When Archy went below, after dining in the Admiral's cabin, he was distressed to find that Langton had grown worse instead of better during the day, and was in a high fever. As the night wore on it increased to delirium. His injuries in the shipwreck began to trouble him again, especially his three broken ribs, and the mere motion of the ship at anchor gave him poignant pain. Towards morning Dr. MacBean, who had watched him, with Archy, all night, said:

"Mr. Langton must be taken ashore immediately, and there will be no more cruising for him for a good long time."

Archy heard this with mixed pleasure and regret. He was truly distressed at Langton's sufferings. But the idea that he would have his friend's company at Gibraltar, for what he thought would be a short and rather interesting period, was undeniably pleasing to him. They got Langton ashore early that morning and established him in the old stone building which served for a hospital, and there Archy nursed him faithfully, but very awkwardly, for many days. Langton was desperately ill; and, although it was known that he would probably recover, it was out of the question that he should leave with the fleet, which was to sail the first fair wind after the 10th of February.

Archy's sole recreation in those dreary days of watching Langton's sufferings, when the issue might be life or death, was a solitary evening walk up to Europa Point and back. He did not forget his new friends, the Curtises, and their kindness and sympathy were grateful to him. One of the first things Captain Curtis said to him was:

"The Spanish lines are advancing so rapidly that I make no doubt they will soon get the range of the hospital, and if your friend has to be moved you could not do better than come up here. It is safe, and it is healthier, I think, than the spots lower down."

Archy thanked him warmly, and immediately went to work to have a hut set up, like Mrs. Curtis's, and very close to it. He got some blankets and mattresses from the ship, and in a day or two he had a place to take Langton whenever the hospital shared the fate of most of the buildings in the lower town, and began to fall about their ears.

On the morning of the 13th of February, the wind being fair, Admiral Rodney's fleet picked up their anchors, and, amid a roar of cheers and the thunder of guns, the ships took their way towards the open sea. The garrison, refreshed and encouraged, and with supplies for many months, yet with sorrow, saw them go; and as Archy, standing on the mole, caught sight of the Royal George rounding Cabrita Point in her usual grand style and leading the fleet, as she always did, his heart gave a great thump of regret—vain as most regrets are. He had been a prisoner on her—he had not been a free man for many long months—but he had been kindly treated, he had made friends, and it seemed more natural to him, sailor that he was, to be afloat than ashore. But he had readily adopted the sanguine view of the officers of the fleet, and most of those of the garrison, that the siege was nearing an end; nor was this pleasing delusion shattered until sunset of the day that had seen the British fleet sail away.

Just as the sun was sinking he left Langton in charge of a nurse and climbed to the top of Jacob's-ladder. When he found himself on the highest point of the Rock, he thought he had never seen a lovelier sight, except on that evening, four months before, when he had caught the first glimpse of Gibraltar from the deck of the Seahorse. Deeply blue and deliciously calm lay the Mediterranean, spread before him in the soft glow of evening. The little British squadron which was stationed at Gibraltar lay motionless at anchor, the work of the day done. From the batteries below him he could hear the faint commotion of relieving the guard, and the mellow notes of a single bugle floated up. Then the sunset gun boomed over the waters, and the salute was sounded on the ships; but the exquisite silence, the hour, the scene, the distance, made it all seem like the music of a dream.

Archy was of a nature susceptible to these charms, and from impetuous actions and uproarious spirits he often fell into moments of soft and not unpleasing melancholy. He was thinking of the history of the Rock—the valor that had won it, the patriotic anguish of the Spaniards that another nation should possess it, the gallant lives laid down on either side in the effort to take it or to keep it—when he heard a step behind him, and Captain Curtis was standing near him.

"Good-evening, Mr. Baskerville. I see we have the same taste in selecting this spot for an evening walk. Usually, I find it quite deserted at this time of day."

"I find my only chance of air and exercise is at this time, when I can leave my friend and cousin, Mr. Langton, for an hour or two. He is better now than he has been, and I hope in a week or two I may be able to leave him and get through the Spanish lines, on my way to France."

"Do you think the Spaniards will let you through?"

"Of course," cried Archy, amazed and disconcerted at Captain Curtis's tone.

"I hope so, for your sake, but I question it. You can undoubtedly get to the headquarters of the Spanish commander, Don Martin de Soltomayer, at any time you like, under a flag of truce; but I have very little expectation that they will let you through their lines—certainly not now, when the fortress has just been revictualled, and you would probably represent to the outside world that we are in no danger of starvation for a long time to come. It is the Spanish policy to make their people think that we are on the verge of surrender. Besides, they will at once suspect you to be a spy, and it takes a long time to remove suspicion from the Spanish mind. And what object have they in letting any one out of here? Not the smallest. So, Mr. Baskerville, I think that your anticipation of getting away, like that of some of our military and naval friends here and abroad, who believe the siege will shortly be raised, is a mistake. You are in for a good long term—that you may depend upon."

Archy was staggered by this, and walked along in silence by Captain Curtis's side, wondering at his rash presumption that he could get out of Gibraltar as easily as he had got in. Suddenly he burst out:

"What folly was mine! I should have remained with the fleet!"

Archy's heart sank lower and lower as Captain Curtis continued:

"I know the temper of the Spanish people, and they mean to take Gibraltar if it is in the power of mortal man. They will soon have the assistance of the French; and a French engineer is a very dangerous person to his enemies, I can tell you. The garrison is relieved at present—but I look for an attack by land and sea that will test our mettle. Luckily, we have a Governor who does not know the meaning of the word surrender. He set the example to the garrison of having his own horse killed and distributed for food, and has lived, for some time past, on a few ounces of rice a day, and the little fish we catch, that are no larger than sprats."

Archy was silent with disappointment and consternation after this. At last he said, determinedly:

"At all events, I shall do my best to get Don Martin de What's-his-name to let me out."

"Come," said Captain Curtis, feeling sorry for him, "let us go up to my hut and see my wife and little girl. You are a prime favorite with them both already."

As they neared the hut they heard the sound of singing—a man's barytone, full and rich, and a child's treble, shrill but sweet.

"That is my little girl," said Captain Curtis, with a smile, "and my man Judkins. He carried Dolly in his arms when she was a baby, and, I believe, loves her better than anything on earth. Her first playthings were his cap and belts, and he is still her favorite playfellow. He has a fine voice, as you can tell, and has taught Dolly every song in the British army, but none of the navy songs; for Judkins was in the army before he was a marine."

"I understand," replied Archy, laughing. "There is no love lost between sailors and marines."

Presently they could distinguish the two companions—the old marine and the little girl—sitting together on a rock, Dolly wrapped up in a huge cloak of Judkins's, and both of them singing, at the top of their voices, the fine old song "The British Grenadiers."

Just then the singers became aware of their audience. Judkins stopped short in the midst of a "tow, row, row," and jumped as if he were shot, while Dolly ran and swung around her father's legs, and then turned her attention to Archy.

"I haven't been hungry since you came," she said, "and Judkins and I can sing a great deal louder and better when we aren't hungry—can't we, Judkins?"

"Yes, miss," replied Judkins, standing rigidly at "attention," and deeply embarrassed.

Archy begged them to continue, and Dolly quite readily, and Judkins blushing very much, evidently enduring agonies of sheepishness, yet obeyed orders, and gave "The Lincolnshire Poacher," "The Dashing White Sergeant," and other famous songs of the British army.

Nothing could exceed the kindness and sweetness of Mrs. Curtis towards Archy. In some way she at once divined that he was motherless, and his tenderness to Dolly showed that he had a good heart. As for Archy himself, in spite of his fondness for "seeing life" and his adventurous disposition, he felt all the sweetness and charm of domestic life, and was quite happy to be even a chance partaker in the home circle that was yet to be found in the rude shelter to which the Spanish cannonade had driven his new-found friends. He remained until it was time for Captain Curtis to return to his ship, and after a cordial invitation from Mrs. Curtis to visit them often, and an affectionate good-night from Dolly, Archy returned to his quarters at the hospital.

He lay awake that night, troubled by what Captain Curtis had told him; but in the morning his irrepressible spirits reasserted themselves, and he began to think that, after all, he might get away.

That day Langton was much better in health, but low in his mind over the departure of the fleet, and Archy very indiscreetly let out Captain Curtis's opinion as to the length of the siege.

"Then we shall lose Gibraltar, I am afraid," said Langton, sadly.

"What are you talking about?" cried Archy. "It takes a lot of beating to whip an Englishman—we know it to our sorrow. But, nevertheless, we will soon chase all of your beggarly redcoats out of America; then you can turn your whole attention to the Don Spaniards; and then—Lord help 'em! And you will be going back to England and be adopted by Lord Bellingham in lieu of me, while I shall be captain of a smart little frigate under the American colors, and I'll call and see you at Bellingham Castle. Oh, great guns, what fun I'll have! You ought to know your venerable grandfather, my boy; you'll often wish, when you are rolling in splendor at Bellingham, that you were at Gibraltar living on rice and salt fish. Uncle Baskerville is a trump—as fine an old chap as I know, if he would but leave off his sermons to me about returning to my allegiance to my king and country, and taking my place as the prospective heir and head of the Baskerville family. But our grandfather—oh, ye gods!"

Langton laughed feebly at this, and Archy, hauling a letter out of his pocket, said, "Here is a copy of the letter I sent by the fleet, and I shall send this copy by the first expedition to the African coast, in hopes that in one way or the other it may reach Bellingham Castle. This is to my grandfather." And Archy read with a great flourish:

"'Honored Sir,—I take the first opportunity of communicating with you and my uncle, after my singular disappearance from York, at the Assizes. The story of my adventures is briefly this: A press was organized at York, and I, happening to be in the tavern when it took place, got my head cracked, and knew no more until I found myself aboard of His Majesty's ship of the line Royal George, in Biscay Bay, bound for Gibraltar, in Rodney's fleet, with a convoy for the relief of the garrison. And here I am, sir, on Gibraltar Rock, preferring to take my chances of getting to France from here than with the fleet, which goes to the Leeward Islands. This place has been hotly besieged, and some think we have not seen the worst of it yet; but my expectation is that Great Britain will shortly abandon her hopeless attempt to coerce the independent American colonies—'

"The footstool will fly, and everything else handy, when the old gentleman reads this paragraph," interrupted Archy in his reading.

—"'and then the fortress will be relieved. But no one dreams of surrender, and all reports of that kind reaching England must be discredited.

"'You perhaps know by this time, from the Gazette, that your grandson, Trevor Langton, Esq., was saved, and not lost, at the wreck of the Seahorse, and behaved with the greatest gallantry in the action of the 16th of January with Admiral Juan de Langara's fleet. An old wound, reopened, has given him great pain, and he was in grave danger for a while, but is now convalescing. Being unable to sail with the fleet, he is now here in hospital, and there is no immediate prospect of his getting away. We are better friends than ever since finding out our relationship, and he is so fine a young gentleman, and so good an officer, that I think you could not do better than to make him your heir in lieu of my unworthy self.'

"My boy, I am afraid I have murdered all your chances by that sentence, for our respected grandfather goes by the rule of contrary.

"'Please present my uncle with my most respectful compliments, and assure him of my warmest affection. I shall endeavor to remember and profit by all his kind counsels except one—to abandon my country; but I was born an American and I mean to die one.'"

"You could not help putting that in, could you?" languidly remarked Langton. "You are a great fellow for proclaiming what everybody knows, and thereby showing yourself very, very young."

"And you are so prudent and oyster-like that you appear very, very old," retorted Archy, good-naturedly, "but not so very, very wise. However, see how respectfully I end my letter:

"'With sincere good wishes for your lordship's health and happiness, and high appreciation of your lordship's extreme kindness to me, I beg leave to subscribe myself your lordship's affectionate grandson and obedient servant,

"'Archibald Baskerville,
"'Midshipman in the Continental Navy.'"

The cannonade from the Spanish lines had been booming all the time Archy and Langton were talking, but it sounded strangely near just then; and when Archy went to the window and looked towards the isthmus he saw that a new battery had been unmasked in the advanced lines of the Spaniards. Suddenly a deafening crash resounded behind him. A round shot had burst through the wall, and, amid the dÉbris, lay the cot on which Langton was lying. He was unhurt, but Archy said:

"Come, it is too hot here for us. I must get help and carry you up to the hut in the rocks." And in an hour Langton lay under the rude but safe shelter provided for him under the rocks at Europa Point.

For the first week or two Archy was taken up with caring for Langton, and trying to make their cranny in the rocks comfortable. In this effort he met with the greatest kindness from Mrs. Curtis; and the deftness with which, out of their few belongings, she made them really a tolerably comfortable place to live, caused Archy to exclaim with enthusiasm:

"I have always heard, ma'am, that one woman could do as much as twelve men and a boy; and now I know it!"

Judkins's help was by no means to be despised, however, and with the resources of an old campaigner he showed them marvels. Archy was eager to begin the effort for his exchange immediately, but the garrison knew that Don Martin, the Spanish Commander-in-Chief, after the departure of the British fleet, had gone away for a few weeks to recover his health, and both Captain Curtis and General Eliot, to whom Captain Curtis introduced Archy, advised him to wait until Don Martin's return, as the second in command would probably do nothing in his absence. Archy acquiesced in this, and settled himself to spend the intervening time as patiently as he could. He was courteously, and even kindly, treated by everybody, and with his gay and jovial nature he soon became hail-fellow-well-met with the whole garrison and population, with one exception. This was the officers of the Hanoverian regiment, for King George had let some of his German troops for hire to fight the Spanish, as he had hired Hessians to fight the Americans. Archy found that the English officers and soldiers had but little more liking for the Hanoverians than he had, although it could not be denied that the Germans did their duty, and suffered and fought along with the rest. Archy took a malicious delight in telling how, in America, the Hessians were chiefly good for eating up the provender, and when there was fighting for dinner these prudent Teutons usually retired, and left the British to settle with the Americans. Archy, boy-like, although he had the stature of a man, avoided the Hanoverian officers ostentatiously, mimicked their droll accent whenever he had a chance, and took a vast amount of trouble to let them know how lightly he esteemed them—of which the stolid Germans were generally unconscious, and to which they were always indifferent.

The bombardment kept up steadily, but the loss of life was singularly small. The people grew accustomed to it in the day, but those who had fled southward in the beginning, to temporary shelter, were still alarmed by it during the night, and so remained in their miserable huts. As the case always is, after the first horror people began to see the amusing side of even very dreadful events, and it became a relief to laugh at the grotesque things that happened.

One evening, in the spring, about twilight, Archy Baskerville and Captain Curtis were walking soberly through one of the narrow streets of the upper town, passing the barracks of Colonel Schlippersgill's Hanoverian regiment. The windows of a small room, used as a mess-hall, were open, and around the table in the middle of the floor they could see a dozen burly German officers wreathed in smoke from their long pipes, and with great mugs of beer before them—for a supply of beer had been laid in especially for them.

"Look at them," said Archy, in a tone of deep disgust, "smoking and guzzling—guzzling and smoking—nothing but that."

"Nonsense," replied Captain Curtis, briskly. "Those poor Hanoverians can do nothing to please you. Their smoking is harmless, and their guzzling is of beer, which is much better for them than the rum and grog we give our men."

Just then they noticed, in the soft dusk of evening, a two-legged black shadow moving around the parapet of the long, low building in which was the mess-hall.

"It is a peacock," said Archy, after watching this mysterious creature for a while, "and a big one, too. Where do you suppose such a creature could come from?"

"It is some one's pet peacock, no doubt," was Captain Curtis's reply, in a low voice—"some one who has managed to conceal it all this time." For animal pets had disappeared long before this, and had, generally speaking, been made into broth.

The peacock tiptoed gingerly along the ledge, and then, going towards the centre of the roof, peered curiously down a small skylight that had been left open in the mess-room for the benefit of the air.

"The peacock knows where to go for company," whispered Archy. "I always thought those German officers, with their everlasting strut, first cousin to the peacock family."

The peacock, as if satisfied with his view, came back to the parapet, and then a voice was heard in an eager whisper from the street, saying, in Italian:

"Pippo! my Pippo! Come back to me. Come back to me, Pippo. Ungrateful bird! For you I have nearly starved myself, and have remained in my cellar when I might have been safe elsewhere. Dear Pippo, come back!"

A dark spot against the wall, under the window, resolved itself into the figure of an old Genoese woman, well known as Mother Nina, whose pet the peacock had been for many years, and who had miraculously kept the bird out of sight for months.

Pippo seemed totally disinclined to accept this cordial invitation to return to his foster-mother, and showed his indifference by again tipping cautiously towards the open skylight. Archy, however, felt sorry for the poor old woman crouching under the window, and, seeing a trellis-work covered with vines by the side of the building, he quickly swung himself up on the roof, and moved softly towards the peacock, which seemed absorbed in contemplation of Colonel Schlippersgill and his companions under the skylight. Some words now floated up from the deep, guttural German throats. Archy did not understand German, but presently Colonel Schlippersgill himself spoke in English:

"Eef it were not for dose damned golonies in Ameriga, der blace would haf been reliefed long ago. I would be glad der see der defel himself eef he would shtop der bang, bang—"

That allusion to "damned golonies" was too much for Archy's temper. He seized the huge old peacock by the legs, and, giving it a vicious swing, which brought a frantic and ear-piercing squawk from the creature and an agonized shriek from the old woman, dashed the bird down the skylight into the laps of the German officers; and, at the same moment, the last shell of the day's bombardment struck a corner of the building with a loud explosion, hurling the old woman through the open window, where her yells, the peacock's screams, and the violence of the explosion made Bedlam. The uproar raised the whole street, and a crowd collected as if by magic. The German officers, wildly excited, rushed about bawling in German and English, while the old woman and the peacock maintained a duet of screams that could be heard half a mile.

Meanwhile Archy, as innocent as a lamb, was at Captain Curtis's side, who, leaning up against the wall, added his robust haw-haws to the general commotion.

In the midst of the racket and confusion, Colonel Schlippersgill rushed to the door, and, raising his hand for silence, bellowed out:

"Mine friends, 'twas der peacock."

At this a clear, boyish voice on the edge of the crowd rang out:

"The peacock was looking for company." The people roared with laughter, except the German officers, while Colonel Schlippersgill shouted, angrily:

"Arrest dot man!"

To this the voice replied:

"You'd better arrest the peacock."

Another roar saluted this, but the old Genoese woman, supposing the peacock was about to be taken from her, began to screech:

"Arrest my Pippo! Pippo mio—" and then poured out, at the top of her lungs, in English and Italian, the story of Pippo, varied with calling down maledictions on the head of Colonel Schlippersgill, whom, in some way, she held accountable for Pippo's misfortunes. She was interrupted by a file of soldiers marching down the narrow street in double time, with orders to investigate the disturbance. It did not take them half a minute to arrest the old woman and catch the peacock. Colonel Schlippersgill and his officers, swelling with rage, accompanied them voluntarily to the Provost Marshal's office. Captain Curtis and Archy followed, and the procession took its way towards headquarters. General Eliot happened to be there when the party appeared, and the investigation began. Colonel Schlippersgill and the old woman began their respective stories in English, but it soon resolved itself into a verbal duel in which the Colonel took to his native German and the old woman to her native Italian, with the result that even General Eliot's stern face resolved itself into a smile, the auditors were convulsed, and the soldier who held the peacock by the legs inadvertently let it go. When Pippo flew out of the window the old woman flew out of the door after it, and the investigation turned into a roaring farce, except so far as Colonel Schlippersgill was concerned, who went off swearing that he "would be damned but dat rapscallion dot galled der Cherman officers a beacock shouldt be arrested." The culprit, meanwhile, took his way gleefully up to Europa Point with Captain Curtis, and told the story in whispers to Mrs. Curtis and Langton. Judkins, who was cooking supper over a meagre fire, managed to catch it, and for once his hard features relaxed into a grin. After the scanty supper was over, when Archy, with a look of seraphic innocence was walking out of the hut, Judkins caught his eye, and, touching his cap, said, in a grim whisper:

"Sarved them Dutchmen right, sir."