Chapter Three.

Chapter Three.“What are we to do now?” asked Paul, after he had secured his hold in the main-chains.“Hold on, Jack, where you are, while I will go and try to help some of our shipmates,” answered Reuben. “There’s Mr Devereux, who can’t do much to help himself; and the young Mounseer, I should like to save him.”Several men had already got to the upper side of the ship, some in the main, and others in the mizen-chains, while others were in the rigging. As the ship was light, she still floated high out of the water. Many might possibly, therefore, be alive below. Reuben had not been gone long, when he put his head through the port, singing out—“Here, Paul, lend a hand and help up Mr Devereux.”Devereux had been partially stunned, but had happily clung to a stanchion, where Reuben had found him. Paul hauled him up, while Reuben again dived in search of some one else. He was gone for some time, and Paul began to fear that some accident had happened to him. At length his voice was again heard.“Hurrah, Paul, here he is; and what is more, he has his fiddle, too, all safe and sound.”Sure enough, there was Alphonse and his beloved fiddle in its case, which he had contrived to get up from below at no little risk of being drowned himself.“Ah! I would not part from this,” he exclaimed, as he made himself secure in the chains. “It is my own dear friend; shall I play you a tune now?”“No, thank ye, Mounseer, it might chance to get wet, and may be there are more poor fellows to help up here,” answered Reuben.“Ah! truly, I forgot what had happened,” said Alphonse in a dreamy tone, showing that his mind was wandering, overcome by the sudden catastrophe. It was no time for laughter, or Paul would have laughed at the oddness of the young Frenchman’s remark. Still, awful as was the scene, he felt very little sensation of fear. The night was very dark, the wind howled, the rain fell in torrents, the sea dashed over the wreck, nearly washing off those who clung to it, while vivid flashes of lightning darted from the clouds and went hissing along like fiery serpents over the summits of the waves. The party in the main-chains spoke but little. It seemed too probable that none of them would ever see another day. Indeed, even should the ship not go down, Paul feared that Devereux could scarcely endure the hardships of their situation. He asked Reuben if nothing could be done.“If we could get at the axes, we might cut away the masts and the ship might right,” answered Reuben. “But, you see, we want daylight and the officers to give the order, so that all may act together.”While he was speaking, a voice was heard apparently from the mizen rigging, shouting, “Cut, I say, all of you; cut, I say, and cut together.”It was that of Mr Noakes. Directly after, a flash of lightning revealed him standing in the mizen-top, holding on with one hand, while he waved the other wildly around. His nervous system had been completely weakened by drinking, and it was evident that he had lost his senses. He continued to shout louder and louder, and then to abuse the crew for not obeying his orders. Flash after flash of lightning revealed him still waving his arm; his hat had fallen off, and his long grizzly hair flew wildly about his head. He seemed unaware of the danger of his position and indifferent to the seas which frequently dashed over him. He was thus seen standing, when a sea rose high above the half-submerged hull, and rolling over the after part, struck the mizen-top. A loud shriek was heard, and by the glare of a flash of forked lightning, the unhappy officer, the victim of hard drinking, was seen borne away amid its foaming waters. In vain he stretched out his arms to catch at floating ropes; in vain he struck out boldly towards the ship, and shouted to his men to help him. His strength was as nothing, no aid could be given, and in another instant the waves closed for ever over his head. O’Grady was the only other officer not accounted for. He had been below, and it was to be hoped had got to the upper side and had thus escaped being drowned. While his messmates were inquiring for him, his voice was heard shouting for help. He had clambered up through a hatchway, scarcely knowing what had occurred. Reuben Cole and Paul helped him up to the main-chains. Devereux and Alphonse bore up wonderfully well. The former especially showed what spirit and courage ran do under difficulties and hardships.“I wish that the day were come,” said Paul more than once.“It’s what many have wished before, boy, and if has come in good time,” answered Reuben.“There’s just only one thing for it, and that’s patience, as Sandy McPherson, an old shipmate of mine, used to say whenever he was in trouble.”The dawn did come at last, but it was very grey and very cold; but the wind and sea had gone down and the ship was still afloat. Whether she could be saved was the first question asked by all. Devereux was now senior officer, but his experience was very limited.“I wish that I had attended more to this sort of thing,” he observed to O’Grady. “I never thought of the possibility of this happening to myself.”“Faith, I can’t say that I ever thought much about it either,” answered the other midshipman. “But I think that we couldn’t do better than to follow old Noakes’s last order, to cut away the masts. If the ship keeps on her side much longer, she’ll go down, that’s pretty certain.”“It’s very well to give the order, but where are the axes to cut with?” asked Devereux.“Well, to be sure, I didn’t think about that,” answered O’Grady. “But I’ll volunteer to go and search for them, and probably others will come and help me.”“I will, sir,” exclaimed Paul, who overheard the conversation.“And so will I,” said Reuben Cole; “and what is more, even if the ship does not go down, we shall starve if we don’t, for there isn’t a scrap of food among any of us.”Alphonse also expressed his readiness to go on the expedition, but O’Grady begged that he would remain and take care of Devereux. No time was to be lost. As soon as there was sufficient light for them to see, securing themselves by ropes, they slipped through a port and disappeared. Devereux, who was unfit for any exertion, remained in the chains. Some minutes passed. He became at last very anxious about his companions. He shouted to them, but no one replied. It appeared to him that the ship was turning over more, and settling deeper than before in the water.“They have only gone a short time before me,” he thought. “It matters but little, yet how unfit I am to die. But I must not yield without a struggle. People in our circumstances have formed rafts and escaped; why should not we? Though without food, or water, or compass, or chart, we shall be badly off.” He proposed his plan to Alphonse and the people near him. All promised to obey his directions. They were on the point of climbing along the masts to get at the lighter spars, when Paul poked his head through a port, flourishing above it an axe.“We’ve found them, we’ve found them,” he shouted; “but there’s no time to be lost, for the water is already making its way through the hatches.”The rest of the party appearing, corroborated this statement. Devereux roused up his energies and distributed his crew, some at the masts, and the rest at the shrouds.“Cut off all, and cut together!” he shouted. In a minute every shroud and stay and mast was cut through. The effect was instantaneous. The ship rolled up on an even keel so rapidly, that Devereux and those with him could with difficulty climb over the bulwarks to regain the deck. Their condition was but little improved, for so much water had got down below, that it seemed improbable the ship could swim long, and there she lay a dismasted wreck in the middle of the wide Atlantic. The young commander’s first wish was to endeavour to clear the ship of water, but the pumps were choked, and long before the water could be bailed out, another gale might spring up and the ship go down, even supposing there was no leak. It was probable, however, that from the quantity of water in her she had already sprung a serious leak. Every boat on board had been washed away or destroyed when the ship went over. Blank dismay was visible on the countenances of even some of the boldest of the crew. The masts and spars were, however, still hanging by the lee rigging alongside.“We could make a stout raft anyhow,” observed Reuben.The idea was taken up by the rest. There was a chance of life. Devereux gave orders that a raft should be formed.“But we’ll be starving entirely, if we don’t get up some provisions,” observed O’Grady.“May I go and collect them?” asked Paul. “Stronger people than I can be working at the raft.”“And I will go too,” said Alphonse, when Paul had obtained the permission asked.They found, however, that most of the casks and jars in the officers’ cabins had been upset and their contents washed away, while there was already so much water in the hold, that they could not get up anything from it. A cheese, some bottles of spirits, and a small cask of wet biscuit, were all they could collect. While groping about in the hold, it appeared to them that the water was rising; if so, the ship must have sprung a serious leak. With the scanty supply of provisions they had obtained, they hurried on deck to report what they had remarked. Considerable progress had been made with the raft, but without food and water it could only tend to prolong their misery. Reuben, with three other men, were therefore ordered below, to get up any more provisions which they could find. They very soon returned with the only things they could reach,—a small cask of pork, another of biscuit, and a keg of butter. Water was, however, most required, and it was not to be obtained. It was evident, too, that the ship was settling down more and more, and that no time must be lost in getting the raft finished. All hands now worked with the knowledge that their lives depended on their exertions, rapidly passing the numerous lashings in a way of which sailors alone are capable. Even before it was completed, the small amount of provisions which had been collected were placed on it, for all knew that at any moment it might prove their only ark of safety.Devereux had no occasion to urge his men to increased exertion. A sail and spars for a mast, and yards and rudder were got ready. At length all the preparations were concluded.“To the raft! to the raft!” was the cry, for the ship had sunk so low that the water was already running through the scuppers. Gradually she went down; the raft was slightly agitated by the vortex formed as the waters closed over her, and then it floated calmly on the wide ocean.The crew looked at each other for some time without speaking. Devereux was very young to be placed in so trying a position, still he saw that he must maintain discipline among those under his command, and prevent them from sinking into a state of despondency. There was much to be done; the mast to be rigged, the sail to be fitted, and a rudder formed. It was necessary also to secure the articles on the raft, and all being done, he steered a course for the west, hoping to reach one of the West India Islands.Paul had often when at home pictured such a scene as that in which he was now taking a part, but how far short did the scene he had drawn come of the reality! Scarcely had the ship disappeared than the wind fell and the sea became like glass, while the sun shone with intense heat on the unprotected heads of the seamen.“Reuben, can I ask for a mug of water, do you think? I am dreadfully thirsty,” said Paul.Reuben looked at him with compassion. “Every drop of water we’ve got is worth its weight in gold and many times more,” he answered. “It will be served out to us in thimblefuls, and each officer and man will share alike. It will be well for us if it even thus lasts till we make the land or get picked up.”Not a mouthful of food had been eaten since the previous evening.“It’s mighty like starving we are,” observed O’Grady; “we had better begin to eat a little, or we shall grow so ravenous, that it will be no small allowance will satisfy us.”“You are right, Paddy,” said Devereux, rousing himself up. “Ascertain what quantity we have, and calculate how long it will last.”O’Grady commenced the examination as directed. He soon reported that there was enough food to support life for eight, or perhaps, ten days.“And water?” asked Devereux.“Not for eight,” was the answer.“Heaven preserve us!” ejaculated Devereux. “It will take us double that time to reach the land!”The provisions were served out with the greatest care and in equal portions. The people on the raft suffered more from heat than from any other cause. The sea remained perfectly calm, the sun sank down, and darkness reigned over the ocean. It was their first night on the raft. Who could say how many more they might have to spend on it? Devereux did his best to keep up the courage of his men, but in spite of all he could say, the spirits of many sank low. He encouraged them to tell stories, to narrate their adventures, to sing songs, and he himself took every opportunity of talking of the future, and spoke confidently of what he would do when they should reach the shore. Paul felt very unhappy. He was hungry and thirsty, and that alone lowers the spirits. The men were grouped round their officers in the centre of the raft. Paul was sitting near Reuben.“I don’t think that I shall ever live through this,” he said, taking his friend’s hand. “You are strong, Reuben, and you may weather it out. If you do, you’ll go and tell my poor mother and sisters how it all happened and what became of me. Tell them that if I had lived I might, perhaps, have been placed on the quarter-deck and become a captain or an admiral; but that dream is all over now.”“As to that being a dream, a dream it is, Paul,” said Reuben; “but as to your living and turning out a good seaman, I’ve no fear about that, my boy,” he added cheerfully. “You see, there’s One above cares for us, and if we pray to Him He’ll send us help.”The night passed on, the stars shone brightly down from the pure sky, the waters flashed with phosphorescence, the inhabitants of the deep came up to the surface to breathe, while not a breath of air ruffled the face of the ocean. Except two appointed to keep watch, all on the raft soon sank into a deep sleep. They were awoke by the hot sun beating down on their heads; then they again wished for night. As the rays of the sun came down with fiercer force their thirst increased, but no one asked for more than his small share of water. Those only who have endured thirst know the intensity of the suffering it causes. Devereux had no more able supporter than Alphonse, who had saved his well-beloved violin. The moment the young Frenchman saw that the spirits of the people were sinking, he pulled it from its case, and putting it to his chin, began scraping away with right good will; now a merry, now a pathetic air. The excitable state of the nerves of the seamen was shown by the effect he produced. On hearing the merry tunes they burst into shouts of laughter; with the pathetic, even the roughest melted into tears. Alphonse played on till his arm ached, and scarcely was he rested before they begged him to go on again. Before the day closed, however, several of the party appeared to be sinking into a state of apathy, scarcely knowing where they were, or what they were saying. Some clamoured loudly for food, but Devereux mildly but firmly refused to allow any one to have more than his allotted share. Paul looked at him with a respect he had never before felt. He seemed so cool and collected, so different from the careless, thoughtless midshipman he had appeared on board the frigate. He had evidently risen to the difficulties of his position. He well knew, indeed, that the lives of all the party would depend in a great measure on his firmness and decision; at the same time, he knew that all he could do might avail them nothing. He also felt compassion for Paul, who was the youngest person on the raft. He had brought him away from the frigate, and it was very probable that he would be one of the first to sink under the hardships to which they were exposed. Paul was not aware that Devereux, when serving out the food, gave him a portion of his own scanty share, in the hopes that his strength might be thus better supported and his life prolonged. Another night passed by, and when the sun rose, it shone as before on a glassy sea. There was no sign of a breeze, and without a breeze no ship could approach the raft, nor could the raft make progress towards the land. Still Devereux persevered as before in endeavouring to keep up the spirits of his men. Alphonse and his fiddle were in constant requisition, and in spite of his own suffering, as long as he could keep his bow moving, he played on with right good will. When Alphonse grew weary, Devereux called for a tale; now for a song; now he told one of his own adventures, or some adventure he had heard.“Come, O’Grady, you used to be one of the best singers in the berth till the Frenchman’s shot knocked you over; try what you can do now!” he exclaimed, so that all might hear. “Never mind the tune, only let it be something comic, for a change,” he added in a whisper; “you and I must not let the rest know what we feel.”“I’ll do my best, though, faith, it’s heavy work to sing with an empty stomach,” answered O’Grady. “However, here goes:—“’Twas on November, the second day,The Admiral he bore away,Intending for his native shore;The wind at south-south-west did roar,There likewise was a terrible sky,Which made the sea to run mountains high.“The tide of ebb not being done,But quickly to the west did run,Which put us all in dreadful fear,Because there was not room to wear;The wind and weather increased sore.Which drove ten sail of us ashore.“Ashore went theNorthumberland,TheHarwichand theCumberland,TheCloisterand theLion, too;But theElizabeth, she had most to rue,She ran stem on and herLionbroke,And sunk theCambridgeat one stroke.“But the worst is what I have to tell,The greatest ships had the greatest fall;The brave ‘Crounation’ and all her men,Was lost and drownded every one,Except a little midshipman and eighteen moreWho in the long-boat comed ashore.“And thus they lost their precious lives,But the greatest loss was unto their wives,Who, with their children, left ashore,Their husbands’ watery death deplore;And weep their fate with many of tears,But grief endureth not for years.“Now you who’ve a mind to go to sea,Pray take a useful hint from me;Oh! stay at home and be contentWith what kind Providence has sent;For these were punish’d unto their deeds,For grumbling when they had no needs.“Now may Heaven bless our worthy King,Likewise his ministers we sing,And may they ever steer a course,To make things better ’stead of worse;And England’s flag triumphant fly,The dread of every enemy.”O’Grady’s song, though often heard before, was received with no less applause in consequence. Other songs followed, but the effort was greater than many of the seamen could make. Several attempted to tell stories or their own adventures, but the former had no ending, and they very soon lost the thread of their adventures. Then they wandered strangely; some stopped altogether; others laughed and cried alternately. Even Devereux could with difficulty keep command of his own senses. Food and a few drops of precious water were distributed among the sufferers; without it, few could have survived another night. That night came, however, and that night passed, though some on the raft had passed away from life when another sun arose.Paul more than once asked himself, “Why did I come to sea?”Reuben overheard him. “To my mind, Paul, when a person has done what he believes is for the best and because he thinks it is right, he has no cause to grumble or to be unhappy,” he observed in his quiet way. “Don’t you fear, all will turn out right at last.”Paul felt weaker than he had ever done before, and his eye was dim and his voice sounded hollow, and yet his thoughts flowed as freely as ever. He was fully aware that death might be approaching, yet he had no fear of death. He thought of home and of his mother and sisters, and he prayed for them, and that they might not grieve very much at his loss. He was but a poor young ship-boy, but he knew that his mother would mourn for him as much as would the mother of Devereux, or any other high-born midshipman on board.The sun rose higher and higher in the sky: its rays struck down as hotly as on the day before. “Water! water! water!” was the cry from all on the raft; still discipline prevailed, though only a young midshipman was the chief, and not a man attempted to take more than his share. At about noon Paul was feeling that he could not endure many more hours of such thirst, when he saw Reuben’s eyes directed to the north-east.“Yes! yes! it is! it is!” exclaimed Reuben at length.“What! a ship?” asked Paul, almost breathless with eagerness.“No, but a breeze,” cried his friend. “It may carry us to land; it may send us rain! it may bring up a ship to our rescue.”All eyes were now turned in the direction from which the breeze was supposed to be coming. At the edge of the hitherto unvarying expanse of molten silver, a dark blue line was seen; broader and broader it grew. With such strength as they possessed the seamen hoisted their sail. It bulged out and again flattened against the mast; now again it filled, and the raft began to glide slowly over the ocean. A faint cheer burst from the throats of the hitherto despairing crew; yet how many long leagues must be passed over before that raft could reach the land! How many of those now living on it would set foot on that land? Too probably not one—not one. Day after day the raft glided on, but each day death claimed a victim. Still, Devereux and O’Grady and Alphonse kept up their spirits in a way which appealed wonderful to Paul, till he found that he was himself equally resolved to bear up to the last. There was still some food; still a few drops of water. Rain might come; the wind was increasing; clouds were gathering in the sky; the sea was getting up, and the raft, though still progressing, was tossed about in a way which made those on it feel the risk they ran of being thrown or washed off it. They secured themselves with lashings. Again the water was served out. A mouthful was given to Paul.“Poor boy! let him have it,” he heard Devereux say; “it is the last drop.”Now more than ever was rain prayed for. Without rain, should no succour come, in a few days the sufferings of all the party would be over. Faster and faster the raft drove on. It was well constructed, or it would not have held together. Still they dared not lessen their sail. Land might be reached at last if they would persevere. Now they rose to the summit of a foaming sea, now they sank into the deep trough. It seemed every instant that the next must see the destruction of the raft, yet, like hope in a young bosom, it still floated buoyantly over the raging billows. Now dark clouds were gathering. Eagerly they were watched by the seamen with upturned eyes. A few drops fell. They were welcomed with a cry of joy. More came, and then the rain fell in torrents. Their parched throats were moistened, but unless they could spread their sail to collect the precious fluid, they could save but little for the future. Still, life is sweet, and they might obtain enough to preserve their lives for another day. As they dared not lower their sail, they stretched out their jackets and shirts, and wrung them as they were saturated with fresh water into the only cask they had saved. Before it was a quarter full the rain ceased. They watched with jealous eyes the clouds driving away below the horizon, while the sun shone forth as brightly as before on their unguarded heads. Still the raft tumbled furiously about, and with the utmost difficulty the seamen retained their hold of it. Night returned; it was a night of horror. Their provisions were exhausted. When the morning at length broke, two who had been among the strongest were missing. They must have let go their hold while sleeping and been washed away.“It may be our lot soon,” observed Paul, whose strength was failing.“The same hand which has hitherto preserved us few still alive on this raft is strong to preserve us to the end,” said James Croxton, an old seaman, who, even on ordinary occasions said but little, and had only spoken since the ship went down to utter a few words of encouragement to his companions. He was known on board the frigate as Jim the Methodist, but was respected by the greater number of his shipmates. “Never fear, mates, help will come if we pray for it, though we don’t see the Hand which sends it. Let us pray.”Jim’s words and example had a great effect. It was followed by all, and the united prayers of the seamen, acknowledging their own utter helplessness, ascended together on high. One and all seemed to gain a strength they had not before felt. The raft continued to be tossed about as before, and the hot wind blew, and the sun shone on their unsheltered heads. The sun rose higher and higher and then descended, watched anxiously by the seamen till it dipped below the horizon. Could any of them expect to see another sun arise? They seldom spoke to each other during the night. The voice of Jim Croxton was now most frequently heard, exhorting his companions to repentance, and to put their faith in the loving and merciful One. When the morning broke they were all alive, and the voice of Reuben, who had dragged himself upright by the mast, was heard crying, “A sail! a sail! standing towards us!”The information was received in various ways by the people on the raft; some laughed, others wept, a few prayed, and others groaned, declaring that they should not be seen, and that the ship would pass them by. Old Croxton, however, who had simply poured forth his heart in a few words of thanksgiving, kept his eyes steadily on the approaching ship.“She is nearing us! she is nearing us!” he uttered slowly every now and then.Paul gasped his breath, and felt as if he should faint away altogether, as he saw that the ship was a British man-of-war, and that the raft was evidently perceived by those on board. She drew nearer and nearer, and, heaving to, lowered two boats, which rapidly approached the raft. In that tumbling sea there was no small difficulty in getting close enough to the raft to take off the people. Paul, as the youngest, was the first to be transferred by his companions to the nearest boat. Even at that moment he was struck by the expression of the countenances of most of the crew. No one smiled; no one seemed pleased at the work of mercy they were performing.“You think, youngster, that you’ll be changing for the better, getting off your raft aboard that frigate there?” growled out one of the men, as Paul was passed along forward. “You’ve got out of the frying-pan into the fire, let me tell you. It’s a perfect hell afloat, and to my mind the captain’s the—”“Silence there, forward!” shouted the officer in command of the boat. “Back in again.”One by one the people were taken off the raft. Devereux insisted on remaining to the last, and he was taken off in the second boat. No sooner had he been placed in her than several of her crew leaped on to the raft.“Better run the chance of a watery grave than live aboard there,” shouted one of the men, attempting to hoist the sail which had been lowered. “Hurrah, lads! for the coast of America and freedom!”“Back into the boat: back, you mutinous scoundrels!” shouted the officer in command. “What foolery are you about? If you were to go, and small loss you would be, you would all of you be dead before a week was over. Back, I say.”In vain the men tried to hoist the sail. The mast gave way, throwing one of them into the sea. He made an attempt to save himself, but sank in sight of his shipmates. The boat was soon again dropped alongside the raft, and the men with sulky indifference returned on board. Very little was said by anybody as the boats pulled back to the frigate. The officers, indeed, saw that those they had taken off the raft were in no condition to answer questions. Devereux and his companions were lifted up on deck, and from thence at once transferred to the sick bay below under the doctor’s care. Paul, after a sound sleep, recovered his senses, and very soon perceived, that although there was strict discipline maintained on board, each person went about his duty in a dull, mechanical way. Reuben was, however, on foot before Paul. He came to the side of the hammock in which the latter still lay unable to move.“I am thankful, Reuben, that we are safe off that dreadful raft,” said Paul.“No reason to call it dreadful, boy. It was our ark of safety, as Jim Croxton says, rightly, and we should be grateful that we were allowed to be saved by it. There’s many here, as you saw, would rather be on that raft than aboard this fine frigate,” answered Reuben.“Why? what is the matter with the ship?” asked Paul.“Why, just this,” answered his friend; “the captain is a tyrant; many of the officers imitate him, and altogether the men’s lives are miserable. The ship is a complete hell afloat.”Several days passed by; the frigate was steering for the West Indies, which were sighted soon after Paul had managed to creep on deck. He saw the men casting wistful glances at the land.“If once I set my foot ashore, it will take a dozen red coats to carry me aboard again!” exclaimed a seaman near him.“Ay, Bill, it’s a dog’s life we lead; but there’s a way to free ourselves if we were men enough to use it,” said another.“It’s not the first time that has been thought of,” observed a third. “But hush, mates, that boy may hear; he looks like a sharp one.”The men were silent till Paul walked farther aft, where he saw them still earnestly engaged in talking together. He considered what he ought to do. Should he tell Devereux what he had heard? Perhaps, after all, it meant nothing. He could trust Reuben; that is to say, Reuben would not betray him; but he might take part with the men. He would consult Croxton. He found old Jim after some time, but had no opportunity of speaking to him alone. There was an ominous scowl on the countenances of all the men, which confirmed his suspicions that something was wrong. Below they gathered together more in knots than usual, speaking in subdued voices. Whenever an officer approached, they were silent, and generally dispersed with an appearance of indifference. Thus two or three more days passed, and Paul felt as well able as ever to do his duty. It was the forenoon watch; the men were summoned to divisions. It was perfectly calm; no land was in sight; the sun struck down fiercely on their heads.“There’s work in hand for us to-day,” exclaimed a topman, as he sprang on deck.In a little time the order to furl sails was given. The men flew aloft.“Reef topsails,” cried the first-lieutenant.The men appeared to do the work slowly. Oaths and curses were hurled at them by the officers on duty. Paul took the opportunity of going down to see Devereux, who, with O’Grady and Alphonse, was still too weak to go on deck. He told him that he was afraid something was wrong. Devereux answered—“I fear that the men are dissatisfied, but they dare do nothing. I pity them, though, poor fellows.”The words were overheard by some of the idlers, as they are called below. While Paul was speaking to Devereux, Croxton came in. He also heard what had been said.“Man is born to suffer,” he remarked. “He must submit, and leave the righting in the hands of Providence. He cannot right himself.”His remarks were scarcely understood by those who heard him, even by Devereux, who, however, remembered them. After a time, Paul returned on deck. The captain was still exercising the men at furling sails. With watch in hand he stood on the quarter-deck, his rage increasing as he found that they could not or would not accomplish the work in the time he desired. At length he shouted in a voice which made the blood run cold in Paul’s veins—“The last men in off the yards shall get four dozen for their pains. Remember that, ye scoundrels! Away aloft!”Again the men ascended the rigging. The sails were furled. Two active young topmen on the mizen-yard made an attempt to spring over the backs of the rest. They missed their hold. With a fearful crash they fell together on the deck.“Throw the lubbers overboard!” exclaimed the captain, kicking contemptuously their mangled remains.These words were the signal of his own destruction. The men, regardless of his threats, sprang below.“Vengeance! vengeance!” was the cry.The first-lieutenant who ventured among them was cut down, and while yet breathing, hove overboard. Others who appeared met with the same fate. The mutineers then rushed to the captain’s cabin. He stood fiercely at bay, but in vain. Bleeding from countless wounds, he was forced through the stern port. His last words were, “Vengeance! vengeance! vengeance!” Fearfully it was paid.

“What are we to do now?” asked Paul, after he had secured his hold in the main-chains.

“Hold on, Jack, where you are, while I will go and try to help some of our shipmates,” answered Reuben. “There’s Mr Devereux, who can’t do much to help himself; and the young Mounseer, I should like to save him.”

Several men had already got to the upper side of the ship, some in the main, and others in the mizen-chains, while others were in the rigging. As the ship was light, she still floated high out of the water. Many might possibly, therefore, be alive below. Reuben had not been gone long, when he put his head through the port, singing out—

“Here, Paul, lend a hand and help up Mr Devereux.”

Devereux had been partially stunned, but had happily clung to a stanchion, where Reuben had found him. Paul hauled him up, while Reuben again dived in search of some one else. He was gone for some time, and Paul began to fear that some accident had happened to him. At length his voice was again heard.

“Hurrah, Paul, here he is; and what is more, he has his fiddle, too, all safe and sound.”

Sure enough, there was Alphonse and his beloved fiddle in its case, which he had contrived to get up from below at no little risk of being drowned himself.

“Ah! I would not part from this,” he exclaimed, as he made himself secure in the chains. “It is my own dear friend; shall I play you a tune now?”

“No, thank ye, Mounseer, it might chance to get wet, and may be there are more poor fellows to help up here,” answered Reuben.

“Ah! truly, I forgot what had happened,” said Alphonse in a dreamy tone, showing that his mind was wandering, overcome by the sudden catastrophe. It was no time for laughter, or Paul would have laughed at the oddness of the young Frenchman’s remark. Still, awful as was the scene, he felt very little sensation of fear. The night was very dark, the wind howled, the rain fell in torrents, the sea dashed over the wreck, nearly washing off those who clung to it, while vivid flashes of lightning darted from the clouds and went hissing along like fiery serpents over the summits of the waves. The party in the main-chains spoke but little. It seemed too probable that none of them would ever see another day. Indeed, even should the ship not go down, Paul feared that Devereux could scarcely endure the hardships of their situation. He asked Reuben if nothing could be done.

“If we could get at the axes, we might cut away the masts and the ship might right,” answered Reuben. “But, you see, we want daylight and the officers to give the order, so that all may act together.”

While he was speaking, a voice was heard apparently from the mizen rigging, shouting, “Cut, I say, all of you; cut, I say, and cut together.”

It was that of Mr Noakes. Directly after, a flash of lightning revealed him standing in the mizen-top, holding on with one hand, while he waved the other wildly around. His nervous system had been completely weakened by drinking, and it was evident that he had lost his senses. He continued to shout louder and louder, and then to abuse the crew for not obeying his orders. Flash after flash of lightning revealed him still waving his arm; his hat had fallen off, and his long grizzly hair flew wildly about his head. He seemed unaware of the danger of his position and indifferent to the seas which frequently dashed over him. He was thus seen standing, when a sea rose high above the half-submerged hull, and rolling over the after part, struck the mizen-top. A loud shriek was heard, and by the glare of a flash of forked lightning, the unhappy officer, the victim of hard drinking, was seen borne away amid its foaming waters. In vain he stretched out his arms to catch at floating ropes; in vain he struck out boldly towards the ship, and shouted to his men to help him. His strength was as nothing, no aid could be given, and in another instant the waves closed for ever over his head. O’Grady was the only other officer not accounted for. He had been below, and it was to be hoped had got to the upper side and had thus escaped being drowned. While his messmates were inquiring for him, his voice was heard shouting for help. He had clambered up through a hatchway, scarcely knowing what had occurred. Reuben Cole and Paul helped him up to the main-chains. Devereux and Alphonse bore up wonderfully well. The former especially showed what spirit and courage ran do under difficulties and hardships.

“I wish that the day were come,” said Paul more than once.

“It’s what many have wished before, boy, and if has come in good time,” answered Reuben.

“There’s just only one thing for it, and that’s patience, as Sandy McPherson, an old shipmate of mine, used to say whenever he was in trouble.”

The dawn did come at last, but it was very grey and very cold; but the wind and sea had gone down and the ship was still afloat. Whether she could be saved was the first question asked by all. Devereux was now senior officer, but his experience was very limited.

“I wish that I had attended more to this sort of thing,” he observed to O’Grady. “I never thought of the possibility of this happening to myself.”

“Faith, I can’t say that I ever thought much about it either,” answered the other midshipman. “But I think that we couldn’t do better than to follow old Noakes’s last order, to cut away the masts. If the ship keeps on her side much longer, she’ll go down, that’s pretty certain.”

“It’s very well to give the order, but where are the axes to cut with?” asked Devereux.

“Well, to be sure, I didn’t think about that,” answered O’Grady. “But I’ll volunteer to go and search for them, and probably others will come and help me.”

“I will, sir,” exclaimed Paul, who overheard the conversation.

“And so will I,” said Reuben Cole; “and what is more, even if the ship does not go down, we shall starve if we don’t, for there isn’t a scrap of food among any of us.”

Alphonse also expressed his readiness to go on the expedition, but O’Grady begged that he would remain and take care of Devereux. No time was to be lost. As soon as there was sufficient light for them to see, securing themselves by ropes, they slipped through a port and disappeared. Devereux, who was unfit for any exertion, remained in the chains. Some minutes passed. He became at last very anxious about his companions. He shouted to them, but no one replied. It appeared to him that the ship was turning over more, and settling deeper than before in the water.

“They have only gone a short time before me,” he thought. “It matters but little, yet how unfit I am to die. But I must not yield without a struggle. People in our circumstances have formed rafts and escaped; why should not we? Though without food, or water, or compass, or chart, we shall be badly off.” He proposed his plan to Alphonse and the people near him. All promised to obey his directions. They were on the point of climbing along the masts to get at the lighter spars, when Paul poked his head through a port, flourishing above it an axe.

“We’ve found them, we’ve found them,” he shouted; “but there’s no time to be lost, for the water is already making its way through the hatches.”

The rest of the party appearing, corroborated this statement. Devereux roused up his energies and distributed his crew, some at the masts, and the rest at the shrouds.

“Cut off all, and cut together!” he shouted. In a minute every shroud and stay and mast was cut through. The effect was instantaneous. The ship rolled up on an even keel so rapidly, that Devereux and those with him could with difficulty climb over the bulwarks to regain the deck. Their condition was but little improved, for so much water had got down below, that it seemed improbable the ship could swim long, and there she lay a dismasted wreck in the middle of the wide Atlantic. The young commander’s first wish was to endeavour to clear the ship of water, but the pumps were choked, and long before the water could be bailed out, another gale might spring up and the ship go down, even supposing there was no leak. It was probable, however, that from the quantity of water in her she had already sprung a serious leak. Every boat on board had been washed away or destroyed when the ship went over. Blank dismay was visible on the countenances of even some of the boldest of the crew. The masts and spars were, however, still hanging by the lee rigging alongside.

“We could make a stout raft anyhow,” observed Reuben.

The idea was taken up by the rest. There was a chance of life. Devereux gave orders that a raft should be formed.

“But we’ll be starving entirely, if we don’t get up some provisions,” observed O’Grady.

“May I go and collect them?” asked Paul. “Stronger people than I can be working at the raft.”

“And I will go too,” said Alphonse, when Paul had obtained the permission asked.

They found, however, that most of the casks and jars in the officers’ cabins had been upset and their contents washed away, while there was already so much water in the hold, that they could not get up anything from it. A cheese, some bottles of spirits, and a small cask of wet biscuit, were all they could collect. While groping about in the hold, it appeared to them that the water was rising; if so, the ship must have sprung a serious leak. With the scanty supply of provisions they had obtained, they hurried on deck to report what they had remarked. Considerable progress had been made with the raft, but without food and water it could only tend to prolong their misery. Reuben, with three other men, were therefore ordered below, to get up any more provisions which they could find. They very soon returned with the only things they could reach,—a small cask of pork, another of biscuit, and a keg of butter. Water was, however, most required, and it was not to be obtained. It was evident, too, that the ship was settling down more and more, and that no time must be lost in getting the raft finished. All hands now worked with the knowledge that their lives depended on their exertions, rapidly passing the numerous lashings in a way of which sailors alone are capable. Even before it was completed, the small amount of provisions which had been collected were placed on it, for all knew that at any moment it might prove their only ark of safety.

Devereux had no occasion to urge his men to increased exertion. A sail and spars for a mast, and yards and rudder were got ready. At length all the preparations were concluded.

“To the raft! to the raft!” was the cry, for the ship had sunk so low that the water was already running through the scuppers. Gradually she went down; the raft was slightly agitated by the vortex formed as the waters closed over her, and then it floated calmly on the wide ocean.

The crew looked at each other for some time without speaking. Devereux was very young to be placed in so trying a position, still he saw that he must maintain discipline among those under his command, and prevent them from sinking into a state of despondency. There was much to be done; the mast to be rigged, the sail to be fitted, and a rudder formed. It was necessary also to secure the articles on the raft, and all being done, he steered a course for the west, hoping to reach one of the West India Islands.

Paul had often when at home pictured such a scene as that in which he was now taking a part, but how far short did the scene he had drawn come of the reality! Scarcely had the ship disappeared than the wind fell and the sea became like glass, while the sun shone with intense heat on the unprotected heads of the seamen.

“Reuben, can I ask for a mug of water, do you think? I am dreadfully thirsty,” said Paul.

Reuben looked at him with compassion. “Every drop of water we’ve got is worth its weight in gold and many times more,” he answered. “It will be served out to us in thimblefuls, and each officer and man will share alike. It will be well for us if it even thus lasts till we make the land or get picked up.”

Not a mouthful of food had been eaten since the previous evening.

“It’s mighty like starving we are,” observed O’Grady; “we had better begin to eat a little, or we shall grow so ravenous, that it will be no small allowance will satisfy us.”

“You are right, Paddy,” said Devereux, rousing himself up. “Ascertain what quantity we have, and calculate how long it will last.”

O’Grady commenced the examination as directed. He soon reported that there was enough food to support life for eight, or perhaps, ten days.

“And water?” asked Devereux.

“Not for eight,” was the answer.

“Heaven preserve us!” ejaculated Devereux. “It will take us double that time to reach the land!”

The provisions were served out with the greatest care and in equal portions. The people on the raft suffered more from heat than from any other cause. The sea remained perfectly calm, the sun sank down, and darkness reigned over the ocean. It was their first night on the raft. Who could say how many more they might have to spend on it? Devereux did his best to keep up the courage of his men, but in spite of all he could say, the spirits of many sank low. He encouraged them to tell stories, to narrate their adventures, to sing songs, and he himself took every opportunity of talking of the future, and spoke confidently of what he would do when they should reach the shore. Paul felt very unhappy. He was hungry and thirsty, and that alone lowers the spirits. The men were grouped round their officers in the centre of the raft. Paul was sitting near Reuben.

“I don’t think that I shall ever live through this,” he said, taking his friend’s hand. “You are strong, Reuben, and you may weather it out. If you do, you’ll go and tell my poor mother and sisters how it all happened and what became of me. Tell them that if I had lived I might, perhaps, have been placed on the quarter-deck and become a captain or an admiral; but that dream is all over now.”

“As to that being a dream, a dream it is, Paul,” said Reuben; “but as to your living and turning out a good seaman, I’ve no fear about that, my boy,” he added cheerfully. “You see, there’s One above cares for us, and if we pray to Him He’ll send us help.”

The night passed on, the stars shone brightly down from the pure sky, the waters flashed with phosphorescence, the inhabitants of the deep came up to the surface to breathe, while not a breath of air ruffled the face of the ocean. Except two appointed to keep watch, all on the raft soon sank into a deep sleep. They were awoke by the hot sun beating down on their heads; then they again wished for night. As the rays of the sun came down with fiercer force their thirst increased, but no one asked for more than his small share of water. Those only who have endured thirst know the intensity of the suffering it causes. Devereux had no more able supporter than Alphonse, who had saved his well-beloved violin. The moment the young Frenchman saw that the spirits of the people were sinking, he pulled it from its case, and putting it to his chin, began scraping away with right good will; now a merry, now a pathetic air. The excitable state of the nerves of the seamen was shown by the effect he produced. On hearing the merry tunes they burst into shouts of laughter; with the pathetic, even the roughest melted into tears. Alphonse played on till his arm ached, and scarcely was he rested before they begged him to go on again. Before the day closed, however, several of the party appeared to be sinking into a state of apathy, scarcely knowing where they were, or what they were saying. Some clamoured loudly for food, but Devereux mildly but firmly refused to allow any one to have more than his allotted share. Paul looked at him with a respect he had never before felt. He seemed so cool and collected, so different from the careless, thoughtless midshipman he had appeared on board the frigate. He had evidently risen to the difficulties of his position. He well knew, indeed, that the lives of all the party would depend in a great measure on his firmness and decision; at the same time, he knew that all he could do might avail them nothing. He also felt compassion for Paul, who was the youngest person on the raft. He had brought him away from the frigate, and it was very probable that he would be one of the first to sink under the hardships to which they were exposed. Paul was not aware that Devereux, when serving out the food, gave him a portion of his own scanty share, in the hopes that his strength might be thus better supported and his life prolonged. Another night passed by, and when the sun rose, it shone as before on a glassy sea. There was no sign of a breeze, and without a breeze no ship could approach the raft, nor could the raft make progress towards the land. Still Devereux persevered as before in endeavouring to keep up the spirits of his men. Alphonse and his fiddle were in constant requisition, and in spite of his own suffering, as long as he could keep his bow moving, he played on with right good will. When Alphonse grew weary, Devereux called for a tale; now for a song; now he told one of his own adventures, or some adventure he had heard.

“Come, O’Grady, you used to be one of the best singers in the berth till the Frenchman’s shot knocked you over; try what you can do now!” he exclaimed, so that all might hear. “Never mind the tune, only let it be something comic, for a change,” he added in a whisper; “you and I must not let the rest know what we feel.”

“I’ll do my best, though, faith, it’s heavy work to sing with an empty stomach,” answered O’Grady. “However, here goes:—

“’Twas on November, the second day,The Admiral he bore away,Intending for his native shore;The wind at south-south-west did roar,There likewise was a terrible sky,Which made the sea to run mountains high.“The tide of ebb not being done,But quickly to the west did run,Which put us all in dreadful fear,Because there was not room to wear;The wind and weather increased sore.Which drove ten sail of us ashore.“Ashore went theNorthumberland,TheHarwichand theCumberland,TheCloisterand theLion, too;But theElizabeth, she had most to rue,She ran stem on and herLionbroke,And sunk theCambridgeat one stroke.“But the worst is what I have to tell,The greatest ships had the greatest fall;The brave ‘Crounation’ and all her men,Was lost and drownded every one,Except a little midshipman and eighteen moreWho in the long-boat comed ashore.“And thus they lost their precious lives,But the greatest loss was unto their wives,Who, with their children, left ashore,Their husbands’ watery death deplore;And weep their fate with many of tears,But grief endureth not for years.“Now you who’ve a mind to go to sea,Pray take a useful hint from me;Oh! stay at home and be contentWith what kind Providence has sent;For these were punish’d unto their deeds,For grumbling when they had no needs.“Now may Heaven bless our worthy King,Likewise his ministers we sing,And may they ever steer a course,To make things better ’stead of worse;And England’s flag triumphant fly,The dread of every enemy.”

“’Twas on November, the second day,The Admiral he bore away,Intending for his native shore;The wind at south-south-west did roar,There likewise was a terrible sky,Which made the sea to run mountains high.“The tide of ebb not being done,But quickly to the west did run,Which put us all in dreadful fear,Because there was not room to wear;The wind and weather increased sore.Which drove ten sail of us ashore.“Ashore went theNorthumberland,TheHarwichand theCumberland,TheCloisterand theLion, too;But theElizabeth, she had most to rue,She ran stem on and herLionbroke,And sunk theCambridgeat one stroke.“But the worst is what I have to tell,The greatest ships had the greatest fall;The brave ‘Crounation’ and all her men,Was lost and drownded every one,Except a little midshipman and eighteen moreWho in the long-boat comed ashore.“And thus they lost their precious lives,But the greatest loss was unto their wives,Who, with their children, left ashore,Their husbands’ watery death deplore;And weep their fate with many of tears,But grief endureth not for years.“Now you who’ve a mind to go to sea,Pray take a useful hint from me;Oh! stay at home and be contentWith what kind Providence has sent;For these were punish’d unto their deeds,For grumbling when they had no needs.“Now may Heaven bless our worthy King,Likewise his ministers we sing,And may they ever steer a course,To make things better ’stead of worse;And England’s flag triumphant fly,The dread of every enemy.”

O’Grady’s song, though often heard before, was received with no less applause in consequence. Other songs followed, but the effort was greater than many of the seamen could make. Several attempted to tell stories or their own adventures, but the former had no ending, and they very soon lost the thread of their adventures. Then they wandered strangely; some stopped altogether; others laughed and cried alternately. Even Devereux could with difficulty keep command of his own senses. Food and a few drops of precious water were distributed among the sufferers; without it, few could have survived another night. That night came, however, and that night passed, though some on the raft had passed away from life when another sun arose.

Paul more than once asked himself, “Why did I come to sea?”

Reuben overheard him. “To my mind, Paul, when a person has done what he believes is for the best and because he thinks it is right, he has no cause to grumble or to be unhappy,” he observed in his quiet way. “Don’t you fear, all will turn out right at last.”

Paul felt weaker than he had ever done before, and his eye was dim and his voice sounded hollow, and yet his thoughts flowed as freely as ever. He was fully aware that death might be approaching, yet he had no fear of death. He thought of home and of his mother and sisters, and he prayed for them, and that they might not grieve very much at his loss. He was but a poor young ship-boy, but he knew that his mother would mourn for him as much as would the mother of Devereux, or any other high-born midshipman on board.

The sun rose higher and higher in the sky: its rays struck down as hotly as on the day before. “Water! water! water!” was the cry from all on the raft; still discipline prevailed, though only a young midshipman was the chief, and not a man attempted to take more than his share. At about noon Paul was feeling that he could not endure many more hours of such thirst, when he saw Reuben’s eyes directed to the north-east.

“Yes! yes! it is! it is!” exclaimed Reuben at length.

“What! a ship?” asked Paul, almost breathless with eagerness.

“No, but a breeze,” cried his friend. “It may carry us to land; it may send us rain! it may bring up a ship to our rescue.”

All eyes were now turned in the direction from which the breeze was supposed to be coming. At the edge of the hitherto unvarying expanse of molten silver, a dark blue line was seen; broader and broader it grew. With such strength as they possessed the seamen hoisted their sail. It bulged out and again flattened against the mast; now again it filled, and the raft began to glide slowly over the ocean. A faint cheer burst from the throats of the hitherto despairing crew; yet how many long leagues must be passed over before that raft could reach the land! How many of those now living on it would set foot on that land? Too probably not one—not one. Day after day the raft glided on, but each day death claimed a victim. Still, Devereux and O’Grady and Alphonse kept up their spirits in a way which appealed wonderful to Paul, till he found that he was himself equally resolved to bear up to the last. There was still some food; still a few drops of water. Rain might come; the wind was increasing; clouds were gathering in the sky; the sea was getting up, and the raft, though still progressing, was tossed about in a way which made those on it feel the risk they ran of being thrown or washed off it. They secured themselves with lashings. Again the water was served out. A mouthful was given to Paul.

“Poor boy! let him have it,” he heard Devereux say; “it is the last drop.”

Now more than ever was rain prayed for. Without rain, should no succour come, in a few days the sufferings of all the party would be over. Faster and faster the raft drove on. It was well constructed, or it would not have held together. Still they dared not lessen their sail. Land might be reached at last if they would persevere. Now they rose to the summit of a foaming sea, now they sank into the deep trough. It seemed every instant that the next must see the destruction of the raft, yet, like hope in a young bosom, it still floated buoyantly over the raging billows. Now dark clouds were gathering. Eagerly they were watched by the seamen with upturned eyes. A few drops fell. They were welcomed with a cry of joy. More came, and then the rain fell in torrents. Their parched throats were moistened, but unless they could spread their sail to collect the precious fluid, they could save but little for the future. Still, life is sweet, and they might obtain enough to preserve their lives for another day. As they dared not lower their sail, they stretched out their jackets and shirts, and wrung them as they were saturated with fresh water into the only cask they had saved. Before it was a quarter full the rain ceased. They watched with jealous eyes the clouds driving away below the horizon, while the sun shone forth as brightly as before on their unguarded heads. Still the raft tumbled furiously about, and with the utmost difficulty the seamen retained their hold of it. Night returned; it was a night of horror. Their provisions were exhausted. When the morning at length broke, two who had been among the strongest were missing. They must have let go their hold while sleeping and been washed away.

“It may be our lot soon,” observed Paul, whose strength was failing.

“The same hand which has hitherto preserved us few still alive on this raft is strong to preserve us to the end,” said James Croxton, an old seaman, who, even on ordinary occasions said but little, and had only spoken since the ship went down to utter a few words of encouragement to his companions. He was known on board the frigate as Jim the Methodist, but was respected by the greater number of his shipmates. “Never fear, mates, help will come if we pray for it, though we don’t see the Hand which sends it. Let us pray.”

Jim’s words and example had a great effect. It was followed by all, and the united prayers of the seamen, acknowledging their own utter helplessness, ascended together on high. One and all seemed to gain a strength they had not before felt. The raft continued to be tossed about as before, and the hot wind blew, and the sun shone on their unsheltered heads. The sun rose higher and higher and then descended, watched anxiously by the seamen till it dipped below the horizon. Could any of them expect to see another sun arise? They seldom spoke to each other during the night. The voice of Jim Croxton was now most frequently heard, exhorting his companions to repentance, and to put their faith in the loving and merciful One. When the morning broke they were all alive, and the voice of Reuben, who had dragged himself upright by the mast, was heard crying, “A sail! a sail! standing towards us!”

The information was received in various ways by the people on the raft; some laughed, others wept, a few prayed, and others groaned, declaring that they should not be seen, and that the ship would pass them by. Old Croxton, however, who had simply poured forth his heart in a few words of thanksgiving, kept his eyes steadily on the approaching ship.

“She is nearing us! she is nearing us!” he uttered slowly every now and then.

Paul gasped his breath, and felt as if he should faint away altogether, as he saw that the ship was a British man-of-war, and that the raft was evidently perceived by those on board. She drew nearer and nearer, and, heaving to, lowered two boats, which rapidly approached the raft. In that tumbling sea there was no small difficulty in getting close enough to the raft to take off the people. Paul, as the youngest, was the first to be transferred by his companions to the nearest boat. Even at that moment he was struck by the expression of the countenances of most of the crew. No one smiled; no one seemed pleased at the work of mercy they were performing.

“You think, youngster, that you’ll be changing for the better, getting off your raft aboard that frigate there?” growled out one of the men, as Paul was passed along forward. “You’ve got out of the frying-pan into the fire, let me tell you. It’s a perfect hell afloat, and to my mind the captain’s the—”

“Silence there, forward!” shouted the officer in command of the boat. “Back in again.”

One by one the people were taken off the raft. Devereux insisted on remaining to the last, and he was taken off in the second boat. No sooner had he been placed in her than several of her crew leaped on to the raft.

“Better run the chance of a watery grave than live aboard there,” shouted one of the men, attempting to hoist the sail which had been lowered. “Hurrah, lads! for the coast of America and freedom!”

“Back into the boat: back, you mutinous scoundrels!” shouted the officer in command. “What foolery are you about? If you were to go, and small loss you would be, you would all of you be dead before a week was over. Back, I say.”

In vain the men tried to hoist the sail. The mast gave way, throwing one of them into the sea. He made an attempt to save himself, but sank in sight of his shipmates. The boat was soon again dropped alongside the raft, and the men with sulky indifference returned on board. Very little was said by anybody as the boats pulled back to the frigate. The officers, indeed, saw that those they had taken off the raft were in no condition to answer questions. Devereux and his companions were lifted up on deck, and from thence at once transferred to the sick bay below under the doctor’s care. Paul, after a sound sleep, recovered his senses, and very soon perceived, that although there was strict discipline maintained on board, each person went about his duty in a dull, mechanical way. Reuben was, however, on foot before Paul. He came to the side of the hammock in which the latter still lay unable to move.

“I am thankful, Reuben, that we are safe off that dreadful raft,” said Paul.

“No reason to call it dreadful, boy. It was our ark of safety, as Jim Croxton says, rightly, and we should be grateful that we were allowed to be saved by it. There’s many here, as you saw, would rather be on that raft than aboard this fine frigate,” answered Reuben.

“Why? what is the matter with the ship?” asked Paul.

“Why, just this,” answered his friend; “the captain is a tyrant; many of the officers imitate him, and altogether the men’s lives are miserable. The ship is a complete hell afloat.”

Several days passed by; the frigate was steering for the West Indies, which were sighted soon after Paul had managed to creep on deck. He saw the men casting wistful glances at the land.

“If once I set my foot ashore, it will take a dozen red coats to carry me aboard again!” exclaimed a seaman near him.

“Ay, Bill, it’s a dog’s life we lead; but there’s a way to free ourselves if we were men enough to use it,” said another.

“It’s not the first time that has been thought of,” observed a third. “But hush, mates, that boy may hear; he looks like a sharp one.”

The men were silent till Paul walked farther aft, where he saw them still earnestly engaged in talking together. He considered what he ought to do. Should he tell Devereux what he had heard? Perhaps, after all, it meant nothing. He could trust Reuben; that is to say, Reuben would not betray him; but he might take part with the men. He would consult Croxton. He found old Jim after some time, but had no opportunity of speaking to him alone. There was an ominous scowl on the countenances of all the men, which confirmed his suspicions that something was wrong. Below they gathered together more in knots than usual, speaking in subdued voices. Whenever an officer approached, they were silent, and generally dispersed with an appearance of indifference. Thus two or three more days passed, and Paul felt as well able as ever to do his duty. It was the forenoon watch; the men were summoned to divisions. It was perfectly calm; no land was in sight; the sun struck down fiercely on their heads.

“There’s work in hand for us to-day,” exclaimed a topman, as he sprang on deck.

In a little time the order to furl sails was given. The men flew aloft.

“Reef topsails,” cried the first-lieutenant.

The men appeared to do the work slowly. Oaths and curses were hurled at them by the officers on duty. Paul took the opportunity of going down to see Devereux, who, with O’Grady and Alphonse, was still too weak to go on deck. He told him that he was afraid something was wrong. Devereux answered—

“I fear that the men are dissatisfied, but they dare do nothing. I pity them, though, poor fellows.”

The words were overheard by some of the idlers, as they are called below. While Paul was speaking to Devereux, Croxton came in. He also heard what had been said.

“Man is born to suffer,” he remarked. “He must submit, and leave the righting in the hands of Providence. He cannot right himself.”

His remarks were scarcely understood by those who heard him, even by Devereux, who, however, remembered them. After a time, Paul returned on deck. The captain was still exercising the men at furling sails. With watch in hand he stood on the quarter-deck, his rage increasing as he found that they could not or would not accomplish the work in the time he desired. At length he shouted in a voice which made the blood run cold in Paul’s veins—

“The last men in off the yards shall get four dozen for their pains. Remember that, ye scoundrels! Away aloft!”

Again the men ascended the rigging. The sails were furled. Two active young topmen on the mizen-yard made an attempt to spring over the backs of the rest. They missed their hold. With a fearful crash they fell together on the deck.

“Throw the lubbers overboard!” exclaimed the captain, kicking contemptuously their mangled remains.

These words were the signal of his own destruction. The men, regardless of his threats, sprang below.

“Vengeance! vengeance!” was the cry.

The first-lieutenant who ventured among them was cut down, and while yet breathing, hove overboard. Others who appeared met with the same fate. The mutineers then rushed to the captain’s cabin. He stood fiercely at bay, but in vain. Bleeding from countless wounds, he was forced through the stern port. His last words were, “Vengeance! vengeance! vengeance!” Fearfully it was paid.

Chapter Four.The deed of blood was not yet completed, although we would fain avoid entering more minutely than is necessary into the horrible details of the massacre which followed the death of the captain. It is a proof of the evil passions which dwell within the bosoms of men, and shows how those passions may be worked up by tyranny and injustice to make men commit deeds at which, in their calmer moments, their minds would revolt. Many of the victims struggled manfully for their lives. Among the officers was a young midshipman. He was fighting bravely by the side of one of the lieutenants, who was at length cut down.“Will you swear not to utter a word of what you have seen done to-day?” exclaimed Nol Hargraves, a quartermaster, who was one of the leaders of the mutineers, if any could be calledleaders, where all seemed suddenly inspired by the same mad revengeful spirit. The brave boy, as he stood leaning on his sword, looked undaunted at Hargraves and at those standing round him.“Swear—no!” he exclaimed. “If I live to see you brought to justice, as you will be some day, I will say that you were cowardly murderers of your officers; that you killed sleeping men; that you threw others, still alive, overboard, and that you murdered the surgeons who had cured the wounded, and tended the sick like brothers. I’ll say that you butchered one of my helpless messmates—a poor boy younger than myself; I’ll—!”“Overboard with him—overboard!” exclaimed Hargraves, who had just cut down the lieutenant, and seemed like a tiger, which having once tasted blood, thirsts for more.The midshipman, already fatigued and wounded, raised his weapon to defend himself. Hargraves rushed at the boy, who in an instant afterwards lay writhing at his feet.“Heave the carcase overboard. It is the way some of us have been treated, you know that, mates,” he exclaimed, throwing the yet palpitating form of the boy into the sea, when it was eagerly seized on by the ravenous sharks, waiting for their prey supplied by the savage cruelty of man. Many even of the mutineers cried, “Shame! shame!” Hargraves turned fiercely round on them—“Ye none of you cried shame when the captain did the same—cowards! why did ye not do it then? Were the lives of our brave fellows of less value than the life of that young cub?”The men were silenced, but the eyes of many were opened, and they began from that moment bitterly to repent the cruel deed of which they had been guilty. Oh! if they could have recalled the dead, how gladly would they have done so,—their officers, who, if they had sometimes acted harshly, were brave men and countrymen; even the captain, tyrant as he was, they wished that they could see once more on his quarter-deck, with the dreadful scene which had been enacted wiped away; but the deed had been done—no power could obliterate it. They had been participators in the bloody work. It stood recorded against them in the imperishable books of Heaven. Blood had been spilt, and blood was to cry out against them and to demand a dreadful retribution.The mutinous crew stood gazing stupidly at each other; the helm had been deserted, the wind had fallen, the sails were flapping lazily against the masts, and the ship’s head was going slowly round and round towards the different points of the compass. Hargraves and others felt that something must be done; there was no safety for them while their frigate floated on the broad ocean. What if they should fall in with another British man-of-war? What account could they give of themselves? Some were for scuttling her and saying that she had foundered, while they had escaped in the boats, but the boats would not hold them all, and could they trust each other? What likelihood that all would adhere to the same tale? Was it probable that all the crew should have escaped, and not an officer with them? The boats might separate, to be sure, but to what lands could they direct their different courses? On what shore, inhabited by countrymen, dared they place their feet without fear of detection? Discussions loud and long took place. It was agreed that the ship should be carried to a Spanish port; sold, if the sale could be effected, and with the proceeds and with such valuables as the murdered officers possessed, they would separate in various directions, and by changing their names, avoid all chance of discovery.But while these dreadful events were occurring, what had become of those who had been so lately rescued from a terrible fate on the raft? Had they suffered one still more terrible by the hands of their own countrymen? Paul Gerrard was asleep in his hammock when he heard a voice calling him. It was that of old James Croxton.“Turn out, Paul,” he said, “there is some fearful work going forward on deck, and I know not who may be the sufferers. We may save some of them, though.”Paul was on his feet and dressed in an instant.“What is to be done?” he asked.“Mr Devereux is in danger; we might save him,” said the old man. “The people are gone mad. Come along.”Paul followed Croxton to the sick bay. Devereux had heard the disturbance, and from the expressions uttered by the men as they passed, feared that an attack was being made on the officers of the ship. He was endeavouring to get up for the purpose of joining the officers, and sharing their fate, whatever that might be. O’Grady was still asleep. Croxton guessed what Devereux was about to do.“It’s of no use, sir—they’ll only murder you with the rest,” he whispered: “you must keep out of their way till they’re cool. Rouse up Mr O’Grady, Paul, and come along.”Saying this, the old man, with a strength scarcely to be expected, lifted up Devereux, and carried, rather than led him, down to the hold. Paul, meantime, had awakened O’Grady, who, though not comprehending what had occurred, followed him mechanically. The two midshipmen found themselves stowed away in total darkness among chests and casks containing stores of various sorts.“The crew have mutinied, there’s no doubt about that,” answered old Jim to an inquiry made by Devereux; “but we will go and face them, they will not harm either the boy or me. Don’t you speak, though, or make the slightest sound; they’ll think that you are hove overboard with the rest.”These words confirmed the midshipmen’s worst apprehensions. They had no time to ask questions, before the old man, taking Paul by the hand, hurried away. Paul and his companion reached the deck unobserved. The mutineers were all too eager in the desperate work in which they had engaged to remark them. At that moment Paul saw his friends Reuben Cole and the young Frenchman, Alphonse, with some of the inferior and petty officers, dragged forward by the mutineers. Hargraves was the chief speaker.“What is to be done with these?” he asked, turning round to his companions in crime.“Serve them like the rest,” shouted some.“Dead men tell no tales,” muttered others.“We’ve had enough of that sort of work,” cried the greater number. “No more bloodshed! Let them swear to hold their tongues and do as we bid them.”“You hear what is proposed,” said Hargraves, gruffly. “Will you fellows take your lives on these terms?”“Not I, for one, ye murderous villains,” exclaimed Reuben Cole, doubling his fists and confronting the mutineers. “I’ll take nothing at your hands, but I’m very certain that there are plenty of men aboard here who’ll not stand idly by and see me butchered on that account. As to peaching on you, I’m not going to do that, but you’ll not get another word out of me about the matter.”Had Hargraves had his way, it would have fared ill with honest Reuben; but the latter had not wrongly estimated the support he was likely to receive from his new shipmates, whose goodwill he knew that he had gained.“Reuben Cole is not the man to peach, even if he has the chance,” shouted several of them.“No fear; he’ll prove true to us, and so will the little Mounseer there; won’t you?” asked one, turning to Alphonse. “We couldn’t afford to lose you and your fiddle, especially just now, when we shall want something to keep up our spirits.”Alphonse, not comprehending what was said, made no reply. His silence was construed into contumacy, and some of Hargraves’ adherents laid hands on him, and appeared as if they were about to throw him overboard, when Paul shouted out to him in French what was said. Alphonse very naturally had no scruples to overcome. He could only look on the fate of the captain as a just retribution on his tyranny.“Oh, yes, yes! I play the fiddle,” he exclaimed; “I go get it—I play for you all.”Not waiting for an answer, he ran towards the nearest hatchway, and passing near Paul, inquired for Devereux and O’Grady.“Safe,” whispered Paul, and the young Frenchman dived below.He speedily returned with his faithful violin, and without waiting to be asked, began to play. The hearts of all his hearers were too heavy to allow them to be influenced as under other circumstances they would have been by the music, but it served in a degree to calm their fierce passions, and to turn them from their evil intentions. Of the principal officers of the ship the master alone had hitherto escaped destruction. He was no coward. He had seen with horror the murder of his messmates and captain, but life was sweet, and when offered to him, even on terms degrading, undoubtedly—that he would navigate the ship into an enemy’s port—he accepted them. The few warrant and petty officers who had escaped being killed, at once declared their intention of acting as the master had done.“It’s fortunate for you, mates, that you don’t belong to the brood who grow into captains,” exclaimed Hargraves, fiercely. “I, for one, would never have consented to let you live if you had.”Paul trembled for the fate of his friends when he heard these expressions, for Hargraves looked like a man who would put any threats he might utter into execution. Order was somewhat restored, officers were appointed to keep watch, and the ship was put on the course for the port to which it was proposed she should be carried. The crew had once been accustomed to keep a sharp look-out for an enemy; they now kept a still more anxious watch to avoid any British cruiser which might approach them. Day and night they were haunted with the dread of meeting their countrymen. Paul overheard some of the ringleaders consulting together.“There are only two things to be done; if we can’t run from them, to fight it out to the last, or to kill all those who won’t swear to be staunch, and to declare that they died of fever,” said one of them in a low, determined voice.“Ay, that’s the only thing for it,” growled out another; “I’m not going to swing for nothing, I’ve made up my mind.”“Swing! who talks of swinging? None of that, Tom,” exclaimed a third, in uneasy tones.“It’s what one and all of us will do, mates, if we don’t look out what we’re about,” said Hargraves, who was waiting for an opportunity of pressing his plans on his companions. “We have let too many of them live as it is, and it’s my opinion there’s no safety for any of us as long as one of them breathes. I’ve heard tell what the old pirates used to do to make men faithful. They didn’t trust to oaths—not they—but they made those who said they were ready to join them shoot their shipmates who refused. That’s what we must do, mates; it’s the only secure way, you may depend on’t.”Paul was convinced that the men spoke in earnest, and afraid of being discovered should he remain, he crept stealthily away. He searched about till he found Croxton and Reuben, and told them at once what he had heard and feared.“There’s little doubt but that you are right, Paul,” said old Croxton, after meditating for some time. “We thought that we were fortunate in getting on board this ship, and now, to my mind, we shall be fortunate to get out of her. I’m afraid for poor Mr Devereux and Mr O’Grady. It will go hard with them if they’re discovered.”“I have it,” said Reuben, after thinking for some time—speaking in a low voice—“We must leave this cursed ship and carry off the two young gentlemen. I’d sooner be on the raft out in the Atlantic, than aboard of her.”“Ay, lads, ‘Better is a dry crust with contentment,’” remarked old Jim. “But how to leave the ship, so as to escape without being followed—there’s the difficulty.”“‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’” said Reuben. “If it must be done, it can be done.”“Right, lad,” said Croxton; “it must be done, for we deserve the fate of villains if we consort with them longer than we can help; though I’ll not say that all on board this unhappy ship are equally bad. There are many who would be glad to escape from her if they had but the chance.”“It must be done,” repeated Reuben. “We may make off with a boat some dark night. The young Frenchman and our own fellows will be sure to join, and I think that there’s three or four others—maybe more—who’ll be glad to get away at any risk.”“We must run the risk, and it isn’t a small one,” said Croxton. “If they were to catch us, they’d kill us. There’s no doubt about that.”The whole plan was soon settled—who were to be got to join—the boat to be taken—the way she was to be lowered. Devereux and O’Grady were to be told of it when all was ready, and were to be brought up on deck as soon as it was dark, and stowed away in the boat herself till the moment of escape had arrived. Paul was usually employed to carry food to the midshipmen. Sometimes, however, Croxton went, sometimes Reuben, to lessen the risk of his object being suspected. Paul waited till night—the time he visited his friends—and hiding a lantern under his jacket, carefully groped his way down to them. They highly approved of the plan proposed for escaping from the ship, and were eager for the moment for putting it into execution. O’Grady, especially, was heartily weary of his confinement.“I doubt if my two legs will ever be able to stretch themselves out straight again, after being cramped up so long, like herrings in a cask,” he exclaimed, in the low tone in which it was necessary to speak. “We owe you a heavy debt, Gerrard, and if you succeed in getting us out of this, it will be a huge deal greater.”“If it were not for old Jim and Reuben Cole, I could be but of little use, so say nothing about that, Mr O’Grady,” answered Paul. “I am going to try and find out on the charts, when the master is working his day’s work, exactly where we are, and if there’s land near, we may, perhaps, get away to-morrow.”Paul felt far from comfortable all the next day. He could not help fancying that the mutineers suspected him, and that he should suddenly find himself seized and thrown overboard. What he dreaded most was the ultimate failure of the undertaking. His two friends had in the meantime sounded those they hoped might join them, but whether all were favourable to the plan he could not ascertain. His eye was constantly on the master, who at length, seeing him near, sent him for his quadrant and tables. This was just what Paul wanted. He stood by while the observations were being taken, and then, carrying the instrument, followed the master to the cabin. Paul brought out the chart, and placed it before him, watching anxiously the movements of his companion as he measured off the distance run since the previous day.More than once the master glanced round the cabin, and sighed deeply. “In five or six days my disgraceful task will be done,” he muttered, as he moved the compasses towards the coast of the Spanish main. “Then what remains for me in life? If I escape an ignominious death, I must ever be suspected of having consented to the murder of my brother officers. I would rather that the ship had gone down, and the whole history of the butchery been hid from mortal knowledge. Yet God knows it, and it may teach officers for the future the dreadful consequences of tyranny and cruelty.”He continued on in the same strain, not aware, it seemed, that Paul was listening. Paul retired to a distance. “Shall I ask the master to join us?” he thought to himself. “No, it will not do. It would greatly increase the risk of our being caught.” He waited till the master was silent. He went back to the table. “Shall I put up the charts?” he asked. “But before I do so, will you, sir, kindly show me where we are?”Since the outbreak the poor master had not been treated with so much respect. He showed Paul the exact position of the ship, the neighbouring lands, and remarked on the prevailing currents and winds. Paul rolled up the chart, and put it in its place. He fancied that the master must have suspected his thoughts. Paul soon after met his friends, and told them of all he had learned.It was agreed that they would wait till it was the master’s watch, for so few of the mutineers could take command of a watch, that he was compelled constantly to be on deck. It was suspected that he had at times given way to intemperance, and Paul had observed more than once that when he came on deck he appeared to have been drinking, and that he frequently dropped asleep when sitting on a gun or leaning against the side of the ship. Many of the seamen who had free access to the spirit-room were also constantly tipsy at night, though the chief mutineers, from necessity, kept sober. The once well-ordered man-of-war soon became like a lawless buccaneer. The men rolled about the decks half tipsy, some were playing cards and dice between the guns, some were fighting, and others were sleeping in any shady place they could find.Paul passed old Croxton on deck. “We shall have little difficulty in accomplishing our object if this goes on,” he whispered.“Yes, Paul, what is lost by fools is gained by wise men,” he answered. “Ay, and there is one who will gain more than all by the work done on board this ship. He will soon leave his poor dupes to wish that they had never been born.”Paul and his friends waited anxiously for night: they had resolved no longer to delay their attempt.“I’ll take care that they don’t follow us,” said Reuben.“What do you mean?” asked Paul.“I’ll tell you, lad,” was the answer; and he whispered something into his companion’s ear.Paul felt that there was a great deal to be done, and longed for the moment of action. He observed with satisfaction that frequent visits were made to the spirit-room, and that even the master was taking more than his usual share of grog. The ship sailed steadily over the calm sea—night drew on. Paul’s heart beat unusually fast. He waited till he was sure that he was not perceived, and then he climbed into one of the boats. He was there for some time, and then descending he got into another; and so he visited all in succession. Again he slunk down below.At length the master came on deck to keep his watch. The night, for those latitudes, was unusually dark, but the sea was smooth. The ship glided calmly on, the ripple made by her stem as she drove her way through the water showing, however, that a fair breeze filled her sails. The master leaned against a gun-carriage, and gradually sunk down on it, resting his head on his hands. The helmsman stood at his post, now gazing at the broad spread of canvas above him, and then mechanically at the compass, with its light shining in the binnacle before him, but looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. The rest of the watch placed themselves at their ease between the guns, and were soon, whatever might have been their intention, fast asleep. One by one others now stole on deck towards the boat Paul had last visited. Not a word was spoken. At length two men appeared bearing two slight figures on their backs. The latter were carefully deposited in the boat, which was quickly lowered. The whole manoeuvre was executed with the greatest rapidity and in the most perfect silence. Even the helmsman, who, though drowsy, could not have been entirely asleep, took no notice of them. In another instant, had anybody been looking over the side, a dark object might have been seen dropping astern. It was a boat, which contained Paul Gerrard and his companions, who had thus made their perilous escape from the blood-stained ship. Not till they were far astern did any one venture to speak. Devereux at last drew a deep sigh. “Thank Heaven, we are free of them!” he exclaimed.“Amen!” said old Croxton, in a deep voice. “We have reason to rejoice and be thankful. Sad will be the end of all those wretched men. Their victims are more to be envied than they.”As soon as it was deemed safe the oars were got out, a lantern was lighted to throw its light on the compass, and the boat was steered towards the north-west. The wind soon dropped to a perfect calm.“We are safe now,” exclaimed Paul. “Even if they were to miss us they could not follow, for there is not a boat on board which can swim or an oar to pull with. Some I dropped overboard, and others I cut nearly through just above the blades, and I bored holes in all the boats where they could not be seen till the boats were in the water.”“Well done, Gerrard. If we get clear off, we shall owe our escape to your judgment; but you ran a great risk of losing your life. The mutineers would have murdered you if they had discovered what you were about.”“I knew that, sir; but I knew also that nothing can be done without danger and trouble.”“Ay, boy, and that no danger or trouble is too great, so that we may escape from the company of sinners,” remarked old Croxton. “Think of that, young gentleman. If you consent to remain with them because you are too lazy to flee, you will soon fall into their ways, and become one of them.”Some of his hearers remembered those words in after years. All night long the oars were kept going, and when morning dawned the ship was nowhere to be seen.“Now let us turn to and have some breakfast,” exclaimed O’Grady. “It will be the first for many a day that you and I have eaten in sunlight, Devereux, and I see good reason that we should be thankful. Then we’ll have a tune from Alphonse, for I’ll warrant that he has brought his fiddle.”“Ah, dat I have,” cried the young Frenchman, exhibiting his beloved instrument. “But, mes amis, ve vill mange first. De arm vil not move vidout de oil!”Alphonse had greatly improved in his knowledge of English.A good supply of provisions had been collected, but as it was uncertain when they should make the land, it was necessary to be economical in their use. A very good breakfast, however, was made, and the spirits of the party rose as their hunger was appeased, and they thought of their happy escape. As the sun, however, arose in the blue sky, its rays struck down on their unprotected heads, and they would gladly have got under shelter, but there was no shelter for them out on the glassy shining sea. Still they rowed on. To remain where they were was to die by inches. Devereux did his best, as he had done on the raft, to keep up the spirits of his men, and, weak as he was, he would have taken his spell at the oar if they had let him.“No, no, sir; you just take your trick at the helm, if you think proper,” exclaimed Croxton. “But just let us do the hard work. It’s your head guides us, and without that we should be badly off.”Devereux saw the wisdom of this remark. They knew that they had five, and perhaps six days’ hard rowing before they could hope to reach Dominica, the nearest island they supposed belonged to Great Britain, according to the information Paul had gained from the master. They were, however, far better off than when they had been on the raft, for they had food, were in a well-found boat, and knew tolerably well their position. Still they were not in good spirits, which is not surprising, considering the scenes they had witnessed, the dangers they had endured, and the uncertainty of the future.Dominica was an English possession, but it had once been taken by the French, and might have been again; and Alphonse fancied that he had heard that it was proposed to make a descent on the island, in which case they would fall among enemies instead of friends.“Ah! but your countrymen would surely treat us who come to them in distress as friends,” observed O’Grady.“Ah, dat dey vould!” exclaimed Alphonse, warmly.“Well, mounseer, there is good and there is bad among ’em, of that there’s no doubt,” observed Reuben, taking his quid out of his mouth, and looking the young Frenchman in the face; “but do ye see I’d rather not try lest we should fall among the bad, and there’s a precious lot on ’em.”Notwithstanding these doubts Devereux continued his course for Dominica. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the heat became greater and greater, till it was almost insupportable. A sail spread over the boat afforded some shelter from its rays, but they pierced through it as easily as a mosquito’s sting does through a kid glove, till the air under it became even more stifling than that above.All the time in turns they continued to row on—night and day there was to be no cessation. Reversing the usual order, they longed for the night, when the air would be cooler, and their heads would escape the frying process going on while the sun was above them.“Och, but this is hot,” cried O’Grady for the hundredth time. “If this goes on much longer, we’ll all be turned into real black ebony niggers, and the Christians on shore will be after putting us to work at the sugar-canes, and be swearing we’ve just come straight across from Africa. As to our tongues, there’ll be no safety for us through them, and they’ll swear we’ve made off with the uniforms from some ship of war or other, and perhaps be tricing us up as thieves and murderers. Did you ever hear tell of the Irishman—a sweet countryman of mine,—who once came out from the Emerald Isle to these parts—to Demerara, I believe? As soon as the ship which brought him entered the harbour, she was boarded by a boat full of niggers.“‘Will yer honour have your duds carried ashore now?’ asks one, stepping up to him. ‘It’s myself will see ye all comfortable in a jiffy, if ye’ll trust me, at Mother Flannigan’s.’“My countryman looked at him very hard.“‘What’s your name now?’ he asks with some trepidation.“‘Pat O’Dwyer, yer honour,’ says the nigger.“‘Pat, how long have ye been here?’ asks my countryman, solemnly.“‘Faith, about two years, yer honour,’ says the nigger.“‘Two years, did ye say—two years only to turn a white Irishman into a nigger?’ exclaimed my countryman with no little alarm. ‘Then faith the sooner I get away back from out of this black-burning country the better—or my own mither down in Ballyshannon won’t be after knowing her own beautiful boy again at all, and my father would be after disowning me, and my sisters and brothers to boot, and Father O’Roony would be declaring that it was a white Christian he made of me, and that I couldn’t be the same anyhow. Take my duds on shore. No. Take ’em below, and I’ll go there too, and remain there too till the ship sails and I’m out of this nigger-making land.’ My countryman kept to his intention, and from that day till the ship sailed, never set foot on shore. You’ll understand that no small number of Irishmen go out to that country, and that the nigger boy had learnt his English from them—for he wasn’t a real Irishman after all, but that my countryman did not find out till he got back to auld Ireland again.“Och, they are broths of boys the Paddies, but they do make curious mistakes somehow or other, it must be allowed.“I was one day dining at the mess of some soldier officers, when one of them, a Captain O’Rourke, positively declared on his faith as a gentleman that ‘he had seen anchovies growing on the walls at Gibraltar.’“Most of the party opened their eyes, but said nothing, for O’Rourke was not a man whose word a quietly-disposed person would wish in his sober moments to call in question.“Unfortunately, there was present an Englishman, a Lieutenant Brown, into whose head the fumes of the tawny port and ruby claret had already mounted.“‘Anchovies growing on a wall?’ he blurted out. ‘That’s a cram if ever there was one.’“O’Rourke was on his feet in a moment,—“‘What, sir—it’s not you who mean to say that you don’t believe me, I hope?’ he exclaimed, in a voice which meant mischief.“‘Believe you! I should think I don’t, or any man who can talk such gammon,’ answered Brown, in a tone of defiance.“As may be supposed, there was only one way in which such a matter could end. Preliminaries were soon settled. The affair would have come off that evening, but it would have broken up the party too soon, and besides it wouldn’t have been fair, as Brown’s hand was not as steady as it might have been. So it was put off till the next morning soon after daylight, when there was a good gathering to see the fun. The English generally took Brown’s side. I of course stood by O’Rourke, not that I was quite sure he was in the right, by-the-by.“It was very evident that Brown had no notion of handling his pistol.“‘I’ll just wing him to teach the spalpeen better manners,’ whispered O’Rourke to his second. ‘He’s unworthy game for my weapon.’“The word was given to fire. Brown’s bullet flew up among some trees away to the right, not a little frightening the young in a nest of birds, who popped out their heads to see what was the matter. It was now our friend’s turn.He smiled as he sent his ball through Brown’s trousers, cruelly grazing his leg, whereon he began to skip about in the most comical way possible with the pain.“‘By —, you’ve made that fellow cut capers at all events,’ observed O’Rourke’s second.“‘Cut capers, did ye say?’ exclaimed O’Rourke. ‘Them’s the very things I saw growing on the wall, and not anchovies at all, at all.’ And rushing up to poor Brown, who had fallen on the ground, he took his hand, greatly to the surprise of the wounded man, crying out,—‘It’s myself made the trifle of a mistake, my dear fellow, it’s capers, it’s capers, grows on walls, so get up and don’t think anything more about the matter.’“Poor Brown went limping about for many a day afterwards, and didn’t seem to consider the matter half as good a joke as the rest of us.”O’Grady’s stories amused the party, though Croxton very properly remarked that duelling was a wicked heathen custom, and that he wondered people who called themselves Christians could ever indulge in it. Other stories were told, but their interest flagged, for people are not generally in a talkative mood with the thermometer above a hundred, and with a small supply of water. Alphonse, however, from time to time kept his fiddlestick going, both to his own satisfaction, and that of his hearers. Still he, on account of the heat, was often compelled to put it down, and to declare that he could play no longer.Great and unusual, however, as was the heat, it did not appear to cause any apprehension of danger in the mind of Devereux. The night came on, and though the air even then was hot, the weary crew were refreshed by sleep. The sun rose, and the air was hotter than ever, notwithstanding a dense mist, which gradually filled the atmosphere, while soon a lurid glare spread over it. Croxton, as he watched the change, looked even graver than before. “You’ve not been in these seas before, Mr Devereux, sir?” he observed.“No; and if the weather is always as broiling as it is at present, I don’t wish to come to them again in a hurry,” answered Devereux. “But one thing is fortunate—they are calm enough to please any old ladies who might venture on them.”“Don’t count too much on that, sir, if an old man who has cruised for many a long year out here in every part may venture to give you advice,” said Croxton, in an earnest tone. “The weather here is often like a passionate man—calm one moment, and raging furiously the next. I tell you, sir, I don’t like its look at present, and I fear, before long, that we shall have a job to keep the boat afloat.”“What do you mean, Croxton?” said Devereux. “The boat is the strongest and best-built belonging to the frigate.”“I mean, sir, that a hurricane is about to burst over us, and that the strongest and best-built boat can scarcely live through it,” was the answer.“I fear that you are right,” replied Devereux. “We’ll prepare the boat as best we can for what is coming.”No time was to be lost. The staves of a cask knocked to pieces were nailed round the sides of the boat, and to these a sail, cut into broad strips, was nailed, so that the water might the better be kept out. The men were also ordered to rest and to take some food, and then calmly they waited the expected event. They were not kept long in suspense.“Here it comes,” cried Croxton. “Our only chance is to run before it.” He pointed as he spoke astern, where a long line of snow-white foam was seen rolling on over the leaden ocean, the sky above it being even darker than before.“Out oars, and pull for your lives, lads!” cried Devereux.Scarcely had the boat gathered full away before the hurricane overtook her, and she was surrounded by a seething mass of foam; every instant the seas growing higher and higher, and rolling up with fierce roars, as if to overwhelm her. It seemed impossible that an open boat could live in such tumultuous waters, yet still she kept afloat, flying on before the tempest. Devereux firmly grasped the helm. He knew that any careless steering would cause the destruction of the boat and all in her. The crew looked at each other. No wonder that many a cheek was pale. Who could tell how soon they might be struggling helplessly amid the foam, while their boat was sinking down below their feet? It was impossible to say also where they might drive to.On flew the boat. As the hurricane increased in strength and gained greater and greater power over the water, the seas increased in height and came rolling and tumbling on, foaming, hissing, and roaring—threatening every instant to engulph her. So great was the force of the wind, that the oars were almost blown out of the men’s hands, their efforts being expended solely in keeping the boat running before the sea. Those not rowing were employed in baling, for, in spite of all their efforts, the water washed in in such abundance as to require all their exertions to heave it out again.Paul, as he laboured away with the rest, thought a great deal of home and the dear ones he had left there. He believed, and had good reason for believing, that he should never see them again, for by what possible means could he and his companions escape destruction, unless the hurricane was suddenly to cease, and it had as yet not gained its height. Even as it was, the boat could scarcely be kept afloat. Night, too, would soon arrive, and then the difficulty of steering before the sea would be greatly increased. Still the boat floated. Now a sea higher than its predecessors came roaring on—the foam blown from its summit half filled the boat. With difficulty she could be freed of water before another came following with a still more threatening aspect. The voice of old Croxton was heard raised in prayer. Each one believed that his last hour was come. It turned suddenly aside, and the boat still floated. Again and again they were threatened and escaped. Darkness, however, was now rapidly coming on and increasing the terrific aspect of the tempest. Devereux, aided by Reuben Cole, sat steering the boat. Not a word was spoken. The roar of the waves increased.“Breakers ahead!” cried old Croxton, in a deep solemn voice. “The Lord have mercy on our souls!”The boat was lifted higher than before amid the tumultuous hissing cauldron of foaming waters, and then down she came with a fearful crash on a coral reef.

The deed of blood was not yet completed, although we would fain avoid entering more minutely than is necessary into the horrible details of the massacre which followed the death of the captain. It is a proof of the evil passions which dwell within the bosoms of men, and shows how those passions may be worked up by tyranny and injustice to make men commit deeds at which, in their calmer moments, their minds would revolt. Many of the victims struggled manfully for their lives. Among the officers was a young midshipman. He was fighting bravely by the side of one of the lieutenants, who was at length cut down.

“Will you swear not to utter a word of what you have seen done to-day?” exclaimed Nol Hargraves, a quartermaster, who was one of the leaders of the mutineers, if any could be calledleaders, where all seemed suddenly inspired by the same mad revengeful spirit. The brave boy, as he stood leaning on his sword, looked undaunted at Hargraves and at those standing round him.

“Swear—no!” he exclaimed. “If I live to see you brought to justice, as you will be some day, I will say that you were cowardly murderers of your officers; that you killed sleeping men; that you threw others, still alive, overboard, and that you murdered the surgeons who had cured the wounded, and tended the sick like brothers. I’ll say that you butchered one of my helpless messmates—a poor boy younger than myself; I’ll—!”

“Overboard with him—overboard!” exclaimed Hargraves, who had just cut down the lieutenant, and seemed like a tiger, which having once tasted blood, thirsts for more.

The midshipman, already fatigued and wounded, raised his weapon to defend himself. Hargraves rushed at the boy, who in an instant afterwards lay writhing at his feet.

“Heave the carcase overboard. It is the way some of us have been treated, you know that, mates,” he exclaimed, throwing the yet palpitating form of the boy into the sea, when it was eagerly seized on by the ravenous sharks, waiting for their prey supplied by the savage cruelty of man. Many even of the mutineers cried, “Shame! shame!” Hargraves turned fiercely round on them—

“Ye none of you cried shame when the captain did the same—cowards! why did ye not do it then? Were the lives of our brave fellows of less value than the life of that young cub?”

The men were silenced, but the eyes of many were opened, and they began from that moment bitterly to repent the cruel deed of which they had been guilty. Oh! if they could have recalled the dead, how gladly would they have done so,—their officers, who, if they had sometimes acted harshly, were brave men and countrymen; even the captain, tyrant as he was, they wished that they could see once more on his quarter-deck, with the dreadful scene which had been enacted wiped away; but the deed had been done—no power could obliterate it. They had been participators in the bloody work. It stood recorded against them in the imperishable books of Heaven. Blood had been spilt, and blood was to cry out against them and to demand a dreadful retribution.

The mutinous crew stood gazing stupidly at each other; the helm had been deserted, the wind had fallen, the sails were flapping lazily against the masts, and the ship’s head was going slowly round and round towards the different points of the compass. Hargraves and others felt that something must be done; there was no safety for them while their frigate floated on the broad ocean. What if they should fall in with another British man-of-war? What account could they give of themselves? Some were for scuttling her and saying that she had foundered, while they had escaped in the boats, but the boats would not hold them all, and could they trust each other? What likelihood that all would adhere to the same tale? Was it probable that all the crew should have escaped, and not an officer with them? The boats might separate, to be sure, but to what lands could they direct their different courses? On what shore, inhabited by countrymen, dared they place their feet without fear of detection? Discussions loud and long took place. It was agreed that the ship should be carried to a Spanish port; sold, if the sale could be effected, and with the proceeds and with such valuables as the murdered officers possessed, they would separate in various directions, and by changing their names, avoid all chance of discovery.

But while these dreadful events were occurring, what had become of those who had been so lately rescued from a terrible fate on the raft? Had they suffered one still more terrible by the hands of their own countrymen? Paul Gerrard was asleep in his hammock when he heard a voice calling him. It was that of old James Croxton.

“Turn out, Paul,” he said, “there is some fearful work going forward on deck, and I know not who may be the sufferers. We may save some of them, though.”

Paul was on his feet and dressed in an instant.

“What is to be done?” he asked.

“Mr Devereux is in danger; we might save him,” said the old man. “The people are gone mad. Come along.”

Paul followed Croxton to the sick bay. Devereux had heard the disturbance, and from the expressions uttered by the men as they passed, feared that an attack was being made on the officers of the ship. He was endeavouring to get up for the purpose of joining the officers, and sharing their fate, whatever that might be. O’Grady was still asleep. Croxton guessed what Devereux was about to do.

“It’s of no use, sir—they’ll only murder you with the rest,” he whispered: “you must keep out of their way till they’re cool. Rouse up Mr O’Grady, Paul, and come along.”

Saying this, the old man, with a strength scarcely to be expected, lifted up Devereux, and carried, rather than led him, down to the hold. Paul, meantime, had awakened O’Grady, who, though not comprehending what had occurred, followed him mechanically. The two midshipmen found themselves stowed away in total darkness among chests and casks containing stores of various sorts.

“The crew have mutinied, there’s no doubt about that,” answered old Jim to an inquiry made by Devereux; “but we will go and face them, they will not harm either the boy or me. Don’t you speak, though, or make the slightest sound; they’ll think that you are hove overboard with the rest.”

These words confirmed the midshipmen’s worst apprehensions. They had no time to ask questions, before the old man, taking Paul by the hand, hurried away. Paul and his companion reached the deck unobserved. The mutineers were all too eager in the desperate work in which they had engaged to remark them. At that moment Paul saw his friends Reuben Cole and the young Frenchman, Alphonse, with some of the inferior and petty officers, dragged forward by the mutineers. Hargraves was the chief speaker.

“What is to be done with these?” he asked, turning round to his companions in crime.

“Serve them like the rest,” shouted some.

“Dead men tell no tales,” muttered others.

“We’ve had enough of that sort of work,” cried the greater number. “No more bloodshed! Let them swear to hold their tongues and do as we bid them.”

“You hear what is proposed,” said Hargraves, gruffly. “Will you fellows take your lives on these terms?”

“Not I, for one, ye murderous villains,” exclaimed Reuben Cole, doubling his fists and confronting the mutineers. “I’ll take nothing at your hands, but I’m very certain that there are plenty of men aboard here who’ll not stand idly by and see me butchered on that account. As to peaching on you, I’m not going to do that, but you’ll not get another word out of me about the matter.”

Had Hargraves had his way, it would have fared ill with honest Reuben; but the latter had not wrongly estimated the support he was likely to receive from his new shipmates, whose goodwill he knew that he had gained.

“Reuben Cole is not the man to peach, even if he has the chance,” shouted several of them.

“No fear; he’ll prove true to us, and so will the little Mounseer there; won’t you?” asked one, turning to Alphonse. “We couldn’t afford to lose you and your fiddle, especially just now, when we shall want something to keep up our spirits.”

Alphonse, not comprehending what was said, made no reply. His silence was construed into contumacy, and some of Hargraves’ adherents laid hands on him, and appeared as if they were about to throw him overboard, when Paul shouted out to him in French what was said. Alphonse very naturally had no scruples to overcome. He could only look on the fate of the captain as a just retribution on his tyranny.

“Oh, yes, yes! I play the fiddle,” he exclaimed; “I go get it—I play for you all.”

Not waiting for an answer, he ran towards the nearest hatchway, and passing near Paul, inquired for Devereux and O’Grady.

“Safe,” whispered Paul, and the young Frenchman dived below.

He speedily returned with his faithful violin, and without waiting to be asked, began to play. The hearts of all his hearers were too heavy to allow them to be influenced as under other circumstances they would have been by the music, but it served in a degree to calm their fierce passions, and to turn them from their evil intentions. Of the principal officers of the ship the master alone had hitherto escaped destruction. He was no coward. He had seen with horror the murder of his messmates and captain, but life was sweet, and when offered to him, even on terms degrading, undoubtedly—that he would navigate the ship into an enemy’s port—he accepted them. The few warrant and petty officers who had escaped being killed, at once declared their intention of acting as the master had done.

“It’s fortunate for you, mates, that you don’t belong to the brood who grow into captains,” exclaimed Hargraves, fiercely. “I, for one, would never have consented to let you live if you had.”

Paul trembled for the fate of his friends when he heard these expressions, for Hargraves looked like a man who would put any threats he might utter into execution. Order was somewhat restored, officers were appointed to keep watch, and the ship was put on the course for the port to which it was proposed she should be carried. The crew had once been accustomed to keep a sharp look-out for an enemy; they now kept a still more anxious watch to avoid any British cruiser which might approach them. Day and night they were haunted with the dread of meeting their countrymen. Paul overheard some of the ringleaders consulting together.

“There are only two things to be done; if we can’t run from them, to fight it out to the last, or to kill all those who won’t swear to be staunch, and to declare that they died of fever,” said one of them in a low, determined voice.

“Ay, that’s the only thing for it,” growled out another; “I’m not going to swing for nothing, I’ve made up my mind.”

“Swing! who talks of swinging? None of that, Tom,” exclaimed a third, in uneasy tones.

“It’s what one and all of us will do, mates, if we don’t look out what we’re about,” said Hargraves, who was waiting for an opportunity of pressing his plans on his companions. “We have let too many of them live as it is, and it’s my opinion there’s no safety for any of us as long as one of them breathes. I’ve heard tell what the old pirates used to do to make men faithful. They didn’t trust to oaths—not they—but they made those who said they were ready to join them shoot their shipmates who refused. That’s what we must do, mates; it’s the only secure way, you may depend on’t.”

Paul was convinced that the men spoke in earnest, and afraid of being discovered should he remain, he crept stealthily away. He searched about till he found Croxton and Reuben, and told them at once what he had heard and feared.

“There’s little doubt but that you are right, Paul,” said old Croxton, after meditating for some time. “We thought that we were fortunate in getting on board this ship, and now, to my mind, we shall be fortunate to get out of her. I’m afraid for poor Mr Devereux and Mr O’Grady. It will go hard with them if they’re discovered.”

“I have it,” said Reuben, after thinking for some time—speaking in a low voice—“We must leave this cursed ship and carry off the two young gentlemen. I’d sooner be on the raft out in the Atlantic, than aboard of her.”

“Ay, lads, ‘Better is a dry crust with contentment,’” remarked old Jim. “But how to leave the ship, so as to escape without being followed—there’s the difficulty.”

“‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’” said Reuben. “If it must be done, it can be done.”

“Right, lad,” said Croxton; “it must be done, for we deserve the fate of villains if we consort with them longer than we can help; though I’ll not say that all on board this unhappy ship are equally bad. There are many who would be glad to escape from her if they had but the chance.”

“It must be done,” repeated Reuben. “We may make off with a boat some dark night. The young Frenchman and our own fellows will be sure to join, and I think that there’s three or four others—maybe more—who’ll be glad to get away at any risk.”

“We must run the risk, and it isn’t a small one,” said Croxton. “If they were to catch us, they’d kill us. There’s no doubt about that.”

The whole plan was soon settled—who were to be got to join—the boat to be taken—the way she was to be lowered. Devereux and O’Grady were to be told of it when all was ready, and were to be brought up on deck as soon as it was dark, and stowed away in the boat herself till the moment of escape had arrived. Paul was usually employed to carry food to the midshipmen. Sometimes, however, Croxton went, sometimes Reuben, to lessen the risk of his object being suspected. Paul waited till night—the time he visited his friends—and hiding a lantern under his jacket, carefully groped his way down to them. They highly approved of the plan proposed for escaping from the ship, and were eager for the moment for putting it into execution. O’Grady, especially, was heartily weary of his confinement.

“I doubt if my two legs will ever be able to stretch themselves out straight again, after being cramped up so long, like herrings in a cask,” he exclaimed, in the low tone in which it was necessary to speak. “We owe you a heavy debt, Gerrard, and if you succeed in getting us out of this, it will be a huge deal greater.”

“If it were not for old Jim and Reuben Cole, I could be but of little use, so say nothing about that, Mr O’Grady,” answered Paul. “I am going to try and find out on the charts, when the master is working his day’s work, exactly where we are, and if there’s land near, we may, perhaps, get away to-morrow.”

Paul felt far from comfortable all the next day. He could not help fancying that the mutineers suspected him, and that he should suddenly find himself seized and thrown overboard. What he dreaded most was the ultimate failure of the undertaking. His two friends had in the meantime sounded those they hoped might join them, but whether all were favourable to the plan he could not ascertain. His eye was constantly on the master, who at length, seeing him near, sent him for his quadrant and tables. This was just what Paul wanted. He stood by while the observations were being taken, and then, carrying the instrument, followed the master to the cabin. Paul brought out the chart, and placed it before him, watching anxiously the movements of his companion as he measured off the distance run since the previous day.

More than once the master glanced round the cabin, and sighed deeply. “In five or six days my disgraceful task will be done,” he muttered, as he moved the compasses towards the coast of the Spanish main. “Then what remains for me in life? If I escape an ignominious death, I must ever be suspected of having consented to the murder of my brother officers. I would rather that the ship had gone down, and the whole history of the butchery been hid from mortal knowledge. Yet God knows it, and it may teach officers for the future the dreadful consequences of tyranny and cruelty.”

He continued on in the same strain, not aware, it seemed, that Paul was listening. Paul retired to a distance. “Shall I ask the master to join us?” he thought to himself. “No, it will not do. It would greatly increase the risk of our being caught.” He waited till the master was silent. He went back to the table. “Shall I put up the charts?” he asked. “But before I do so, will you, sir, kindly show me where we are?”

Since the outbreak the poor master had not been treated with so much respect. He showed Paul the exact position of the ship, the neighbouring lands, and remarked on the prevailing currents and winds. Paul rolled up the chart, and put it in its place. He fancied that the master must have suspected his thoughts. Paul soon after met his friends, and told them of all he had learned.

It was agreed that they would wait till it was the master’s watch, for so few of the mutineers could take command of a watch, that he was compelled constantly to be on deck. It was suspected that he had at times given way to intemperance, and Paul had observed more than once that when he came on deck he appeared to have been drinking, and that he frequently dropped asleep when sitting on a gun or leaning against the side of the ship. Many of the seamen who had free access to the spirit-room were also constantly tipsy at night, though the chief mutineers, from necessity, kept sober. The once well-ordered man-of-war soon became like a lawless buccaneer. The men rolled about the decks half tipsy, some were playing cards and dice between the guns, some were fighting, and others were sleeping in any shady place they could find.

Paul passed old Croxton on deck. “We shall have little difficulty in accomplishing our object if this goes on,” he whispered.

“Yes, Paul, what is lost by fools is gained by wise men,” he answered. “Ay, and there is one who will gain more than all by the work done on board this ship. He will soon leave his poor dupes to wish that they had never been born.”

Paul and his friends waited anxiously for night: they had resolved no longer to delay their attempt.

“I’ll take care that they don’t follow us,” said Reuben.

“What do you mean?” asked Paul.

“I’ll tell you, lad,” was the answer; and he whispered something into his companion’s ear.

Paul felt that there was a great deal to be done, and longed for the moment of action. He observed with satisfaction that frequent visits were made to the spirit-room, and that even the master was taking more than his usual share of grog. The ship sailed steadily over the calm sea—night drew on. Paul’s heart beat unusually fast. He waited till he was sure that he was not perceived, and then he climbed into one of the boats. He was there for some time, and then descending he got into another; and so he visited all in succession. Again he slunk down below.

At length the master came on deck to keep his watch. The night, for those latitudes, was unusually dark, but the sea was smooth. The ship glided calmly on, the ripple made by her stem as she drove her way through the water showing, however, that a fair breeze filled her sails. The master leaned against a gun-carriage, and gradually sunk down on it, resting his head on his hands. The helmsman stood at his post, now gazing at the broad spread of canvas above him, and then mechanically at the compass, with its light shining in the binnacle before him, but looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. The rest of the watch placed themselves at their ease between the guns, and were soon, whatever might have been their intention, fast asleep. One by one others now stole on deck towards the boat Paul had last visited. Not a word was spoken. At length two men appeared bearing two slight figures on their backs. The latter were carefully deposited in the boat, which was quickly lowered. The whole manoeuvre was executed with the greatest rapidity and in the most perfect silence. Even the helmsman, who, though drowsy, could not have been entirely asleep, took no notice of them. In another instant, had anybody been looking over the side, a dark object might have been seen dropping astern. It was a boat, which contained Paul Gerrard and his companions, who had thus made their perilous escape from the blood-stained ship. Not till they were far astern did any one venture to speak. Devereux at last drew a deep sigh. “Thank Heaven, we are free of them!” he exclaimed.

“Amen!” said old Croxton, in a deep voice. “We have reason to rejoice and be thankful. Sad will be the end of all those wretched men. Their victims are more to be envied than they.”

As soon as it was deemed safe the oars were got out, a lantern was lighted to throw its light on the compass, and the boat was steered towards the north-west. The wind soon dropped to a perfect calm.

“We are safe now,” exclaimed Paul. “Even if they were to miss us they could not follow, for there is not a boat on board which can swim or an oar to pull with. Some I dropped overboard, and others I cut nearly through just above the blades, and I bored holes in all the boats where they could not be seen till the boats were in the water.”

“Well done, Gerrard. If we get clear off, we shall owe our escape to your judgment; but you ran a great risk of losing your life. The mutineers would have murdered you if they had discovered what you were about.”

“I knew that, sir; but I knew also that nothing can be done without danger and trouble.”

“Ay, boy, and that no danger or trouble is too great, so that we may escape from the company of sinners,” remarked old Croxton. “Think of that, young gentleman. If you consent to remain with them because you are too lazy to flee, you will soon fall into their ways, and become one of them.”

Some of his hearers remembered those words in after years. All night long the oars were kept going, and when morning dawned the ship was nowhere to be seen.

“Now let us turn to and have some breakfast,” exclaimed O’Grady. “It will be the first for many a day that you and I have eaten in sunlight, Devereux, and I see good reason that we should be thankful. Then we’ll have a tune from Alphonse, for I’ll warrant that he has brought his fiddle.”

“Ah, dat I have,” cried the young Frenchman, exhibiting his beloved instrument. “But, mes amis, ve vill mange first. De arm vil not move vidout de oil!”

Alphonse had greatly improved in his knowledge of English.

A good supply of provisions had been collected, but as it was uncertain when they should make the land, it was necessary to be economical in their use. A very good breakfast, however, was made, and the spirits of the party rose as their hunger was appeased, and they thought of their happy escape. As the sun, however, arose in the blue sky, its rays struck down on their unprotected heads, and they would gladly have got under shelter, but there was no shelter for them out on the glassy shining sea. Still they rowed on. To remain where they were was to die by inches. Devereux did his best, as he had done on the raft, to keep up the spirits of his men, and, weak as he was, he would have taken his spell at the oar if they had let him.

“No, no, sir; you just take your trick at the helm, if you think proper,” exclaimed Croxton. “But just let us do the hard work. It’s your head guides us, and without that we should be badly off.”

Devereux saw the wisdom of this remark. They knew that they had five, and perhaps six days’ hard rowing before they could hope to reach Dominica, the nearest island they supposed belonged to Great Britain, according to the information Paul had gained from the master. They were, however, far better off than when they had been on the raft, for they had food, were in a well-found boat, and knew tolerably well their position. Still they were not in good spirits, which is not surprising, considering the scenes they had witnessed, the dangers they had endured, and the uncertainty of the future.

Dominica was an English possession, but it had once been taken by the French, and might have been again; and Alphonse fancied that he had heard that it was proposed to make a descent on the island, in which case they would fall among enemies instead of friends.

“Ah! but your countrymen would surely treat us who come to them in distress as friends,” observed O’Grady.

“Ah, dat dey vould!” exclaimed Alphonse, warmly.

“Well, mounseer, there is good and there is bad among ’em, of that there’s no doubt,” observed Reuben, taking his quid out of his mouth, and looking the young Frenchman in the face; “but do ye see I’d rather not try lest we should fall among the bad, and there’s a precious lot on ’em.”

Notwithstanding these doubts Devereux continued his course for Dominica. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the heat became greater and greater, till it was almost insupportable. A sail spread over the boat afforded some shelter from its rays, but they pierced through it as easily as a mosquito’s sting does through a kid glove, till the air under it became even more stifling than that above.

All the time in turns they continued to row on—night and day there was to be no cessation. Reversing the usual order, they longed for the night, when the air would be cooler, and their heads would escape the frying process going on while the sun was above them.

“Och, but this is hot,” cried O’Grady for the hundredth time. “If this goes on much longer, we’ll all be turned into real black ebony niggers, and the Christians on shore will be after putting us to work at the sugar-canes, and be swearing we’ve just come straight across from Africa. As to our tongues, there’ll be no safety for us through them, and they’ll swear we’ve made off with the uniforms from some ship of war or other, and perhaps be tricing us up as thieves and murderers. Did you ever hear tell of the Irishman—a sweet countryman of mine,—who once came out from the Emerald Isle to these parts—to Demerara, I believe? As soon as the ship which brought him entered the harbour, she was boarded by a boat full of niggers.

“‘Will yer honour have your duds carried ashore now?’ asks one, stepping up to him. ‘It’s myself will see ye all comfortable in a jiffy, if ye’ll trust me, at Mother Flannigan’s.’

“My countryman looked at him very hard.

“‘What’s your name now?’ he asks with some trepidation.

“‘Pat O’Dwyer, yer honour,’ says the nigger.

“‘Pat, how long have ye been here?’ asks my countryman, solemnly.

“‘Faith, about two years, yer honour,’ says the nigger.

“‘Two years, did ye say—two years only to turn a white Irishman into a nigger?’ exclaimed my countryman with no little alarm. ‘Then faith the sooner I get away back from out of this black-burning country the better—or my own mither down in Ballyshannon won’t be after knowing her own beautiful boy again at all, and my father would be after disowning me, and my sisters and brothers to boot, and Father O’Roony would be declaring that it was a white Christian he made of me, and that I couldn’t be the same anyhow. Take my duds on shore. No. Take ’em below, and I’ll go there too, and remain there too till the ship sails and I’m out of this nigger-making land.’ My countryman kept to his intention, and from that day till the ship sailed, never set foot on shore. You’ll understand that no small number of Irishmen go out to that country, and that the nigger boy had learnt his English from them—for he wasn’t a real Irishman after all, but that my countryman did not find out till he got back to auld Ireland again.

“Och, they are broths of boys the Paddies, but they do make curious mistakes somehow or other, it must be allowed.

“I was one day dining at the mess of some soldier officers, when one of them, a Captain O’Rourke, positively declared on his faith as a gentleman that ‘he had seen anchovies growing on the walls at Gibraltar.’

“Most of the party opened their eyes, but said nothing, for O’Rourke was not a man whose word a quietly-disposed person would wish in his sober moments to call in question.

“Unfortunately, there was present an Englishman, a Lieutenant Brown, into whose head the fumes of the tawny port and ruby claret had already mounted.

“‘Anchovies growing on a wall?’ he blurted out. ‘That’s a cram if ever there was one.’

“O’Rourke was on his feet in a moment,—

“‘What, sir—it’s not you who mean to say that you don’t believe me, I hope?’ he exclaimed, in a voice which meant mischief.

“‘Believe you! I should think I don’t, or any man who can talk such gammon,’ answered Brown, in a tone of defiance.

“As may be supposed, there was only one way in which such a matter could end. Preliminaries were soon settled. The affair would have come off that evening, but it would have broken up the party too soon, and besides it wouldn’t have been fair, as Brown’s hand was not as steady as it might have been. So it was put off till the next morning soon after daylight, when there was a good gathering to see the fun. The English generally took Brown’s side. I of course stood by O’Rourke, not that I was quite sure he was in the right, by-the-by.

“It was very evident that Brown had no notion of handling his pistol.

“‘I’ll just wing him to teach the spalpeen better manners,’ whispered O’Rourke to his second. ‘He’s unworthy game for my weapon.’

“The word was given to fire. Brown’s bullet flew up among some trees away to the right, not a little frightening the young in a nest of birds, who popped out their heads to see what was the matter. It was now our friend’s turn.

He smiled as he sent his ball through Brown’s trousers, cruelly grazing his leg, whereon he began to skip about in the most comical way possible with the pain.

“‘By —, you’ve made that fellow cut capers at all events,’ observed O’Rourke’s second.

“‘Cut capers, did ye say?’ exclaimed O’Rourke. ‘Them’s the very things I saw growing on the wall, and not anchovies at all, at all.’ And rushing up to poor Brown, who had fallen on the ground, he took his hand, greatly to the surprise of the wounded man, crying out,—‘It’s myself made the trifle of a mistake, my dear fellow, it’s capers, it’s capers, grows on walls, so get up and don’t think anything more about the matter.’

“Poor Brown went limping about for many a day afterwards, and didn’t seem to consider the matter half as good a joke as the rest of us.”

O’Grady’s stories amused the party, though Croxton very properly remarked that duelling was a wicked heathen custom, and that he wondered people who called themselves Christians could ever indulge in it. Other stories were told, but their interest flagged, for people are not generally in a talkative mood with the thermometer above a hundred, and with a small supply of water. Alphonse, however, from time to time kept his fiddlestick going, both to his own satisfaction, and that of his hearers. Still he, on account of the heat, was often compelled to put it down, and to declare that he could play no longer.

Great and unusual, however, as was the heat, it did not appear to cause any apprehension of danger in the mind of Devereux. The night came on, and though the air even then was hot, the weary crew were refreshed by sleep. The sun rose, and the air was hotter than ever, notwithstanding a dense mist, which gradually filled the atmosphere, while soon a lurid glare spread over it. Croxton, as he watched the change, looked even graver than before. “You’ve not been in these seas before, Mr Devereux, sir?” he observed.

“No; and if the weather is always as broiling as it is at present, I don’t wish to come to them again in a hurry,” answered Devereux. “But one thing is fortunate—they are calm enough to please any old ladies who might venture on them.”

“Don’t count too much on that, sir, if an old man who has cruised for many a long year out here in every part may venture to give you advice,” said Croxton, in an earnest tone. “The weather here is often like a passionate man—calm one moment, and raging furiously the next. I tell you, sir, I don’t like its look at present, and I fear, before long, that we shall have a job to keep the boat afloat.”

“What do you mean, Croxton?” said Devereux. “The boat is the strongest and best-built belonging to the frigate.”

“I mean, sir, that a hurricane is about to burst over us, and that the strongest and best-built boat can scarcely live through it,” was the answer.

“I fear that you are right,” replied Devereux. “We’ll prepare the boat as best we can for what is coming.”

No time was to be lost. The staves of a cask knocked to pieces were nailed round the sides of the boat, and to these a sail, cut into broad strips, was nailed, so that the water might the better be kept out. The men were also ordered to rest and to take some food, and then calmly they waited the expected event. They were not kept long in suspense.

“Here it comes,” cried Croxton. “Our only chance is to run before it.” He pointed as he spoke astern, where a long line of snow-white foam was seen rolling on over the leaden ocean, the sky above it being even darker than before.

“Out oars, and pull for your lives, lads!” cried Devereux.

Scarcely had the boat gathered full away before the hurricane overtook her, and she was surrounded by a seething mass of foam; every instant the seas growing higher and higher, and rolling up with fierce roars, as if to overwhelm her. It seemed impossible that an open boat could live in such tumultuous waters, yet still she kept afloat, flying on before the tempest. Devereux firmly grasped the helm. He knew that any careless steering would cause the destruction of the boat and all in her. The crew looked at each other. No wonder that many a cheek was pale. Who could tell how soon they might be struggling helplessly amid the foam, while their boat was sinking down below their feet? It was impossible to say also where they might drive to.

On flew the boat. As the hurricane increased in strength and gained greater and greater power over the water, the seas increased in height and came rolling and tumbling on, foaming, hissing, and roaring—threatening every instant to engulph her. So great was the force of the wind, that the oars were almost blown out of the men’s hands, their efforts being expended solely in keeping the boat running before the sea. Those not rowing were employed in baling, for, in spite of all their efforts, the water washed in in such abundance as to require all their exertions to heave it out again.

Paul, as he laboured away with the rest, thought a great deal of home and the dear ones he had left there. He believed, and had good reason for believing, that he should never see them again, for by what possible means could he and his companions escape destruction, unless the hurricane was suddenly to cease, and it had as yet not gained its height. Even as it was, the boat could scarcely be kept afloat. Night, too, would soon arrive, and then the difficulty of steering before the sea would be greatly increased. Still the boat floated. Now a sea higher than its predecessors came roaring on—the foam blown from its summit half filled the boat. With difficulty she could be freed of water before another came following with a still more threatening aspect. The voice of old Croxton was heard raised in prayer. Each one believed that his last hour was come. It turned suddenly aside, and the boat still floated. Again and again they were threatened and escaped. Darkness, however, was now rapidly coming on and increasing the terrific aspect of the tempest. Devereux, aided by Reuben Cole, sat steering the boat. Not a word was spoken. The roar of the waves increased.

“Breakers ahead!” cried old Croxton, in a deep solemn voice. “The Lord have mercy on our souls!”

The boat was lifted higher than before amid the tumultuous hissing cauldron of foaming waters, and then down she came with a fearful crash on a coral reef.

Back to IndexNext