Chapter Forty Five.Some remarkable occurrences take place in the letter of marque—Old friends with improved faces—The captor a captive; but not carried away, though the captive is, by the ship’s boat—The whole chapter a mixture of love, war, and merchandise.We had had possession of the vessel about an hour, when the man who was sentry over the hatchway told me that one of the prisoners wished to speak with the English commanding officer, and asked leave to come on deck. I gave permission, and a gentleman came up, stating that he was a passenger; that the ship was a letter of marque, from Bordeaux; that there were seven lady passengers on board, who had come out to join their husbands and families; and that he trusted I would have no objection to put them on shore, as women could hardly be considered as objects of warfare. As I knew that O’Brien would have done so, and that he would be glad to get rid of both women and prisoners if he could, I replied, “Most certainly;” that I would heave-to, that they might not have so far to pull on shore, and that I would permit the ladies and other passengers to go on shore. I begged that they would be as quick as possible in getting their packages ready, and that I would give them two of the boats belonging to the ship, with a sufficient number of French seamen belonging to her to man the boats.The Frenchman was very grateful, thanked me in the name of the ladies, and went down below to impart the intelligence. I then hove-to, lowered down the boats from the quarters, and waited for them to come up. It was daylight before they were ready, but that I did not care about; I saw the brig in the offing about seven miles off, and I was well clear of the batteries.At last they made their appearance, one by one coming up the ladder, escorted by French gentlemen. They had to wait while the packages and bundles were put into the boats. The first sight which struck them with horror was the many dead and wounded Englishmen lying on the decks. Expressing their commiseration, I told them we had attempted to take the privateer and had been repulsed, and that it was coming out of the harbour that I had fallen in with their ship and captured it. All the ladies had severally thanked me for my kindness in giving them their liberty, except one, whose eyes were fixed upon the wounded men, when the French gentleman went up to her, and reminded her that she had not expressed her thanks to the commanding officer.She turned round to me—I started back. I certainly had seen that face before—I could not be mistaken; yet she had now grown up into a beautiful young woman. “Celeste,” said I, trembling. “Are you not Celeste?”“Yes,” replied she, looking earnestly at me, as if she would discover who I was, but which it was not very easy to do, begrimed as my face was with dust and gunpowder.“Have you forgotten Peter Simple?”“O! no—no—never forgot you!” cried Celeste, bursting into tears, and holding out her hands.This scene occasioned no small astonishment to the parties on deck, who could not comprehend it. She smiled through her tears, as I told her how happy I was to have the means of being of service to her. “And where is the colonel?” said I.“There,” replied she, pointing to the island; “he is now general, and commands the force in the garrison. And where is Mr O’Brien?” interrogated Celeste.“There,” replied I; “he commands that man-of-war, of which I am the second lieutenant.”A rapid exchange of inquiries took place, and the boats were stopped while we were in conversation. Swinburne reported that the brig was standing in for us, and I felt that in justice to the wounded I could no longer delay. Still I found time to press her hand, to thank her for the purse she had given me when I was on the stilts, and to tell her that I had never forgotten her, and never would. With many remembrances to her father, I was handing her into the boat, when she said, “I don’t know whether I am right to ask it, but you could do me such a favour.”“What is it, Celeste?”“You have allowed more than one-half of the men to pull us on shore; some must remain, and they are so miserable—indeed it is hardly yet decided which of them are to go. Could you let them all go?”“That I will, for your sake, Celeste. As soon as your two boats have shoved off, I will lower down the boat astern, and send the rest after you; but I must make sail now—God bless you!”The boats then shoved off, the passengers waving their handkerchiefs to us, and I made sail for the brig. As soon as the stern-boat was alongside, the rest of the crew were called up and put into her, and followed their companions. I felt that O’Brien would not be angry with me for letting them all go; and especially when I told him who begged for them. The vessel’s name was theVictorine, mounting fourteen guns, and twenty-four men, with eleven passengers. She was chiefly laden with silks and wine, and was a very valuable prize. Celeste had time to tell me that her father had been four years in Martinique, and had left her at home for her education; and that she was then coming out to join him. The other ladies were all wives or daughters of officers of the French garrison on the island, and the gentlemen passengers were some of them French officers; but as this was told me in secrecy, of course I was not bound to know it, as they were not in uniform.As soon as we had closed with the brig, I hastened on board to O’Brien, and as soon as a fresh supply of hands to man the boat, and the surgeon and his assistant had been despatched on board of the prize, to superintend the removal of the wounded, I went down with him into the cabin, and narrated what had occurred.“Well,” said O’Brien, “all’s well that ends well; but this is not the luckiest hit in the world. Your taking the ship has saved me, Peter; and I must make as flourishing a despatch as I can. By the powers but it’s very lucky that she has fourteen guns—it sounds grand. I must muddle it all up together, so that the admiral must think we intended to cut them both out—and so we did, sure enough, if we had known she had been there. But I am most anxious to hear the surgeon’s report, and whether poor Osbaldistone will do well. Peter, oblige me by going on board, and put two marines sentry over the hatchway, so that no one goes down and pulls the traps about; for I’ll send on shore everything belonging to the passengers, for Colonel O’Brien’s sake.”The surgeon’s report was made—six killed and sixteen wounded. The killed were, O’Farrel and Pepper, midshipmen, two seamen, and two marines. The first lieutenant, Osbaldistone, was severely wounded in three places, but likely to do well; five other men were dangerously wounded; the other ten would, in all probability, return to their duty in less than a month. As soon as the wounded were on board, O’Brien returned with me to the prize, and we went down into the cabin. All the passengers’ effects were collected; the trunks which had been left open were nailed down: and O’Brien wrote a handsome letter to General O’Brien, containing a list of the packages sent on shore. We sent the launch with a flag of truce to the nearest battery; after some demur it was accepted, and the effects landed. We did not wait for an answer, but made all sail to join the admiral at Barbadoes.The next morning we buried those who had fallen. O’Farrel was a fine young man, brave as a lion, but very hot in his temper. He would have made a good officer had he been spared. Poor little Pepper was also much regretted. He was but twelve years old. He had bribed the bowman of the second cutter to allow him to conceal himself under the foresheets of the boat. His day’s allowance of spirits had purchased him this object of his ambition, which ended so fatally. But as soon as the bodies had disappeared under the wave, and the service was over, we all felt happier. There is something very unpleasant, particularly to sailors, in having a corpse on board.We now sailed merrily along, the prize keeping company with us; and, before we reached Barbadoes, most of the men were convalescent. Osbaldistone’s wounds were, however, very severe; and he was recommended to return home, which he did, and obtained his promotion as soon as he arrived. He was a pleasant messmate, and I was sorry to lose him: although—the lieutenant appointed in his room being junior to me—I was promoted to be first lieutenant of the brig. Soon after Osbaldistone went home, his brother broke his neck when hunting, and Osbaldistone came into the property. He then quitted the service.We found the admiral at Barbadoes, who received O’Brien and his despatch very well. O’Brien had taken two good prizes, and that was sufficient to cover a multitude of sins, even if he had committed any; but the despatch was admirably written, and the admiral, in his letter to the Admiralty, commented upon Captain O’Brien’s successful and daring attack; whereas, if the truth had been known, it was Swinburne’s advice of pulling up the weather shore, which was the occasion of our capturing theVictorine; but it was very hard to come at the real truth of these sort of things, as I found out during the time that I was in His Majesty’s service.
We had had possession of the vessel about an hour, when the man who was sentry over the hatchway told me that one of the prisoners wished to speak with the English commanding officer, and asked leave to come on deck. I gave permission, and a gentleman came up, stating that he was a passenger; that the ship was a letter of marque, from Bordeaux; that there were seven lady passengers on board, who had come out to join their husbands and families; and that he trusted I would have no objection to put them on shore, as women could hardly be considered as objects of warfare. As I knew that O’Brien would have done so, and that he would be glad to get rid of both women and prisoners if he could, I replied, “Most certainly;” that I would heave-to, that they might not have so far to pull on shore, and that I would permit the ladies and other passengers to go on shore. I begged that they would be as quick as possible in getting their packages ready, and that I would give them two of the boats belonging to the ship, with a sufficient number of French seamen belonging to her to man the boats.
The Frenchman was very grateful, thanked me in the name of the ladies, and went down below to impart the intelligence. I then hove-to, lowered down the boats from the quarters, and waited for them to come up. It was daylight before they were ready, but that I did not care about; I saw the brig in the offing about seven miles off, and I was well clear of the batteries.
At last they made their appearance, one by one coming up the ladder, escorted by French gentlemen. They had to wait while the packages and bundles were put into the boats. The first sight which struck them with horror was the many dead and wounded Englishmen lying on the decks. Expressing their commiseration, I told them we had attempted to take the privateer and had been repulsed, and that it was coming out of the harbour that I had fallen in with their ship and captured it. All the ladies had severally thanked me for my kindness in giving them their liberty, except one, whose eyes were fixed upon the wounded men, when the French gentleman went up to her, and reminded her that she had not expressed her thanks to the commanding officer.
She turned round to me—I started back. I certainly had seen that face before—I could not be mistaken; yet she had now grown up into a beautiful young woman. “Celeste,” said I, trembling. “Are you not Celeste?”
“Yes,” replied she, looking earnestly at me, as if she would discover who I was, but which it was not very easy to do, begrimed as my face was with dust and gunpowder.
“Have you forgotten Peter Simple?”
“O! no—no—never forgot you!” cried Celeste, bursting into tears, and holding out her hands.
This scene occasioned no small astonishment to the parties on deck, who could not comprehend it. She smiled through her tears, as I told her how happy I was to have the means of being of service to her. “And where is the colonel?” said I.
“There,” replied she, pointing to the island; “he is now general, and commands the force in the garrison. And where is Mr O’Brien?” interrogated Celeste.
“There,” replied I; “he commands that man-of-war, of which I am the second lieutenant.”
A rapid exchange of inquiries took place, and the boats were stopped while we were in conversation. Swinburne reported that the brig was standing in for us, and I felt that in justice to the wounded I could no longer delay. Still I found time to press her hand, to thank her for the purse she had given me when I was on the stilts, and to tell her that I had never forgotten her, and never would. With many remembrances to her father, I was handing her into the boat, when she said, “I don’t know whether I am right to ask it, but you could do me such a favour.”
“What is it, Celeste?”
“You have allowed more than one-half of the men to pull us on shore; some must remain, and they are so miserable—indeed it is hardly yet decided which of them are to go. Could you let them all go?”
“That I will, for your sake, Celeste. As soon as your two boats have shoved off, I will lower down the boat astern, and send the rest after you; but I must make sail now—God bless you!”
The boats then shoved off, the passengers waving their handkerchiefs to us, and I made sail for the brig. As soon as the stern-boat was alongside, the rest of the crew were called up and put into her, and followed their companions. I felt that O’Brien would not be angry with me for letting them all go; and especially when I told him who begged for them. The vessel’s name was theVictorine, mounting fourteen guns, and twenty-four men, with eleven passengers. She was chiefly laden with silks and wine, and was a very valuable prize. Celeste had time to tell me that her father had been four years in Martinique, and had left her at home for her education; and that she was then coming out to join him. The other ladies were all wives or daughters of officers of the French garrison on the island, and the gentlemen passengers were some of them French officers; but as this was told me in secrecy, of course I was not bound to know it, as they were not in uniform.
As soon as we had closed with the brig, I hastened on board to O’Brien, and as soon as a fresh supply of hands to man the boat, and the surgeon and his assistant had been despatched on board of the prize, to superintend the removal of the wounded, I went down with him into the cabin, and narrated what had occurred.
“Well,” said O’Brien, “all’s well that ends well; but this is not the luckiest hit in the world. Your taking the ship has saved me, Peter; and I must make as flourishing a despatch as I can. By the powers but it’s very lucky that she has fourteen guns—it sounds grand. I must muddle it all up together, so that the admiral must think we intended to cut them both out—and so we did, sure enough, if we had known she had been there. But I am most anxious to hear the surgeon’s report, and whether poor Osbaldistone will do well. Peter, oblige me by going on board, and put two marines sentry over the hatchway, so that no one goes down and pulls the traps about; for I’ll send on shore everything belonging to the passengers, for Colonel O’Brien’s sake.”
The surgeon’s report was made—six killed and sixteen wounded. The killed were, O’Farrel and Pepper, midshipmen, two seamen, and two marines. The first lieutenant, Osbaldistone, was severely wounded in three places, but likely to do well; five other men were dangerously wounded; the other ten would, in all probability, return to their duty in less than a month. As soon as the wounded were on board, O’Brien returned with me to the prize, and we went down into the cabin. All the passengers’ effects were collected; the trunks which had been left open were nailed down: and O’Brien wrote a handsome letter to General O’Brien, containing a list of the packages sent on shore. We sent the launch with a flag of truce to the nearest battery; after some demur it was accepted, and the effects landed. We did not wait for an answer, but made all sail to join the admiral at Barbadoes.
The next morning we buried those who had fallen. O’Farrel was a fine young man, brave as a lion, but very hot in his temper. He would have made a good officer had he been spared. Poor little Pepper was also much regretted. He was but twelve years old. He had bribed the bowman of the second cutter to allow him to conceal himself under the foresheets of the boat. His day’s allowance of spirits had purchased him this object of his ambition, which ended so fatally. But as soon as the bodies had disappeared under the wave, and the service was over, we all felt happier. There is something very unpleasant, particularly to sailors, in having a corpse on board.
We now sailed merrily along, the prize keeping company with us; and, before we reached Barbadoes, most of the men were convalescent. Osbaldistone’s wounds were, however, very severe; and he was recommended to return home, which he did, and obtained his promotion as soon as he arrived. He was a pleasant messmate, and I was sorry to lose him: although—the lieutenant appointed in his room being junior to me—I was promoted to be first lieutenant of the brig. Soon after Osbaldistone went home, his brother broke his neck when hunting, and Osbaldistone came into the property. He then quitted the service.
We found the admiral at Barbadoes, who received O’Brien and his despatch very well. O’Brien had taken two good prizes, and that was sufficient to cover a multitude of sins, even if he had committed any; but the despatch was admirably written, and the admiral, in his letter to the Admiralty, commented upon Captain O’Brien’s successful and daring attack; whereas, if the truth had been known, it was Swinburne’s advice of pulling up the weather shore, which was the occasion of our capturing theVictorine; but it was very hard to come at the real truth of these sort of things, as I found out during the time that I was in His Majesty’s service.
Chapter Forty Six.O’Brien tells his crew that one Englishman is as good as three Frenchmen on salt water—They prove it—We fall in with an old acquaintance, although she could not be considered as a friend.Our next cruise was on the coast of Guinea and Gulf of Mexico where we were running up and down for three months, without falling in with anything but West Indiamen bound to Demerara, Berbice, and Surinam, and occasionally chasing a privateer; but in the light winds they were too fast for us. Still we were useful in protecting the trade, and O’Brien had a letter of thanks from the merchants, and a handsome piece of plate upon his quitting the station. We had made sail for Barbadoes two days, and were within sight of the island of Trinidad, when we perceived six sail on the lee-bow. We soon made them out to be three large ships and three schooners; and immediately guessed, which afterwards proved to be correct, that they were three privateers, with West India ships which they had captured. We made all sail, and at first the three privateers did the same; but afterwards, having made out our force, and not liking to abandon their prizes, they resolved to fight. The West Indiamen hauled to the wind on the other tack, and the three privateers shortened sail and awaited our coming. We beat to quarters, and when everything was ready, and we were within a mile of the enemy, who had now thrown out the tricoloured flag, O’Brien ordered all the men aft on the quarter-deck, and addressed them: “Now, my men, you see that there are three privateers, and you also see that there are three Indiamen, which they have captured. As for the privateers, it’s just a fair match for you—one Englishman can always beat three Frenchmen. We must lick the privateers for honour and glory, and we must re-capture the ships for profit, because you’ll all want some money when you get on shore again. So you’ve just half-a-dozen things to do, and then we’ll pipe to dinner.”This harangue suited the sailors very well, and they returned to their guns. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “just call away the sail-trimmers from the guns, for I mean to fight these fellows under sail, and out-manoeuvre them, if I can. Tell Mr Webster I want to speak with him.”Mr Webster was the second lieutenant, a very steady, quiet, young man, and a good officer.“Mr Webster,” said O’Brien, “remember that all the foremost guns must be very much depressed. I prefer that the shot should strike the water before it reaches them, rather than it should go over them. See that your screws are run up at once, and I will take care that no broadside is thrown away. Starboard, Swinburne.”“Starboard it is, sir.”“Steady; so—that’s right for the stern of the leeward vessel.”We were within two cable lengths of the privateers, who still remained hove-to within half a cable’s length of each other. They were very large schooners, full of men, with their boarding netting triced up, and showing a very good set of teeth; as it afterwards proved, one mounted sixteen, and the other two fourteen, guns.“Now, my lads, over to the lee guns, and fire as they bear, when we round-to. Hands by the lee head-braces, and jib-sheet, stretch along the weather braces. Quarter-master abaft, tend the boom-sheet. Port hard, Swinburne.”“Port it is, sir,” replied Swinburne; and the brig rounded up on the wind, shooting up under the sterns of the two weathermost schooners, and discharging the broadside into them as the guns bore.“Be smart and load, my lads, and stand by the same guns. Round in the weather head-braces. Peter, I don’t want her to go about. Stand by to haul over the boom-sheet, when she pays off. Swinburne, helm a-midships.”By this time another broadside was poured into the schooner, who had not yet returned our fire, which, having foolishly remained hove to the wind, they could not do. The brig had now stern way, and O’Brien then executed a very skilful manoeuvre: he shifted the helm, and made a stern board, so as to back in between the two weather schooners and the one to leeward, bracing round at the same time on the other tack.“Man both sides, my lads, and give them our broadsides as we pass.”The men stationed to the starboard guns flew over, and the other side being again loaded, we exchanged broadsides with the leeward and one of the windward schooners, the brig continuing her stern way until we passed a-head of them. By the time that we had reloaded, the brig had gathered headway, and again passed between the same two schooners, giving broadsides, and then passing astern of them.“Capital, my lads—capital!” said O’Brien; “this is what I call good fighting.” And so it was; for O’Brien had given two raking broadsides, and four others, receiving only two in return, for the schooners were not ready for us when we passed between them the last time.The smoke had now rolled away to leeward, and we were able to see the effect of our broadsides. The middle schooner had lost her main-boom, and appeared very much cut up in the hull. The schooner to leeward did not appear to have suffered much; but they now perceived their error, and made sail. They had expected that we should have run in between them, and fought broadside to broadside, by which means the weathermost schooner would have taken a raking position, while the others engaged us to windward and to leeward. Our own damages were trifling—two men slightly wounded, and one main shroud cut away. We ran about half-a-mile astern from them; then with both broadsides ready, we tacked, and found that, as we expected, we could weather the whole of them. This we did; O’Brien running the brig within biscuit-throw of the weather schooner, engaging him broadside to broadside, with the advantage that the other two could not fire a shot into us without standing a chance of striking their consort. If he made more sail, so did we; if he shortened, so did we, so as to keep our position with little variation. The schooner fought well; but her metal was not to be compared with our thirty-two pound carronades, which ploughed up her sides at so short a distance, driving two ports into one. At last her foremast went by the board, and she dropped astern. In the meantime the other schooners had both tacked, and were coming up under our stern to rake us, but the accident which happened to the one we had engaged left us at liberty. We knew that she could not escape, so we tacked and engaged the other two, nearing them as fast as we could. The breeze now sprang up fast, and O’Brien put up the helm and passed between them, giving them both a raking broadside of grape and cannister, which brought the sticks about their ears. This sickened them; the smallest schooner which had been the leewardest at the commencement of the action, made all sail on a wind. We clapped on the royals to follow her, when we perceived that the other schooner, which had been in the middle, and whose main-boom we had shot away, had put her helm up, and was crowding all sail before the wind. O’Brien then said, “Must not try for too much, or we shall lose all. Put her about, Peter,—we must be content with the one that is left us.”We went about and ranged up to the schooner which had lost her foremast; but she, finding that her consort had deserted her, hauled down her colours just as we were about to pour in our broadside. Our men gave three cheers; and it was pleasant to see them all shaking hands with each other, congratulating and laughing at the successful result of our action.“Now, my lads, be smart;—we’ve done enough for honour, now for profit. Peter, take the two cutters full of men, and go on board of the schooner, while I get hold of the three West Indiamen. Rig something jury forward, and follow me.”In a minute the cutters were down and full of men. I took possession of the schooner, while the brig again tacked, and crowding all sail stood after the captured vessels. The schooner, which was the largest of the three, was called theJean d’Arc, mounting sixteen guns, and had fifty-three men on board, the remainder being away in the prizes. The captain was wounded very badly, and one officer killed. Out of her ship’s company, she had but eight killed and five wounded. They informed me that they had sailed three months ago from St. Pierre’s, Martinique, and had fallen in with the two other privateers, and cruised in company, having taken nine West Indiamen since they had come out.“Pray,” said I, to the officer who gave the information, “were you ever attacked by boats when you laid at St. Pierre’s?”He replied, “Yes; and that they had beaten them off.”“Did you purchase these masts of an American?”He replied in the affirmative; so that we had captured the very vessel, in attempting to cut out which we had lost so many men.We were all very glad of this, and Swinburne said, “Well, hang me, if I didn’t think that I had seen that port-hole before; there it was that I wrenched a pike out of one of the rascal’s hands, who tried to stab me, and into that port-hole I fired at least a dozen muskets. Well, I’m damned glad we’ve got hold of the beggar at last.”We secured the prisoners below, and commenced putting the schooner in order. In half-an-hour, we had completed our knotting and splicing, and having two of the carpenters with us, in an hour we had got up a small jury-mast forward, sufficient for the present. We lowered the mainsail, put try-sails on her, and stood after the brig, which was now close to the prizes: but they separated, and it was not till dark that she had possession of two. The third was then hull down on the other tack, with the brig in chase. We followed the brig, as did the two recaptured vessels, and even with our jury up, we found that we could sail as fast as they. The next morning we saw the brig hove-to and about three miles a-head, with the three vessels in her possession. We closed, and I went on board. Webster was put in charge of the privateer; and, after lying-to for that day to send our prize-masters and men on board to remove the prisoners, we got up a proper jury-mast, and all made sail together for Barbadoes. On my return on board, I found that we had but one man and one boy killed and six wounded, which I was not aware of. I forgot to say that the names of the other two privateers wereL’EtoilleandLa Madeleine.In a fortnight we arrived with all our prizes safe in Carlisle Bay, where we found the admiral, who had anchored but two days before. I hardly need say that O’Brien was well received, and gained a great deal of credit for the action. I found several letters from my sister, the contents of which gave me much pain. My father had been some months in Ireland, and had returned without gaining any information. My sister said that he was very unhappy, paid no attention to his clerical duties, and would sit for days without speaking. That he was very much altered in his appearance, and had grown thin and care-worn. “In short,” said she, “my dear Peter, I am afraid that he is fretting himself to death. Of course I am very lonely and melancholy. I cannot help reflecting upon what will be my situation if any accident should happen to my father. Accept my uncle’s protection I will not; yet how am I to live, for my father has saved nothing? I have been very busy lately, trying to qualify myself for a governess, and practise the harp and piano for several hours every day. I shall be very very glad when you come home again.” I showed the letters to O’Brien who read them with much attention. I perceived the colour mount into his cheeks, when he read those parts of her letters in which she mentioned his name, and expressed her gratitude for his kindness towards me.“Never mind, Peter,” said O’Brien, returning me the letters; “to whom is it that I am indebted for my promotion, and this brig, but to you—and for all the prize-money which I have made, and which, by the head of St. Patrick, comes to a very dacant sum, but to you? Make yourself quite easy about your dear little sister. We’ll club your prize-money and mine together, and she shall marry a duke, if there is one in England deserving her; and it’s the French that shall furnish her dowry, as sure as theRattlesnakecarries a tail.”
Our next cruise was on the coast of Guinea and Gulf of Mexico where we were running up and down for three months, without falling in with anything but West Indiamen bound to Demerara, Berbice, and Surinam, and occasionally chasing a privateer; but in the light winds they were too fast for us. Still we were useful in protecting the trade, and O’Brien had a letter of thanks from the merchants, and a handsome piece of plate upon his quitting the station. We had made sail for Barbadoes two days, and were within sight of the island of Trinidad, when we perceived six sail on the lee-bow. We soon made them out to be three large ships and three schooners; and immediately guessed, which afterwards proved to be correct, that they were three privateers, with West India ships which they had captured. We made all sail, and at first the three privateers did the same; but afterwards, having made out our force, and not liking to abandon their prizes, they resolved to fight. The West Indiamen hauled to the wind on the other tack, and the three privateers shortened sail and awaited our coming. We beat to quarters, and when everything was ready, and we were within a mile of the enemy, who had now thrown out the tricoloured flag, O’Brien ordered all the men aft on the quarter-deck, and addressed them: “Now, my men, you see that there are three privateers, and you also see that there are three Indiamen, which they have captured. As for the privateers, it’s just a fair match for you—one Englishman can always beat three Frenchmen. We must lick the privateers for honour and glory, and we must re-capture the ships for profit, because you’ll all want some money when you get on shore again. So you’ve just half-a-dozen things to do, and then we’ll pipe to dinner.”
This harangue suited the sailors very well, and they returned to their guns. “Now, Peter,” said O’Brien, “just call away the sail-trimmers from the guns, for I mean to fight these fellows under sail, and out-manoeuvre them, if I can. Tell Mr Webster I want to speak with him.”
Mr Webster was the second lieutenant, a very steady, quiet, young man, and a good officer.
“Mr Webster,” said O’Brien, “remember that all the foremost guns must be very much depressed. I prefer that the shot should strike the water before it reaches them, rather than it should go over them. See that your screws are run up at once, and I will take care that no broadside is thrown away. Starboard, Swinburne.”
“Starboard it is, sir.”
“Steady; so—that’s right for the stern of the leeward vessel.”
We were within two cable lengths of the privateers, who still remained hove-to within half a cable’s length of each other. They were very large schooners, full of men, with their boarding netting triced up, and showing a very good set of teeth; as it afterwards proved, one mounted sixteen, and the other two fourteen, guns.
“Now, my lads, over to the lee guns, and fire as they bear, when we round-to. Hands by the lee head-braces, and jib-sheet, stretch along the weather braces. Quarter-master abaft, tend the boom-sheet. Port hard, Swinburne.”
“Port it is, sir,” replied Swinburne; and the brig rounded up on the wind, shooting up under the sterns of the two weathermost schooners, and discharging the broadside into them as the guns bore.
“Be smart and load, my lads, and stand by the same guns. Round in the weather head-braces. Peter, I don’t want her to go about. Stand by to haul over the boom-sheet, when she pays off. Swinburne, helm a-midships.”
By this time another broadside was poured into the schooner, who had not yet returned our fire, which, having foolishly remained hove to the wind, they could not do. The brig had now stern way, and O’Brien then executed a very skilful manoeuvre: he shifted the helm, and made a stern board, so as to back in between the two weather schooners and the one to leeward, bracing round at the same time on the other tack.
“Man both sides, my lads, and give them our broadsides as we pass.”
The men stationed to the starboard guns flew over, and the other side being again loaded, we exchanged broadsides with the leeward and one of the windward schooners, the brig continuing her stern way until we passed a-head of them. By the time that we had reloaded, the brig had gathered headway, and again passed between the same two schooners, giving broadsides, and then passing astern of them.
“Capital, my lads—capital!” said O’Brien; “this is what I call good fighting.” And so it was; for O’Brien had given two raking broadsides, and four others, receiving only two in return, for the schooners were not ready for us when we passed between them the last time.
The smoke had now rolled away to leeward, and we were able to see the effect of our broadsides. The middle schooner had lost her main-boom, and appeared very much cut up in the hull. The schooner to leeward did not appear to have suffered much; but they now perceived their error, and made sail. They had expected that we should have run in between them, and fought broadside to broadside, by which means the weathermost schooner would have taken a raking position, while the others engaged us to windward and to leeward. Our own damages were trifling—two men slightly wounded, and one main shroud cut away. We ran about half-a-mile astern from them; then with both broadsides ready, we tacked, and found that, as we expected, we could weather the whole of them. This we did; O’Brien running the brig within biscuit-throw of the weather schooner, engaging him broadside to broadside, with the advantage that the other two could not fire a shot into us without standing a chance of striking their consort. If he made more sail, so did we; if he shortened, so did we, so as to keep our position with little variation. The schooner fought well; but her metal was not to be compared with our thirty-two pound carronades, which ploughed up her sides at so short a distance, driving two ports into one. At last her foremast went by the board, and she dropped astern. In the meantime the other schooners had both tacked, and were coming up under our stern to rake us, but the accident which happened to the one we had engaged left us at liberty. We knew that she could not escape, so we tacked and engaged the other two, nearing them as fast as we could. The breeze now sprang up fast, and O’Brien put up the helm and passed between them, giving them both a raking broadside of grape and cannister, which brought the sticks about their ears. This sickened them; the smallest schooner which had been the leewardest at the commencement of the action, made all sail on a wind. We clapped on the royals to follow her, when we perceived that the other schooner, which had been in the middle, and whose main-boom we had shot away, had put her helm up, and was crowding all sail before the wind. O’Brien then said, “Must not try for too much, or we shall lose all. Put her about, Peter,—we must be content with the one that is left us.”
We went about and ranged up to the schooner which had lost her foremast; but she, finding that her consort had deserted her, hauled down her colours just as we were about to pour in our broadside. Our men gave three cheers; and it was pleasant to see them all shaking hands with each other, congratulating and laughing at the successful result of our action.
“Now, my lads, be smart;—we’ve done enough for honour, now for profit. Peter, take the two cutters full of men, and go on board of the schooner, while I get hold of the three West Indiamen. Rig something jury forward, and follow me.”
In a minute the cutters were down and full of men. I took possession of the schooner, while the brig again tacked, and crowding all sail stood after the captured vessels. The schooner, which was the largest of the three, was called theJean d’Arc, mounting sixteen guns, and had fifty-three men on board, the remainder being away in the prizes. The captain was wounded very badly, and one officer killed. Out of her ship’s company, she had but eight killed and five wounded. They informed me that they had sailed three months ago from St. Pierre’s, Martinique, and had fallen in with the two other privateers, and cruised in company, having taken nine West Indiamen since they had come out.
“Pray,” said I, to the officer who gave the information, “were you ever attacked by boats when you laid at St. Pierre’s?”
He replied, “Yes; and that they had beaten them off.”
“Did you purchase these masts of an American?”
He replied in the affirmative; so that we had captured the very vessel, in attempting to cut out which we had lost so many men.
We were all very glad of this, and Swinburne said, “Well, hang me, if I didn’t think that I had seen that port-hole before; there it was that I wrenched a pike out of one of the rascal’s hands, who tried to stab me, and into that port-hole I fired at least a dozen muskets. Well, I’m damned glad we’ve got hold of the beggar at last.”
We secured the prisoners below, and commenced putting the schooner in order. In half-an-hour, we had completed our knotting and splicing, and having two of the carpenters with us, in an hour we had got up a small jury-mast forward, sufficient for the present. We lowered the mainsail, put try-sails on her, and stood after the brig, which was now close to the prizes: but they separated, and it was not till dark that she had possession of two. The third was then hull down on the other tack, with the brig in chase. We followed the brig, as did the two recaptured vessels, and even with our jury up, we found that we could sail as fast as they. The next morning we saw the brig hove-to and about three miles a-head, with the three vessels in her possession. We closed, and I went on board. Webster was put in charge of the privateer; and, after lying-to for that day to send our prize-masters and men on board to remove the prisoners, we got up a proper jury-mast, and all made sail together for Barbadoes. On my return on board, I found that we had but one man and one boy killed and six wounded, which I was not aware of. I forgot to say that the names of the other two privateers wereL’EtoilleandLa Madeleine.
In a fortnight we arrived with all our prizes safe in Carlisle Bay, where we found the admiral, who had anchored but two days before. I hardly need say that O’Brien was well received, and gained a great deal of credit for the action. I found several letters from my sister, the contents of which gave me much pain. My father had been some months in Ireland, and had returned without gaining any information. My sister said that he was very unhappy, paid no attention to his clerical duties, and would sit for days without speaking. That he was very much altered in his appearance, and had grown thin and care-worn. “In short,” said she, “my dear Peter, I am afraid that he is fretting himself to death. Of course I am very lonely and melancholy. I cannot help reflecting upon what will be my situation if any accident should happen to my father. Accept my uncle’s protection I will not; yet how am I to live, for my father has saved nothing? I have been very busy lately, trying to qualify myself for a governess, and practise the harp and piano for several hours every day. I shall be very very glad when you come home again.” I showed the letters to O’Brien who read them with much attention. I perceived the colour mount into his cheeks, when he read those parts of her letters in which she mentioned his name, and expressed her gratitude for his kindness towards me.
“Never mind, Peter,” said O’Brien, returning me the letters; “to whom is it that I am indebted for my promotion, and this brig, but to you—and for all the prize-money which I have made, and which, by the head of St. Patrick, comes to a very dacant sum, but to you? Make yourself quite easy about your dear little sister. We’ll club your prize-money and mine together, and she shall marry a duke, if there is one in England deserving her; and it’s the French that shall furnish her dowry, as sure as theRattlesnakecarries a tail.”
Chapter Forty Seven.I am sent away after prizes and meet with a hurricane—Am driven on shore, with the loss of more than half my men—Where is the “Rattlesnake?”In three weeks we were again ready for sea, and the admiral ordered us to our old station off Martinique. We had cruised about a fortnight off St. Pierre’s, and, as I walked the deck at night, often did I look at the sights in the town, and wonder whether any of them were in the presence of Celeste, when, one evening, being about six miles off shore, we observed two vessels rounding Negro Point, close in-shore. It was quite calm, and the boats were towing ahead.“It will be dark in half-an-hour, Peter,” said O’Brien, “and I think we might get them before they anchor, or if they do anchor, it will be well outside. What do you think?”I agreed with him, for in fact I always seemed to be happier when the brig was close in-shore, as I felt as if I was nearer to Celeste; and the further we were off, the more melancholy I became. Continually thinking of her, and the sight of her after so many years’ separation, had changed my youthful attachment into strong affection. I may say that I was deeply in love. The very idea of going into the harbour, therefore, gave me pleasure, and there was no mad or foolish thing that I would not have done, only to gaze upon the walls which contained the constant objects of my thoughts. These were wild and visionary notions, and with little chance of ever arriving at any successful issue; but at one or two-and-twenty, we are fond of building castles, and very apt to fall in love, without considering our prospect of success. I replied that I thought it very possible, and wished he would permit me to make the attempt, as, if I found there were much risk, I would return.“I know that I can trust you, Peter,” said O’Brien, “and it’s a great pleasure to know that you have an officer you can trust but hav’n’t I brought you up myself, and made a man of you, as I promised I would, when you were a little spalpeen, with a sniffling nose, and legs in the shape of two carrots? So hoist out the launch, and get the boats ready—the sooner the better. What a hot day this has been—not a cat’s-paw on the water, and the sky all of a mist. Only look at the sun, how he goes down, puffed out to three times his size, as if he were in a terrible passion. I suspect we shall have the land breeze off strong.”In half-an-hour I shoved off with the boats. It was now quite dark, and I pulled towards the harbour of St. Pierre. The heat was excessive and unaccountable; not the slightest breath of wind moved in the heavens, or below; no clouds to be seen, and the stars were obscured by a sort of mist; there appeared a total stagnation of the elements. The men in the boats pulled off their jackets, for after a few moments’ pulling, they could bear them no longer. As we pulled in, the atmosphere became more opaque, and the darkness more intense. We supposed ourselves to be at the mouth of the harbour, but could see nothing—not three yards a-head of the boat. Swinburne, who always went with me, was steering the boat, and I observed to him the unusual appearance of the night.“I’ve been watching it, sir,” replied Swinburne, “and I tell you, Mr Simple, that if we only know how to find the brig, that I would advise you to get on board of her immediately. She’ll want all her hands this night, or I’m much mistaken.”“Why do you say so?” replied I.“Because I think, nay, I may say that I’m sartin, we’ll have a hurricane afore morning. It’s not the first time I’ve cruised in these latitudes. I recollect in 1794—”But I interrupted him: “Swinburne, I believe that you are right. At all events I’ll turn back; perhaps we may reach the brig before it comes on. She carries a light, and we can find her out.” I then turned the boat round, and steered, as near as I could guess, for where the brig was lying. But we had not pulled out more than two minutes, before a low moaning was heard in the atmosphere—now here, now there—and we appeared to be pulling though solid darkness, if I may use the expression. Swinburne looked around him, and pointed out on the starboard bow.“It’s a coming, Mr Simple, sure enough; many’s the living being that will not rise on its legs to-morrow. See, sir.”I looked, and dark as it was, it appeared as if a sort of black wall was sweeping along the water right towards us. The moaning gradually increased to a stunning roar, and then at once it broke upon us with a noise to which no thunder can bear a comparison. The sea was perfectly level, but boiling, and covered with a white foam, so that we appeared in the night to be floating on milk. The oars were caught by the wind with such force, that the men were dashed forward under the thwarts, many of them severely hurt. Fortunately we pulled with tholes and pins, or the gunwale and planks of the boats would have been wrenched off, and we should have foundered. The wind soon caught the boat on her broadside, and had there been the least sea, would have inevitably thrown her over; but Swinburne put the helm down, and she fell off before the hurricane, darting through the boiling water at the rate of ten miles an hour. All hands were aghast; they had recovered their seats, but were obliged to relinquish them, and sit down at the bottom, holding on by the thwarts. The terrific roaring of the hurricane prevented any communication, except by gesture. The other boats had disappeared; lighter than ours, they had flown away faster before the sweeping element; but we had not been a minute before the wind, before the sea rose in a most unaccountable manner—it appeared to be by magic.Of all the horrors that ever I witnessed, nothing could be compared to the scene of this night. We could see nothing, and heard only the wind, before which we were darting like an arrow—to where we knew not, unless it was to certain death. Swinburne steered the boat, every now and then looking back as the waves increased. In a few minutes we were in a heavy swell, that at one minute bore us all aloft, and at the next almost sheltered us from the hurricane: and now the atmosphere was charged with showers of spray, the wind cutting off the summits of the waves, as if with a knife, and carrying them along with it as it were in its arms.The boat was filling with water, and appeared to settle down fast. The men baled with their hats in silence, when a large wave culminated over the stern, filling us up to our thwarts. The next moment we all received a shock so violent, that we were jerked from our seats. Swinburne was thrown over my head. Every timber of the boat separated at once, and she appeared to crumble from under us, leaving us floating on the raging waters. We all struck out for our lives, but with little hope of preserving them; but the next wave dashed us on the rocks, against which the boat had already been hurled. That wave gave life to some, and death to others. Me, in Heaven’s mercy, it preserved: I was thrown so high up, that I merely scraped against the top of the rock, breaking two of my ribs. Swinburne, and eight more, escaped with me, but not unhurt: two had their legs broken, three had broken arms, and the others were more or less contused. Swinburne miraculously received no injury. We had been eighteen in the boat, of which ten escaped: the others were hurled up at our feet; and the next morning we found them dreadfully mangled. One or two had their skulls literally shattered to pieces against the rocks. I felt that I was saved, and was grateful: but still the hurricane howled—still the waves were washing over us. I crawled further up upon the beach, and found Swinburne sitting down with his eyes directed seaward. He knew me, took my hand, squeezed it, and then held it in his. For some moments we remained in this position, when the waves, which every moment increased in volume, washed up to us, and obliged us to crawl further up. I then looked around me; the hurricane continued in its fury, but the atmosphere was not so dark. I could trace, for some distance, the line of the harbour, from the ridge of foam upon the shore; and for the first time I thought of O’Brien and the brig. I put my mouth close to Swinburne’s ear, and cried out, “O’Brien!” Swinburne shook his head, and looked up again at the offing. I thought whether there was any chance of the brig’s escape. She was certainly six, if not seven miles off, and the hurricane was not direct on the shore. She might have a drift of ten miles, perhaps; but what was that against such tremendous power? I prayed for those on board of the brig, and returned thanks for my own preservation. I was, or soon should be, a prisoner, no doubt; but what was that? I thought of Celeste, and felt almost happy.In about three hours the force of the wind subsided. It still blew a heavy gale; but the sky cleared up, the stars again twinkled in the heavens, and we could see to a considerable distance.“It’s breaking now, sir,” said Swinburne at last, “satisfied with the injury it has done—and that’s no little. This is worst than ’94.”“Now I’d give all my pay and prize-money, if it were only daylight and I could know the fate of the poorRattlesnake. What do you think, Swinburne?”“All depends upon whether they were taken unprepared, sir. Captain O’Brien is as good a seaman as ever trod a plank; but he never has been in a hurricane, and may not have known the signs and warnings which God in His Mercy has vouchsafed unto us. Your flush vessels fill easily—but we must hope for the best.”Most anxiously did we look out for the day which appeared to us as if it never would break. At last the dawn appeared, and we stretched our eyes to every part of the offing as it was lighted up; but we could not see the brig. The sun rose, and all was bright and clear; but we looked not around us, our eyes were directed to where we had left the brig. The sea was still running high but the wind abated fast.“Thank God!” ejaculated Swinburne, when he had directed his eyes along the coast; “she is above water, at all events!”—and looking in the direction where he pointed, I perceived the brig within two miles of the shore, dismantled, and tossing in the waves.“I see her,” replied I, catching my breath with joy; “but—still—I think she must go on shore.”“All depends upon whether she can get a little bit of sail up to weather the point,” replied Swinburne; “and depend upon it, Captain O’Brien knows that as well as we do.”We were now joined by the other men who were saved. We all shook hands. They pointed out to me the bodies of our shipmates who had perished. I directed them to haul them further up, and put them altogether; and continued, with Swinburne, to watch the brig. In about half-an-hour we perceived a triangle raised; and in ten minutes afterwards, a jury-mast abaft—a try-sail was hoisted and set. Then the shears were seen forward, and in as short a time another try-sail and a storm jib were expanded to the wind.“That’s all he can do now, Mr Simple,” observed Swinburne; “he must trust to them and to Providence. They are not more than a mile from the beach—it will be touch and go.”Anxiously did we watch for more than half-an-hour; the other men returned to us, and joined in our speculations. At one time we thought it impossible—at another we were certain that she would weather the point. At last, as she neared it, she forged a-head: my anxiety became almost insupportable. I stood first on one leg, and then on the other, breathless with suspense. She appeared to be on the point—actually touching the rocks—“God! she’s struck!” said I.“No!” replied Swinburne;—and then we saw her pass on the other side of the outermost rock, and disappear.“Safe, Mr Simple!—weathered, by God!” cried Swinburne, waving his hat with joy.“God be thanked!” replied I, overcome with delight.
In three weeks we were again ready for sea, and the admiral ordered us to our old station off Martinique. We had cruised about a fortnight off St. Pierre’s, and, as I walked the deck at night, often did I look at the sights in the town, and wonder whether any of them were in the presence of Celeste, when, one evening, being about six miles off shore, we observed two vessels rounding Negro Point, close in-shore. It was quite calm, and the boats were towing ahead.
“It will be dark in half-an-hour, Peter,” said O’Brien, “and I think we might get them before they anchor, or if they do anchor, it will be well outside. What do you think?”
I agreed with him, for in fact I always seemed to be happier when the brig was close in-shore, as I felt as if I was nearer to Celeste; and the further we were off, the more melancholy I became. Continually thinking of her, and the sight of her after so many years’ separation, had changed my youthful attachment into strong affection. I may say that I was deeply in love. The very idea of going into the harbour, therefore, gave me pleasure, and there was no mad or foolish thing that I would not have done, only to gaze upon the walls which contained the constant objects of my thoughts. These were wild and visionary notions, and with little chance of ever arriving at any successful issue; but at one or two-and-twenty, we are fond of building castles, and very apt to fall in love, without considering our prospect of success. I replied that I thought it very possible, and wished he would permit me to make the attempt, as, if I found there were much risk, I would return.
“I know that I can trust you, Peter,” said O’Brien, “and it’s a great pleasure to know that you have an officer you can trust but hav’n’t I brought you up myself, and made a man of you, as I promised I would, when you were a little spalpeen, with a sniffling nose, and legs in the shape of two carrots? So hoist out the launch, and get the boats ready—the sooner the better. What a hot day this has been—not a cat’s-paw on the water, and the sky all of a mist. Only look at the sun, how he goes down, puffed out to three times his size, as if he were in a terrible passion. I suspect we shall have the land breeze off strong.”
In half-an-hour I shoved off with the boats. It was now quite dark, and I pulled towards the harbour of St. Pierre. The heat was excessive and unaccountable; not the slightest breath of wind moved in the heavens, or below; no clouds to be seen, and the stars were obscured by a sort of mist; there appeared a total stagnation of the elements. The men in the boats pulled off their jackets, for after a few moments’ pulling, they could bear them no longer. As we pulled in, the atmosphere became more opaque, and the darkness more intense. We supposed ourselves to be at the mouth of the harbour, but could see nothing—not three yards a-head of the boat. Swinburne, who always went with me, was steering the boat, and I observed to him the unusual appearance of the night.
“I’ve been watching it, sir,” replied Swinburne, “and I tell you, Mr Simple, that if we only know how to find the brig, that I would advise you to get on board of her immediately. She’ll want all her hands this night, or I’m much mistaken.”
“Why do you say so?” replied I.
“Because I think, nay, I may say that I’m sartin, we’ll have a hurricane afore morning. It’s not the first time I’ve cruised in these latitudes. I recollect in 1794—”
But I interrupted him: “Swinburne, I believe that you are right. At all events I’ll turn back; perhaps we may reach the brig before it comes on. She carries a light, and we can find her out.” I then turned the boat round, and steered, as near as I could guess, for where the brig was lying. But we had not pulled out more than two minutes, before a low moaning was heard in the atmosphere—now here, now there—and we appeared to be pulling though solid darkness, if I may use the expression. Swinburne looked around him, and pointed out on the starboard bow.
“It’s a coming, Mr Simple, sure enough; many’s the living being that will not rise on its legs to-morrow. See, sir.”
I looked, and dark as it was, it appeared as if a sort of black wall was sweeping along the water right towards us. The moaning gradually increased to a stunning roar, and then at once it broke upon us with a noise to which no thunder can bear a comparison. The sea was perfectly level, but boiling, and covered with a white foam, so that we appeared in the night to be floating on milk. The oars were caught by the wind with such force, that the men were dashed forward under the thwarts, many of them severely hurt. Fortunately we pulled with tholes and pins, or the gunwale and planks of the boats would have been wrenched off, and we should have foundered. The wind soon caught the boat on her broadside, and had there been the least sea, would have inevitably thrown her over; but Swinburne put the helm down, and she fell off before the hurricane, darting through the boiling water at the rate of ten miles an hour. All hands were aghast; they had recovered their seats, but were obliged to relinquish them, and sit down at the bottom, holding on by the thwarts. The terrific roaring of the hurricane prevented any communication, except by gesture. The other boats had disappeared; lighter than ours, they had flown away faster before the sweeping element; but we had not been a minute before the wind, before the sea rose in a most unaccountable manner—it appeared to be by magic.
Of all the horrors that ever I witnessed, nothing could be compared to the scene of this night. We could see nothing, and heard only the wind, before which we were darting like an arrow—to where we knew not, unless it was to certain death. Swinburne steered the boat, every now and then looking back as the waves increased. In a few minutes we were in a heavy swell, that at one minute bore us all aloft, and at the next almost sheltered us from the hurricane: and now the atmosphere was charged with showers of spray, the wind cutting off the summits of the waves, as if with a knife, and carrying them along with it as it were in its arms.
The boat was filling with water, and appeared to settle down fast. The men baled with their hats in silence, when a large wave culminated over the stern, filling us up to our thwarts. The next moment we all received a shock so violent, that we were jerked from our seats. Swinburne was thrown over my head. Every timber of the boat separated at once, and she appeared to crumble from under us, leaving us floating on the raging waters. We all struck out for our lives, but with little hope of preserving them; but the next wave dashed us on the rocks, against which the boat had already been hurled. That wave gave life to some, and death to others. Me, in Heaven’s mercy, it preserved: I was thrown so high up, that I merely scraped against the top of the rock, breaking two of my ribs. Swinburne, and eight more, escaped with me, but not unhurt: two had their legs broken, three had broken arms, and the others were more or less contused. Swinburne miraculously received no injury. We had been eighteen in the boat, of which ten escaped: the others were hurled up at our feet; and the next morning we found them dreadfully mangled. One or two had their skulls literally shattered to pieces against the rocks. I felt that I was saved, and was grateful: but still the hurricane howled—still the waves were washing over us. I crawled further up upon the beach, and found Swinburne sitting down with his eyes directed seaward. He knew me, took my hand, squeezed it, and then held it in his. For some moments we remained in this position, when the waves, which every moment increased in volume, washed up to us, and obliged us to crawl further up. I then looked around me; the hurricane continued in its fury, but the atmosphere was not so dark. I could trace, for some distance, the line of the harbour, from the ridge of foam upon the shore; and for the first time I thought of O’Brien and the brig. I put my mouth close to Swinburne’s ear, and cried out, “O’Brien!” Swinburne shook his head, and looked up again at the offing. I thought whether there was any chance of the brig’s escape. She was certainly six, if not seven miles off, and the hurricane was not direct on the shore. She might have a drift of ten miles, perhaps; but what was that against such tremendous power? I prayed for those on board of the brig, and returned thanks for my own preservation. I was, or soon should be, a prisoner, no doubt; but what was that? I thought of Celeste, and felt almost happy.
In about three hours the force of the wind subsided. It still blew a heavy gale; but the sky cleared up, the stars again twinkled in the heavens, and we could see to a considerable distance.
“It’s breaking now, sir,” said Swinburne at last, “satisfied with the injury it has done—and that’s no little. This is worst than ’94.”
“Now I’d give all my pay and prize-money, if it were only daylight and I could know the fate of the poorRattlesnake. What do you think, Swinburne?”
“All depends upon whether they were taken unprepared, sir. Captain O’Brien is as good a seaman as ever trod a plank; but he never has been in a hurricane, and may not have known the signs and warnings which God in His Mercy has vouchsafed unto us. Your flush vessels fill easily—but we must hope for the best.”
Most anxiously did we look out for the day which appeared to us as if it never would break. At last the dawn appeared, and we stretched our eyes to every part of the offing as it was lighted up; but we could not see the brig. The sun rose, and all was bright and clear; but we looked not around us, our eyes were directed to where we had left the brig. The sea was still running high but the wind abated fast.
“Thank God!” ejaculated Swinburne, when he had directed his eyes along the coast; “she is above water, at all events!”—and looking in the direction where he pointed, I perceived the brig within two miles of the shore, dismantled, and tossing in the waves.
“I see her,” replied I, catching my breath with joy; “but—still—I think she must go on shore.”
“All depends upon whether she can get a little bit of sail up to weather the point,” replied Swinburne; “and depend upon it, Captain O’Brien knows that as well as we do.”
We were now joined by the other men who were saved. We all shook hands. They pointed out to me the bodies of our shipmates who had perished. I directed them to haul them further up, and put them altogether; and continued, with Swinburne, to watch the brig. In about half-an-hour we perceived a triangle raised; and in ten minutes afterwards, a jury-mast abaft—a try-sail was hoisted and set. Then the shears were seen forward, and in as short a time another try-sail and a storm jib were expanded to the wind.
“That’s all he can do now, Mr Simple,” observed Swinburne; “he must trust to them and to Providence. They are not more than a mile from the beach—it will be touch and go.”
Anxiously did we watch for more than half-an-hour; the other men returned to us, and joined in our speculations. At one time we thought it impossible—at another we were certain that she would weather the point. At last, as she neared it, she forged a-head: my anxiety became almost insupportable. I stood first on one leg, and then on the other, breathless with suspense. She appeared to be on the point—actually touching the rocks—“God! she’s struck!” said I.
“No!” replied Swinburne;—and then we saw her pass on the other side of the outermost rock, and disappear.
“Safe, Mr Simple!—weathered, by God!” cried Swinburne, waving his hat with joy.
“God be thanked!” replied I, overcome with delight.
Chapter Forty Eight.The devastations of the hurricane—Peter makes friends—At destroying or saving, nothing like British seamen—Peter meets with General O’Brien much to his satisfaction—Has another meeting still more so—A great deal of pressing of hands, “and all that,” as Pope says.Now that the brig was safe, we thought of ourselves. My first attention was directed to the dead bodies; and as I looked at their mangled limbs, I felt grateful to Heaven that I had been so miraculously spared. We then cast our eyes along the beach to see if we could trace any remnants of the other boats; but in vain. We were about three miles from the town, which we could perceive had received considerable damage and the beach below it was strewed with wrecks and fragments. I told the men that we might as well walk into the town, and deliver ourselves up as prisoners; to which they agreed, and we set forward, promising to send for the poor fellows who were too much hurt to accompany us.As soon as we climbed up the rocks, and gained the inland, what a sight presented itself to us! Trees torn up by the roots in every direction—cattle lying dead—here and there the remains of a house, of which the other parts had been swept away for miles. Everything not built of solid masonry had disappeared. We passed what had been a range of negro huts, but they were levelled to the ground. The negroes were busily searching for their property among the ruins, while the women held their infants in their arms, and the other children by their sides. Here and there was the mother wailing over the dead body of some poor little thing which had been crushed to death. They took no notice of us.About half a mile further on, to our great delight, we fell in with the crews of the other boats, who were sitting by the side of the road. They had all escaped unhurt: their boats being so much more buoyant than ours, had been thrown up high and dry. They joined us, and we proceeded on our way.On our road we fell in with a cart blown over, under the wheel of which was the leg of the negro who conducted it. We released the poor fellow: his leg was fractured. We laid him by the side of the road in the shade, and continued our march. Our whole route was one scene of desolation and distress; but when we arrived at the town, we found that there it was indeed accumulated. There was not one house in three standing entire—the beach was covered with the remnants of bodies and fragments of vessels, whose masts lay forced several feet into the sand, and broken into four or five pieces. Parties of soldiers were busy taking away the bodies, and removing what few valuables had been saved. We turned up into the town, for no one accosted or even noticed us; and here the scene was even more dreadful. In some streets they were digging out those who were still alive, and whose cries were heard among the ruins; in others, they were carrying away the dead bodies. The lamentations of the relatives—the howling of the negroes—the cries of the wounded—the cursing and swearing of the French soldiers, and the orders delivered continually by officers on horseback, with all the confusion arising from crowds of spectators, mingling their voices together, formed a scene as dreadful as it was novel.After surveying it for a few minutes, I went up to an officer on horseback, and told him in French that I wished to surrender myself as a prisoner.“We have no time to take prisoners now,” replied he: “hundreds are buried in the ruins, and we must try to save them. We must now attend to the claims of humanity.”“Will you allow my men to assist you, sir?” replied I. “They are active and strong fellows.”“Sir,” said he, taking off his hat, “I thank you in the name of my unfortunate countrymen.”“Show us, then, where we may be most useful.”He turned and pointed to a house higher up, the offices of which were blown down. “There are living beings under those ruins.”“Come, my lads,” said I: and sore as they were, my men hastened with alacrity to perform their task. I could not help them myself, my side was so painful; but I stood by giving them directions.In half-an-hour we had cleared away so as to arrive at a poor negro girl, whose cries we had distinctly heard. We released her, and laid her down in the street, but she fainted. Her left hand was dreadfully shattered. I was giving what assistance I could, and the men were busy clearing away, throwing on one side the beams and rafters, when an officer on horseback rode up. He stood and asked me who we were. I told him that we belonged to the brig, and had been wrecked; and that we were giving what assistance we could until they were at leisure to send us to prison.“You English are fine brave fellows,” replied he, as he rode on.Another unfortunate object had been recovered by our men, an old white-headed negro, but he was too much mangled to live. We brought him out, and were laying him beside the negro girl, when several officers on horseback rode down the street. The one who was foremost, in a general’s uniform, I immediately recognised as my former friend, then Colonel O’Brien. They all stopped and looked at us. I told who we were. General O’Brien took off his hat to the sailors, and thanked them.He did not recognise me, and he was passing on, when I said to him in English, “General O’Brien, you have forgotten me; but I shall never forget your kindness.”“My God!” said he, “is it you, my dear fellow?” and he sprang from his horse, and shook me warmly by the hand. “No wonder that I did not know you; you are a very different person from little Peter Simple, who dressed up as a girl and danced on stilts. But I have to thank you, and so has Celeste, for your kindness to her. I will not ask you to leave your work of charity and kindness; but when you have done what you can, come up to my house. Any one will show it to you; and if you do not find me you will find Celeste, as you must be aware I cannot leave this melancholy employment. God bless you!” He then rode off followed by his staff.“Come, my lads,” said I, “depend upon it we shall not be very cruelly treated. Let us work hard, and do all the good we can, and the Frenchmen won’t forget it.”We had cleared that house, and went back to where the other people were working under the orders of the officer on horseback. I went up to him, and told him we had saved two, and if he had no objection, would assist his party. He thankfully accepted our services.“And now, my lads,” said Swinburne, “let us forget all our bruises, and show these French follows how to work.”And they did so—they tossed away the beams and rafters right and left, with a quickness and dexterity which quite astonished the officer and other inhabitants who were looking on; and in half-an-hour had done more work than could have possibly been expected. Several lives were saved, and the French expressed their admiration at our sailors’ conduct, and brought them something to drink, which they stood much in need of, poor fellows. After they had worked double tides, as we say, and certainly were the means of saving many lives, which otherwise would have been sacrificed.The disasters occasioned by this hurricane were very great, owing to its having taken place at night, when the chief of the inhabitants were in bed and asleep. I was told, that most of the wood houses were down five minutes after the hurricane burst upon them. About noon there was no more work for us to do, and I was not sorry that it was over. My side was very painful, and the burning heat of the sun made me feel giddy and sick at the stomach.I inquired of a respectable looking old Frenchman, which was the general’s house. He directed me to it, and I proceeded there, followed by my men. When I arrived, I found the orderly leading away the horse of General O’Brien, who had just returned. I desired a serjeant, who was in attendance at the door, to acquaint the general that I was below. He returned, and desired me to follow him. I was conducted into a large room, where I found him in company with several officers. He again greeted me warmly, and introduced me to the company as the officer who had permitted the ladies, who had been taken prisoners, to come on shore.“I have to thank you, then, for my wife,” said an officer, coming up and offering his hand.Another came up, and told me that I had also released his. We then entered into a conversation, in which I stated the occasion of my having been wrecked, and all the particulars; also, that I had seen the brig in the morning dismasted, but that she had weathered the point, and was safe.“That brig of yours, I must pay you the compliment to say, has been very troublesome; and my namesake keeps the batteries more upon the alert than ever I could have done,” said General O’Brien. “I don’t believe there is a negro five years old upon the island who does not know your brig.”We then talked over the attack of the privateer, in which we were beaten off. “Ah!” replied the aide-de-camp, “you made a mess of that. He has been gone these four months. Captain Carnot swears that he’ll fight you if he falls in with you.”“He has kept his word,” replied I: and then I narrated our action with the three French privateers, and the capture of the vessel; which surprised, and, I think, annoyed them very much.“Well, my friend,” said General O’Brien, “you must stay with me while you are on the island; if you want anything, let me know.”“I am afraid that I want a surgeon,” replied I; “for my side is so painful, that I can scarcely breathe.”“Are you hurt, then?” said General O’Brien, with an anxious look.“Not dangerously, I believe,” said I, “but rather painfully.”“Let me see,” said an officer, who stepped forward; “I am surgeon to the forces here, and perhaps you will trust yourself in my hands. Take off your coat.”I did so with difficulty. “You have two ribs broken,” said he, feeling my side, “and a very severe contusion. You must go to bed, or lie on a sofa for a few days. In a quarter of an hour I will come and dress you, and promise you to make you all well in ten days, in return for your having given me my daughter, who was on board of theVictorinewith the other ladies.” The officers now made their bows, and left me alone with General O’Brien.“Recollect,” said he, “that I tell you once for all, that my purse, and everything, is at your command. If you do not accept them freely, I shall think you do not love us. It is not the first time, Peter, and you repaid me honourably. However, of course, I was no party to that affair; it was Celeste’s doing,” continued he, laughing. “Of course I could not imagine that it was you who was dressed up as a woman, and so impudently danced through France on stilts. But I must hear all your adventures, by-and-bye. Celeste is most anxious to see you. Will you go now, or wait till after the surgeon comes?”“Oh now, if you please, general. May I first beg that some care may be taken of my poor men; they have had nothing to eat since yesterday, are very much bruised, and have worked hard; and that a cart may be sent for those who lie on the beach?”“I should have thought of them before,” replied he: and I will also order the same party to bury the other poor fellows who are lying on the beach. Come now—I will take you to Celeste.
Now that the brig was safe, we thought of ourselves. My first attention was directed to the dead bodies; and as I looked at their mangled limbs, I felt grateful to Heaven that I had been so miraculously spared. We then cast our eyes along the beach to see if we could trace any remnants of the other boats; but in vain. We were about three miles from the town, which we could perceive had received considerable damage and the beach below it was strewed with wrecks and fragments. I told the men that we might as well walk into the town, and deliver ourselves up as prisoners; to which they agreed, and we set forward, promising to send for the poor fellows who were too much hurt to accompany us.
As soon as we climbed up the rocks, and gained the inland, what a sight presented itself to us! Trees torn up by the roots in every direction—cattle lying dead—here and there the remains of a house, of which the other parts had been swept away for miles. Everything not built of solid masonry had disappeared. We passed what had been a range of negro huts, but they were levelled to the ground. The negroes were busily searching for their property among the ruins, while the women held their infants in their arms, and the other children by their sides. Here and there was the mother wailing over the dead body of some poor little thing which had been crushed to death. They took no notice of us.
About half a mile further on, to our great delight, we fell in with the crews of the other boats, who were sitting by the side of the road. They had all escaped unhurt: their boats being so much more buoyant than ours, had been thrown up high and dry. They joined us, and we proceeded on our way.
On our road we fell in with a cart blown over, under the wheel of which was the leg of the negro who conducted it. We released the poor fellow: his leg was fractured. We laid him by the side of the road in the shade, and continued our march. Our whole route was one scene of desolation and distress; but when we arrived at the town, we found that there it was indeed accumulated. There was not one house in three standing entire—the beach was covered with the remnants of bodies and fragments of vessels, whose masts lay forced several feet into the sand, and broken into four or five pieces. Parties of soldiers were busy taking away the bodies, and removing what few valuables had been saved. We turned up into the town, for no one accosted or even noticed us; and here the scene was even more dreadful. In some streets they were digging out those who were still alive, and whose cries were heard among the ruins; in others, they were carrying away the dead bodies. The lamentations of the relatives—the howling of the negroes—the cries of the wounded—the cursing and swearing of the French soldiers, and the orders delivered continually by officers on horseback, with all the confusion arising from crowds of spectators, mingling their voices together, formed a scene as dreadful as it was novel.
After surveying it for a few minutes, I went up to an officer on horseback, and told him in French that I wished to surrender myself as a prisoner.
“We have no time to take prisoners now,” replied he: “hundreds are buried in the ruins, and we must try to save them. We must now attend to the claims of humanity.”
“Will you allow my men to assist you, sir?” replied I. “They are active and strong fellows.”
“Sir,” said he, taking off his hat, “I thank you in the name of my unfortunate countrymen.”
“Show us, then, where we may be most useful.”
He turned and pointed to a house higher up, the offices of which were blown down. “There are living beings under those ruins.”
“Come, my lads,” said I: and sore as they were, my men hastened with alacrity to perform their task. I could not help them myself, my side was so painful; but I stood by giving them directions.
In half-an-hour we had cleared away so as to arrive at a poor negro girl, whose cries we had distinctly heard. We released her, and laid her down in the street, but she fainted. Her left hand was dreadfully shattered. I was giving what assistance I could, and the men were busy clearing away, throwing on one side the beams and rafters, when an officer on horseback rode up. He stood and asked me who we were. I told him that we belonged to the brig, and had been wrecked; and that we were giving what assistance we could until they were at leisure to send us to prison.
“You English are fine brave fellows,” replied he, as he rode on.
Another unfortunate object had been recovered by our men, an old white-headed negro, but he was too much mangled to live. We brought him out, and were laying him beside the negro girl, when several officers on horseback rode down the street. The one who was foremost, in a general’s uniform, I immediately recognised as my former friend, then Colonel O’Brien. They all stopped and looked at us. I told who we were. General O’Brien took off his hat to the sailors, and thanked them.
He did not recognise me, and he was passing on, when I said to him in English, “General O’Brien, you have forgotten me; but I shall never forget your kindness.”
“My God!” said he, “is it you, my dear fellow?” and he sprang from his horse, and shook me warmly by the hand. “No wonder that I did not know you; you are a very different person from little Peter Simple, who dressed up as a girl and danced on stilts. But I have to thank you, and so has Celeste, for your kindness to her. I will not ask you to leave your work of charity and kindness; but when you have done what you can, come up to my house. Any one will show it to you; and if you do not find me you will find Celeste, as you must be aware I cannot leave this melancholy employment. God bless you!” He then rode off followed by his staff.
“Come, my lads,” said I, “depend upon it we shall not be very cruelly treated. Let us work hard, and do all the good we can, and the Frenchmen won’t forget it.”
We had cleared that house, and went back to where the other people were working under the orders of the officer on horseback. I went up to him, and told him we had saved two, and if he had no objection, would assist his party. He thankfully accepted our services.
“And now, my lads,” said Swinburne, “let us forget all our bruises, and show these French follows how to work.”
And they did so—they tossed away the beams and rafters right and left, with a quickness and dexterity which quite astonished the officer and other inhabitants who were looking on; and in half-an-hour had done more work than could have possibly been expected. Several lives were saved, and the French expressed their admiration at our sailors’ conduct, and brought them something to drink, which they stood much in need of, poor fellows. After they had worked double tides, as we say, and certainly were the means of saving many lives, which otherwise would have been sacrificed.
The disasters occasioned by this hurricane were very great, owing to its having taken place at night, when the chief of the inhabitants were in bed and asleep. I was told, that most of the wood houses were down five minutes after the hurricane burst upon them. About noon there was no more work for us to do, and I was not sorry that it was over. My side was very painful, and the burning heat of the sun made me feel giddy and sick at the stomach.
I inquired of a respectable looking old Frenchman, which was the general’s house. He directed me to it, and I proceeded there, followed by my men. When I arrived, I found the orderly leading away the horse of General O’Brien, who had just returned. I desired a serjeant, who was in attendance at the door, to acquaint the general that I was below. He returned, and desired me to follow him. I was conducted into a large room, where I found him in company with several officers. He again greeted me warmly, and introduced me to the company as the officer who had permitted the ladies, who had been taken prisoners, to come on shore.
“I have to thank you, then, for my wife,” said an officer, coming up and offering his hand.
Another came up, and told me that I had also released his. We then entered into a conversation, in which I stated the occasion of my having been wrecked, and all the particulars; also, that I had seen the brig in the morning dismasted, but that she had weathered the point, and was safe.
“That brig of yours, I must pay you the compliment to say, has been very troublesome; and my namesake keeps the batteries more upon the alert than ever I could have done,” said General O’Brien. “I don’t believe there is a negro five years old upon the island who does not know your brig.”
We then talked over the attack of the privateer, in which we were beaten off. “Ah!” replied the aide-de-camp, “you made a mess of that. He has been gone these four months. Captain Carnot swears that he’ll fight you if he falls in with you.”
“He has kept his word,” replied I: and then I narrated our action with the three French privateers, and the capture of the vessel; which surprised, and, I think, annoyed them very much.
“Well, my friend,” said General O’Brien, “you must stay with me while you are on the island; if you want anything, let me know.”
“I am afraid that I want a surgeon,” replied I; “for my side is so painful, that I can scarcely breathe.”
“Are you hurt, then?” said General O’Brien, with an anxious look.
“Not dangerously, I believe,” said I, “but rather painfully.”
“Let me see,” said an officer, who stepped forward; “I am surgeon to the forces here, and perhaps you will trust yourself in my hands. Take off your coat.”
I did so with difficulty. “You have two ribs broken,” said he, feeling my side, “and a very severe contusion. You must go to bed, or lie on a sofa for a few days. In a quarter of an hour I will come and dress you, and promise you to make you all well in ten days, in return for your having given me my daughter, who was on board of theVictorinewith the other ladies.” The officers now made their bows, and left me alone with General O’Brien.
“Recollect,” said he, “that I tell you once for all, that my purse, and everything, is at your command. If you do not accept them freely, I shall think you do not love us. It is not the first time, Peter, and you repaid me honourably. However, of course, I was no party to that affair; it was Celeste’s doing,” continued he, laughing. “Of course I could not imagine that it was you who was dressed up as a woman, and so impudently danced through France on stilts. But I must hear all your adventures, by-and-bye. Celeste is most anxious to see you. Will you go now, or wait till after the surgeon comes?”
“Oh now, if you please, general. May I first beg that some care may be taken of my poor men; they have had nothing to eat since yesterday, are very much bruised, and have worked hard; and that a cart may be sent for those who lie on the beach?”
“I should have thought of them before,” replied he: and I will also order the same party to bury the other poor fellows who are lying on the beach. Come now—I will take you to Celeste.
Chapter Forty Nine.Broken ribs not likely to produce broken hearts—O’Brien makes something like a declaration of peace—Peter Simple actually makes a declaration of love—Rash proceedings on all sides.I followed the general into a handsomely-furnished apartment, where I found Celeste waiting to receive me. She ran to me as soon as I entered; and with what pleasure did I take her hand, and look on her beautiful, expressive countenance! I could not say a word—neither did Celeste. For a minute I held her hand in mine, looking at her; the general stood by, regarding us alternately. He then turned round and walked to the window. I lifted the hand to my lips, and then released it.“It appears to be a dream, almost,” said Celeste.I could not make any reply, but continued to gaze upon her—she had grown up into such a beautiful creature. Her figure was perfect, and the expression of her countenance was so varied—so full of intellect and feeling—it was angelic. Her eyes, suffused with tears, beamed so softly, so kindly on me, I could have fallen down and worshipped her.“Come,” said General O’Brien; “come, my dear friend, now that you have seen Celeste, the surgeon must see you.”“The surgeon!” cried Celeste with alarm.“Yes, my love; it is of no consequence—only a couple of ribs broken.”I followed General O’Brien out of the room, and as I came to the door, I turned round to look at Celeste. She had retreated to the sofa, and her handkerchief was up to her eyes. The surgeon was waiting for me; he bandaged me, and applied some cooling lotion to my side, which made me feel quite comfortable.“I must now leave you,” said General O’Brien; “you had better lie down for an hour or two, and then, if I am not back, you know your way to Celeste.”I lay down as he requested; but as soon as I heard the clatter of the horses hoofs, as he rode off, I left the room, and hurried to the drawing room. Celeste was there, and hastened to inquire if I was much hurt. I replied in the negative, and told her that I had come down to prove it to her; we then sat down on the sofa together.“I have the misfortune never to appear before you, Celeste, except in a very unprepossessing state. When you first saw me, I was wounded; at our next meeting I was in woman’s clothes; the last time we met I was covered with dirt and gunpowder; and now I return to you, wounded and in rags. I wonder wether I shall ever appear before you as a gentleman.”“It is not the clothes which make the gentleman, Peter. I am too happy to see you to think of how you are dressed. I have never yet thanked you for your kindness to us when we last met. My father will never forget it.”“Nor have I thanked you, Celeste, for your kindness in dropping the purse into the hat, when you met me trying to escape from France. I have never forgotten you, and since we met the last time, you have hardly ever been out of my thoughts. You don’t know how thankful I am to the hurricane for having blown me into your presence. When we cruised in the brig, I have often examined the town with my glass, trying to fancy that I had my eye upon the house you were in; and have felt so happy when we were close in-shore, because I knew that I was nearer to you.”“And, Peter, I am sure I have often watched the brig, and have been so glad to see it come nearer and then so afraid that the batteries would fire at you. What a pity it is that my father and you should be opposed to each other—we might be so happy!”“And may be yet, Celeste,” replied I.We conversed for two hours, which appeared to be but ten minutes. I felt that I was in love, but I do not think that Celeste had any idea at the time that she was—but I leave the reader to judge, from the little conversation I have quoted, wether she was not, or something very much approaching to it.The next morning, I went out early to look for the brig, and, to my great delight, saw her about six miles off the harbour’s mouth, standing in for the land. She had now got up very respectable jury-masts, with topgallants for topsails, and appeared to be well under command. When she was within three miles of the harbour, she lowered the jolly boat, the only one she had left, and it pulled in-shore with a flag of truce hoisted at the bows. I immediately returned to my room, and wrote a detailed account of what had taken place, ready to send to O’Brien, when the boat returned, and I, of course, requested him to send me my effects, as I had nothing but what I stood in. I had just completed my letter when General O’Brien came in.“My dear friend,” said he, “I have just received a flag of truce from Captain O’Brien, requesting to know the fate of his boats’ crews, and permission to send in return the clothes and effects of the survivors.”“I have written down the whole circumstances for him, and made the same request to him,” replied I; and I handed him my letter. He read it over, and returned it.“But, my dear lad, you must think very poorly of us Frenchmen, if you imagine that we intend to detain you here as a prisoner. In the first place, your liberation of so many French subjects, when you captured theVictorine, would entitle you to a similar act of kindness; and, in the next place, you have not been fairly captured, but by a visitation of Providence, which, by the means of the late storm, must destroy all natural antipathies, and promote that universal philanthropy between all men, which your brave fellows proved that they possess. You are, therefore, free to depart with all your men, and we shall still hold ourselves your debtors. How is your side to-day?”“Oh, very bad, indeed,” replied I; for I could not bear the idea of returning to the brig so soon, for I had been obliged to quit Celeste very soon after dinner the day before, and go to bed. I had not yet had much conversation with her, nor had I told General O’Brien how it was that we escaped from France. “I don’t think I can possibly go on board to-day, but I feel very grateful to you for your kindness.”“Well, well,” replied the general, who observed my feelings, “I do not think it is necessary that you should go on board to-day. I will send the men and your letter, and I will write to Captain O’Brien to say that you are in bed, and will not bear moving until the day after to-morrow. Will that do?”I thought it but a very short time, but I saw that the general looked as if he expected me to consent; so I did.“The boat can come and return again with some of your clothes:” continued the general; “and I will tell Captain O’Brien that if he comes off the mouth of the harbour the day after to-morrow, I will send you on board in one of our boats.”He then took my letter, and quitted the room. As soon as he was gone, I found myself quite well enough to go to Celeste, who waited for me, and I told her what had passed. That morning I sat with her and the general, and narrated all my adventures, which amused the general very much. I did not conceal the conduct of my uncle, and the hopes which I faintly entertained of being able, some day or another, to discover the fraud which had been practised, or how very unfavourable were my future prospects if I did not succeed. At this portion of my narrative, the general appeared very thoughtful and grave. When I had finished it was near dinner-time, and I found that my clothes had arrived with a letter from O’Brien, who stated how miserable he had been at the supposition of my loss, and his delight at my escape. He stated, that on going down into the cabin after I had shoved off, he, by chance, cast his eyes on the barometer, and, to his surprise, found that it had fallen two inches, which he had been told was the case previous to a hurricane. This, combined with the peculiar state of the atmosphere, had induced him to make every preparation, and that they had just completed their work when it came on. The brig was thrown on her beam ends, and lay there for half-an-hour, when they were forced to cut away the masts to right her. That they did not weather the point the next morning by more than half a cable’s length; and concluded by saying, that the idea of my death had made him so unhappy, that if it had not been for the sake of the men, it was almost a matter of indifference to him whether he had been lost or not. He had written to General O’Brien, thanking him for his kindness: and that, if fifty vessels should pass the brig, he would not capture one of them, until I was on board again, even if he were dismissed the service for neglect of duty. He said, that the brig sailed almost as fast under jury-masts as she did before, and that, as soon as I came on board, he should go back to Barbadoes. “As for your ribs being so bad, Peter, that’s all bother,” continued he; “I know that you are making arrangements for another sort ofrib, as soon as you can manage it; but you must stop a little, my boy. You shall be a lord yet, as I always promised you that you should. It’s a long lane that has no turning—so good-bye.”When I was alone with Celeste, I showed her O’Brien’s letter. I had read the part of it relative to his not intending to make any capture while I was on shore to General O’Brien, who replied, that “under such circumstances he thought he should do right to detain me a little longer; but,” said he, “O’Brien is a man of honour and is worthy of his name.”When Celeste came to that part of the letter in which O’Brien stated that I was looking after another rib, and which I had quite forgotten, she asked me to explain it; for although she could read and speak English very well, she had not been sufficiently accustomed to it to comprehend the play upon words. I translated, and then said—“Indeed, Celeste, I had forgotten that observation of O’Brien’s, or I should not have shown you the letter; but he has stated the truth. After all your kindness to me, how can I help being in love with you? and need I add, that I should consider it the greatest blessing which Heaven could grant me, if you could feel so much regard for me, as one day to become my wife. Don’t be angry with me for telling you the truth,” continued I, for Celeste coloured up as I spoke to her.“O no! I am not angry with you, Peter; far from it. It is very complimentary to me—what you have just said.”“I am aware,” continued I, “that at present I have little to offer you—indeed, nothing. I am not even such a match as your father might approve of; but you know my whole history, and what my desires are.”“My dear father loves me, Peter, and he loves you too, very much—he always did, from the hour he saw you—he was so pleased with your candour and honesty of character. He has often told me so, and very often talked of you.”“Well, Celeste, tell me, may I, when far away, be permitted to think of you, and indulge a hope that some day we may meet never to part again?” And I took Celeste by the hand, and put my arm round her waist.“I don’t know what to say,” replied she, “I will speak to my father, or perhaps you will; but I will never marry anybody else if I can help it.”I drew her close to me, and kissed her. Celeste burst into tears, and laid her head upon my shoulder. When General O’Brien came in, I did not attempt to move, nor did Celeste.“General,” said I, “you may think me to blame, but I have not been able to conceal what I feel for Celeste. You may think that I am imprudent, and that I am wrong in thus divulging what I ought to have concealed, until I was in a situation to warrant my aspiring to your daughter’s hand; but the short time allowed me to be in her company, the fear of losing her, and my devoted attachment, will, I trust, plead my excuse.”The general took one or two turns up and down the room, and then replied—“What says Celeste?”“Celeste will never do anything to make her father unhappy,” replied she, going up to him and hiding her face in his breast, with her arm round his neck.The general kissed his daughter, and then said, “I will be frank with you, Mr Simple. I do not know any man whom I would prefer to you as a son-in-law; but there are many considerations which young people are very apt to forget. I do not interfere in your attachment, which appears to be mutual; but at the same time, I will have no promise, and no engagement. You may never meet again. However, Celeste is very young, and I shall not put any constraint upon her; and at the same time you are equally free, if time and circumstances should alter your present feelings.”“I can ask no more, my dear sir,” replied I, taking the general by the hand: “it is candid—more than I had any reason to expect. I shall now leave you with a contented mind; and the hopes of one day claiming Celeste shall spur me to exertion.”“Now, if you please we will drop the subject,” said the general. “Celeste, my dear, we have a large party to dinner, as you know. You had better retire to your room and get ready. I have asked all the ladies that you liberated, Peter, and all their husbands and fathers, so you will have the pleasure of witnessing how many people you made happy by your gallantry. Now that Celeste has left the room, Peter, I must beg that, as a man of honour, you do not exact from her any more promises, or induce her to tie herself down to you by oaths. Her attachment to you has grown up with her unaccountably, and she is already too fond of you for her peace of mind, should accident or circumstances part you for ever. Let us hope for the best, and, depend upon it, that it shall be no trifling obstacle which will hinder me from seeing you one day united.”I thanked the general with tears: he shook me warmly by the hand as I gave my promise, and we separated.How happy did I feel when I went into my room, and sat down to compose my mind, and think over what had happened. True, at one moment, the thought of my dependent situation threw a damp over my joy; but in the next I was building castles, inventing a discovery of my uncle’s plot, fancying myself in possession of the title and property, and laying it at the feet of my dear Celeste. Hope sustained my spirits, and I felt satisfied for the present with the consideration that Celeste returned my love. I decked myself carefully, and went down, where I found all the company assembled. We had a very pleasant, happy party, and the ladies entreated General O’Brien to detain me as a prisoner—very kind of them—and I felt very much disposed to join in their request.
I followed the general into a handsomely-furnished apartment, where I found Celeste waiting to receive me. She ran to me as soon as I entered; and with what pleasure did I take her hand, and look on her beautiful, expressive countenance! I could not say a word—neither did Celeste. For a minute I held her hand in mine, looking at her; the general stood by, regarding us alternately. He then turned round and walked to the window. I lifted the hand to my lips, and then released it.
“It appears to be a dream, almost,” said Celeste.
I could not make any reply, but continued to gaze upon her—she had grown up into such a beautiful creature. Her figure was perfect, and the expression of her countenance was so varied—so full of intellect and feeling—it was angelic. Her eyes, suffused with tears, beamed so softly, so kindly on me, I could have fallen down and worshipped her.
“Come,” said General O’Brien; “come, my dear friend, now that you have seen Celeste, the surgeon must see you.”
“The surgeon!” cried Celeste with alarm.
“Yes, my love; it is of no consequence—only a couple of ribs broken.”
I followed General O’Brien out of the room, and as I came to the door, I turned round to look at Celeste. She had retreated to the sofa, and her handkerchief was up to her eyes. The surgeon was waiting for me; he bandaged me, and applied some cooling lotion to my side, which made me feel quite comfortable.
“I must now leave you,” said General O’Brien; “you had better lie down for an hour or two, and then, if I am not back, you know your way to Celeste.”
I lay down as he requested; but as soon as I heard the clatter of the horses hoofs, as he rode off, I left the room, and hurried to the drawing room. Celeste was there, and hastened to inquire if I was much hurt. I replied in the negative, and told her that I had come down to prove it to her; we then sat down on the sofa together.
“I have the misfortune never to appear before you, Celeste, except in a very unprepossessing state. When you first saw me, I was wounded; at our next meeting I was in woman’s clothes; the last time we met I was covered with dirt and gunpowder; and now I return to you, wounded and in rags. I wonder wether I shall ever appear before you as a gentleman.”
“It is not the clothes which make the gentleman, Peter. I am too happy to see you to think of how you are dressed. I have never yet thanked you for your kindness to us when we last met. My father will never forget it.”
“Nor have I thanked you, Celeste, for your kindness in dropping the purse into the hat, when you met me trying to escape from France. I have never forgotten you, and since we met the last time, you have hardly ever been out of my thoughts. You don’t know how thankful I am to the hurricane for having blown me into your presence. When we cruised in the brig, I have often examined the town with my glass, trying to fancy that I had my eye upon the house you were in; and have felt so happy when we were close in-shore, because I knew that I was nearer to you.”
“And, Peter, I am sure I have often watched the brig, and have been so glad to see it come nearer and then so afraid that the batteries would fire at you. What a pity it is that my father and you should be opposed to each other—we might be so happy!”
“And may be yet, Celeste,” replied I.
We conversed for two hours, which appeared to be but ten minutes. I felt that I was in love, but I do not think that Celeste had any idea at the time that she was—but I leave the reader to judge, from the little conversation I have quoted, wether she was not, or something very much approaching to it.
The next morning, I went out early to look for the brig, and, to my great delight, saw her about six miles off the harbour’s mouth, standing in for the land. She had now got up very respectable jury-masts, with topgallants for topsails, and appeared to be well under command. When she was within three miles of the harbour, she lowered the jolly boat, the only one she had left, and it pulled in-shore with a flag of truce hoisted at the bows. I immediately returned to my room, and wrote a detailed account of what had taken place, ready to send to O’Brien, when the boat returned, and I, of course, requested him to send me my effects, as I had nothing but what I stood in. I had just completed my letter when General O’Brien came in.
“My dear friend,” said he, “I have just received a flag of truce from Captain O’Brien, requesting to know the fate of his boats’ crews, and permission to send in return the clothes and effects of the survivors.”
“I have written down the whole circumstances for him, and made the same request to him,” replied I; and I handed him my letter. He read it over, and returned it.
“But, my dear lad, you must think very poorly of us Frenchmen, if you imagine that we intend to detain you here as a prisoner. In the first place, your liberation of so many French subjects, when you captured theVictorine, would entitle you to a similar act of kindness; and, in the next place, you have not been fairly captured, but by a visitation of Providence, which, by the means of the late storm, must destroy all natural antipathies, and promote that universal philanthropy between all men, which your brave fellows proved that they possess. You are, therefore, free to depart with all your men, and we shall still hold ourselves your debtors. How is your side to-day?”
“Oh, very bad, indeed,” replied I; for I could not bear the idea of returning to the brig so soon, for I had been obliged to quit Celeste very soon after dinner the day before, and go to bed. I had not yet had much conversation with her, nor had I told General O’Brien how it was that we escaped from France. “I don’t think I can possibly go on board to-day, but I feel very grateful to you for your kindness.”
“Well, well,” replied the general, who observed my feelings, “I do not think it is necessary that you should go on board to-day. I will send the men and your letter, and I will write to Captain O’Brien to say that you are in bed, and will not bear moving until the day after to-morrow. Will that do?”
I thought it but a very short time, but I saw that the general looked as if he expected me to consent; so I did.
“The boat can come and return again with some of your clothes:” continued the general; “and I will tell Captain O’Brien that if he comes off the mouth of the harbour the day after to-morrow, I will send you on board in one of our boats.”
He then took my letter, and quitted the room. As soon as he was gone, I found myself quite well enough to go to Celeste, who waited for me, and I told her what had passed. That morning I sat with her and the general, and narrated all my adventures, which amused the general very much. I did not conceal the conduct of my uncle, and the hopes which I faintly entertained of being able, some day or another, to discover the fraud which had been practised, or how very unfavourable were my future prospects if I did not succeed. At this portion of my narrative, the general appeared very thoughtful and grave. When I had finished it was near dinner-time, and I found that my clothes had arrived with a letter from O’Brien, who stated how miserable he had been at the supposition of my loss, and his delight at my escape. He stated, that on going down into the cabin after I had shoved off, he, by chance, cast his eyes on the barometer, and, to his surprise, found that it had fallen two inches, which he had been told was the case previous to a hurricane. This, combined with the peculiar state of the atmosphere, had induced him to make every preparation, and that they had just completed their work when it came on. The brig was thrown on her beam ends, and lay there for half-an-hour, when they were forced to cut away the masts to right her. That they did not weather the point the next morning by more than half a cable’s length; and concluded by saying, that the idea of my death had made him so unhappy, that if it had not been for the sake of the men, it was almost a matter of indifference to him whether he had been lost or not. He had written to General O’Brien, thanking him for his kindness: and that, if fifty vessels should pass the brig, he would not capture one of them, until I was on board again, even if he were dismissed the service for neglect of duty. He said, that the brig sailed almost as fast under jury-masts as she did before, and that, as soon as I came on board, he should go back to Barbadoes. “As for your ribs being so bad, Peter, that’s all bother,” continued he; “I know that you are making arrangements for another sort ofrib, as soon as you can manage it; but you must stop a little, my boy. You shall be a lord yet, as I always promised you that you should. It’s a long lane that has no turning—so good-bye.”
When I was alone with Celeste, I showed her O’Brien’s letter. I had read the part of it relative to his not intending to make any capture while I was on shore to General O’Brien, who replied, that “under such circumstances he thought he should do right to detain me a little longer; but,” said he, “O’Brien is a man of honour and is worthy of his name.”
When Celeste came to that part of the letter in which O’Brien stated that I was looking after another rib, and which I had quite forgotten, she asked me to explain it; for although she could read and speak English very well, she had not been sufficiently accustomed to it to comprehend the play upon words. I translated, and then said—“Indeed, Celeste, I had forgotten that observation of O’Brien’s, or I should not have shown you the letter; but he has stated the truth. After all your kindness to me, how can I help being in love with you? and need I add, that I should consider it the greatest blessing which Heaven could grant me, if you could feel so much regard for me, as one day to become my wife. Don’t be angry with me for telling you the truth,” continued I, for Celeste coloured up as I spoke to her.
“O no! I am not angry with you, Peter; far from it. It is very complimentary to me—what you have just said.”
“I am aware,” continued I, “that at present I have little to offer you—indeed, nothing. I am not even such a match as your father might approve of; but you know my whole history, and what my desires are.”
“My dear father loves me, Peter, and he loves you too, very much—he always did, from the hour he saw you—he was so pleased with your candour and honesty of character. He has often told me so, and very often talked of you.”
“Well, Celeste, tell me, may I, when far away, be permitted to think of you, and indulge a hope that some day we may meet never to part again?” And I took Celeste by the hand, and put my arm round her waist.
“I don’t know what to say,” replied she, “I will speak to my father, or perhaps you will; but I will never marry anybody else if I can help it.”
I drew her close to me, and kissed her. Celeste burst into tears, and laid her head upon my shoulder. When General O’Brien came in, I did not attempt to move, nor did Celeste.
“General,” said I, “you may think me to blame, but I have not been able to conceal what I feel for Celeste. You may think that I am imprudent, and that I am wrong in thus divulging what I ought to have concealed, until I was in a situation to warrant my aspiring to your daughter’s hand; but the short time allowed me to be in her company, the fear of losing her, and my devoted attachment, will, I trust, plead my excuse.”
The general took one or two turns up and down the room, and then replied—“What says Celeste?”
“Celeste will never do anything to make her father unhappy,” replied she, going up to him and hiding her face in his breast, with her arm round his neck.
The general kissed his daughter, and then said, “I will be frank with you, Mr Simple. I do not know any man whom I would prefer to you as a son-in-law; but there are many considerations which young people are very apt to forget. I do not interfere in your attachment, which appears to be mutual; but at the same time, I will have no promise, and no engagement. You may never meet again. However, Celeste is very young, and I shall not put any constraint upon her; and at the same time you are equally free, if time and circumstances should alter your present feelings.”
“I can ask no more, my dear sir,” replied I, taking the general by the hand: “it is candid—more than I had any reason to expect. I shall now leave you with a contented mind; and the hopes of one day claiming Celeste shall spur me to exertion.”
“Now, if you please we will drop the subject,” said the general. “Celeste, my dear, we have a large party to dinner, as you know. You had better retire to your room and get ready. I have asked all the ladies that you liberated, Peter, and all their husbands and fathers, so you will have the pleasure of witnessing how many people you made happy by your gallantry. Now that Celeste has left the room, Peter, I must beg that, as a man of honour, you do not exact from her any more promises, or induce her to tie herself down to you by oaths. Her attachment to you has grown up with her unaccountably, and she is already too fond of you for her peace of mind, should accident or circumstances part you for ever. Let us hope for the best, and, depend upon it, that it shall be no trifling obstacle which will hinder me from seeing you one day united.”
I thanked the general with tears: he shook me warmly by the hand as I gave my promise, and we separated.
How happy did I feel when I went into my room, and sat down to compose my mind, and think over what had happened. True, at one moment, the thought of my dependent situation threw a damp over my joy; but in the next I was building castles, inventing a discovery of my uncle’s plot, fancying myself in possession of the title and property, and laying it at the feet of my dear Celeste. Hope sustained my spirits, and I felt satisfied for the present with the consideration that Celeste returned my love. I decked myself carefully, and went down, where I found all the company assembled. We had a very pleasant, happy party, and the ladies entreated General O’Brien to detain me as a prisoner—very kind of them—and I felt very much disposed to join in their request.