward and took my mother in his arms.

“No wonder you thought me dead, Mary, and a long yarn I have to tell you, how it all happened. And is this young gentleman Ben, our Ben?” he asked, as he put his arm round my neck and kissed me on the brow. “I know it is; yet if I had not seen him here I should not have known him. Well, to see him a quarter-deck officer, and on the road to promotion, and you, Mary, alive and well, and as young looking as ever, repays me for all I have gone through, and that’s no trifle.”

Now, most women under the trying circumstances I have described would have fainted away or gone into hysterics, but my mother did neither one nor the other. Perhaps we had to thank Mr Gillooly for saving her from such a result. My idea is the agitation which that worthy gentleman had put her into counteracted the effects which might have been produced, first from my sudden appearance, and then by the unlooked-for return of my father. I do not mean to say that she was not agitated, and was very nearly fainting, but she did not faint; indeed, her nerves stood the trial in a most wonderful manner. After I had been with my mother and my newly-found father for some time, I bethought me that I ought to go and pay my respects to Mrs Schank and to Miss Emily, who, my mother told me, was sitting with her; I therefore went to the drawing-room door, and, tapping, asked if I might enter.

“Come in,” said a sweet voice. The owner of the sweet voice started when she saw me, for she was evidently uncertain who I could be, while the old lady peered at me through her spectacles.

Emily, however, coming forward, put out her hand.

“How delightful! You are welcome back, Ben!” she exclaimed. “I mean Mr Burton. It is Mr Ben Burton, ma’am,” she said in a higher key, and turning to the old lady.

“Ah, Ben! You are grown indeed, and you are welcome, lad. You are always welcome,” she added after a minute, and made some inquiries of her son. “And you have come back in the very nick of time, for there is an Irish gentleman wants to marry your mother, and we do not like him, do we, Emily?”

“Oh! No, no,” said Emily, shaking her head; “it would never do.” This gave me the opportunity of saying that Mr Gillooly had taken his departure, and also that there was another very strong reason for my mother’s not marrying him—the return of my father. The old lady’s astonishment knew no bounds on hearing this. “And my girls are out! Dear me, they will be surprised when they come back. What a pity they should not have been here. It is a mercy your mother did not faint away altogether. And he is actually in the next room. Your father, who has been killed so many years!”

“They thought he was killed, ma’am,” exclaimed Emily. “He could not have been killed or he would not be here!”

“No! To be sure! To be sure!” said the old lady. “That is very clear, and very wonderful it is; but if he had been killed it would be still more wonderful! Well, I am very glad he has come back.” After a little time I went back to my father and mother, and brought him in to see Mrs Schank and the Little Lady, both of whom welcomed him cordially. I inquired after Mrs Lindars.

“She is much as usual,” answered Emily, “but she looks almost as old as grandmamma. You know I call Mrs Schank grandmamma now. She really is like a grandmother to me, and the Misses Schank are like kind aunts, though I look upon your mother, Ben, quite as a mother, for one she has been to me all my life.”

I was doubtful how I ought to convey her husband’s message to Mrs Lindars. Indeed, I felt that it would be a very difficult task. However, it was managed. I determined first to consult my mother and the poor lady’s sisters. At length they returned, and various were the notes of exclamation and astonishment with which they heard of the existence and return of my father, and still more so when they saw him.

“Well, I must say you are a very substantial, good-looking ghost,” said Miss Anna Maria, in her funny, chirruping voice, “and a much better husband you will make her, I am sure, than that strange Irishman who has been haunting the village for the last week.”

“Thank you, miss,” said my father, looking affectionately at my mother.

“And you must stay here as long as you can, Mister Burton,” said old Mrs Schank.

“Thank you again, ma’am. I shall be in no hurry to leave my wife now I have come back to her,” he said, with a sailor’s bow.

“But we want to know, Mr Burton, where you have been, and what you have been about,” said Miss Martha Schank.

“That would take up a long time, but I will try and satisfy you ladies as soon as you are ready to hear.”

“As to going to bed without some notion, we should not sleep a wink all night for thinking of it, and not be sure, after all, whether you are yourself, or your ghost, or somebody else,” exclaimed the Misses Schank almost in chorus, Miss Anna Maria adding the last remark: “We heard that you were knocked overboard and killed attacking a French ship off the coast of Italy. Was that not the case?”

“It is all very true that I was knocked overboard,” said my father. “But had I been killed, I do not think I should be here. The fact is, that when I fell into the water I came to myself, and not being able to reach the boats I got hold of the rudder chains of the vessel we had hoped to capture. There I hung on till the anger of the Frenchmen had somewhat cooled down, and then, finding I could hold on no longer, I sang out, and asked them to take me on board. They did so, and there being a surgeon in the ship, he dressed my wounds. They treated me pretty fairly till I got well, I must say that for them, but after that they sent me to a French prison. Unfortunately I had no money in my pocket, and was unable to buy paper to write a letter. What with the hard treatment I received, and the thoughts that my wife and child were left without anybody to look after them, I fell sick, and remained between life and death for many months. A kind French widow and her daughter took compassion on me, and by their means my life was saved. I after this wrote several times, but my letters must have been treated as were many others, and were never sent. I should, however, in time have got my freedom, but I fell in with an English officer who was going to be married, he told me, to a beautiful young lady, just when he was taken, and now she would have to wait for him for many years, or perhaps go and marry somebody else, thinking he was dead. He would, he said, give everything to make his escape, so I promised to help him, which I wished to do for his own sake. But I thought also that I might get away myself. It would be a long yarn if I was to tell you all our plans, and all the tricks we had to play to get out of prison. At last, however, we managed to get free and stand outside the walls of the town. He could talk French like a Frenchman, but I could not say a word. We were both dressed as countrymen—he of the better sort, and I, as a lout, born deaf and dumb. This did very well for some time, and whether or no the country people suspected us I cannot say, but I rather think they did, though many of them were very kind to Englishmen, and would gladly have helped them to escape if they dared. We worked our way north, travelling by unfrequented paths, or, when we had to take to the high road, going on generally at night. We got into high spirits, thinking that all would be right. This made us careless, when one day, just as we were leaving the town, a party of their abominable gendarmes pounced upon us. The captain showed great surprise, and wondered why they should lay hold of two innocent people. This was of no use, however. They soon showed him they knew who we were, and we were marched back to prison, looking very foolish, and the next morning sent off, with several other prisoners, to the place we had escaped from. There we were kept closely shut up. It was very hard and very cruel in them, just because we wanted to get our liberty. I made several other attempts, for I was determined to get free if I could. Life was worth nothing away from my wife and child. At last I succeeded with two others—an officer and another man. We reached the coast, cut out a small boat, and were making our way across the Channel when we were picked up by a man-of-war. It had come on to blow very heavy. Our boat was swamped alongside, and, as she was outward bound, we had to go away in her. I entered on board. We took several prizes, and I filled my empty pockets with gold. I was one of the prize crew of the first man-of-war we took worth sending home, and at last I once more set foot on the shores of England. As soon as I was free of the ship I came down here. There you have my history; I will tell you more particulars another day. It may serve, however, to convince you that I am no ghost, or that if I am, I am a big liar, saving your pardons, ladies, and that is what Dick Burton never was. Besides, I have an idea that my wife believes me, at all events. Don’t you, Polly?”

Following my father’s example, I must be somewhat brief in the remainder of my yarn. I should say, that soon after his arrival he and my mother took a cottage which happened to be vacant in the village. He fortunately had a considerable amount of prize-money and pay due to him, for which it appeared my mother had neglected to draw, and with this, in addition to what he had lately obtained, he was well able to keep house. Mrs and the Misses Schank, however, insisted upon my remaining with them, which, as may be supposed, I was very glad to do.

I spent a very happy time at Whithyford. Little Emily was my constant companion, and every day I was with her. I learned to love her more and more. At first we talked of being brother and sister, but we knew we were not, and somehow or other in time we came to leave off calling each other so. After this, at first I called her for a few days Miss Emily, but I soon dropped that again. Then I began to talk of how I was going to rise in my profession, and make heaps of prize-money, and I scarcely know, indeed, what I was going to do and be. There was Lord Collingwood, and Lord Nelson, and Lord Saint Vincent, and old Lord Camperdown, who had all been midshipmen once on a time, and were admirals and lords, and why should I not be a lord too? Emily, of course, thought that I should be, and I am not quite certain that we did not choose a title. I was to be Baron Burton of Whithyford, and I took to calling her Lady Burton, and sometimes Lady Whithyford. I do not mind confessing this now. It did no harm, and at all events made us very happy. Why should not people be happy when happiness is so easily obtained—by a little exercise of the imagination? I quite forgot to mention my mother’s devout admirer, Mr Gillooly. On inquiring the next morning after our arrival of what had become of him, we found that he had been taken ill and was laid up in bed; so it was said at the “Wheatsheaf,” where he remained for some time under the tender care of Mrs Fowler. When he recovered, unwilling to go back to Ireland without an English wife, which he promised he would bring, I rather think to spite some Irish fair one who had refused him, as a reward to the landlady for all her kindness, he made her an offer of his hand, which she accepted. They were married shortly afterwards. She disposed of her establishment, and, dressed in a new satin gown of the gayest colours, accompanied him back, not only as a blooming bride, but, as Anna Maria observed, a thoroughly full-blown one, to become the mistress of Ballyswiggan Hall. When Mr Schank at last came home, there was a great rejoicing, and two days afterwards the postman’s knock was heard at the door, and Emily, running out, brought back a long official looking letter.

“It has come at last,” he exclaimed, and his voice showed more emotion than he was wont to exhibit. “Oliver is a fine fellow; I knew he would do his best;” and holding up the letter to us all, we saw it was addressed to Commander Schank. “And now the next thing they must do is to give me a ship and post me, and then, mother, I may perhaps do something to place you and my sisters in the position you ought to occupy, and make you all comfortable to the end of your days.”

“No, no, Jack! We are as well off as we wish to be. You must marry as you said you would. We would far rather see you married happily than change to the finest house in London.”

“No, no, sisters,” he answered, and something very like a sigh burst from his heart. “I once had a dream, but that has passed. I shall marry my ship when I get one, and I hope never to lose her while I have life.”

Captain Schank was known to be too good an officer to be allowed to remain long unemployed, or I should say Captain Oliver was too zealous a friend to allow his merits to be passed by. At length another letter arrived, appointing him to the command of a fine brig sloop just off the stocks at Portsmouth. He was at once to go down and commission her, and fit her for sea.

“Ben,” he said, “Captain Oliver writes me too that you will be appointed to her. You have only one year to serve, and after that he hopes you will get your commission. If the Ministry keeps in and he lives, his hopes will, I am very sure, come true. Oldershaw, as you know, is promoted, and has been appointed Second-Lieutenant of her. The First-Lieutenant is a stranger to me. I see he has been a good many years at sea as First-Lieutenant; but he may not be the worse as a First-Lieutenant on that account I hope. I must get your father to come down to Portsmouth, to help me pick up hands for the brig Oliver hopes to get him a berth on board a ship in ordinary, as some recompense to him for his long imprisonment, and for his gallant efforts to assist the Honourable Captain Burgoyne in escaping from prison.

“You should not miss the opportunity of seeing a ship fitted out. Take my advice. Make yourself practically acquainted with everything on board, from stowing the hold to rigging the topgallant masts.” The next day Mr Schank started for Portsmouth, telling me to be prepared to follow him in the course of a few days.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Conclusion.

The last days I spent at Whithyford ought to have been very delightful, for my kind friends vied with each other in making much of me, as of course so did my mother. My father talked of going down to Portsmouth with me, but he changed his mind.

“No, no,” he said, “you know how to take care of yourself; and it is as well the old boatswain should not come and interfere with you. God bless you, my boy; go on as you have begun, and you will do well.”

And Emily. I am not going to repeat all we said to each other. We were very young, and I dare say very silly. We exchanged vows, and hoped to marry when I became a commander, or perhaps, we agreed, it might not be so long; perhaps when I was a lieutenant. Many lieutenants had wives, and though, to be sure, some were not very well off, yet we hoped to be an exception to the general rule, and to have at all events enough to live upon. Thus, full of love and hope, I started away for Portsmouth. I was quickly on board the “Pearl”. The First-Lieutenant, Mr Duff, was a man after Captain Schank’s own heart—a thorough tar, and under him, doffing my midshipman’s uniform, I was speedily engaged with a marline-spike slung round my neck, and a lump of grease in one hand, setting up the lower rigging. The brig was soon fitted for sea. Oldershaw joined her as Second-Lieutenant. My two other friends Tom Twig and Dicky Esse were glad to go to sea again with Captain Schank. I also fell in with Toby Kiddle and Pat Brady at Portsmouth. I persuaded both to join, Toby being rated as a quarter-master, and Pat as captain of the foretop.

“You see, Mister Burton,” he observed, with a wink, “I can now write home to Ballybruree to tell them I have been made a captain; and sure it’s the truth, and it will help to raise the family in the estimation of the neighbours, and may be they will think one captain as good as another.”

I confess that I should have preferred being in a rattling frigate; and yet we had brave hearts on board the brig, and hoped at all events to do something in her. We were ordered out to the North American station, and then to proceed on to the West Indies. It used to be thought, in those days, a good thing to give ships’ companies the advantage of a hot and cold climate alternately. The cold was to drive away the yellow fever, and the heat to cure us of frostbites, to which we might be subjected at Halifax or up the Saint Lawrence. We preferred, on the whole, the West Indies, for, being constantly at sea, we had not much sickness on board. We took a good many of the enemy’s merchant vessels, which struck without offering much resistance; but, though they assisted to fill our pockets, we gained little honour, or glory, or a chance of promotion. We had been, indeed, a year and a half on the station without exchanging a shot with the enemy. At length, when off the east end of Jamaica, while we were on the starboard tack, a strange ship was discovered steering under easy sail on the opposite tack. What she was we could not make out. She was considerably larger than we were, but still Captain Schank determined, should she be an enemy, to attack her. About an hour before noon she passed to leeward of us, and almost within gun-shot. We made a private signal. It was not answered.

“About ship!” cried the Captain, and away we stood in chase. In about a couple of hours we were within gun-shot. Our bow gun was fired and returned by the enemy’s stern chaser. She then hoisted French colours and set more sail, edging away to the southward. At length we got up abreast of her, and brought her to close action. She, however, fought well, and we soon had our braces, bowlines, and tiller-ropes shot away. The enemy, now expecting to make us an easy prize, ran us aboard.

“Boarders away!” cried Captain Schank. The Captain’s wooden leg preventing him from getting on board the enemy as rapidly as he wished, Mr Duff led our men. Scarcely, however, had he reached the ship’s deck when a pistol bullet through his head laid him low. I was close behind him. Oldershaw was bringing on a fresh set of boarders.

“On, lads, on!” shouted Oldershaw. We swept the enemy before us, and, though they made a stout resistance, in ten minutes we had killed, or driven below or overboard, the greater part of the crew. The remainder, who had escaped aft, threw down their arms and cried for quarter. Our prize mounted twenty-four guns, and the crew amounted to upwards of two hundred men. Two days afterwards we were entering Kingston Harbour with her in triumph. Oldershaw was appointed First-Lieutenant of the brig, and I received an order as her Second-Lieutenant. Soon after this, we were ordered to proceed, with three ships of the line and two frigates, in search of a French squadron, which had been committing depredations on the African coast, and had just been heard of in the neighbourhood of the West Indies. We were delayed by a hurricane which raged over those seas. Fortunately we were in harbour, but some of the ships which were outside suffered greatly. However, as Toby Kiddle observed, “What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” and we could only hope that the enemy had suffered in the same way. At length, after cruising for some time, we, being ahead, discovered a frigate, which, from the cut of her sails, we had little doubt was French. Signalling to our consorts, we gave chase, keeping considerably ahead of all the rest. In about two hours we had got within two miles of the chase, and as we approached still nearer we commenced firing our bow guns. The French frigate, hoisting her colours, returned our fire with her stern chasers. We now shortened sail.

“If we get much nearer,” said Captain Schank, “she may send us to the bottom with one of her broadsides; but at this distance we may cripple her and prevent her escaping.” The nearest English frigate was by this time about three miles astern of us. Already the Frenchman had cut up our rigging a good deal, and at length one of her shots struck our bow between wind and water. It was quickly plugged, and we continued at some distance firing away, our shot every now and then striking the enemy, but what damage we had done we could not ascertain. The leading frigate was a very fast one, and was now rapidly coming up. We, I confess, were anxiously looking out for her, for, although prudence might have forbade us getting nearer the enemy, our eagerness to stop her would have made us run every risk to effect that object. At length the English frigate got within gun-shot of the enemy. She opened fire with her bow chasers. Down came the Frenchman’s flag, when once more we made sail and hove to close to the prize. Captain Schank ordered me to proceed on board and take possession. I felt, I must confess, almost as surprised as a mouse would do at conquering a lion. The French captain, however, with becoming politeness though with somewhat a wry face, presented me with his sword, and we found ourselves in possession of a forty-four gun frigate, measuring upwards of one thousand tons, and a crew of three hundred and fifty men. Besides Frenchmen, there were on board several Englishmen, who formed part of the crew of an Indiaman the frigate had captured two days before. Among them were the second and third officers. The Indiaman had been overtaken at night, and the French ship had fired into her, and killed the captain and first officer and a number of the crew. The passengers who were below had happily escaped. The Indiaman’s officers, thorough gentlemanly young fellows, told me that they had only lost sight of the prize the day before, that she was a slow sailer, and from the direction in which she was standing, they had little doubt in what direction we should find her. The recaptured prisoners also told us whereabouts we should fall in with the remainder of the French squadron.

We accordingly sent one of the Indiaman’s officers on board the frigate, while Captain Schank received orders from the Commodore to proceed in search of the Indiaman. Scarcely had we lost sight of our squadron, which was standing in the direction the Frenchmen were supposed to be, when it came on to blow from the north-west. The wind rapidly increased till it became a downright heavy gale. Our brig, however, was a fine sea-boat, and under close-reefed topsails rode it out bravely. Our chief anxiety was, however, on account of the risk we ran of losing the Indiaman. Still the mate was convinced that she could not have passed to the northward of where we then were.

“She will be standing on the larboard tack, Captain Schank,” he observed; “if she sees all clear she will run through the Gut of Gibraltar, or if not, will make for some port in the Bay of Biscay.”

However, as the Atlantic is a broad highway, our hopes of falling in with her were far from sanguine. For three days we lay hove to, till at length the gale moderating we once more made sail and stood to the eastward. A bright look-out was kept for the sight of a sail, and from sunrise to sunset volunteers were continually going aloft, in the hopes of being the first to see the wished-for ship. Next morning, when it was my watch on deck, I heard a voice from the maintopmast head shouting:

“A dismasted ship on the weather-beam not four miles away.”

I sent Esse, who was midshipman of the watch, aloft, and he corroborated Pat Brady’s statement.

Sending below to call the Captain, I kept the brig away in the direction of the ship. The sea was still running very high. As daylight increased, we could see her clearly rolling in the trough of the sea, and in an utterly helpless condition. For some time the mate could not tell whether it was his own ship or not.

“Too likely,” he observed, “for the Frenchman’s shot had wounded some of our masts, and she very probably lost them in the late gale.”

Captain Schank and all the officers were quickly on deck, as were the crew, and all eyes were turned to the wreck. As we drew near, we were left in no doubt of her being a large Indiaman; and Mr Paul, the mate, soon recognised her as the “Yarmouth Castle,” to which he had belonged. The signal of distress was flying on the stump of her mizzen-mast. As we drew near, we discovered that the gale had otherwise severely handled her. Most of her boats were gone, and her bulwarks stove in, probably when the masts were carried away. As we passed a short distance to windward of her, a person ran to the side with a large board, on which was chalked, “Keep by us! Sprung a leak! Pumps choked! Captured by Frenchmen!”

“Ay, ay,” shouted Captain Schank, and his voice borne down by the wind probably reached them. As we passed, several people rushed up to the man who had shown the board, and tore it out of his hands. This showed us that we must be careful when going alongside, lest the Frenchmen should attempt to beat us back. The difficulty of communicating with the ship was still very great, for the sea continued high and broken, and she rolled very much. We accordingly wore round and hove to at a little distance, intending to wait till the sea should go down.

The mate told us that there were a great many of the English crew and Lascars left on board, and he thought, should they make the attempt, they would be able to retake the ship from the Frenchmen. No attempt was made, however, and at length, the weather moderating, a boat, of which I took the command, was lowered, the brig being sufficiently near at the time to fire into her, should the French prize crew offer any resistance.

What was taking place on board the Indiaman we could not see, but just as we got alongside several people appeared and hove ropes to us, and assisted me with four of my men to get on board. I observed, as I reached the deck, that a scuffle was taking place forward, and I then found that the passengers and some of the crew had suddenly attacked the Frenchmen, who, it appeared, had intended manning their guns in the hopes of beating off the brig. Our appearance quickly gave an easy victory to our friends. The superior officers of the Indiaman had all been taken out of her. The carpenter, however, was on board, and told me he hoped, if the pumps could be cleared and properly worked, that the leak could be kept under. A richly-laden Indiaman was indeed a prize worth recovering. The passengers had nearly all remained on board, and expressed their gratitude for the timely succour which had been afforded them. The Frenchmen, finding that all hope of carrying off their prize was gone, yielded themselves prisoners; their commanding officer, who had, with his men, been driven forward, delivering up his sword to me. I sent the boat with Dicky Esse back to tell Captain Schank that I thought, with some thirty of our hands in addition to the ship’s crew whom we had on board, to be able to keep the pumps going, and to rig jury-masts by which the ship might be safely carried to England. Among the passengers a gentleman was pointed out to me who had been very active in retaking the ship from the hands of the Frenchmen. I inquired his name. “Mr Bramston,” was the answer.

“How strange,” I thought: “and is Mrs Bramston on board?”

“Yes, sir, she is, but she is very ill, and has constantly kept her cabin.”

“Have they any children?” I asked.

“No, none, sir,” said a lady who overheard the question. “Poor lady, she once had a daughter, a little girl, who was lost in a very sad way, and I do not think she has ever recovered that event.”

As may be supposed I could not then ask further questions, as my entire attention was required for the duty of the ship. I asked Kiddle, who accompanied me on board, what he thought of the weather.

“It’s moderating, sir, and I hope we shall be able to keep the ship afloat if we get more assistance.”

The sea rapidly went down, and the men I asked for were sent on board. The pumps were again speedily set going, and as the ship laboured less we began to gain upon the leak. Fortunately there was a good supply of spars on board, and I hoped, should the weather continue moderate, to be able to rig jury-masts the following day. We worked hard till nightfall, most of the Frenchmen giving their assistance at the pumps. Indeed, had we not fallen in with them, the probabilities are that the ship would have gone down; so that they owed their lives to us, although they were not well-pleased at being made prisoners. I now for the first time was able to enter the cuddy. Coming off the dark deck, I was struck by the bright light of the cabin, the tables glittering with plate and glass set for supper, well secured, as may be supposed, by the fiddles, a number of passengers, ladies and gentlemen, being collected round them. They greeted me warmly, and numerous questions were put to me as to the probability of the ship’s reaching home in safety. I assured them that I hoped in the course of a week or so, if the wind was favourable, that we might find ourselves in the Chops of the Channel. “Although,” I added, “you know the chances of war, but I promise you that our brig will stick by you and fight to the last for your protection.”

I was not sorry to take my seat at table among them, as I had eaten nothing for some hours. The gentlemen all begged to take wine with me, and assured me they believed that, had we not fallen in with them, the ship would have gone down. When Mr Bramston addressed me, I replied that I knew his name, and asked if he came from Ceylon.

“Yes,” he answered, “I have been there for many years.”

I then told him that my commander, Captain Schank, had some time before written to him on an important matter, and asked whether he had received the letter.

“Yes,” he answered, “just before I left India, and I will speak to you by-and-by on that matter.”

After supper he took me aside, and begged to know further particulars of the death of Mr Herbert. “Though,” he remarked, “that was not the name by which you knew him.”

“Well,” he said, after I had told him, “the less his poor daughter knows of these painful circumstances the better. I am now returning with her, and, I am thankful to say, her health has already benefited by the voyage. I trust the meeting with her mother will have a beneficial effect on her.”

“I am sure it will on Mrs Lindars,” I observed: “her great wish was, that should her daughter have been taken away, she might have left some children on whom she might bestow her long pent-up affection.”

“Alas!” said Mr Bramston, “our one only child, a little daughter, was taken from us at an early age in a very sad way. Mrs Bramston had been very ill, and had been advised to proceed to Madras for change of air. An old naval friend offered her and me a passage, and I accordingly hurried on board, leaving our child under the charge of a friend at Colombo. I returned as soon as possible, and finding my wife yearning for her little one, I resolved to send her to her. A dhow was on the point of sailing, in which several friends had taken a passage. I committed our child and nurse to their charge. The dhow never reached her destination, and we have every reason to believe that she foundered with all on board.”

“That is indeed strange!” I said aloud. I stopped, for I was afraid of raising hopes in the heart of the father which might be disappointed. He heard me.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“When was this?” I inquired.

“In the month of July, in the year —,” he said.

“That is indeed wonderful,” I exclaimed, scarcely able to restrain my feelings. “I was a child at the time,” I said, “but I was on board a frigate, which fell in with the wreck of a dhow. The only people alive on board were an Indian nurse and a child—a little girl. The nurse died; but the child was taken care of by my mother, and is now under the protection of the family of the commander of the brig to which I belong, Captain Schank, the officer who wrote to you on the subject of Mr Herbert’s death.”

“God be praised!” exclaimed Mr Bramston. “I cannot have the shadow of a doubt that the little girl who was picked up by your frigate was my daughter.”

“By-the-by, I have a man with me who was on board the ‘Boreas’ at the time, and he can tell you even more than I can,” I remarked.

Mr Bramston was eager to see him. I sent for Kiddle. He corroborated my account, adding further particulars, which left no doubt whatever on the mind of Mr Bramston that the Little Lady—my Emily—was his daughter.

“And is she a pretty child? Can you give me an idea of her size and appearance?”

“Yes, she is, sir, indeed, very pretty; but you must remember she is no longer a child; she is a young lady,” I answered, feeling that my voice was very likely to betray my feelings.

“I long to see her,” exclaimed Mr Bramston. “But I must break the tidings gently to her mother, or the sudden joy may be too much for her.”

We were busily employed all the next day getting up jury-masts, and not till the next evening was I able to go into the cabin. I was then introduced to Mrs Bramston. I found that she was somewhat prepared for the narration I had to give her. The moment I saw her I was convinced that Emily was her daughter, for the likeness was very striking. Well, I must cut my yarn short. Having rigged jury-masts we made sail, and, the wind coming to the southward, steered a course for England. The brig kept cruising about us like a vigilant sheep-dog, ready to do battle with any who might interfere with his charge. At length England was reached, and getting leave, I accompanied my new-found friends to Whithyford. I will not describe the meeting of the mother and her child, and the elder child and her mother. One thing only made me unhappy. I dreaded lest Mr Bramston, who I found had made a large fortune in India, should object to his daughter marrying a poor lieutenant of no family. I could not bear suspense, and so Emily and I told him that we were engaged, and she added that she should break her heart if she were not allowed to marry me. Mr Bramston smiled.

“You are rather young to think of such matters now,” he said, “but when my friend here becomes a commander, if you are still in the same mind, I promise you that neither your mother nor I will object.”

In the course of two years I did become a commander. We were in the same mind and married. I stuck to my profession, however, was posted, got the command of a dashing frigate, in which I did good service to my country, and am now a KCB with my flag in prospect.